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jacksprostate · 7 months ago

Text

Part 4 (with links to the other parts)

The first thing I do is, I talk to the man who takes my sheets, with his scrapdog ears and eyebrows, and I tell him: address him properly.

The word spreads on its own. I remember, before I was used to it, that knowing lilt. Sir. It’s still present. Take your pills, sir. It’ll be alright, sir. Take your time recovering.

Mills starts cursing at the staff. We pass in the halls, he yells at me, tells me to stop them. He’s not their fucking leader. Call off my dogs.

I smile, too wide. They’ve never listened to me, not really. Especially not on this.

I can’t help you.

Naturally, he hates this.

The second thing I do is, I ask for photographs. News clippings. Marla’s dildo was large, questionable, encouraging of disorder, and a choking hazard. Slips of paper are much more tolerable contraband. I’m given free rein, like one of Zimbardo’s incentivized guards. It’s a psychology experiment in a psychology experiment, and my psychiatrist is playing Jane Goodall.

It’s arts and crafts, and all the attendees are either bruised or braindead. There is no one stopping me. I glue all my collected pieces together into the rough shape of a heart, like it’s Valentine’s Day, and I turn to Mills, trapped at the back of the room. He hasn’t seen a shred of what I’m up to.

Something to remember her by, I say. I don’t call him sir, because I never have. I wonder if he knows this.

I see him look, more instinct than anything from getting layers of paper shoved in his face, and I see how he clenches his teeth so hard his jaw creaks. He rips the collage of his wife out of my hands, and I can tell, he hates me. Real hate, like he wants death to fuck my body until it’s not even for the worms.

He can’t bear to destroy it, and now I know every time he looks at it in his room, he’ll be thinking of me. Funny how that works.

The thing is; Mills actually didn’t try to kill me this time, so I think I need to take it up a notch.

I cross the cafeteria just so I can spit in his food. I piss on his door and get the space monkey janitors to leave it for fifty-seven hours. In group therapy, I take a page from Chloe and monologue about how the last thing I’d like to do is get my rocks off chemically unhindered before the seizure medications they’ve got me on arrest all of my brain activity altogether. A nice nugget for Mills to report back to Somerset about my proposed psychosexual obsession. I segue into discussing how I met Tyler, on the nude beach, grit all across him as he hauled pilings and sat with his bare ass in the sand. It’s the most I’ve ever said about Tyler. The group minder scribbles on her sheet like mad as I describe Tyler’s wet, blond hair. His minute of perfection.

And he still doesn’t try to fight me. I know he wants to. He wants to shake me by my throat and rattle me and slam my head into the ground until it splits open like a rotten egg. But he doesn’t, and he looks torn. Like he’s guilty. Like Tyler could ever really feel guilt.

This is one of the things I want to complain about when Marla calls me.

She still does. More than when she was alive. But she says nothing, and I can’t break the silence. I sit there, orderlies watching as I say nothing, she says nothing, just a whole bunch of dead air between us.

Ghosts were always calling for Marla, at Paper Street.

Now I’ve got Marla’s ghost on the line and Tyler’s ghost in the flesh, and neither want to talk to me.

We get locked up in supervised one-on-one again, now with both of us chained and one twitch away from a new addiction.

I ask Mills, did you talk to her enough, that last week?

Do you think she knew you loved her?

Do you think she felt loved?

Mills asks for the sedation, this time. Polite about it, like he’s not seething. Like I can’t see how his eyes have been only half empty most of these days, since I’ve managed to fill him up with rage at me. Folie à deux, I want it so bad.

I am Jack’s crippling sense of rejection.

My stupid psychiatrist, he lets Mills amble out of the room and traps me in there.

I’m corralled. An angel on either shoulder. All the staff who aren’t from the Project have stopped laughing at my jokes. My antics have not gone unobserved. I’ve been given my time to rein as the world’s most entertaining lab rat, and now this localized god wants results.

“What’s your goal here?”

Isn’t it obvious?

“No. Tell me about what you’re thinking,” he says. I look at him, and I see him, for the first time. Not disillusioned, not holy. Just a sniveling doctor with a penchant for human experimentation and the funding to enable him.

How horribly average.

He says, “I understand this is difficult for you, but we really need to know what’s going on if you want to have continued support in this manner for your recovery.” Play nice, or you’ll lose your favorite toy.

I say, this has never been about recovery. It’s time we faced that, isn’t it?

This man, so used to my religious apathy, has never truly had a challenge. He looks pinched.

He says, “Of course I want you to recover.”

And I laugh, and I point out that we both know those outside these halls are more interested in what’s wrong with me than any semblance of fixing it.

You’re not getting paid to drain the swamp in my head. You’re here to keep it plugged up, decomposing. We both know this, I’m just acknowledging it. I laugh.

I tell this little god, he can write me up in all his little acclaimed journals.

But don’t come to me, saying I have to play your little games or you’ll take Mills away. We both know you won’t. The day I give up, the day I become a real vegetable is the day your cash cow keels over. You’re not going to punish me. Not really. You’ll take away my jello, my oats, you’ll put me on lithium and clozapine and valproic acid, but you don’t really want this to end. You don’t want me to get better. You want Tyler back just as much as I do. You can’t do shit to me. I have nothing to lose.

You have everything.

Tyler’s words, back home in my mouth. They’re mine now. I get up and the orderlies flanking me do nothing. I look down on this small, small man, and I think, he has never known a bigger fish. He doesn’t even know the hands that feed him.

I’ve hit bottom, I say, and it’s not you who holds the shovel. Be grateful I let you observe.

#fight club #my writing #se7 #se7en (1995)#se7en #back on my bullshit !#theres a turn after this. i feel like this fic getting posted in breaks of several weeks is not ideal oops #ill probably go through and try to clean it up when i post it on ao3. but we are still a ways away. getting pretty long. whew #still have several major scenes....

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leo-interactive-fiction · 3 years ago

Note

How would the ROs respond if they saw their past self as a kid in person? Would they give a life lesson? Or warn them of something bound to happen? Even flat out lie about who they are to their past self even if their past self thinks they know that it's them? Would the ROs even get along with their past self or come to love/hate them?

E kneels down to child E, giving a warm smile as they lay a supportive hand on their shoulder, "Don't worry, just keep trying. They'll understand your feelings eventually."

Child E's eyes widen in recognition of the words.

You give a curious look, "What're you two talking about."

They both spin around quickly, simultaneously responding

"N-Nothing!" "N-Nothing!"

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

R looks down at the brightly smiling kid in front of them, though they're unable to match it. They continue on their way, walking past the child and causing them to turn around curiously.

"Hey! I feel like I know you. Are you one of dad's friends?"

Hearing the question gives R pause, but they don't look back. "Sorry, you must be mistaken. I've never seen you before in my life."

You catch up and fall in step with them, "You didn't want to meet them?"

R sighs, "I'd rather they enjoyed the freedom they have left."

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

L leans down, inspecting the book clutched tightly in the child's hands. "Is that 'The Forgotten Dove' you're reading?"

Child L's eyes light up in fascination, "You know it?"

"It's one of my favorite stories."

"Mine too!" the child says enthusiastically before catching themselves, reigning themselves in, "My apologies."

"It's alright to feel passionate."

"Father says it's improper behavior..."

L smiles sadly in understanding, "To some, that same behavior is the most cherished. It's important to find those that will accept in you what others may deem flaws."

"Like the dove?" the child draws the parallels quickly, causing L to smile.

"Exactly."

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

V stares at the child with a hard gaze, their hands balling into fists at the sight of their cheerful smile.

"Why are you happy? You're weak."

Child V tilts their head, "My friends--"

"You can't save them," V interrupts, "You can't save anyone. Not even yourself. Why are you..." V's fists shake with a barely concealable rage, their teeth clenching, "Why are you so worthless?!"

Child V steps back cautiously, fear painting their face, "What are you talking about?"

Before V can respond, you step closer. Their hands relax when they see you, though they're unable to meet your gaze, "Nothing. It was just a bad dream. Carry on."

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

Child P gives P a hard glare, "What do you want? I'm busy."

"No you're not, you little shit."

"The hell did you just say to me?!" the kid clenches their fists, prepared to fight."

P's eyes narrow, "What do you think that'll do?"

"Who cares! You're just pissing me off."

"You were pissed off long before we talked."

"Shut up! You don't know a damn thing about me!" the kid seethes, rushing at P.

P doesn't hold back, kicking them harshly to the ground before tossing their jacket away. There's a severity in their tone as they stare down at the wincing child, "Get up. If you can't even hit me, you won't have any chance against him. Show me how far you're willing to go."

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

M crouches down, showing the child to you with a small chuckle, "Wasn't I...just...the cutest kid...?"

Child M looks at their adult version, their eyes widening in recognition, "Are you me?!"

"That's...right..."

"Why do I talk like that?"

"You get...tired..."

"Hmm," Child M thinks for a moment before their eyes sparkle, "Do I get a cute boy/girlfriend in the future?"

M shows you off like a valuable art showcase, though the kid scrunches their nose, "Ew."

M chuckles, "You just...don't know...what you...like yet..."

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

Raven smiles lightly at the disheveled child, delicately picking a rotten banana peel from their hair, "Someone threw their trash in your dumpster again, didn't they?"

"Do I look okay?" the kid says quietly, running their fingers through their oily hair and frantically picking bits of discarded trash from their clothes, their gaze occasionally flicking past Raven.

"You look great!" Raven says genuinely.

Child Raven nods happily before quickly moving past them. The stench of refuse grows stronger as they move closer, their eyes widening at the sight of you and a heavy blush pressed to their cheeks. They wave sheepishly.

"H-Hello...! I-I-I-I...." the kid seems to lose their thoughts as they continue to look at you until blurting out, "Do you want children?!"

You try your best not to look at the kid, "I wasn't really looking to adopt..."

"We can make them ourselves," they say breathlessly before releasing a giggle, clearly embarrassed by their own words. They tug at the front of your shirt, directing you to the sight of an infatuated smile, "You'll wait for me, right?"

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

Child S runs up to S's motorcycle, their excitement high, "This looks just like-!"

"Sandrider."

Child S's head snaps to S, who leans against the bike with a wide grin, "Her name's Sandrider."

"That's a great name," the rugged kid says, reaching towards the bike, "Can I..."

Without waiting for them to finish, S picks the kid up and places him on the back. Their eyes light up as soon as the ignition engages and the vehicle roars to life.

"She's amazing! Hey, hey, are ya gonna be in the Desert Race this year? Ya can definitely win!"

S smiles solemnly, "Nah, not this year, but..." They turn around with the brightest grin you've seen them wear, jutting a thumb confidently to themselves, "We definitely will!"

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

As F moves closer, the child presents a flower crown to them, a light smile on their face, "I made extras, and I think it will compliment your hair beautifully!"

Wordlessly, F kneels and allows the child to place the crown on their head while continuing to talk.

"You're from Frenza, right? Are you part of one of the aristocratic houses?"

"Yes, you could say that," F responds gently, "Thank you for your gracious gift, Your Highness."

The child shifts uncomfortably, their mood deflating, "Right..."

"It must be hard to understand which words are genuine when they are said to you, knowing the position you're in," F mentions sadly, causing the child's interest to pique.

"Is it hard for you too?"

"It never grows easier," F says, taking the flower crown from their head and placing it on the child's, "But while there are those who expect perfection from us, there are also those who expect nothing that we may confide in, as well as one you deem worth caring for."

You lean towards the two, "Are you talking about me?"

"Of course not," F says haughtily.

Child F gives you a knowing smile, "Of course not."

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

Thank ya for the ask!

#triaina academy #romance options #time travel #alternate ROs

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drakewalkerfantasy · 4 years ago

Text

The Truth of Pain (Tatum x F!MC)

Summary: The Truth will come out eventually, but are they ready for it? And what will happen when truth will be out. Will they be able to protect each other or will they be torn apart?

Words: 3465

Rating: T

Warning: none

Authors notes: I really hope you will enjoy this. Please let me know if still want to be tagged and what I can improve. I hope you will like this chapter, it’s not what I initially planned and I really didn’t have much time to proofread and make it perfect and I hope the next part will be better

First part: The art of Foreign Affairs

Second part: The Secret of Foreign Affairs.

It was 8 o’clock sharp when Tatum heard Demarco’s worried and slightly panicked voice over the radio, informing the team he couldn't locate Claire. Slightly cursing and grumbling under his breath he pressed his fingers to the ear piece, thankful that even though he was off duty until later today he had connected to the radio in time not to miss the message.

“Copy that,” he replied through the gritted teeth, checking for any messages from Claire, but as he suspected there were none. “Demarco, leave it with me. I will find her... No… I don’t think that backup is necessary.... Yes… No... Wait in her suite. Demarco, this is an order,” said Tatum before disconnecting.

Heavily he moved to the door peeking outside. Cursing, when he saw three guards standing in front of Blaine’s door. His body ached with every step he took while he walked toward there, stopping in front of the guards. His impression - unreadable, knowing that even though he made friends with some of them they still will do their job, which meant not letting the bodyguard of the enemy's country into the room.

“Let me in,” requested Tatum, his hand already moving to the handle to push the door open only to be stopped by one of Hayes’ bodyguards.

“Mendoza, you know it’s against the protocol.”

“Claire is there and that is against the protocol either. So I'm not going anywhere till she leaves with me,” grunted Tatum.

“She isn’t there. Don’t you think we would know if she would be with Hayes? Unlike Rutherland’s bodyguards we know where our charge is...”

“How convincing... wasn’t it him, who was almost expelled a few weeks ago for a security breach... or wasn’t it him, sneaking away from you whenever he wanted? And wasn’t it him you lost in Rutherland few months before the start of the semester?”

“At least he never was spotted with his pants down with some mystery lover,” guffawed one of the bodyguards’.

Lucky bastard. thought Tatum narrowing his eyes, feeling how his fists clenched from the memory.

“Don’t make me…,” seethed Tatum, feeling the need to punch something. He knew that he could trust Claire, but Blaine... he wasn't so sure if he could.

After 10-15 minutes of heated conversation Tatum firmly moved one of the bodyguards’ aside groaning from the pain that the effort took him, but finally getting inside the suite followed by Ardona’s bodyguards. Moving as quickly as he could toward the bedroom.

“Mendoza, you cannot just enter like that,” hissed one of the bodyguards’ trying to reach for Tatum to stop him right outside the door.

“Miles, just try and stop me,” he seethed, whirling around with an angry glare in his eyes before throwing the door open and marching inside without another glance back.

The blood roared in his ears when he walked inside, but even through the rage that was boiling his blood he still could hear two gasps and exclamations following his entrance.

“Hey,” exclaimed Blaine, when the door opened hiding a smirk behind a shocked expression. “Didn't your mother teach you that you have to knock before you enter?” he asked, while making a show from the way the covers slipped from his naked torso, while another pair of hands firmly held onto her half not letting it slip even an inch lower.

“Claire, stand up,” roughly said Tatum, ignoring Blaine. His eyes unmoving on her, while hers widened and moved around the room looking anywhere but him. Guilt? Fear? he thought, knowing that even if it was, it still wasn’t what everyone would assume happened. He knew her well enough to know as much. Regretting the way how his own voice sounded, rougher than expected, sharper then it should have been. And knowing that she thought he was angry with her, but he wasn’t. He was angry about the situation, about the fact she was ready to cause another scandal, only to stir her mother's attention from him. He was angry about that, but not on her... never on her.

He could see how the blood drained from her face, when their eyes finally met, and a silent conversation trespassed between them.

“What are you doing here? I thought Demarco is on duty?”

“I knew you would do something reckless the second he informed me you weren't in your suite. God... What were you even thinking? I knew it was a bad idea to sneak out to him. Why would you even think of something like that?”

“Don’t you see why? Apparently, someone in my security details is a snitch, who passed information on us to my mother. So I needed someone who isn’t you to see me with Blaine so my mother wouldn’t do anything to you and would think her plan is working whatever her plan even is.”

“But you ARE with me...”

“Yes, I’m. But she shouldn’t know it. She should think I’m with Blaine and was all along.”

“You are stubborn.”

“But you still love me.”

“Yes, I do,” murmured Tatum in a voice quieter than a whisper, with a tender smile.

“Nothing happened,” simply stated Blaine stirring them both from the conversation they had, not even noticing that they had one. The one where they didn’t need words to have, and the one they mastered through years of friendship. Blaine’s hand placed under his head on the pillow watching between Tatum and Claire before looking behind Tatum at his bodyguards on alert. “You three can leave and close the door behind.”

“But Sir,” tried the bodyguard Claire remembered from their visit to the children’s hospital a few weeks ago.

“It’s an order,” said Blaine, waiting for the door to close before moving his gaze back to Tatum. “You can relax. I know Claire is in love with someone else and this someone unfortunately isn’t me. It doesn’t take a genius to put 1 plus 1 after the photo we all saw yesterday to realise that she isn’t interested," his eyes fixed solely on Tatum who still was looking at Claire the smirk playing at his lips and his voice taunting, "but I guess even if she would place a billboard in a Rutherland’s capital’s city square declaring that she is in love with that person or would scream that from the tallest tower in city this person still would be either blind or stupid not to get a message and still doubt her. So if this person even for a second could think Claire is capable of cheating, this person doesn’t deserve her.”

“Blaine, don’t...,” said Claire quietly, her gaze still holding Tatum’s, knowing that he didn’t think even for a second that this was what had happened. But also knowing that deep down he was still jealous and hurt that she was ready to play the game her mother would want her to play. Still doubting if he even deserves her and that hurt.

“I...,” he tried, swallowing thickly. His eyes meet Blaine’s knowing that he is right... he doesn’t deserve her, and even not because he could think for a second she could cheat on him. He knew she wouldn’t, simply as this, he just knew. But the voice of her mother mixed with the voice from his past whispering that 'never say never' was louder than that, and he could do nothing to silence them. “Claire, please...,” softly said Tatum, his eyes pleading with her, watching how she slipped from under the covers letting them slide from her body. The summer dress is still on her body with the slightly lowered straps to make her look nude. His eyes moving to Blaine, who followed her, the low rise jeans still snugly around his hips.

“I see you tonight,” said Claire to Blaine, her hand brushing Tatum’s passingly on the way to the door, sending a million of sensations through him. His finger hooking with hers just for a split second squeezing it slightly before letting go.

“You shouldn’t say that in front of him or he will think you are planning an escape route already and will triple your security details, ” laughed Blaine putting on a t-shirt with a wink.

“Blaine!!! I meant you picking me up at 6 for our date,” laughed Claire before she left Blaine’s room with Tatum just a step behind.

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

It was already 6 in the evening when Blaine knocked on the door. The bouquet of pink roses in his hand and a charming smile on his face. Tatum lowered his gaze feeling how uncontrolled spark of jealousy coursed through him, watching Blaine bending lower to press a soft kiss to the back of Claire’s hand lingering for a moment longer before handing her flowers. Wanting to be the one who would take her on the dates, who would bring her pink roses just because she loves them so much and to be the one who would hold her hand in his. He could see how Blaine looked her over with a smirk, his voice lowered to a loud whisper, still holding her hand.

“You cleaned up nicely.”

“You look not as bad yourself,” smiled Claire before meeting Tatum’s gaze, reading in them just how good she looked and how much better this long beautiful blue gown with a bare back would have looked on his bedroom’s floor. The single thought and the heat in his gaze, the one he masked behind the mask of stony expression sent a rush of desire through her, making her pulse race and for a tiny blush to colour her cheeks. “Ummm,” she cleared her throat, snapping her gaze back to Blaine’s. “So where are you taking me?” asked Claire, accepting Blaine’s hand to help her out of her suite.

“Where would there be fun in that if I would tell you?” he teased her in reply, leading her to the limousine that waited for them, while Tatum took a deep breath following them side by side with Blaine’s bodyguard. His body still hurting, but he went forward ignoring the pain, knowing that any second of him being distracted by it may cost Claire’s safety and he couldn’t allow it.

The drive to their destination wasn’t awkward, even though Tatum felt how the tension in his body intensified every time when Blaine lowered his voice beckoning Claire closer to him and whispered something that made her blush. Protectiveness and something resembling a spark of jealousy made his own body shift closer to Claire’s. Every nerve in his body was on alert and aching. Knowing that that was a dangerous move to do, a reckless one, but he still couldn’t resist it, feeling how Claire’s hand found her way to his behind their backs. Her body shifted just slightly cloaking the view of their intertwined fingers. Her thumb running gently over the bandage covering his knuckles, squeezing his hand and not letting it go until the limo stopped, meantime still taking the part into her flirtatious conversation with Blaine.

Tatum could feel how her hand slipped from his the moment the car stopped, but not missing the last squeeze of her hand with a light tremor in them. His hand squeezing hers before finally letting it go, not missing the nervous expression passing over her face clouding her smile just for a split second. And he instantly knew why, when his eyes fell to a crowd of photographers readying their cameras just outside the limo.

“God,” mumbled Claire, swallowing heavily. “I know that they want us to be seen together, but did they really need to invite this many paparazzi,” nervously asked Claire.

“No kidding,” whistled Blaine before offering his hand to Claire, lowering his voice to a quiet whisper. “The good thing about going out with me is that I don’t give a damn about these sharks... and another good thing is... I don’t really think they even expect me to behave knowing my reputation or that I will not try to sneak away,”chuckled Blaine with a wink.

“But...”

“No but’s. Do you trust me?” asked Blaine bending closer to Claire, his voice soft and gentle against her ear, not giving a damn for a sharp pointed look that Tatum threw his way.

“I do... but our bodyguards may get in trouble for that and I... I don’t want that to happen,” finally said Claire with a sigh and a worried expression.

“Not if we play our cards right,” winked Blaine. “That involves delivering exactly what our parents want... they don’t expect me to sit at some stuffy restaurant and behave myself. They expect me to run off with a beautiful girl, sneak away from our bodyguards and paparazzi, because everyone knows that everything I do for cameras is to piss my parents. And if I do something secretly... It means that it’s real and something I care deeply about. So why not enjoy ourselves far away from that farce and give our parents exactly what they want from us?”

“The show...,” the realisation downed at her. “The show, that is believable enough for them to get what they want... us together likeable to the public, creating a rumour that it’s real and not PR company your parents and my mother try to pull off thereby setting up even more of the population against them. Blaine, are you sure that they will not get in trouble,” asked Claire, subtly looking at Tatum who grunted while getting from the car, holding the door open for them and waiting for Blaine and Claire to follow him.

“I give you my word, so... are you in?”

“I...,” spoke Claire, chewing at her bottom lip still contemplating her answer before finally saying. “Fine... I’m in. But if anything happens with T...”

“Nothing will happen with him," interrupted Blaine. "And I promise you will not regret it,” he whispered with a smile before helping Claire out of the car under the intense glare from Tatum. And as soon as Claire and Blaine stepped out onto the street the camera flashes blinded them as reporters started to shout questions at them.

Blaine’s hand gently placed on the small of Claire’s back, leading her through the crowd with the help of their bodyguards, noticing that despite the best effort from Tatum he could barely stand, grunting every now and then when some of the most insolent reporters tried to get past him. His teeth gritted, taking a shaky breath before requesting yet another reporter to back off, his hand now and then gripping his side before continuing to clear the path for them.

The questions that were asked, and ignored with flourish by Blaine and Claire, were the same she used to hear for the past couple of days. Most of them about the scandal, some about the feud between their countries and her mother’s political career and what that could mean to her. And some, as everyone hoped would be, the questions if Blaine is that same mystery lover that everyone is talking about. Carefully Blaine led them through the crowd toward the restaurant that was supposed to be their date’s location, meantime thinking of the quick escape plan for them until one of the reporters asked for proof that they are together.

Shakily Claire turned to face Blaine, feeling how her heart was pounding quickly in her chest. And he could feel how her body tensed under his hand. Her eyes widened slightly, and her hands curled around the lapels of his suit jacked neither pulling or pushing him away. And by the look in her eyes he instantly knew that she felt like a deer caught in a headlights. Her breath elevated, while her eyes sought someone behind him, locking her eyes with this person. Blaine’s hands gently grazing the bare skin of her back, trying to soothe her with his touch. His face lowered to hers feeling how her breath hitched in her throat and she swallowed. His lips just inches away from hers wanting to kiss her, but first wanting to make sure that she was okay with it even though he knew this is part of the deal. At least that was what she asked him to do.

The voice of his father rang in his ears: Do something you are finally good at. Date the girl. Kiss her and make her forget about this mystery lover of hers. Make her look good and pretty. Sneak off to make it seem real to you. And probably then you will at least make something good of yourself.

And if that girl wouldn’t be Claire he would never agree to that but in that case he couldn’t say no. But now, he wasn’t sure if this was such a smart idea after all as he liked her, more than he probably should, and more than he liked anyone else since that night only a few months ago before he got here. Trying to push the thought away about the annoyingly sparkling eyes, the same shade of chocolate brown as Claire's, but with the different sparkles of silver and gold swirling in them.

“Are you sure you are okay with that, if not we can go for a hug,” he asked with a concern lacing his voice, watching her nod and swallow.

“Yes... I... We need to do the whole show... you know for mum... for that to be believable. I’m sure my friend...,” she choked on the words trying to meet Tatum’s stoic expression, who was standing just a few feets away from them. But he made a hell of a job not to meet hers. She sighed in defeat. Not buying even for a second, that this didn’t impact him as much as it did her. Knowing him way too well not to miss a fire burning in his eyes, and the way how his fists clenched. “I’m sure he will understand,” whispered Claire, lowering her eyes.

“Okay,” he said, softly pressing his lips to hers without waiting for another invitation. His kiss was gentle and warm and leading, but it wasn’t Tatum’s and it was all she could think of. And she knew that he could feel it too. His lips lingering against hers for a moment longer as if savouring the feel of them for the last time before finally pulling slowly away. Pulling her in a tight embrace shielding her from the press so they wouldn’t see her tears. After a long heartbreaking moment she gently pushed him away finally putting on a forced smile, the fake one as fake as this date is... not knowing if he ever will have anything real.

They could hear how the press shouted their approval taking pictures, making the bodyguards get themselves busy with the amount of paparazzi trying to take a better shot of the happy couple, and as on cue Blaine saw an escape route. Quickly, he leaned to Claire nodding toward the narrow alleyway just behind the restaurant, stirring her away from the crowd until the freedom seemed so close and Claire could feel how she finally could breathe again, finally not suffocating by the amount of attention from the press.

“Where do you think you are going,” ceased someone through gritted teeth, when Claire felt a firm but gentle hand gripping her forearm. She instantly gasped and whirled around to face no one else but Tatum who was glaring at Blaine.

“Busted,” shrugged Blaine, letting go of Claire’s hand and nonchalantly leaning against the wall of the building.

“Care to explain?” seethed angrily Tatum.

“We are ditching my bodyguards and I’m taking Claire somewhere where she will be able to enjoy her meal. Not so pompous as this place. Care to join us?” Smirked Blaine. “And no worries we will be back before the opera.”

“Opera?”

“Yes, they are sending us there and we definitely need to be seen there...” shrugged Blaine before looking back to see if anyone else noticed their absence. “Dude, we don’t have much time so either you go with us or we go without you,” said Blaine looking behind the corner.

“Tatum, please,” softly spoke Claire.

“Claire, it’s unsafe,” tried Tatum before she stopped him with the press of her fingers to his.

“Tate, if you will go with me… with us it will be the most safe place I can be without paparazzi breathing down my every step. Please, Tatum. I need it, I really do.”

“But what about his parents and your mother,” finally asked Tatum.

“This is exactly what they would want for paparazzo to think, that this is real. And this exactly for what we are going. So my question stands are you coming with us? Or will stay behind, I’m good either way.”

“Fine… I’m coming."

Tagging: @choices-bound @jamespotterthefirst @mercury84choices @k2624 @thefrenchiemama @choicesreal @starrystarrytrouble @boneandfur @walkerswhiskeygirl @sophxwithers @ramseysrookiex @suitfer @gardeningourmet

#tatum mendoza #tatum x mc #tatum x f!mc #foreignaffairs #choices foreign affairs

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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 4 years ago

Note

May I request a vampire dogfight over an injured MC? A group of vampires are all wanting her and Cecelia has to fight them off to protect what is hers. Vampires are turning on each other left and right as well? Full on feeding frenzy.

It was supposed to be a quiet night out with Cecilia, nothing too fancy. Just a long conversation to get to know her better, under the stars and the ethereal glow of the moon, far away from the town and any kind of interruptions. You had Cecilia and her melodic voice all to yourself. You could get lost in Cecilia’s dark eyes all you liked, because their glint fascinated you more than all the treasures you had sneakily claimed for yourself over the years.

Perhaps that’s why you hadn’t sensed anything was wrong. You were too engrossed in the direction the conversation was headed, in the lovely tension that was building between you with each carefully worded retort. The single spark of a touch would ignite a passion like no other, and you were looking forward to let it consume any other thought that wasn’t Cecilia and her predatory smirk that quirked her wonderful lips just so.

She was a work of art, and you wanted nothing more than to shower her with the attention and admiration she deserved.

Of course, nothing went to plan. The tension spiked not because of a heated moment between lovers, but because of an ambush and scrambled attempts to defend yourselves. Cecilia was thrown to the ground first, hissing and growling in the face of her attacker. You only get a second to look at their wild eyes and baring fangs before someone tackles you so hard all the air leaves your lungs, leaving you wheezing.

There’s a brief moment of total blackness when your head hits the ground, and the next thing you know, you are face down on the earth, you don’t feel the weight of your gun on you and the person restraining you – another human – is laughing an awful, raspy laugh that makes you shudder with disgust.

“That was too easy!” He says, after his chuckles subside. You can’t even properly glare at him, so you just settle for proving him wrong. It only takes a bit of focusing before he’s screaming and cursing at previously nonexistent flames that now lick hungrily at his shirt. It’s all you need to push him off you and deliver a solid kick to his jaw.

His head snaps back, and he yowls in pain. A hand raises to grab your leg and yank you back, and you briefly wonder how stubborn this guy is before a piercing pain in your thigh has you gasping in surprise.

“You’ll pay for that.” You hiss. The punch you give him fills you with satisfaction, and a second one with a little bit of magical energy ensures he is out cold. You retrieve your gun almost mechanically, clenching your teeth at the throbbing pain that threatens to overwhelm your very mind.

You don’t have time for this, not when you’re not sure if Cecilia is safe.

Thankfully, improvising is one of your best qualities. You’ve never used your witch powers to heal yourself before, and you have no idea how to even begin, but you put both hands over the wound and hope for the best.

It’s not instant relief. It’s a weird mix of sensations: you suddenly feel too cold and a moment later too hot. The world spins, and you let out a long string of curses that would make Enzo proud while you try to get a grasp on the situation. Still, after that brief moment of turmoil, your mind clears.

Making a mental note to check the wound later, your gaze snaps up, trying to locate her. There’s a flash of red in the corner of your eye that disappears almost instantly, but it’s all you need. You stumble around a couple of rocks big enough to obscure your vision, and finally find her.

She’s crouched, lips peeled back in a snarl, ready to block or evade any strike the other vampire throws at her. Both look equally wary of each other, gauging each other up, looking for any weaknesses. Neither look particularly hurt… Cecilia’s jacket is torn in the back, clearly ripped open by claws, but her skin has already healed.

She’s okay. She’s fine.

You let out a small sigh of relief.

The other vampire sniffs the air, eyes instantly falling on you. His whole expression changes in less than a second, a wicked grin stretching across his face when he sees your wound.

“A witch?” He asks, incredulously.

Cecilia is on him faster than you can blink, her guttural growl echoing clearly. She maneuvers over his hasty attack like a nimble cat, empowered by something else than the need to defend herself. Her strikes are powerful and precise and make him stumble back, eyes wide at the restless assault.

She’s moving with the intent to protect what is hers.

“Don’t you dare look at her!” She roars, claws glinting a silvery red under the light of the moon.

Mouth dry at the sight, heart drumming with adrenaline and affection, you hurry to help her. Your energy rolls out of you in waves, trying to get a grip on the other vampire. You initially meant to grab his attention and grant Cecilia her golden opportunity, but you’re distracted by the other presences your energy picks up. And they are drawing closer with each second that passes.

“There are more vampires coming!” You shout, damning your bad luck.

Cecilia hisses, rolling out of an attack. She seems torn between making sure the vampire learns that you belong to her and her alone, or making a run for it. Crimson eyes dart around the terrain, trying to gauge how much time she has.

It turns out it’s less than a second. You’re quickly surrounded by an endless sea of glistening fangs, and under the light of the moon they seem all the more threatening.

There must be ten or so vampires here, or even more.

“Great.” You huff. Your fingers curl around the trigger of your gun, even though it may as well be a toy against these apex predators. You do not want to play damsel in distress, and your frustration only increases when it becomes evident you can’t do much else other than watch and hope for the best.

Cecilia seems ready to go down fighting, anyway, by the way she’s avidly looking for weaknesses.

“Hand over the witch.” Orders a calm voice. You glare at the closest vampire, seething in rage.

Cecilia’s answering growl seems to overpower any other sound in the world. “I will do no such thing!”

“It’s such a shame that the last Visconti will go down like this…”

The fight begins anew. Your energy extends like a roaring ocean wave, crashing against them and pinning some vampires in place. You strain under the effort, hissing under your breath.

The rest of enemies throw themselves at Cecilia, who dodges and hisses and pivots around them with effortless grace. She’s a storm barely contained in a mystical, expertly carved not-so-human body. A true sight for sore eyes. The enemy vampires don’t stand a chance against her.

It’s weird, you think, how easily she throws them around and slashes at their exposed chests and neck with ease. It’s like they aren’t at full strength, which would certainly explain why they came from who knows where for you.

A sharp moment of pain makes you stagger, making you suddenly aware of another problem. There’s a pressure in your mind that increases with each passing second. It’s not only the strain of keeping the spell, there’s something else poking and probing at your mind with an almost frantic need.

You try to fight it off with all your might, but the pressure only increases, drowns any other thought, makes you want to scream and trash around—

Then there’s a blurry movement in front of you and the vampire that was trying to lure you goes flying off.

“You’re mine, witchling. Don’t ever forget that.” Cecilia’s low, raspy voice snaps you out of it. She’s standing next to you, breathing hard, bathed in blood and sand and looking somehow perfect despite it all. Her touch is firm yet gentle over your chin, forcing your eyes to meet. You can’t help noticing how hers bore into your very soul, so intense and so powerful it’s impossible not to look at them. At her.

The moment is over as soon as it begins. Her hands fall to your sides, gripping your arms so hard it’s almost painful, and she quickly moves you out of the way of an incoming vampire. You prepare to fight back however you can, except it turns out you don’t really need to. The vampire continues forward, crazed, and crashes against another vampire at the far back.

There’s a series of indignant shouts and chaos descends at the next second. Some vampires make a move toward you and others move to block them, fangs bared, trying to push them back and make their own attempt to get to you. It looks almost comical, how they try to quite literally run over each other. Cecilia lets out a small huff by your side, half exasperation and half relief.

The enemy vampires are so out of it you even manage to shoot one directly in the face. She falls back, making a few agonized sounds deep in her throat, scratching the air and guarding what’s left of her face with her arms.

“That’s our cue to leave.” Cecilia murmurs, pressing you close to her, carefully cupping your neck. She seems less possessive and more like her usual self, probably because most of the danger has already passed. The injuries she caused to most vampires must have driven her point across.

The world lurches and shifts on its axis. You are on your apartment at the next second, and Cecilia is instantly fretting over your wound, even though she’s not faring much better. There’s a large cut under her arm that’s struggling to heal, along with several smaller ones along her arms and legs, and her breathing is even more labored.

Vengeful crimson gives away to worried silver, as she eases into her human form, not caring one little bit about her own state.

“Worry about yourself first, Cece. You look awful.”

“Most of my injuries look worse than they actually are. I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand-”

“Oh, don’t give me that. Go out and feed. Here, give me that bandage. I’ll take care of this.”

“I’m-”

“On your way out, yes.”

“Claire-”

“If I don’t see you stepping out my room in the next five seconds-”

She sighs and parts from you with hesitant steps. Looks over her shoulder at you regretfully.

“I’m sorry, if I had been more alert-”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t worry about that, Cece. It just means I’m too irresistible for you to pay attention to anything else.”

There’s that amused smirk that you love so much. The one that curls her lips just so and shows a flash of teeth, the one that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly, and makes her eyes sharpen with predatory interest.

“Brat.” Is all she says, before leaving the room.

#evoedbd #answered #cecilia visconti #lovestruck #cecilia x mc #wll #wicked lawless love #mentions of injury #sporadic sunday #lovestruck wll #lovestruck wicked lawless love

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tyrilblue · 4 years ago

Text

Live for me

Part II - Rome’s power

Marc Antony x MC (Alba)

Word count: 2700

If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know ✨

You can find Part I here

Ante diem iv Nonas Septembres XXXI

(September 2nd, 31 b.C.)

Roman-Egyptian encampment.

Actium promontory, Greece.

Marc Antony scribbled hastily on a makeshift table, stopping every so often to check for noises. The encampment was eerily quiet in the dead of night, washed by moonlight. The only sound Antony could hear was the crackling of the fire at the center of the tent. He sat in silence, his pen hovering just an inch above the parchment, his head crowded by a million thoughts.The world's future, together with his own, would be decided at dawn. Antony's last, great stand against Octavian's forces could take place any minute, depending on the moment of his enemy's arrival. Thankfully, Cleopatra still did not doubt his loyalty and love. With her support he had his fair chances of winning, but good commanders knew never to take victory for granted.

In that chaos of uncertainty there was only one thing he now knew for sure.

He wanted to see her again.

Antony never thought he could feel such a thing, but after decades of warfare, plotting and bloodshed, all his heart ached for was peace. Of course, power was still his goal, but he did not view it as the only option anymore. A younger version of himself would have laughed at his weakness, and at times he still thought aging might have softened his heart. Still, he wasn't so ready to give up the rest of his life anymore, if his fate was to live beyond that battle.

At that thought, images of Alba promising to die with him flashed through his mind. His heart ached as he remembered her, as beautiful as a goddess in a cloud of white silk, and he desperately, hopelessly went on writing.

«My dearest Alba, I hope this message finds you alive and well. The final battle against Octavian will take place tomorrow in the bay of Actium, and my fate - our fate - will be decided then. All these months in exile have taught me much, but more than anything I now know I do not want to give up on our future. No matter the outcome of this war, if I do not die in battle, I will do everything that is in my power to come back to you. If I lose, we shall flee Rome together. Please, disregard the last message I sent you. If the battle should not fare well for me, run and seek shelter in the home of Lucius Pontius. I am giving this message to him, a trusted soldier, who will be leaving on a merchant ship at dawn. I hope he manages to reach you before the news about my possible defeat reach Rome. I want to live for you, with you, even if that means being idle for the rest of my days.»

Antony skimmed the text once more, waiting for the ink to dry, then he added their secret code, small enough to go unseen, at the bottom of the paper. He and Alba had agreed she should trust no one's words while he was away, even if they should come from his most trusted messenger, so they'd established a code to make sure their letters to each other could not be forged.

He sighed. He felt hopeless, his logical mind couldn't allow him to hope, because he knew that the news about a war's outcome could travel faster than the wind. He read the letter over again, kneading his brow in frustration, then started to wrap the parchment in a roll.

At that moment the entrance to the tent opened, letting in a ray of moonlight that was quickly shadowed by queen Cleopatra's figure. Antony's heart shrank with dread on seeing her, despite the queen's beauty. She was dressed in her night attire, her linen tunic billowing in the soft sea breeze coming from outside.

"Marc Antony" - she said in her typical low, mellow tone, her Latin hinting at her Egyptian nature. "Why did you leave our tent? I have been missing you". She was calm, but there was a silent threat hidden in her soft words. Antony had gained most of her trust, but after Caesar, no amount of flattering and calculation could gain him her absolute faith. Cleopatra walked towards him, and Antony was careful to act natural, leaving the half-wrapped roll of parchment exposed so as not to raise suspicions on her part. The queen laid her golden hands on Antony's shoulders, drawing circles with her thumbs. He let out a sigh of pleasure, only partly meant to satisfy her.

"Is the upcoming battle troubling your sleep?" - she asked, and suddenly her lips were on his neck, kissing him softly.

"Yes, my Queen, deeply" - Antony replied, "But your hands are working a very powerful magic". He let his head fall back onto Cleopatra's shoulder, hoping to concentrate her attention on him instead of his letter on the table. He softly grabbed her wrist, moving her hand from his shoulder to his chest, and lower under his toga. He felt her smiling in the crook of his neck.

"Would some attention from me ease you into our goddess Nwt's arms?" - she asked, her voice as sweet as dates.

"It certainly would" - Antony replied, and in one final move to distract her, he pushed his chair back and stood up to kiss her. The sudden movement caused the the small table to wobble, and Antony's stylus fell with a tinning sound. He couldn't but watch helplessly as Cleopatra's eyes travelled from the fallen pen up to the parchment on the table, narrowing as soon as they landed on his letter.

"Have you been writing?" - she asked, falsely naïve.There was nothing Antony could do to prevent what was about to happen. He gritted his teeth, waiting, his mind racing in an attempt to find an explanation as Cleopatra took the parchment and unrolled it, reading quickly.

"What is this?" - she looked up at him with a deadly stare in her black eyes, "This Alba... Alba, the Gaul courtesan of Rome?".

Antony put on his best smile, faking amusement and shaking his head.

"Yes, my Queen, exactly, Alba of Lena's scholae" - he said, "And my old lover". Cleopatra's eyes flashed with rage at his words, but Antony raised his hands in surrender.

"I am only using her, my Queen, to obtain information about our enemy" - he explained calmly, "Her futile feelings for me have proved invaluable since I left Rome". The artful disdain in Antony's voice seemed to convince Cleopatra, but she kept looking at him with suspicion.

"Of all the spies you could have in Rome, of all the men who would be ready to serve you, why her?" - Cleopatra's voice ringed with contempt when referencing Alba, and for a split second Antony had to clench his teeth in a surge of rage. Then his lips melted into his usual, cool smile, and he stroked Cleopatra's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Because she is no common spy, she is still the most renowned courtesan in Rome" - Antony raised his eyebrows conspiratorially, and Cleopatra smiled for the briefest moment. "She has access to alcoves and bedchambers no spy could ever dream of entering". The queen of Egypt seemed to ponder his words for a few, endless seconds, then she turned, seemingly satisfied but still resentful, walking away from Antony with his letter clutched in her hands.

"However useful she may be, you certainly won't need her help now that we are so close to our victory" - she stated, and with a coy smile she ripped the parchment into pieces, throwing them into the fire pit at the center of the tent.

"Now come, my love, I need my commander to be well-rested for battle".

Antony, seething, looked at her as she crossed her arms and stood waiting for him. He cast a glance at the remaining fragments of his message burning quickly among the embers, noticing just one corner of it had been spared. It now lay on the ground outside the fire pit.

"What are you –" - Cleopatra burst out angrily, but was immediately cut off by the sound of a war horn breaking the silence of the encampment.

"Octavian" - she whispered. "He's here".

A few tense moments passed as the two of them looked at each other, a mix of fear, determination and anger in the eyes of both. Outside, the camp was starting to stir with the clang of metal and shouting in both Latin and Egyptian. Then, the horn sounded again, calling for blood.

"One way or another, this battle will show me the extent of Rome's power" - Cleopatra said, and without another word, she left the tent in a cloud of linen. Antony wasted no time trying to interpret her sentence, which sounded a lot like a prophecy. There was no way he could remove the suspicion from her mind now, so he rushed to pick up the surviving scrap of parchment and his stylus. Without thinking, he dipped the pen in a pool of spilt ink on the table and wrote as fast as he could.

«Alba, live for me

V.XIV.L»

And then he was outside, paper in hand, shouting the first orders and calling for his armour as the black expanse of the sky slowly started to turn into the colour of lavender flowers. As soon as his servants were next to him he turned to one of them.

"Fetch me legionary Lucius" - he commanded.

Ante diem iv Nonas Septembres XXXI

(September 2nd, 31 b.C.).

Bay of Actium, Greece.

The sky roared with thunder, but it was almost inaudible among the sounds of battle. The waves clashed heavily against the ship's hull, making it rock dangerously as the battle raged on.

Antony couldn't tell how long they had been fighting. The sky had turned a deep, ominous grey, soaked with rain. Standing on the deck of his ship, higher than any other, he could see a landscape of destruction. Wood splintered under the blows of catapults, the water was stained red and everywhere he looked he saw fire, smoke, death. The battle was even, no side was prevailing, and Antony had to make a move to turn it in his favour. Lightning made armours and weapons shine for a split second, and as he was about to order the ballistae to shoot, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, raising his sword in one swift movement, just in time for it to clash with the blade that was about to sink into his neck. One of Octavian's legates now stood in front of him, and Antony gritted his teeth. They had managed to board the ship, probably on a small boat that had passed unseen. A short distance away from him on the deck, he saw his soldiers start to fight with a small squadron of enemies. With a growl, Antony took his sword away from the lock and ducked out of the way, letting the legate stumble forwards. The two of them settled into a fighting stance, swords at the ready. The first drops of rain started to fall, but he was focused on his task.

"You and your Egyptian whore will never win this war, Marc Antony" - the legate snarled in an attempt to distract him. Antony couldn't help but smile. The man clearly believed Cleopatra was the woman he was fighting for. He silently repeated his vow to return to Alba, then, without answering the legate's provocation, he attacked with a cry.

The deck was becoming slick with rain, but Antony couldn't let the fight distract him from commanding the fleet for too long. He dealt a series of vicious blows to the legate's defense, taking advantage of his arrogance and growing tiredness. Whenever he saw an opportunity, he aimed his blade at the exposed skin of his arms and legs in order to weaken him.The legate stepped back from him to catch his breath and Antony smiled at his upcoming victory. He was about to attack once again, when suddenly an enormous wave hit the side of the ship, throwing him off-balance. The legate used his distraction to go back to the offense, and before Antony could stop him, he tore a long gash on his thigh. The pain was blinding for a second, but Antony managed to block the following blow to his throat. He furiously responded, finally locking the legate's sword with his and making it fly from his hand, beyond the railing and into the raging sea below. Before his enemy could draw another weapon, Antony pointed his sword at the legate's neck, ready to slit it open. He was about to let the blade run, when the man's smile stopped him.

"You have been betrayed, Marc Antony" - the legate smirked, "Octavian knows all of your strategies. You cannot win". Antony pressed the blade further into the man's neck, and as he swallowed in fear, a drop of blood ran down its surface. Antony's mind travelled faster than lightning, trying to figure out who could betray him among the few who knew his strategy for the battle.

"Quintus Dellius" - the legate preceded his thoughts, "He came begging for Octavian's favour, offering you on a silver pl...".

His last words were choked by Antony's sword, and the legate's lifeless body dropped to the floor. Blood spilled over the deck, mingling with Antony's, that was dripping thickly down his leg. He looked around frantically for more enemies, but his soldiers were gradually taking back control over the ship. He allowed himself to wince in pain and look down at his wound. It was long, deep and needed mending, but he'd suffered worse over the years. He tore a strip of linen from the garments under his armour, and gritted his teeth as he tied it tightly around his thigh. The blood flow was momentarily stopped by the cloth. It would be enough to get by for some time.

"Ballistae! At the ready!" - he shouted, trying to bring back order in his fleet, but as he looked around he saw his soldiers look at him first, disoriented, then out at the sea. The battle seemed to have died down momentarily.

"Domine!" - one soldier turned towards Antony, then went down on one knee in deference.

"Speak, legionary, what is it?"

"Domine, her Majesty the Queen of Egypt has ordered a retreat!".

Antony looked up, and that was when he heard the sound of the horns. His heart dropped as if it was suddenly as heavy as his sword. The Egyptian side of the fleet was hoisting the sails and putting out the oars, and the first ships were already starting to drift out of the bay. Antony rushed to the bow, trying not to show his limp. Once there, he saw Cleopatra's ship sailing away in front of him. The horns sounded the retreat once again, and Octavian's forces stopped the attacks completely, waiting for orders. For a few moments an eerie silence reigned over the bay, only the crashing sound of the waves on wood to break it.

Cleopatra turned around and locked eyes with Antony. Her look was full of disdain, only colored by the smallest hint of regret. Her words echoed in his mind. One way or another, this battle will show me the extent of Rome's power.Then, she turned her back to him and looked ahead. With a small motion of her hand she ordered for the oarsmen to start rowing, then disappeared below deck.

Antony looked around... Helpless. All he could see were damaged ships and tired, wounded, dead soldiers. Not even the best strategy could possibly turn that into a victory.

The battle was lost.

Rome was lost.

Everything was lost, and he would soon be captured.

TO BE CONTINUED

Taglist: @ritachacha @thatcatlady0716 @missameliep @goddesskrystaljung @storyofmychoices @tacohead13 @gonewithpersephone @winchesterwolves @isometimesplaychoices @kay-ali @why-am-i-eeyore @princess-geek

#acor marc antony #marc antony x mc #choices marc antony #marc antony fic #marc antony #acor fanfic #acor choices #acor antony #choices acor

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cupsofsuga · 5 years ago

Text

𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ━ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 *:·。.

{ ⚠️} WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers. I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

{ ☕️} NOTE - this is in the order of the member’s obtained! thanks for the request, daisy! also, creds for idea goes to @bangtans-apollo!!!

{ 💐} ANON ASKED - ❝ Headcanons on how the fanclub discovered each other and reacted to each other’s obsession for YN? ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊𝐉𝐈𝐍

ah, the melancholic suffering of a lovelorn teenager

how he holds nothing but an eternity in the crevices of his heart

the serene sunlight, words dripped in saccharine, cloyed gestures

nothing hurts more than praying to whatever god truly exists that you’ll return the adoration but finding the fatal fate of no response

and that leaves jin now, seething with envy that could intimidate a pack of wolves

how dare the teacher not pair you up with your soulmate!? it’s just blasphemy!

someone gets to soak in the glitter of your presence, they get to bathe in the rain after a century in sunlight

all while he has to waste precious hours of his time with some plastic nobody

he has to waste time with bland, boring kim taehyung

he’s a dull star amongst a million planets, a saturated wasteland amongst an oasis of color

and how jin’s blood burns seeing that you flash that summer smile to someone who most certainly doesn’t deserve it

ditching the dinner date with his soulmate, jin is forced to work on this godforsaken project with the loner

if only you two had run away when you got the chance, relishing in each other’s warmth as he holds the privilege of looking into your eyes, which he finds resemble dewdrops held upon spider’s silk

that is the honeyed heaven he so badly craves to taste

and as he stumbles around taehyung’s adobe, the curiosity held within jin get’s the best of him as he stumbles into his bedroom

and oh god, what secrets did he uncover

your face, his lover’s face plastered all over the walls and ceiling

some even had his face punctured out of them, some taken without your consent, one’s that jin even took himself

and there’s that one sweater you once ranted to jin how you swore it vanished into thin air, and how he teased that ghost in your attic probably snatched it

if it was physically possible, there’d be steam seeping out of jin’s ears

he clutches his fists so tight, there would most likely be blood drawn; he clenches his teeth so tightly, he fears they might crack under the pressure

but, before jin turns tail, he then sees taehyung as fear swims in his irises

and then jin feels it,

a revelation, an act of generosity

❝ i think you could be useful… ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆

with every breath he takes, there lies humiliation

shame, a ruthless emotion he swore he’d never live to see the depths of

the summer amongst the dark clouds, all lied on a silver platter for your supposed boyfriend to see

but there is kindness in jin’s eyes, a sliver of evil dripped with every word he speaks

and therein, we have witnessed the blooming of the “writing club,” whose only members were lovelorn kids who’ve infatuation got the best of them

with some sugar-laced words, jin had managed to maintain a room for their meetings after school, taehyung quickly ditching his art club for these fleeting moments spent with the man closest to his love

no, taehyung had never been fond of jin, but, holds undying respect for him, anyways

his heaven lies in his words, his sunlight is seen in his eyes, the fate he craves so desperately is clutched in his hands

and it’s only so long before his grip weakens, and taehyung can rob jin of his pleasures in his moment of vulnerability

but, that future must wait as it frolics in the back of taehyung’s head

he must gain the trust of your childhood best friend before he catches his infinity like a firefly in a jar

but, with that being said, taehyung doesn’t mind all the hours he spent huddled in the tree outside your house, hiding behind a canopy of leaves as he admires the dream before him

he’ll sketch your face (which he can now draw from memory) in his notepad, ethereal poetry and doodles held around your sparkling face

he’ll snap a few photos, catching the fireworks and shooting stars in the purity of the fleeting moment

to simply have the privilege to love you silently holds the light of a million stars

oh, how he loves you…

how the earth bruises your cheeks, the moon litters your skin, the stars possess your eyes and the rings of saturn held in your touch

there’s pure bliss within every heartbeat lept

and there’s only so much time before he has you all to himself

he just hopes no burden will stop him from such…

━━━ 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐊𝐎𝐎𝐊

the student’s that litter around these halls resemble parasites

all feeding off the others, annoying them with their deafening disunity, and all trailing behind others like burdens

but, there’s always been that one, that one that stands out like a sore thumb

bland, boring kim taehyung

a boy capable of summoning enough envy and rage within jungkook to crumble planets to nothing but ashes floating throughout the galaxy

how he denies his infatuation for you with red cheeks, but anyone with eyes can see those “adorable” dimples puncture his cheeks whenever he sees you in the halls

how he isn’t burdened by the overwhelming fate of unrequited love, drowning in his jealousy when you simply look at someone else

how he stalks in class you like a hawk would to prey, probably undressing you with his eyes like the freak he is!

how he simply exists, and how it makes jungkook churn with rage

and that leaves him now, dodging students as the race out of the school, hot on the tail of his rival

he must end him before he could potentially hold your heart in his hands

that single idea makes jungkook gag…

he hears taehyung’s voice, shoving a scoff back down his throat that could potentially jeopardize his identity

there’s another voice, too, but, jungkook assumes it’s another one of those art freaks who’s also pretentious with coincidences

then there’s your name, and it would’ve sounded like it was dripped in gold if it didn’t leave the mouth of his sworn enemy

and then he hears of this writing club, and jungkook seethes

these lowlifes get to breathe in the fragrance of those fleeting moments, which is a fate jungkook whose he is well-deserving of, not them

to simply touch the crevices of your soul carved in silk for just a mere second is a privilege

and letting these cretins possess that opportunity is simply unholy

despite holding a burning hatred for the rest of the memories, for you, jungkook would drag himself through the depths of hell

he just prays that the club members don’t pray too far under his skin

he doesn’t know if he can control himself.

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍

oh, y/n l/n…

an angel in the purest form, a humid june afternoon

they are a touch softer than autumn’s breeze, their word’s sharper than winter’s embrace, eyes starlit like the dreamy land of springtime, their presence like the bliss of summer and the melancholic longing after it’s demise

they hold within them the entire galaxy and namjoon can’t help but stare

but, there’s another pair of eyes

and they are burning bullet wounds into his soul with a craving to mutilate him swimming in their irises

as the bell rings its tumultuous song and deadbeat kids begin to litter the halls, namjoon is suddenly shoved against the locker by no other than the modern-day jeffrey dahmer

jeon jungkook, dust amongst a field of flowers

his sadistic pleasures and his lust for blood, the holy scent of iron that smoothes out all the creases

❝ if i catch you staring at my Y/N like that again, i’ll tear you apart limb from limb. ‘got it, dipshit? ❞

he is in all means terrifying, but, is nothing but a little boy to namjoon

time has passed, a damn near million tabs are held upon the screen all containing the history of namjoon and his family’s wealth

jin, who had been reported the incident by a fuming jungkook had found an opportunity in the depths of his teenage angst

he’ll feed into namjoon’s desire to touch you across hundreds of separating years

he’ll pray into his craving to kiss you as the naked moon sets for the final time

he’ll reach into his heart and use namjoon for his benefit

and how the rest of the members all fed off of his wealth like parasites

anything their little heart desired, they’d hold in their possession

as much as namjoon longs to deny them pleasure, he had been threatened to lose his place in the club and every inkling of access he has to you if he dared disobey

and namjoon would rather die than lose his love to the eternal night

the strange and enigmatic masterpiece, the ancient moon across a sea of stars

his violet lover has been sawed through by nostalgia, and his infatuation glows harder than a summer sunset

although jin’s intentions have a mile or two to run before they stab him in the back, namjoon still has a clear vision of his goal

and there shall be no burden before he meets his longed fate.

━━━ 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊

you, a flower itself, flood his brains like a tsunami to a pitiful city

you, a strawberry in winter, hold sly ways of slithering your way into the recesses of his heart once more

that leaves jung hoseok here, letting the teacher’s words fade to white noise as he doodles your name adorned with hearts on flowers in his notebook

there is distant gossip and whispers that echo from afar, which hoseok picks up due to his childlike curiosity

it begun with useless chitter-chatter, then dissolving to the melodic sound of your name which tumbles from their lips

he listens as the two boys curse the teacher for giving you a D on your exam, them mentioning this supposed ‘club’ that circled everything around you

hoseok was smart, he could raise your grade!

oh, how hoseok would just die to help you with your studies!

with a paradise sparkling in his eyes, he sparks up a conversation with the group, also known as kim namjoon and jeon jungkook

but, the doe-eyed teenager hisses at him, barking at him to ‘keep his fucking mouth shut’

he takes the hint, leaving the conversation with a silent ocean welling up in his eyes

but, this is the embodiment of hope that sits in this dull classroom

he’ll crawl around the corners of his soul till he’s enervate to retrieve what he has longed for

and that leads us up to now, as hoseok stalks to the two from a safe distance, watching as they disappear to the writing club

and just before the door closes, hoseok peeks through the crack of the door and finds the identity of kim seokjin, a boy he’s seen accompany you multiple times

the following day, while the students all stare in confusion for the small boy walking through the halls, hoseok finds him and confronts him

by the look of purified fear, this ‘writing club’ was a hushed secret, and him knowing of this secret was dangerous enough, as it is

after negotiating about how he’d contribute to your satisfaction, jin had no choice but to accept his offer

he doesn’t want this loud-mouthed kid to run up and down the halls preaching about their sins, anyways

the rest of the club members didn’t favor his arrival, all shooting looks of envy and hatred

but, there was no other choice

their fate is written in the stars and complimented with a wax steal upon an envelope.

━━━ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍

opening his locker, jimin finds a taste of eden’s garden as he finds your face strung upon the wall

there’s irises, rivers, fairies, and peaches within the single picture cutout from the yearbook as he sighs dreamily at the sight

his daydream of honeyed days is quickly disrupted as his best friend, hoseok interrupts his thoughts with stars circling in his eyes

before he can find the words to scold him, hoseok begins rambling about this ‘club’ at a rate to fast for jimin to decipher

he hears tales of his dreams, a chance to taste your beauty

this most definitely sparked his undying interest, ushering his best friend to continue with his intentions to get the boy warped in this world

thus, we are taken to the night where the clock reads 3:38 AM in it’s bright, neon hues

the boys would never dream of staying up this late, especially on a tuesday night as the fear for the scolding of their parents’ echos, but, the adrenaline that seeps through their veins serves as a protection

because of the prophecy of this new club, they are rebelling

and as a new day rises and the sun shimmers in all of its celestial beauty, the boys have come up with a plan

every club needs a mission manager!

and who else would be perfect for this job no other than park jimin…? right?

well, let’s just say, despite his unreasonable, childish, and almost dangerous plans, the rest of the boys weren’t happy upon his arrival

the sighs of annoyance to his careless nature, the scoffs of envy when he speaks words of poetry about everything as little as when you made eye contact that one time 2 months ago

jimin’s contribution isn’t favored, but, if it’s for you, all 6 boys are willing to drag themselves through hell and back

every member holds an undying love for the god/goddess themself, all possessing a wild heart that they’d bled dry if you asked

and jimin is just one branch of the group who also holds an intense infatuation

the water to his parched heart, the flowering spring in a winter haze

he has found the sun as it shimmers against the snow

and nothing is as holy as this.

━━━ 𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈

another dull day at the café, yoongi listens to his longing for spring’s voice

his hatred for this place burns bright and softly, as he dwells in the anger held within his small body

the college kids, the early morning joggers, all possessing ways of churning yoongi’s anger, one-by-one

obligated to put on a plastic smile for their sake has wars prancing through his head

but then, there’s you

oh, and those lively eyes he craves to gaze into for eternity and the soft furrow in your brow when you stare at the menu

he is mesmerized and listens to the songs of summer as he drowns in your stare

you haven’t taken notice to the hearts that swirl within his eyes as you order, unfortunately, and therefore leave a boy longing for a taste of the sun

during this fit of a daydream, 6 boys stumble in, all conversing at abnormally obnoxious levels

yoongi has to shove a scoff back down his throat and bring a halt to the urge to roll his eyes and dresses himself in the facade

as they all order and then continue their chatter elsewhere, yoongi can resume his illusions about your sparkled presence

whilst in the process of finishing a cappuccino, he hears the sugary melody of your name

he freezes, then concludes he must be hallucinating, resuming the process of the drink in his hands

after all, spending hours upon hours in this sacred place causes his mind to go hazy at times

the lilied waters of your eyes, skin like roses in the evening

you are so, so very loved by the boy at the café

starting up the hot chocolate with “extra sugar,” he hears it once more

does he need to stretch out his sleeping schedule or was this real?

were they truly speaking of you, or has he truly gone insane in the late afternoon?

peeking over his shoulder, that’s when yoongi sees it

your face was drawn upon a notepad, all fluttered hearts and empty petals around your face

the soul of the planets, the green pigment of the gardens, all held in this stranger’s arms

with determination, yoongi is required to learn more of this guest who spoke hushed tales of you

he’d do anything to know more about the star who enlightens his grey days

and now, the club is complete.

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hypnoshatesme · 4 years ago

Text

Paint Gets Thrown

[[Okay, like, I made a joke about Michael being a deadly art critic because of a fuck-up in my current wip and @korrolrezni indulged me and by the end we had written an exchange that had me snorting on the bus from work, so I really wanted to turn it into...something. This is...it. Most of Gerry’s dialogue was written by @korrolrezni!]]

Gerry should have never followed up on the lead in the first place. He had wanted to stop following any leads, really. This was supposed to be the last one. It had sounded like an avatar of the Spiral of some sort. It wouldn’t be the first time Gerry heard of somebody in artistic circles being involved with that particular entity. It made it more difficult to ignore since Gerry was now part of those circles. So he went to investigate, hoping for something quick and easy. He didn’t know why. The Distortion had never been quick or easy to deal with.

It turned out to not be a corrupted human, but an actual aspect of the entity. One that, as far as Gerry could tell, seemed unkillable. And one that refused to stop bothering him. It had taunted him ever since he confronted - and had tried to get rid of it - the first time, continuously reminding him of how there seemed to be nothing working and how what was meant to be his last job of this kind turned out to be a never ending one. Gerry should have known that there simply was no escape to this life.

But it wasn’t only the taunting, its presence made it difficult to work. It made it difficult to think. Gerry still partly blamed that for the first time he flung the paint bucket he had been holding at it. Well, not the whole bucket - in retrospect, he should have tried that - just the paint. Its stunned face as the colour hit it square in the face had been satisfying. And it did leave right after, making Gerry dare to celebrate the success of finally getting rid of it.

Until it came back. And again, it drove him up the wall. Again, he ended up flinging paint at it. This time, it did not look surprised, only pissing Gerry off more. It even grinned. He wanted to strangle it, but he still had a healing scar from the last time he tried to kill it with his bare hands. At least it did go away.

And came back. Gerry started to use cheaper paint. He loved spending his mother’s money, but not on that shiteating grin. And he seemingly kept blacking out and throwing paint at it in anger. Or frustration. He guessed that at least he wouldn’t hurt himself again that way. The first punch had also been in rage and he could still feel its skin cutting into his joints. The memory of that was nearly worse than the actual pain he had felt. It had simply felt wrong.

Michael dared to complain about the cheaper paint. It was the second time it got some cheap cerulean thrown into its face when, instead of leaving, as it usually did, it pulled a face, bringing one of its distressingly long fingers to its face to touch the paint and then look at it on its finger.

It looked disappointed. "It's not as bright."

Gerry just stared at it, disbelieving. “Do I look like your personal makeup artist?!"

Michael looked utterly unbothered. “I’d hope not considering your own makeup always looks like you slept in it."

Maybe he should try hitting it over the head with one of the canvases. Not worth it, he decided. Instead, he gave it a tight-lipped smile. "Why don't you find someone else to paint your stupid face then, fucker."

Gerry was beyond caring about how pissed he sounded, which didn’t mean his jaw didn’t clench tighter as Michael’s eyes literally sparkled with amusement. "Nobody else is quite as entertaining to annoy as you are."

His mouth opened, but Gerry just shook his head, deciding he had had enough. He put the brush he had been holding in a deathgrip back down and left the room. He felt Michael’s eyes following him and flipped it the bird on his way out, not bothering to turn around.

Gerry walked until he had stopped fuming and since he happened to be right next to a pub when he calmed down, he decided to go inside. He definitely needed a drink. He deserved a drink after dealing with that idiot.

He settled in a booth in the darkest corner with his beer and let out a frustrated sigh. Had he known this would happen he’d never had followed up on that lead. This thing was costing him his last nerve. It refused to die. And it really was making him waste paint. Sure, money wasn’t a problem for him, but it was still getting excessive. It would only really be worth it if that thing would finally stop appearing.

He took a long sip and leaned back, looking up at the dark ceiling. The cool glass was calming, but he could still feel himself seething. Its presence alone was annoying enough, making Gerry wonder about things he forgot, about whether things were as they should be. But then it also just kept talking and that was somehow even more infuriating. That amused tone that stuck to every word, every noise it made. It made Gerry want to crush something.

“Is everything fine?,” came a voice over the music and Gerry tore his eyes away from the ceiling and to its source. His hand clenched around his glass.

“Did you fucking follow me?,” he pressed out through clenched teeth and found himself wanting to throw the contents of his glass at it. He had no hope of that actually making it fuck off, but by now it had just become a habit. He did feel some strange form of catharsis doing it. Maybe he should throw the whole glass and see if it would let it hit itself and shatter.

Michael’s grin only grew wider and Gerry’s knuckles went white with the force he was putting into holding his glass. Its voice sounded sticky with self satisfaction as it said, “I did no such thing.”

Gerry didn’t even notice himself throwing the glass, was already making his way to the exit when he realised what had happened. He hadn’t even it connect with it, but before he could consider turning around to look, he heard its headache-inducing laughter. With a fresh surge of anger, he threw the door open and stepped back out into the night.

#gerrymichael #the title actually sums this up rly well #gerry is angry and michael smugly annoying #just some silly fun rly

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bladekindeyewear · 4 years ago

Text

HS^2 bloggin’ mainline 2020-09-15

This caught me laaaate at night gosh I’m tired but I’m gonna get it outta the way so it won’t stick in my craw! Already saw the first page, so it’s time for:

> CHAPTER 13. The Funeral

Church with chess symbols at the peaks and a Prospit/Derse or Hope/Rage split color theme on the stained glass windows.

JANE: Dearly beloved...

> (==>)

Trolls, humans, and papparazzi. Oh, hm, this church is RATHER carapacian isn’t it? Between the chess and the continuing Prospit-Derse themes, like how this corresponds to how they align in the incipisphere top-left to bottom-right if I recall:

(Minus the outlying orbs to the left and right for symmetry.)

That twisted pattern is interesting, and not quite a spirograph. Is that gonna be important later? If we’re going to get some sort of class chart later in the comic, it’d be easy for them to hint at the chart’s graphical structure subtly by dropping it places like here.

JANE: Ladies... JANE: Gentlemen... JANE: News outlets... JANE: And other valued members of the Human Nation State.

Technically true, but still odd to hear-- ...oh right, I forgot this was asshole dictator-wannabe Jane, too.

I read an interesting twitter thread recently about the intense psychological distinction between wanting to BE the best, and wanting to be TREATED like you’re the best. Epilogues/HS^2 Jane is kind of written as a case study on the pitfalls of leaning on the latter instead of the former.

> (==>)

They brought Yiffy WITH them-!? --Oh right. The hostage exchange was supposed to happen here wasn’t it.

Yiffy definitely looks like a Harley-Lalonde daughter in this shot.

JANE: Gamzee Makara, High Court Jester, exalted saint of the purple veil, has left us to traverse that grand, gay carnival in the sky, where, I am told by various members of the clownly cloth, he will spend the rest of history, honking in grand tribute to the Mirthful Messiah.

SINGULAR???

Weird. Is it because Alt!Callie “won” here?

Or is Jane just forgetting because she’s culturally used to monotheism (ironically) and is insensitive.

JANE: And my first memory of our Purple Prince, was his robust codpiece--

Wow.

> (==>)

JANE: --As he offered me his friendly support, along with the sacred blood of his brethren, the holy sacrament--

He STILL killed trolls??! (EDIT: No, a friend points out that she's talking about when she met him first in Act 6 and he tried selling bottles of troll blood to her. EDIT2: -which may be another inconsistency, since Vriska supposedly overwrote that post-retcon.)

> (==>)

It takes Jake a few seconds of puzzled eye contact before he catches exactly what it is Yiffany is tossing down. In his defense, he is distracted by his wife’s speech, which is doing the emotional equivalent of wringing him out like a wet towel, before using that towel to slap the sweaty buttocks of a large, odorous man. Even if he knows everything she’s saying is a load of horsefeathers, it does nothing for his composure to hear her heap praise on that smelly, homewrecking clown.

Bad things about Gamzee deserve to be said here, yes.

Jake wonders what she’ll say about him, at his own funeral.

Now those are some uncomfortable thoughts.

He narrows his eyes in Yiffany’s direction. She’s a lovely girl, really. He wishes he could have gotten to know her under better circumstances. He’d known she existed, of course--Jane had complained about her often enough--but they’d never had much chance to get acquainted. He rather believes her and Tavvy would have been fast friends.

Then again, perhaps it’s better that she never had much of a chance to get to know his family.

He lets go of the leash.

Yep, there’s a plan to set in motion that he’s probably already discussed with her privately. Gotta unite this four-kid team after all.

> (==>)

Wait, are you ATTACKING?!? --Of course you’re attacking. You would even if the plan was something different, wouldn’t you.

JANE: And I know that at times like these it is easy to want to give in. JANE: To throw in the towel, and turn our faces away from the light of democracy and moral fortitude that we, the citizens of the human kingdom, are blessed with from birth. JANE: God knows I’ve had my own faith tested in the last few weeks.

Jesus Christ, what has she turned the place into, a fucking theocracy?

She sounds like the leader of some screwed-up, fundamentalist country! Like the United States!

*rimshot*

JANE: As many of you know, I did not grow up with the same privileges that all of you enjoy.

Jesus.

JANE: I was born on proto-Earth, that half-finished dystopia mangled by the ravages of foolish leadership and endless war.

Jesus, she really IS a self-evident takedown of hypocritical entitled political figures. With the bonuses having Jasprose explicitly ADDRESS said entitlement to make things even clearer cut.

JANE: And as for Gamzee, well, his upbringing was even worse. JANE: He was born to a violent and uncaring home, a lonely child with few natural gifts.

...Some natural gifts and status.

> (==>)

She’s just, shaking with fury here isn’t she? And about to perform an impressive corpse-lob.

JANE: It would be simple to let this disgusting, vile, SHAMEFUL act of spiteful revenge turn us away from the blinding light of the sword of justice that hangs over us all--

This sentence seems suspicious so I’m quoting it to refer to later if I need to, but is probably just platitudes.

> (==>)

JANE: Poised

> (==>)

JANE: Trembling

Okay maybe the sword’s a dick, but what exactly is Yiffany doing?? I’m finding it difficult as usual to tell between some of these image transitions.

> (==>)

JANE: Ready to burst forth--

Bad PR to shock-collar a kid mid press junket. (Very dicks description.)

> (==>)

Click. (Did they swap the shock function with Jane’s necklace somehow, that’d be fun.)

JANE: I want to give up, at times. I understand your pain.

While shocking a kid? GREAT PR.

> (==>)

JANE: I sympathize with your pain.

Wow, those horrified audience members. She REALLY can’t even see herself anymore can she? Not even hear herself. And they’re making sure this is pointed out to EVERYONE watching. They described this as in large part a PR campaign to defeat her, didn’t they?

> (==>)

Great furious businesswoman-villain look, that art.

JANE: But when that pain! Becomes too hard! To endure! JANE: Remember poor, lifeless Gamzee! Who suffered pain far worse than any of us could ever fathom! JANE: THE PAIN OF BETRAYAL!

Click click click. This is a fun sequence.

> (==>)

DIRK: Dude, didn’t you lower the voltage on that shock collar? DIRK: Little Red isn’t looking so hot. JAKE: Yes of course i did but the damn doohickys got the kick of a donkey! JAKE: I couldnt remove it completely shed know i was the one who did it! DIRK: Well, if that supervillain cuntwaffle doesn’t stop, she’s going to kill her. Not really the best at hostage management, is she.

Decent plan. (And of course Dirk would pull out the word cunt.) When’s the cavalry coming?

> (==>)

JANE: But we cannot allow his memory to be in vain! JANE: For Gamzee Makara taught us that even the most loathsome degenerate can take their place in society. JANE: All they need is the right redemption arc - !

Trying to hammer home some of the Epilogue’s trolly-critical themes a little less bleakly, I take it.

I kind of like the violent vibration in ALL of these gifs in a row. It makes the scene seem small, slow, teeth-clenching but still full of steady action, emphasizing the importance of the relatively small events from panel to panel while giving them the sense with the animation of them being [i]drawn out[/i] and tortuous instead of just “occurring”. It feels that way to me, anyway.

> (==>)

If he got up alive here, that’d be hilarious. (Presumably he’s been treated and done-up like a normal funeral body, not “dormant” and undecaying like a dead god-tier.)

> (==>)

CORPSE PUNT w/ CLEATS

> (==>)

That face is just. I love that face.

> (==>)

SHE MAD

JANE: Young lady, I am just about at the end of my rope with you. JANE: Throw all the dog bowls you want at the walls of my warship. JANE: But don’t you dare act up in front of a JANE: Live JANE: Fucking JANE: Newsfeed! YIFFY: Grrrrrr

What did you expect to happen? Do you expect to shout her down from this, Jane?

JANE: After everything I’ve done for you--paying for your education, helping your parents cover up your existence from the world! JANE: Just imagine what Rose and Jade would say if they could see you now, even dissidents can have a little decorum! JANE: Get down from there at once! YIFFY: Grrrrrr

But this is GAMZEE. --I guess it’s seriously disrespectful to his followers, though. Still. If you wanted civility from her, a shock collar, leash, and food bowl wasn’t the way to go about it.

JANE: Don’t you threaten me, young lady. Not today! YIFFY: GRRRRRRRRR

What is your PLAN even, Jane? You’ve completely disregarded her.

JANE: There’s nowhere for you to go. My agents are swarming this church. Be reasonable, Yiffany. JANE: Ugh. JANE: Disgusting name. JANE: But that’s hardly your fault. You were always just a footnote. Your parents’ little prank. JANE: Honestly, that’s why I helped them all those years ago! I do love a good jape. JANE: But let’s be serious. JANE: You don’t matter. If you did, they would have come for you already.

Can all the press hear her being such an asshole?

Okay, stereotypically, their arrival should be the next couple panels:

> (==>)

Jake, do something useful like hoping harder.

> (==>)

And she knocks the remote away. Excellent.

And she does. Seemingly at the end of her tolerance for insults toward her name, social status, and heritage, Yiffy performs an impressive backflip off the podium and down onto the church floor. One that, if it hadn’t been happening amidst a sea of other newsworthy events, would surely have ended up on someone’s instagram story within thirty seconds. She gives Gamzee’s corpse one last parting kick: a hard, proper kick that proves those cleats aren’t just for fashion. Although they are certainly also for fashion.

Good, good.

He vanishes into the seething crowd, and we are confident that we will never have to deal with this asshole ever again.

God damnit.

> (==>)

Jake watches this from a safe distance, poised on the edge of intervening to pull Yiffy out of there. But in the end he doesn’t have to. Instead he watches in admiration as she tears the place to utter shreds. An echoing sympathy swells inside of him as she rends apart the funeral flowers and punts Gamzee into the shrieking congregation. Here is a girl who felt the cold, indecent hand of fate wrapping around her, and instead of submitting to it and slowly sublimating down into morasse of boiled doormat, she slapped it away from her with a lively oh, no thank you.

All at once, Jake feels immense affection for his granddaughter. He hopes the two of them can make up for lost time.

Lessons belatedly learned, but learned nonetheless.

> (==>)

JANE: Enough of this. JANE: Seize her!

Kind of Red Queen of you. (Are those stained glass windows in back of the frame about to burst?)

> (==>)

Yep.

The stained glass window shatters inward, obliterated to stardust. The war is knocking.

Even attacking a disgusting faith’s church is pretty bad form, though.

Tired and busy, seeya next upd8. <3

#Homestuck #hs2 #Homestuck Liveblog #upd8 #Homestuck^2 #spoiler #spoilers

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creepynoodleheadcannons · 5 years ago

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Give Me A Reason-Bloody Puppet

Warnings-Blood, violence, light G/0re, slightly yandere

Summary-Puppet just wants to keep Emra, but we all know things never last.

——

He didn’t want to do this, he really didn’t.

He just wanted to come into his studio and lose himself in his project. He wanted to let his hands wander on the puppet he spent so much time on. He wanted to feel every curve of her body just like he used to. He was desperate to feel the softness of her porcelain skin against his rough hands. He just wanted to feel alive again, even for a moment.

But the second Puppet stepped into his studio, he felt his stomach clench.

She was broken. She was beyond broken.

Her limbs were angled in ways they shouldn’t be, joints erect with splinters. Her skin split into sickening wounds that never bled. The sweet red thread was ripped from her fingers and tied around her neck. The bright red color of her lips had been wiped clean, revealing the sickening pale blue beneath it. Her skin had literally split at the seams with dark wood screaming from behind. And her eyes, dear god the eyes.

The two perfectly crafted glass eyes had been shattered in her skull.

He hadn’t felt this horrified in a long time.

Puppet let himself stumble before her disfigured form, hands shaking above the mangled frame. He muttered to himself as he tried to pinch her skin together and felt how coarse it had become.

Somebody had rubbed off the oil a long time ago.

He slowly picked her head up, tears gathering in his golden eyes. His Emra. His sweet, sweet Emra. He pressed his cold forehead to hers slowly, letting himself scream. His throat burned horrifically, the bandages warping as the veins in his neck pulsed. It took minutes for him to reduce to a heap on the table with his precious marionette in his grasp.

Puppet caressed her face gently, disgusted by the mass of flesh that used to be her perfect face. Pale yellow light reflected from the glass shards in her eye sockets, a soft red gleam catching his gaze.

His hysteria melted into rage.

Puppet managed to shove her mangled corpse into his passenger seat, taking care to buckle the seatbelt. He didn’t even bother with his own.

He’d never sped this fast in his life. Puppet never cared much for speed limits; he made a living in art and death, a simple traffic cop wasn’t his top priority. However, he’d taken care to stay just under their radar when he needed to, but it wasn’t easy to get away from a man who could strangle you without leaving the vehicle. This time, he let his foot reach the floor.

The cabin always seemed too empty to house any existence, much less such a busy one. He barely stopped himself from slamming into the side and hoping he crushed the man inside.

He carefully slid Emra out of the car, holding her head up to look at him. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart. We’ll be okay. It’ll be alright.”

He didn’t even bother to knock or slide open the door. He simply let his foot slam through the wood.

“Helen! Helen, where the fuck are you?!”

His eyes scanned the room like a deranged animal. The footsteps at the end of the hall didn’t even snap him out of his state.

“Yes, John?”

He stepped out of the shadows of his home, arms set casually at his sides. His face held a light smile, eyes aglow with adornment.

“I found your project.”

“Oh, you did?” His eyebrows raised slowly, clearly relaxed despite the seething male in front of him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He stepped towards him, Emra’s limbs swaying with every step. “What kind of man murder’s someone else’s…why would you ever hurt her?” His voice quivered with rage and sorrow as he spoke. Hands found her face once again, desperately trying to hold her together. “We were supposed to be forever. Why would you ever want her dead?”

“John, you know she’s gone. She’s a pup-“

“You shut your fucking mouth. She’s real! She loved me! She fucking loved me!” Spit flew from the corners of his mouth with every exclamation and swear. His neck burned with each outburst.

“John, please.” His voice stayed calm, stepping forward slowly. “Your neck, it’s going to hurt.”

“You know what hurts, you fucking prick? Coming home to find your only love murdered in her own fucking home!”

Puppet was beyond manic. He moved towards the worn couch, pushing aside various cloths and clothing articles.

“John, look at her, please-“

“Shut up! Just shut up!”

He slowly set her down, running a hand through what little hair remained on her form. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll fix this. I’ll fix it all.”

Once he stood, there was nothing to stand in the way of him and Helen.

“Fix her.”

“John, you know I can’t do that. I did this for your own good.” His expression softened, hands extended. “She’s a puppet, John, and nothing more-“

“Don’t talk about her like that!” He stalked towards him slowly with eyes ablaze. “You have to fix her, you know you do.”

“John, she’s been dead for so long, there’s no way I can. Nothing I could do could bring her back, and even if I did, would she still love you?”

“You shut your mouth Helen-“

“She didn’t love you, John, you know that. She was scared of you. She was so afraid she left you. But I never was.”

Helen stepped forward, opening his palm.

“I’ve never been afraid of you.”

Puppet hesitated, staring at his extended hand. He thought back to the mangled corpse on the couch, how he remembered her face when she said ‘I can’t love a maniac, John’ and walked away.

But then, all he saw was the glass in his hands, holding what used to be her bright eyes.

“No, you’re wrong. You’re wrong you’re wrong you’re wrong you’re wrong!”

“John, do you know what happened? Do you even remember how you got her?” He stepped forward, letting his voice lower. “Do you remember coming here and begging me to drain her, but you insisted on keeping the jars?”

“You’re wrong! She loves me! You’re wrong!”

“You sat right next to me the whole time, and no matter how crazy it was, I did it. I pulled every ounce of blood from her body and let you hold her while I did. I did it for you. I thought maybe, just maybe, you could move on with it.”

“Shut up Helen. Shut the fuck up!”

“John, you know I’ve always helped you when you need it most, but this was too much. I couldn’t stand by while you let yourself drown in a delusion-“

“I said shut up!”

He shoved him back with both hands, chest heaving with forced breaths. “She loves me. You have to fix her.”

“John, look at her!”

He waited until Puppet turned to her, lowering his voice again.

“She’s been dead for months. She’s gone, but I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”

For a moment, the fog cleared. Through bleary eyes he could see the slight rot to her ankles, her ballet shoes permanently fused to her feet. Her blue fingers that were revealed through the worn paint. How empty she looked.

But it didn’t last long.

“Fix her, Helen. Fix her.”

“No.”

The dam broke.

Puppet lunged at him, hands outstretched as he toppled Helen. His fists collided with his face too fast for him to realize Helen wasn’t pushing back.

His knuckles hit the nose first. Blood gushed from the broken appendage in fountains John had never seen. His eye slammed shut when another fist struck the left socket. One hand remained on his throat, watching his veins pulse beneath his pale skin.

“Is this what it felt like? Huh?”

Puppet didn’t stop. Each blow, he felt the warm skin of Helen’s body give beneath his hands. He was so soft to the touch. So delicate.

“Is this what it felt like when you killed her? Did you like how it felt to watch her skin tear apart in sheets?”

His cheek split open on impact, a small river flowing down the bright red apples of his face.

“How did it feel to shove that bloody brush into her eyes and feel them pop? Was it nice? I bet you liked it.”

Blood speckled his face as Helen coughed, both fists pounding against his soft stomach. Though rage pulsed through his body, Puppet still felt sick with each hit.

“She loved me, you sick freak! She was the only one who loved me!”

Between the strikes, Helen managed to speak in a croaking voice.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you, John.”

Puppet screamed as he pulled him to his feet, letting his fist slam into his jaw. The crack beneath his knuckles felt foreign, unwanted.

Through his vile haze, he could see Helen’s face. He hesitated.

He was smiling. Blood stained his teeth and red saliva dripped from his severed lips, but he was smiling down at him.

“S-Stop that.”

His cheek cracked. He could feel his jaw slipping out of place.

“Stop fucking smiling.”

His rips pulsed with white-hot pain with another hit.

John started crying.

“Stop smiling at me!”

He slammed him against the counter, listening to him wheeze out a harsh breath.

“Fight back!”

His face tilted once he punched him again, his lips never wavering. Blood spilled like honey from his mouth by the ounce.

“Give me a reason to like this!”

He slammed him down into the floor, pounding on his chest with both hands.

“A reason to hate you!”

Puppet finally hesitated, hands shaking with weak attempts at strikes. His body bounced back with every touch no matter how small.

“Please, just let me hate you.”

He collapsed onto his chest, listening to him wheeze. He felt himself crying, body shaking against the mangled form beneath him.

Helen let his hand find Puppet’s back, rubbing soft, slow circles into the material of his sweater. His smile never broke as he looked down at the man, meeting his defeated eyes.

“I could never, John.”

#bloody painter #the puppeteer #johnathan blake #bloody puppet #creepypasta

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artboitrash · 5 years ago

Text

His Bloody Rose (Stefano Valentini fanfiction) Chapter 28 - Theodore

-Stefano's P.O.V.-

I'm so tired. I watched the woman I love turn and run away from me.

I didn't know what I had done to her. I didn't remember her name for so long. Her name escaped me once I changed her into my creation. Rose disappeared from my mind as I tried to top myself in each creation I made.

I didn't realize my greatest creation had been standing at my side all this time.

We'd had barely a few weeks together, but I still wanted to spend time with her. I still wanted to be with her, to spend time like a normal relationship. In the first time in years, I had taken interest in another human. In someone that wasn't like me, who wasn't me.

I had become so involved with my own work that I pushed her away, tearing her apart in the process.

And now here I lay. Just waiting. Alone. My eyelid barely moved as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Listening to the ever-fading sound of my own heartbeat slowing down. It's pacing made me tired, and I felt all strength slipping out of my wounds.

I had sent her away in hopes she would escape this nightmare. Escape me as I continued to forget who I was and forget my surroundings.

I'm so tired. I've stayed awake for so long, so many days passing me by. So many days that would have seemed like a gift if I had known what I was given.

My Rose. My bella. My muse...

My everything.

And I had realized just how much she meant to me far, far too late.

At least, now, she was free from the part of me that tried to hurt her. That piece of me that wanted to hurt her, the piece that wanted to hurt the father of the core, the piece that wanted to assimilate the core, all of that was already dead. It was all gone from my mind, freeing me from the control it had over me.

I could barely think, my shallow breathing barely meeting my lungs. I thought I could hear my heart stop several times as I just waited.

My camera lay, shattered just out of reach. I didn't have the strength to grab it, nor could I have used it if I did. I attempted to take a single last picture of that man, Sebastian Castellanos. He shot as I sat up to take a single photo, but instead of the bullet meeting its mark it struck the lens and stopped just before it exited the casing. In surprise, my will gave way and my body collapsed, now without much purpose left in me. My power faded from my grasp, the world I had created now disappearing around us, and moved us to the last place we had been within Union.

I wasn't certain if it was blood or my power that was flowing out of me. I was sure it was both, draining me, only a small amount of time before I completely slipped away.

In my state, I felt something holding my chin. Something soft pressed into my skin, moving my head as I could not. With the last amount of my strength, I focused my eye on whatever was attempting to disturb me as I lay dying. I couldn't even bring myself to care if it was the ghostly woman come to torment me in my last moments.

I felt my brow furrow in frustration, trying to focus and see what lay before me.

"Stefano...?" A sweet, gentle, familiar voice spoke.

I felt a small amount of a smile crossed my face. "Mia bella..." was all I could manage, my voice barely available anymore, restricted by my inability to breathe. "(You... have come back... to me...)"

"I'm here..." she whispered, and I saw the silhouette I could barely make out move closer. "I'm here. I won't let you die alone."

I was vaguely aware of a hand fitting against mine. I swallowed, closing my eyelid as I felt her lips press into mine one last time.

"Cara mia... Ti... Ti amo..." I could barely muster as she pulled away.

I could feel her stroking my face. Something wet his my cheek, and I felt her press her lips to mine again, keeping her right hand fit against mine.

My last moments, and the woman who gave me everything decided she would give me one last thing.

"I... I love you..." She whimpered against my lips. "I love you..."

"Cara..."

"I love you..."

She silenced me with her lips, and I felt myself slip further away. It all seemed so distant. It felt like I was put on a strong concentration of morphine, putting me to sleep as the pain fell away. My body felt disconnected to my consciousness, and I felt fingers brush through my bangs.

I watched Rose brush her fingers through my hair, finally seeing fully the scarring on my face. She didn't look at me with pity, she didn't look at me with disgust. She just looked sad, and heartbroken.

"I... I love you..." her voice shook as she leaned down, pressing her lips on the scars. It felt so delicate, so sweet in the fleeting moment. "I forgive you..."

I mouthed a word of thanks to her, my breathing ceasing and refusing to let me speak. It began to all disappear around me. If it were possible to explain, everything stopped. My available eyelid closed with a small flutter, and the sensation of her tears dripping onto my face was the last thing I felt.

Perhaps... I thought. Perhaps, one day, my love, we will meet again in another life...

The darkness faded into a bright, white light, and I lost all feeling in my body. I thought I saw that little girl again, the core. She was crying as a little child would, and turned away into the light. I could only smile, content that my love sat next to me. Happy, in a way, that she would be able to see me as my last creation.

I could feel warmth, safe, as feeling returned to my limbs. As though my dear muse had wrapped her arms tightly around me, the blinding light taking over me. I felt cold, as though I was already freezing six feet under. My strength returned to me, and I sat up, wondering what the afterlife held for someone like me.

-Rose's P.O.V.-

Stefano stopped moving, stopped reacting to me. His chest stopped moving, his silent spoken whispers had stopped coming.

He was gone.

I wished I had been able to understand what he had said, everything had been spoken in Italian. He seemed to try and see me, eye distant and faded. His eye was bloodshot and the one I now know was missing was bleeding profusely. I could see blood branching across his nose, as though his scar had been opened and extended while he was using his power.

I didn't know what to do. This hurt, so so much. Watching him die, watching him in so much pain, and not being able to do anything.

Stefano Valentini is dead.

I curled up on his chest, sobbing quietly against him. I wanted to hear him say something, speak to me one last time. I wanted to hear his heartbeat and feel his chest rise and fall with his breathing. But that would never come again.

You never really know what you have. Until it's gone.

I ran my fingers through his bangs again. I knew it wouldn't last between us, but I didn't think we would be saying goodbye like this.

The only comfort I could think of was no one would hurt him again. No one would be able to hurt him through his art. No one would be able to bother him ever again.

The cost didn't seem fair. A life for a life.

His life for the life I carried with me.

I wiped at my eyes, trying to dry the tears that kept coming down my face. I swallowed the spit that had accumulated in my mouth, trying to find the strength to leave his side.

I leaned over him, pressing my lips to his forehead. It was the first time I had returned that gesture. I didn't want to leave him just yet, but knew eventually those lost creatures would find their way in here. The backstage area was the only way I could come in, so I think the locked door might keep them away for at least a little while.

"So, you regained your memories without the need for my help."

I gasped, and hunched over Stefano's body. I leaned over him, trying to see the newcomer in front of me.

A black man with a scar on his face, dressed in black and red robes stood before me, hands pressed firmly over a cane that he held in front of where he stood. I recognized him immediately from when I had been the Obscura. He was the man who had looked for Lily in the first place. The person who had sent Stefano to his death.

"Good evening, Rose Olian."

"Get away." I seethed through my clenched teeth.

A smile crossed his face. "Even in death, even after you manage to amend your own trauma, you stay by the man who hurt you."

His voice sounded odd, echoing around the room as though it was made of pure stone.

"Please, just leave us alone."

"And you blame me for his own doing." he laughed as though the thought was preposterous. "You do not know who he was before this."

"How dare you say that!" I shouted. "How dare you say that about him."

"I've been speaking with him longer than you could possibly believe. I found my way into his trust, and helped him achieve what he desired the most; a place to create and recognition of his work's process."

The area changed around us, and I watched Stefano's body disappear in front of me.

"Take me back to him!"

"Let the dead lay where they fall, miss Rose."

I swallowed, burning rage twisting around in my stomach as he referred to me by my first name, and with the formality Stefano had used as well. The anger I felt seemed to please him, another smile lighting up his face.

"I can offer you refuge, and offer you a safe way out of this world to raise the child of your dreams."

I screwed my mouth into a frown. "I don't know what you've said to others, I don't care what you've said to manipulate everyone. You are nothing but a cult leader with a stupid Napoleon Complex."

His face fell.

"What you don't understand is you can't sweet-talk your way into anyone's head. Stefano never trusted you, he showed me after he changed me."

He raised a hand, trying to silence me. A loud roar of fire started up around me, the heat of the flames appearing around me once the sound occurred. I raised my arms in front of my face, trying to block the overwhelming heat that came from all around me.

"If you listen to me, Rose, I can help you."

"I don't want your help!" I shouted over the loud flames.

"That's quite a shame. You could have had such a gift, your compassion for others would have made you a wonderful leader in the new world."

I felt something like back draft, and I watched as the flames pulled in front of me, swirling around in front of the man. They formed a column of fire, a tornado as they swirled in on themselves.

"I can show you what you want."

The flames all at once dissipated, and I saw at once a familiar face. Stefano stood before me, an empty, sad look across his face. He wore a black suit, the jacket I had first ever seen him in fluttering as the fire fell apart from him.

"I can give you the life you so desperately desire."

"Do you not believe in me?" I heard my love's voice inside my head, coaxing me for his praise.

He walked carefully towards me, his steps calculated and hesitant. His feet left small trails of fire where he stood, each lift of his foot scaring the carpet he placed each step.

"You..." I took a step back, then I turned my attention to the man again. "No. No, this isn't real."

Stefano, or really the not-real Stefano, stopped in front of me. He placed his hands on my shoulders, searing pain branching through my body. I screamed aloud, feeling my flesh burn and begin to crackle under his touch.

I pushed away the apparition, causing him to stumble backwards and fall over. His body disappeared as soon as I did so, as did the pain in my skin.

The man grumbled quietly, and he disappeared. The area on which I stood fell away, and I fell several stories through inky blackness.

"You will only continue to make the same mistakes." I heard the booming, honey-sweet voice surrounding me. "If you do not grip your own life by the reigns and move past who you are, you will fall and destroy yourself."

I slammed into a wall, collapsing onto the floor that had appeared below me. I coughed and sputtered, the wind completely knocked out of me.

I gasped as pain shot through my body. I placed a hand where it hurt worst. I gasped as I tried to resist the pain, and stood up. I saw that man standing before me again.

"You will only ever repeat your mistakes, Rose."

He extended his hand as I tried to gasp for air. The pain in my abdomen began straining even more, like I had ruptured something inside of me.

"Take my hand, and you will be granted everything you truly desire."

As I felt another surge in pain, I could mentally hear myself screaming very, very loudly. I lifted a middle finger to him as I tried to ignore the pain.

"Yeah, well fuck you." I managed to breathe out.

He frowned again, placing his outreached hand back upon his cane. "Perhaps you need more time to see the light. When you are ready to be folded into my flock, come find me again. Eventually you will call me Father Theodore as well as my conjuring."

He disappeared, and my surroundings did too. I bit back a grimace, trying to take in my surroundings. I hissed quietly, trying to ignore whatever it is inside of me that's causing this much pain.

I saw I was in a forest, and I tried to move into some of the trees.

I sat down, trying to see if I could get some bearings. I bit onto my tongue, and my lip, as I begin to poke around my stomach where it hurt worst. I tried to find where it all was coming from, but I couldn't seem to find the exact spot where it hurt. I thought I had snapped something in my waist or ruptured an organ.

I leaned back against the tree, just trying to wait it out. Hopefully it's just some internal bruising or something related to stress.

I hissed out as some more of the agony wrought my frame, hearing my own mental screaming again.

I just need to wait this out...

#Stefano Valentini #The Evil Within 2 #the evil within stefano #stefano valentini fanfiction #stefano #tew #tew2 #tew2 Stefano #His Bloody Rose #Chapter 28 #Theodore Wallace

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orthogonals · 5 years ago

Note

Hey, I saw that you are taking prompts. I very much enjoyed your Achilles/Patroclus story so I'd be thrilled if you wrote more in that universe. Maybe a take on their relationship from another person's POV (eg Briseis, Thetis, Chiron...) Or a crossover with Merthur? :)

Thanks for the ask! Achilles/Patroclus always sends me in an emotional spiral. I wrote this for “their relationship from another POV,” hope you enjoy!

~A note on prompts: I won’t have much time to answer the in the coming months, but still feel free to send them in, and I’ll get to them when/if I can!~

through their eyes

rating: T

words: 1509

summary: Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.

“That is what a son should be.”

–

Five times Achilles and Patroclus were the subject of observation during their lives, + one time they weren’t.

read on ao3!

The games beat a broken path through Opus, a thousand calloused feet rubbing the dry dirt raw. Menoitides directed the affair with customary severity, ordering servants out to break rock and clear track until even the seething sun had taken rest. He held a hard nub of determination that his games would hail as the best of the generation, would bear glory upon his shoulders. Glory to rival the glow of Apollo himself; glory enough to erase the festering blight of his weak son, his simple wife.

The youngest boys formed their line, eyes glinting with excitement and the thrill of victory. Peleus’ son stood half a head shorter amongst them, impossible to miss. He reflected light like a piece of glass in the sand. Beside him, Patroclus fiddled dumbly with the wreath. Menoitides clenched his teeth until his jaw clicked.

Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.“That is what a son should be.”

And when Menotides exiled Patroclus to Phthia, shame and anger warping inside him, he spared the stupid boy only one parting wish— that he might learn something from Achilles’ shadow.

ii.

The fire cast Peleus’ chambers in a mute glow. Dim crackling filled the spaces between his words, a second voice mingling to tell the tale.Peleus sat deep in his chair, arms dangling like grapevines. Day by day, age seeped further under his skin, to his bones. He hardly felt like the man who had served Heracles and rode with Jason.

Achilles shuffled in the shadows, his eyes a glint of green from the dark. Peleus traced Achilles gaze to Patroclus, who had tilted his mouth in a sweet grin. Achilles’ teeth flashed white in return, and the smile was almost unnatural to see on his son.He remembered youth, of quick heartbeats and rushing hot blood. Of furtive glances at the sweat-coated curve of muscle that stretched across the back of his general. But Achilles, great as he might become, was not yet a man, had not experience nor understanding.

A hand shot out and circled around Patroclus’ ankle. Achilles’ snicker, half-covered, rolled into the air from his corner. Peleus did not miss the light brush of Achilles’ thumb against Patroclus’ heel, the softening of Patroclus’ face.

He called for an end to the night, carefully slipping mention of a servant girl who wished to bed Achilles. The sudden shutter of Achilles’ face confirmed all that remained unspoken.

iii.

The wind stirred the trees and sent air unfurling, crisp and clean, through the leaves. Chiron shifted his tail at the breeze, nosing the scent in the atmosphere. Rain was due by nightfall. He inclined his head towards the boys, a lecture on weather-reading in mind.Achilles and Patroclus were crouched in the grass beyond him, huddled so close that their hair brushed. Chiron heard their soft murmurs of conversation as they probed the ground for herbs. Their fingers touched and lingered among the green blades.

It was unusual for a hero to have remained so long in the crags and caves of Mount Pelion, more unusual still to have done so with a companion. Chiron never asked his heroes to go, yet the day always came when they donned armor and rode to battle.Young Achilles was birthed with greatness sighed above him, sticking on lips like honey. He would take whatever measures necessary to make the words true. Chiron knew Achilles, saw his unerring limbs and swift feet. Saw his blank eyes, the mark of all heroes.

Blank for all but Patroclus, who melted Achilles like brown sugar over fire, shifted his balance from half-god to half-human. Such a thing was as rare as juniper in spring, and Chiron could do little but to protect Achilles’ link to humanity.

Chiron called for them, amused as they leaped back from each other with pink cheeks.

iv.

Briseis lingered by the tent, the flap of the entrance thick and coarse beneath her fingers. The flat bottom of the plate pressed, heavy and cool, on her hand. She glanced at the berries rolling about on its surface, ripe and fat with juice. Their thick skins, washed clean, gleamed in the fading light like pearls. Her pulse thrummed in her neck. She would ask Patroclus today. The berries bumped off each other as she reached to open the tent.

A soft moan stopped her hand in midair, the ties still loose in her palm. She redid the ties with practiced ease, hissing quietly, and quickly backed away. Another sound joined the first, followed by an unmistakable sigh: “Achilles.”

Briseis stopped, eyes wide as the emerging moon, filled with a horrendous wonder.

A response. “Patroclus,” each syllable drawn out and rounded, the word infused with sweetness. More moans carried away by the evening air, stretched sighs that faded even as they reached Briseis’ ears. She willed her legs to move and carry her away, but they were frozen, stuck to the ground.

Finally, after the sun had slipped from the sky, came the sounds that peaked and tapered away slowly, leaving only breath behind.

“Patroclus.” Achilles’ clear voice, somehow warmed. “Therapon, philtatos.”

“Dikos mou,” Patroclus replied, the words sounding muffled by skin. She listened to his gentle kisses, her Greek proficient enough to understand what he had said.

Dikos mou. Mine.

Briseis left, haunted by the sounds of Patroclus’ love.

The ground hummed as Patroclus spoke, the throat of a melody. Thetis felt his pain course through the earth, making the grass shiver. He spoke of her son with words soft like cotton, as yielding as a freshly plowed field.

Humans were weak, rarely logical and far too easy victim to their emotions. Thetis expected Patroclus to rage of his anger, speak seething of the gods. To lament Achilles and curse his hubris. To give bitter insult to Neoptolemus, his refusal to give Patroclus proper rest.

Instead, all she felt from him was love, strong and coursing.

Below, Achilles’ sorrow speared through her in waves. Hades did not welcome those of Olympus, and her son ached like a limb, a part of her own body. Patroclus’ words washed over the grief that laced her skin, hers and Achilles’ together, soothing as a balm of yarrow.

As always, the salty spray of the sea sang to her, crowded the edge of her senses. But for the first time, she closed her mind to the waters and let herself listen. The hill vibrated beneath her feet.

She scooped away the stone like jam, carving the name with one dark fingernail. PATROCLUS. Together, with her son. In writing as in life, as forever in Elysium.

She smiled as she told him.

~vi.~

Agamemnon whirled towards Diomedes, face white and contorted.

“They have no sense of propriety.” He spit out the words through gnashing teeth, fury tightening his lips.

Achilles and Patroclus giggled at Agamemnon from behind an oak tree, fingers laced together. Patroclus gave him a hard eye roll, and Achilles blew a raspberry before quickly ducking back behind the trunk. Their laughter carried over, tinkling like windchimes.

Agamemnon clenched his fists until his veins popped. “This needs to stop. I will go to Hades himself if I must.”

Diomedes gnawed eagerly at his leg of lamb, letting out a chorus of appreciative moans.

“DIOMEDES!” Agamemnon stamped his feet. “Useless slob!”

Diomedes finally extracted his mouth from the half-eaten roast, lips slippery with oil and bits of herb plastered around his face.

“Give it a rest, Mem.”

“I will not—”

“Just because you got in a spat with your old lady—”

“DO NOT MENTION CLYTEMNESTRA!” Agamemnon toppled dangerously at the intensity of his yell, face coloring from white to purple.

“Look.” Diomedes sighed dramatically and placed a greasy hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder. Agamemnon immediately ducked away, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You’ve been on about this for, like, three thousand years of their time.” He pointed a finger upwards with emphasis. “When you first started ranting, we were still pissing in holes. In Elysium. Now, we have state-of-the-art toilets with bidets. Bidets, man.”

Agamemnon blanched, eying Diomedes like a particularly stubborn piece of mud on his shoe. “You talk about toilets. While eating.

“Just. Why don’t you go bother Odysseus and Penelope for now? They’re also looking pretty sickeningly happy.”

Odysseus and Penelope waved at them from the distance, and Agamemnon threw up his middle finger.

“Or, go to the sauna or something. You’re always less stressed after a spa trip.”

“Ugh.” Agamemnon grumbled, throwing another stink eye at Achilles and Patroclus, who were now sitting on the ground and giving each other butterfly kisses. “Fine. But I will get them. Mark my words.” He backed away slowly, keeping a menacing stare trained at Achilles. A rock caught his heel, and he stumbled over himself, tripping and falling with a thump.

Elysium echoed with laughter.

#tsoa #the song of achilles #patroclus #achilles #patrochilles #song of achilles #homer #the iliad #greek #mythology #greek mythology #*tsoa #*wtsoa #*goswrites

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vegetacide · 5 years ago

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Whump●tober - Muffled scream

Veg-notables: This took longer to write than I thought it would.. but here it is.

@gumnut-logic you are a saint for listening to me whinge and carry on.. Thank you for lending me an inbox to pollute with gibberish. ::hugs::

Obligatory whumptober stuff: @whumptober2019 @la-vie-en-whump

Blanket warning: Angst all to hell..

Characters: Virgil and Kayo V/K

Whumptober - TaG’verse

Previous posts can be found HERE.

18. Muffled scream

Enjoy…

oOo

Virgil awoke by himself. For the first time that he could recall in how many days, he was alone with the silence and he found some relief in that.

Relief that he didn't have to school his expressions against the pain that roved like a raging fire through his nervous system.

Relief that he could express his frustration without an audience.

Relief that he didn't have to hide the gnawing fear that was consuming him from the inside out.

He couldn't see but for fuzzy outlines, and blurred figures.

The Doctors had explained to those around him that there could be long term complications but only time would tell to what extent. He'd heard it all while they had talked over him to his family as if he wasn't there so he feigned sleep.

Memory loss, neurological damage of an as of yet undetermined amount, vision…. Oh god, his sight…

When he'd regained consciousness everything had been confused and disoriented haze. Pain one moment, drugged out numbness the mess. He hadn’t had the capacity to assess himself, the conscious effort required had been lost in a sea of opioid induced soup of non awareness.

When he’d dragged himself back out again Kayo had been asleep in his arms, he'd dismissed the blurred vagueness too tied up in the fight to live to be bothered to pay it much mind.

As time moved forward as it always did, he'd figured that the mist that seemed to cloak everything would recede as he grew stronger, gained more ground in recovery but there hadn't been any change and the Doctors had started talking long term.

Words like permanent impairment, and visual deficits had been said over his supine form as he'd all but crawled back in on himself and screamed. In his mind where no one could hear, no one would know how much it pained him, frightened him, bound him to an existence of needing help instead of offering it. Trapped, useless...a burden and a hindrance to himself and those around him.

What else could possibly go wrong? If he didn't have his sight, what else had and would he lose? The answer to that was staggering in its entirety.

Hours had passed and his mental list had grown. Simple things at first, avoiding the more prevalent one that he didn’t want to acknowledge..didn’t have the heart to accept. Art and its array of colours and brush structs, its materials and mediums of chromes and stone, fabrics and woods. The sunrise with its variations and gradients, nuances that he could be blind to. The ocean around their island home, crested with white caps where it abutted the circling rocks and coral outcroppings. The green flecked of chartreuse that caught in the fading light of the sun in a pair of loving, warm eyes.

He was going to lose it all…

Fighting his fear, expression pinched in pain and worry, he argued with himself to just open his eyes, that maybe today things would be different. Prayed that his sight had improved, that what he dreaded wasn’t actually reality.

Only one way to find out.

Fist tight, body trembling he held back his frustration as the dim light pierced through his skull and singed his brain but still it was like viewing the world through a distortion, a frosted glass enclosure between him everything else.

Angry now almost beyond reasoning, he cursed and punched with what little strength he had at the mattress. The satisfaction weak as his heavy hands pounded into a bio-gel insulated matting. No lick of pain to focus his rage, to cut through the panic.

Annoyance, bitterness and discouragement enveloped his world and he seethed against it. Shattering a glass, tearing at his sheet, tumbling a monitor.

Strength hot and angry surged and then flicked off like a switch as it snuffed to nothing. Leaving him broker and spent,. Beyond repair…

Tears of disappointed ebbed and flowed over his chiseled, stub shadowed jaw. Joining a litany of others. Fingers rough, dragged and pulled at his hair in frustration and he wanted to scream. Oh, how he wanted to scream.

Curse whatever god would listen. Shout and holler his anger, his despondency and rancor but he held back. Clenched teeth tight, muscles straining with wanton release. His family was just down the hallway, outside the door, in his head. Holding him up, calling his name.

A hot, venomous curse pierced the silence, though it was said on a whisper. It burned the air bitter and resentful with its emotional inflection.

Falling still, tears smothered behind the heels of his palms that he pressed into useless eyes he shuddered amongst the torn disarray of his room. An alarm was sounding and he knew that he wouldn’t be alone for much longer, a nurse or his family would burst through the door at any moment. He need to contain himself once more. Find his control in the chaos of the swirling mayhem of his mind.

A quick intake of air as sweet jasmine lit up the inside of his nose, warmed and encircled him. He tensed, dared not breathe for fear that he had been discovered completely unhinged.

Soft, warm, comforting arms encircled him, embraced his battered being. Her voice washed like a gentle rain over his scorched landscape. Solace like a balm to the damage wrought by an illness that he’d nearly succumb to.

“It’s okay, We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone…”

And he wasn’t.

8-8-8

She'd wondered how long it would take him to fall apart as she sat in the dark and watched him sleep.

Hours, days, weeks? He could be a stubborn man when he put his mind to it. Immovable and unshakable. This? This was different.

Something that he couldn't fix or put back together with a work shop full of tools. Finesse and cajole broken bits of machinery to function in some capacity or another.

This was something that could only right itself if and when his body wanted to.

She knew by the by the shift in his breathing, the slight hitch as a groggy mind resurfaced that he was awake but she didn’t announce herself waiting instead for him to seek her out.

It surprised her when he didn’t and it shocked her to realize he had no idea she was there. So instead she bore down on her control, steeled herself, remeasured the cadence of her breathing to a light pull in and out. Quieted to invisibility and waited.

Kayo could tell he was struggling and that there was a real need to release the tension that was building. Knew without a shadow of doubt that if her presence was known the restraint would return, and the outlet would be lost. Virgil would hide his weakness away to preserve the image of stability and stoutness of mind.

It wasn’t sustainable so she played witness as his wrestled mentally with his demons. There was no way she would let him suffer alone, even if he was unaware of her, she would stay close and offer silent support.

Rage like nothing she had seen before spewed out of him in a sudden explosion of emotion.

The rolling utility table went one way, flying into medical equipment. A monitor crashed to the floor is a tangle of wires, one long droning shriek sounding out as it's power cord was ripped viciously from the wall.

A jug of iced water went the opposite way, it contents spraying out and over everything in it path. Ice cubes skittering across the floor, pinging off the legs of chairs and bouncing off the rubberized baseboard that ran the circumference of the room.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Energy spent in one epic burst of outrage and disappointment as he racked trembling hands through brown, sodden locks. Rubbing angrily at his eyes, a sound of mourning, low and keening ripped from his throat and stopped with a suddenness that had her on her feet in seconds.

Her long, lean legs ate up the short distance between them. Her arms coming up and around before she even knew what she was doing. The only thoughts in her head were to comfort, to protect...

After a moment of stunned silence and eerie stillness he latched onto her like a drowning man. Arms tight and unforgiving, face pressed into her neck. Breathe panting, shoulders shaking.

Kayo's gaze sept around the room, at the destruction brought on in a moment of distress and her heart ached. Such anguish in so brief a release.

The rooms darkness abruptly split as the door swung open. The entry filled with worried faces that Kayo forestalled easily with an upraised hand.

A duty nurse, an on-call doctor, family and friends, concerns both professionally and personally marred their expressions but they heeded her command and didn’t cross the threshold.

Her eyes made contact with Scott's and in those few short seconds a message passed between them as she arched an imploring brow.

He turned to the others, his voice low but clear and ushered them away. The light faded as the door swung closed once more.

They sat in the silence, time ticking slowly away. Resentment dissipating to be replaced with an inert quietness that was pervasive and a complete juxtaposition to just moments prior.

The skin prickled with the charge that hung in the air even in the sudden quietude and Kayo forced her lungs to settle, even out hoping the action would pass over to Virgil.

Little by little it did.

Pulling back, she caught his chin and brought his face up to hers, brushed her lips across his brow. “Okay?” She whispered, attempting to catch his eyes as they tried to focus on her. The fact they couldn’t flickered across his face in an echo of his moment of anguish and she reached up to touch his cheek.

He leant into her as if her touch was keeping him alive and bobbed his head once . “Ya, I’m...sorry about....” His hand waved about to indicate the room at large

Her fingers skimmed over the line of his jaw, curved up the cup the back of his head. “I get it, you don’t have to apologize to me for feeling the way you do. We all have our limits.”

His chin dipped in embarrassment and she ducked down so she could see his face, a flush darkening his cheeks. “Hey,” She called gently, “Hey, none of that now. There is nothing to be ashamed off. Frankly I am surprised you lasted as long as you did, especially with Nurse Buxom around.”

She grinned as she caught the edge of a smile grace his lips and a huff of what she thought was a chuckle. “What?” She asked, puzzled at the sudden change.

“Scott calls her Nurse Ratchet.” That roguish smile of his light up his face, not quite reaching his eyes but it was a vast improvement. “But I think I like Buxom better. Puts all sorts of pictures in my head.”

Kayo grumbled and Virgil chuckled softly.

“Watch it Buster or I’ll put you back in a coma.” But she was smiling too as he leaned his forehead against her own.

There was still a lot of unknowns and they had a fight ahead of them but they had each other and a hallway full of people there to help and with that sort of support, anything was possible.

oOo

Next post can be found HERE

The Master List of prompts can be found HERE

#whumptober2019 #whumptober #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds fanfic #no.18 #muffled scream #Virgil Tracy #Kayo Kyrano #virgil/kayo #what a mess

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som3thingcr3ative · 5 years ago

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Fairytale Symbiosis

It’s finally home! This was posted on the lovely @themaskedwriter ‘s blog, and now it is here on mine! Chapter two will be posted very soon!

Fairytale Symbiosis (with a side of world domination, of course)

Platonic! Eddie Brock x reader, martial arts! Reader (who, for story purposes is short and a teenager.)

Warnings: swearing, body horror (a bit, pretty mild), symbiotes, martial arts, imprisonment, carnivores, inappropriate humor, basically anything from the movie Venom will apply here. VENOM SPOILERS

Synopsis: Y/N has always hated the entitled, world-destroying, no-soul types- and Carlton Drake fits that description perfectly. Naturally she sneaks into his lab intending to do some damage, but gets much more than she bargained for. This isn’t a war she can sit out of, not when world domination is at stake, so helping Eddie and Venom is the natural choice…for her. Her symbiote, however, may have other ideas.

Tags are open!

A Host. It needs a host- badly.

The containment tank walls are as bare as usual as it paces back and forth, sliding along the substance, slamming against it every few seconds. It’s hard to breathe in there: hard without a host.

Homeless, the Drake man calls them- the hosts he brings as offerings. Their fear when it takes over is palpable. The emotion leaves a taste in its mouth that drives it to the brink, but just as it thinks it will be satisfied, the body dies. The host dies. None of them have the fight in them that it requires.

“Open it.” Carlton orders as the newest prospect finally looks at it.

It slides out, creeping toward the human, the pheromones in the air enticing, empowering, delicious-

The back door to the lab slams open, admitting four security guards holding a girl between them.

It doesn’t look, just slips up the smooth cloth of the man’s pants. Beneath it, the human quivers in fear. It wishes it could drool…soon, soon, but the fear- the fear is so palatable, so tangible…

A shout. It pauses, looks.

The girl moves so fast the other humans have no chance, but to its trained eyes…

Jiu-jitsu, it thinks, karate, muy-thai, as the girl wraps her legs around the neck of one security guard, using her body to flip him onto the floor. Blood spurts as his head slams into the ground, but she’s unaffected, already moving. The second security guards’ arm breaks under her touch before the third shoots a taser into her back. Can’t be more than a youth, it thinks, noting the height and weight differences between her and the others. Not ideal…but that attitude, that skill…useful.

It absorbs into the host offered to him as the girl drops to her knees, fighting through the electricity to rip the taser cords from her back. Flesh is ripped as well, but she screams and throws a punch.

“Why did you bring her here?” Carlton Drake demands, watching the girl as she tries to get up on legs that waver. She glares daggers at him, spitting blood. He does not bother to flinch, doesn’t even smile when she’s physically restrained by the guards- who are more careful this time.

“We found her sneaking through the containment area, sir.” One says. He gives the girl a solid shake.

“I’m lost,” she growls, spitting blood once more. “Dunno how I got here. Dunno where here is.”

It can smell her lie. She knows exactly where she is.

“Kill her.” Drake commands, turning back to his experiment- to them.

“I want her.” Chaos snarls, its body and the humans’ flickering back and forth. Even as the body fails, even as it drops to the floor and the klyntar steps out of the crumpled skin, it watches her.

She hides her fear well.

Drake jerks his head and it’s done- she is dragged, incapacitated, into what it’s come to consider its cell, then thrown to her knees before it.

Chaos pulls itself up before her as the door closes, watching her body shake. She stares defiantly back at it, her fists clenched.

For a second, girl and symbiote watch each other. Drake, on the other side of the glass-like material, seems perplexed. Chaos, however, almost can’t do it.

As much as it’s always been the perfect soldier, even it has limits- and it can’t help but to think this girl is too pure for it, too innocent, too young. After all, where it comes from, the young are prized above all. it doesn’t want to take her if she doesn’t want to be taken. Her fear is unlike anything it’s ever smelled; it’s tinged with anger and resilience.

But it can’t wait any longer, it has already gone too long without a functioning host, not some drugged-up addict whose body was bordering on death even without the klyntar.

Chaos, the largest and most deadly of the symbiotes, touches the girls’ hand gently at first, sliding from her fingers to her palm, up her wrist and forearm, to her bicep. She quivers, breathing hard and fast, but she does not scream. I do not want to hurt you, it whispers against her mind; she jerks at first, eyes widening in surprise. It can sense her thoughts going a million miles a second- she knows there is no fighting, but she has not given up. She’s already thinking of revenge. I do not want to do this without…how do you say? Permission.

Her quivering stops. Confusion replaces fear as it gives her a vision of what they can achieve together- it can already sense that she’s a perfect match- perfect as if born to it.

“No one has ever asked before.” She murmurs, eyes darting up to Drake, who watches with fascination as Chaos curls around her arm. She takes a deep breath, lets it out between her teeth. Her gaze remains locked on Drake as she consents- then as Chaos slips into her body like a glove.

She screams in rage, its voice echoing hers as they fuse, symbiote and host, one.

“Chaos,” it growls through her mouth. “I am Chaos.”

Drake’s eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning, watching as Chaos envelops its new host, its perfect host. Her body, small but wrapped and corded in muscle, disappears under it as it takes over, protecting and defending her.

What now? She asks it.

Now we bond. It replies to her and her only, receding into her chest. Now we plan.

HUNGRY. It snarls, angry at everything. Caged…caged like a beast. Caged like a dog. Not a dog. NOT A DOG.

“Chaos,” you murmur, eyes closed as you meditate, “not helping.” Then, to the space between your minds, I’ve been caged too, remember? We will get out. We will get out of here and leave this place behind us, forever.

It goes eerily quiet.

What aren’t you telling me? It’s been three days, three long days since you were thrown into the cell, since scientists have started poking and prodding at you, watching you around the clock, monitoring your vitals. You feel like a lab rat and being so damn close to Carlton Drake isn’t helping; you’re within strangling range if you could just get out of there.

We will eat him first. Chaos says, dodging your question. You sigh. It’s always the same with it.

What happened to no secrets? You ask the klyntar -whose species had been revealed to you during a long, boring night- as it wraps around you, manifesting in coils like a snake.

This, it replies, a hint of sadness to its gravelly voice, this I cannot tell you.

Outside of your cell, there’s movement. Drake.

Riot. Chaos growls, perking up.

“Let them out.” Drake commands. His words as their law, the scientist standing beside him does as asked and opens the door. You stand, Chaos guiding your movements as you position yourself before him. Your fingers twitch to be around his throat, the backstabbing, murdering, all around awful person- but Chaos recognizes the one it has been trained to follow all its life and so it holds you back.

Drake’s smirk makes Chaos’ control falter. “Hungry?” he asks, gesturing to the homeless man down the hall, oblivious to the conversation.

Chaos smiles, but you don’t. We can’t eat him, he’s innocent.

He’s food.

You thought I was food when you first saw me. Now we’re besties.

Silence. Then, we must do as Riot commands.

So you take orders from it without question? I thought you weren’t a dog.

It snarls, puffing up at your comment. I was born and bred to obey him.

You are your own being. No one can control you.

A pause. Isn’t that what you are trying to do, little human?

I am trying to help you. It’s not exactly easy.

It scans your mind, finding images of the unfortunate, the kids made homeless because of their sexuality, their gender identity, because of circumstances out of their control. It sees your own struggles, the perseverance. For a second, it thinks of how easily you accepted its pronouns, the tiny nuance to the English language it had deemed very important, thinks of your banter, your acceptance of another species in your body. It sees your drive, and something in the symbiote is moved by it.

You’re making me soft. It murmurs to you.

I’m giving you a conscience.

We must do whatever it takes to get out of here.

…fine. But I don’t have to like it.

It walks your body over to the homeless man, lets the human underestimate you. Lets him think you’re not a threat. Then it takes over, swiftly killing the human before he can feel any pain.

Compromise, it thinks, knowing Riot will never be able to tell the difference and wondering when exactly it became your protector instead of its leaders’. An ideal shift of that magnitude couldn't have happened without notice, surely, except it did. And it cannot be bothered to care.

Your chance comes quite quickly; with both Riot and Drake believing that Chaos is in control of you instead of just inhabiting your body, you are given all of the freedoms that the symbiote had on its home planet- and while you know you won’t have a chance at killing Drake, Chaos assures you that Venom (who recently escaped, hence the added security in the form of you,) would do quite nicely as a distraction. With its display of blatant disregard, Chaos was beginning to wonder if Riot’s concerns were, in the end, based in truth. Were the humans truly a dangerous species, despite all the klyntar blustering? It curls inside your chest, a seething biomass, slowly learning your internal functions the same way it learned from the other hosts- the ones whose bodies attacked it at first contact- and it thinks that maybe, just maybe, humans may be worth saving.

At least one of them is.

Chaos keeps guard as you walk out of the front door of Carlton Drake’s building, unmolested by the guards who’d only recently thrown you into a cell. It watches, silently, bristling at every new sound, until you are blocks away.

“We made it,” you whisper as you stop, leaning against the brick façade of a building a mile from the lab.

We, Chaos murmurs questioningly, so quiet that you can’t hear. It wonders at the feeling in what would be its chest. We.

And just like that, you have the undying loyalty of a klyntar.

To your habitat then? Chaos asks you, snaking over your arms under the black jacket you wore. It coils around your wrists, squeezing gently before absorbing back into your skin.

You snicker. “It’s called a home, silly, but yes. Home.” For a second you walk toward your small loft apartment, but your steps quickly falter. Chaos senses your sudden apprehension.

We will pack what you need and leave, they will know where you live. We cannot stay long.

So you don’t stay.

Eddie Brock, once a journalist, is used to people thinking he’s insane. At least borderline. But he’s never been insane like this- looking over his shoulder every two seconds, knowing that Venom is right there, feeling the symbiote in his every blood vessel, every pore. It’s like tripping on acid, the feeling of the black sludge all over and yet nowhere.

“Whose idea was it, huh?” Eddie growls, head twitching to the side as if he were talking to someone who isn’t there- the action gains him a few odd looks, but he doesn’t really care, stomping down the street anyway. “The kiss, I mean.”

Not important, Venom says. How are we going to stop Riot? He has things we’ve never seen-

“Not my problem, V, I told you I was done after all of that-“

World domination isn’t your problem?

Eddie growls, turning into a side alley that cuts through to the next street over. It’s a long alley, long enough to be creepy, but he’s got a symbiote. What do the criminals have, guns? Laughable. He’s never been afraid of dark alleys anyway, not truly. “You or Anne? It had to be someone. There are plenty of other ways to get-“He cuts himself off as a small, hooded figure steps out in front of him. Venom is assessing before Eddie can even blink. “Can I help you?” She’s standing square in the way, hands in her jeans pockets, hood shading her entire face.

Food? Venom asks.

“No-“ Eddie snaps. The girl doesn’t flinch.

“You’re the one who needs help, Eddie.” She finally says, looking up at him. “With your little problem.”

Normally, when someone says that to him, it means he’s got an awkward boner- so naturally he’s surprised for a second, frowning at her as she stands there like it’s perfectly natural to accuse someone of indecency. He opens his mouth but doesn’t know what to say for a change, and Venom’s silence doesn’t really help. Finally, his mind catches up…somewhat. “What?” he splutters, walking quickly towards her. “Who are you?”

A few steps away, Venom breaks its silence.

Eddie, STOP.

And Eddie is pulled to a sudden halt, blinking at the unassuming teenager in front of him.

Venom envelops him in a heartbeat, leaving Eddie no time to protest the change. The girl, once again, doesn’t even blink- and that’s when Eddie understands. Riot? He asks his symbiote.

“Chaos.” Venom says to the small girl. “Why are you here?”

A grey-blue head manifests over her shoulder, staring up at Venom with those opalescent white eyes they all share. It’s all fangs, white veins webbing over it like scars. Even still, Eddie can’t help but notice that it’s severely less ugly than Riot. But then he sees the girl who the head is connected to, and he wonders why he didn’t see her in the lab. She would’ve been hard to miss, simply because she looks like she’d beat the crap out of anyone who stood in her way, simply by the steely gaze.

“Venom.” Chaos greets the klyntar. “It seems we have both found a host.” It squints. “Did you pull yours out of the trash?”

To its credit, Venom only shrugs. “If you are here to insult me, you can leave. I am perfectly happy continuing to ignore you.”

Chaos grins, a feral grin that somehow speaks of bloodlust. “We are here to help you defeat Riot.”

Eddie, inside of Venom’s protective shell, can feel the shock that rolls through his symbiote. “You?” Venom asks, deforming into just a head, mirroring Chaos himself. “But you’re-“

“Was. I was Riot’s right hand.”

“Literally?” Eddie squeaks, picturing that monstrous right hand separating itself into a pile of goo-

Venom wants to believe Chaos, it really does, but it has seen the other klyntar in action, and finds it rather hard to believe that it could turn on its leader so quickly.

“I could’ve killed you forty-three different ways by now.” Chaos helpfully points out. “But I haven’t. Because we have a common goal.” It glances at its host, who raises her hand to stroke down its cheek. Something unbelievably like love passes over the grey biomass. “I’ve found something worth rebellion.”

“Alright.” Venom says, darting its tongue over sharp teeth. “Where do we start?”

Later, when everything is said and done and Eddie is finally somewhat alone on his couch, staring at the wall in quiet contemplation, he only has one thought.

He takes a sip of his well-earned beer and sits back.

“So she’s got one up her ass too.”

#the masked writer #symbiote #venom #venom the movie #eddie brock / reader #platonic! eddie brock / reader #martial arts! reader #/reader #chaos the symbiote #symbiote fluff #angst #fluff #multi chapter fic #monsterfucker #implied relationships #future symbiote x reader #mostly canon compliant

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lfthinkerwrites · 5 years ago

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Meanwhile, back at Gotham Academy

Title: Tales from Gotham Academy: Field Trip

Fandom: Batman

Rating: T

Summary: Jason and Roy push Lyle Bolton past the point of no return...

AO3 Link

Meanwhile, back at Gotham Academy

Edward would have been happy to know that for the preceding hour and a half, Penelope had been fending off the Sirens' questions about their dating life. Unfortunately, the more wine she drank, the looser her tongue became, just as their friends intended.

"I have to ask," Pamela said. "What exactly do you see in that man? You could do much better."

Penelope poured herself more wine and gulped before answering. "You don't give him nearly enough credit," she said. "As obnoxious as he can be here, he can also be a very sweet, considerate man."

(Said 'sweet and considerate' man was at that point in time ready to throw hands with Harvey in a cheap boat, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt him.)

Pamela rolled her eyes. "Are you sure we're referring to the same Edward Nashton? He once deliberately tilted all the pictures in the art gallery on campus just because Gordon kept ignoring his riddles."

"Well, I never said he wasn't incorrigible at times," Penelope defended. "But he has his good moments too." She smiled a bit as she thought of them. "He's very supportive of my work inside and outside the campus. He takes being Ellen's full-time parent seriously. And no matter what else we might have going on, he almost always takes time out of his day to spend time with me."

"Well of course he does," Pamela drawled. "He's getting something out of those visits, isn't he?"

Penelope arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Selina snorted a bit. "Come on, Doc. You haven't heard the rumors going around school about yours and Eddie's...visits?"

Penelope flushed when she realized the implication, then she scowled. "Honestly. That was one time. Superintendent al Ghul was on the warpath and I thought there was a very good chance of him being transferred out. Nothing like that has happened since."

Pamela finished her wine, then gave Penelope a critical look. "So you mean to tell us that when Nashton sneaks off with you for your little trysts, nothing actually happens?"

"Nothing like that, no," Penelope said. "Most of the time, he just-" Penelope stopped, flushing a bit.

"He what?" Selina asked.

Penelope took another sip, then put her glass down. "Most of the time, he just wants a hug."

Pamela threw her head back and laughed, Selina and Harley joining in with their giggles while Kristen checked her phone for updates about the trip. "Aww," Harley cooed, wiping her eyes. "That's adorable!"

Penelope meanwhile crossed her arms and fixed her colleagues with a glare. "I shouldn't have said anything. Did you three invite me here just to get blackmail material on Edward?"

"Relax, Doc," Selina said. "No one's going to blackmail anyone. We're just having a bit of a fun, right girls?"

"Right-a-roonie!" Harley said, giving a thumbs up.

"Speak for yourself," Pamela said with a smirk.

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Anyway, enough about my love life." She nodded at Harley. "Weren't you telling me that you were going on a date with someone you met online last week?"

Harley cringed. "Oh yeah. Floyd. Our date didn't wind up happenin'."

Selina raised an eyebrow. "He wasn't catfishing you, was he?"

"Nah," Harley said, twirling the end of her pigtail. "Nothin' like that. So we met up at the restaurant, and he was just as hot as his profile said, but just when we ordered drinks, the FBI raided the place and arrested him for murder. He took out like three agents with the wine bottle and a dinner fork before they slapped the cuffs on him." Harley took a long swig of her wine while the other women looked at each other. "I think I'm gonna take a break from men for a bit.'

"A good idea," Pamela said.

A buzzing noise came simultaneously from Kristen and Penelope's phones. Both women looked down, read the text messages, and cringed.

"What?" Selina asked.

"Karlo caused an accident on a boat ride," Kristen explained. "He rammed his boat against Neil's and caused a collision with Vice Principal Gordon's and Bruce Wayne's boat."

"Is everybody okay?" Harley asked.

"No one's hurt," Kristen said.

"Except for Karlo," Penelope interjected. "Edward just told me that he and the other teachers decided to teach Karlo a lesson about endangering the students."

Kristen nodded. "Karlo's been taken away by an ambulance, and the police were called. Needless to say, he won't be coming back to Gotham Academy."

"Sheesh," Harley said, shaking her head. "That's the third drama teacher Neil's helped drive off in six months! I wonder who the next one will be?"

Selina meanwhile, just sighed. "I warned Bruce not to go along on the trip," she said. "But did he listen? No. That man's too stubborn and noble for his own good." She smirked. "Oh well, I'll just have to help make it up for him later, as I'm sure you are with Eddie, right Doc?"

Penelope just flushed again.

Meanwhile, in Detention, Lyle Bolton was sitting at his desk with his fists clenched and his teeth grinding. "Just an hour to go, you little shits," he managed to hiss out at the three boys sitting at the desks in front of him. "I can handle anything you little punks dish out!"

Jason just pulled a straw out of his pocket, ripped a small hole at the bottom, and blew the wrapper in Bolton's direction. It landed on the desk, much to the delight of the other boys. "Nice shot, Jay!" Roy cheered.

"That does it!" Bolton shouted, standing up and pointing a meaty finger in Jason's direction. "You! Drop and give me fifty!"

Jason rolled his eyes, then did as Coach demanded. While he was doing this, Roy took advantage of Bolton's distraction to shoot a rubber band at the side of the coach's head. On impact, Bolton's head snapped towards Roy.

"You should have aimed it at his ass," Lonnie said.

"He has to have an ass to aim at," Roy quipped.

"You!" Bolton screamed, his face magenta. "Drop and give me fifty!"

"Who?" Roy asked. "Me or Lonnie?"

"Both of you!" Bolton screeched, spittle flying everywhere.

Roy dropped down, but not before giving Lonnie a wink. Lonnie grinned, then stubbornly folded his arms across his chest. "This is a violation of this school's rules against corporal punishment! If you try to force me to do push-ups, I'll have the ACLU out here so fast-"

"You'll what, little boy?" Bolton demanded, walking towards Lonnie. "You'll get Mommy and Daddy to call you a big expensive lawyer? You think that scares me, little boy?" While Bolton was busy trying and failing to intimidate Lonnie, Jason had finished his push-ups and silently made his way to Bolton's chair. He pulled a thumbtack out of his pocket and placed it on the chair, then rushed back to his desk before Bolton could turn around and notice him. Luckily, Bolton was too busy screaming to pay much attention to his surroundings. "So do your FUCKING PUSH-UPS!!!" He bellowed in Lonnie's face.

Lonnie merely looked up and said, "No."

Bolton bellowed again with rage and went back to his desk. "Non-compliance! I'm writing out another detention slip for you, Machin! Just wait until Principal Strange gets back! You're gonna get expelled if its the last thing I do!" Bolton then took a seat, directly on top of the thumbtack. He got up again with a yelp of pain, both of his hands going to his rear. "Jesus Christ! My ass! What did you punks do!?"

"What do you, he does have an ass," Roy said in between laughs. Bolton was too busy hopping up and down, trying in vain to pull the thumbtack out of his ass to do anything else.

"That's our cue, boys!" Jason yelled, getting out of his seat. "Go, go, go!" He, Roy, and Lonnie broke for the door and ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Coach Bolton's office was on the far side of the campus, but it wouldn't take long for them to get to the main door and freedom.

Bolton finally pulled out the thumbtack, then let out another cry of rage. "Oh no you don't, you punks!" He went to the wall, next to the class phone and lifted a panel. Under the panel was a red button that was connected to the school's security system. Every classroom had one since they'd been installed two years ago, but no one had ever used it. Until now. "This school's goin' on LOCKDOWN!!!" Bolton screamed. Then he pressed the button. A loud, siren-like sound filled the school, and every single door was locked. Bolton laughed. Finally, he was going to get back what was his.

When the siren sounded, Harley dropped her drink in surprise. "Jeez Louise!" she shouted. She checked the bunsen burner. "Did I set off the smoke detector or somethin'?"

"That's not the fire alarm," Kristen said, her hazel eyes widening. "That's the lockdown alarm!"

"The lockdown alarm?" Selina asked. "There's what, maybe twenty kids here at most? Why the Hell are we doing a lockdown drill!? And why wouldn't Strange or Gordon tell us if we were!?"

Harley gulped. "You don't think somethin's actually happenin', do ya?"

As if it had heard her question, the PA crackled to life. "This is Coach Lyle Bolton," a deep voice sounded. "As you can see, Gotham Academy is on lockdown! And it's gonna stay on lockdown until Jason Todd, Roy Harper, and Lonnie Machin get their asses back to detention RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!" Bolton hung up the PA, leaving the five women to look at each other.

"How did I know?" Pamela seethed. "How did I know Todd was going to pull some ridiculous stunt today!?"

"Well, speakin' as a mental health professional," Harley said. "I'd say that Bolton's the one that's gone cuckoo for cocoa puffs, right Penny?"

"Right," Penelope agreed. She brought a hand up to her face. "So much for avoiding shenanigans today. How do we stop this?"

"First things first," Pamela said. "We have to get out. That door's going to be locked electronically."

"I can fix that," Kristen said, stepping forward. "I've got the override code." Kristen went to the door's panel and punched in a six-digit code. The door unlocked, allowing the women to exit the chemistry lab.

"Alright," Selina said as soon as they were in the hallway. "We need a gameplan. Kristen, Penelope, you two track down any security guards who are still here and get to the principal's office to override the lockdown school-wide so we can get the kids out. Me, Red, and Harley are going to find Jason, Roy, and Machin before Bolton can get his hands on them. Make sense?" Kristen and Penelope nodded and made a left turn down the hallway, towards the offices of the security guards. Selina then nodded towards Pamela and Harley. "Ready girls?"

"Woop Woop!" Harley shouted., pumping her fists in the air. "The Gotham Academy Sirens are on the case! Let's roll!"

#high school teacher au #the sirens #finally something happens

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