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rel124c41 · 9 months ago

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BITCH CAME BACK. vox

You leave the VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. and return to it at 3 A.M.

Vox likes to think you would never betray him like that.

tags: established relationship, bodyguard, relationship issues, implied/referenced sex, big brother is watching complex, canon typical violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, & fist fights

word count: 8,626

It is not cheating.

He chooses to believe it is not cheating.

No matter what Valentino whispers about you being unsatisfied in bed; no matter what Velvette teases about how you always leave behind your phone; no matter what his derailing mind starts to image (some muscular hellhound, incubus, sinner, overlord, defined biceps gripping your thighs and –) in his most calamitous moments: Vox chooses to believe you do not leave VoxTek tower to go cheat on him.

Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. In Hell, trust comes from blood signatures and thumping, electric green deals. You and Vox were not bound through these standard demon methods. No contractual deals, you outlined early on, just verbal agreements.

You and Vox did have a certain verbal agreement: three little words. Whispered into the drool spot on his pillow, bleeding from your mouth when you two collided in kisses, breathed on your wrist when you found him hunched and tired in his office, flashing on your cell’s screen, and written on his hand. That was the deal.

Though, Vox muffles a curse into his pillow, you certainly have been saying those words less now.

He moves his monitor off the pillow surface when the rain of the shower ebbs. When you came in, the scent he had picked up on you was thankfully not sex. Instead the scent of metallic blood clung to you like amber honey on a bear’s mouth. Your signature scent. Vark and his hammerhead brother were drawn to how deeply the smell was oiled and shampooed into your skin. Violence: a perfume tailored for you.

A hair-dryer starts up in the bathroom and Vox stops busying himself with sharpening the metal of his claws.

Still, even if sex was not a present scent, that didn’t mean you did not have it. The dark part of him stirs like a hive of bees. Foreplay for you is like a mimic of lions fighting a buffalo to eat her child. His purchases of new screen protectors and bandages increased when you two first kickoffed a relationship. So scent is not a good thing to completely go off on –

The sound of water returns. Ah, the sink faucet. Buried under the first sound, he can hear the tiny scrub of a toothbrush. Light leaks under the closed door. If you kiss him tonight (he hopes you will), he would be grateful for the smell of mint on your teeth. Mint and iron. Mint and iron and the possible burial of body sweat, sex.

You left VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. – in the middle of a weekday before anyone working there would dare to clock out – and then you returned to your shared bedroom at 3 fucking A.M. He should zap the information out of you.

It’s not cheating; it’s not cheating; it’s not cheating.

The bathroom door clicks open. A towel is thrown around your neck. Already dressed in your pajamas, a simple billowing pair of sweatpants and socks, you make your way over. Tiptoeing even though you know he is awake.

At the ping of you entering the building through surveillance cameras, Vox had started to gradually stir. He could not fake being asleep. As soon as the black on his monitor melted away to reveal blue, you knew he was awake. There is no acknowledgement of him from you. No hi honey or night Vox. And his face brightness is not dimmed below seventy percent so you know he is awake. Azure lighting filtering over sheets and floating in the air, you pull back covers to sink into bed, shirtless as was your habit. You turn your back to him, which has regrettably become a new habit.

He tracks his eyes over the canvas of your back. On it, mauve and ebony bruises are speckled. They are like lily-pads in a dark lake or a thousand eclipses lighting up a dark sky. Never an absence of bruises with you. Across the canvas, there are bisecting marks of sharp claws not made by him that cause him some stress.

Vox remembers once connecting all your bruises into constellations, shapes of animals and faces and other things, post-aftercare scrambling up his wires and guiding him do something so sinfully, sentimentally human. He remembers your laughter and whines at his cold claws on warm skin. Remembering not in a human way but in an electronic way, memories always fresh in his mind, recorded.

You were like a virus. The most prominent memories he has are ones with you.

Blue light slimes over your skin. Vox dims his screen in hopes you might turn towards him. No luck. He lifts up one sharpened claw to drag a line shaped like a cleft note from bruise to bruise. He goes to —

“Stop that. It hurts.”

He goes to do nothing. Defeated, Vox returns his hand underneath his pillow. Why are you acting like this? Why were you doing this to him? You must feel his eyes scrutinizing on the cusp of your shoulder. Moving, you do something that takes that dark, calamitous part of Vox and squeezes it like a dog clamping his teeth around a squeak toy, all the ink spilling over and soaping up his systems.

You inch to the edge of the bed, so close to falling off that you might as well leave altogether.

It’s not cheating. Vox rolls over and tries to sleep without dreaming.

You are a hired bodyguard for Valentino. Out of the ten bodyguards employed, you are closest to Valentino. Though you do not flank your boss all hours nor all week, you are seen most in the public eye out of the others employed to protect this pompous moth prince. This is because you are so efficient at your job.

It was that efficiency that drew Vox to even glance in your meaningless, background direction.

For a sinner demon, your physical appearance does not often stir up anything for anyone. Your employer did give you lipstick tubes a few times and perfumes for you to try. If Valentino said you had potential, he wanted you to embrace it. You politely declined but kept your gifts. To be honest, you are very plain. Your hellish form was disfigured to give the mimicking resemblance of an oni, a yokai, but most human features remained.

You had two physical differences that Valentino nettled you on showing off. One: golden spirals running down your arm like kintsugi art; two: a set of heavy, crimson horns growing from your temples. Every first of the month, Valentino mourned your horns.

January first, February first, March first, April first, and so on, you would grind down your horns. Equipped with a hacksaw and then a sander, it was a routine task for you. What could have grown gorgeously into carmine bighorn sheep’s horns were ruined to Valentino’s grief. You snipped them away like a disgruntled gardener. Like two red tree stumps, your horns sat on your head.

You went through with this cosmetic change for two reasons. You could not stand the look of a demon on yourself. Your horns were so heavy that they often disturbed how you moved.

“I could not kill your enemies if I am toppling over due to the heft of my horns,” you told Valentino and he conceded.

So unburdened by that obstructing weight, you did your job remarkably and accidentally captured Vox’s eyes. Sparked him, you joked. And then he came to agree and would say you shocked his heart – which often left you with warm cheeks. A relationship built all because someone grew obsessed over a pornstar and felt owed a performance, thus deciding to take it out on Valentino at one of his clubs.

It was nothing remarkable. You were not intimidated by the demon’s size despite the Vees awe. It was simply your job to do. If someone threatened Valentino, a bodyguard needed to react.

“But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirted with you and the moth kissed your bloody cheek when it was all done.

You were not small in stature like an imp. You retained your human height. However, some sinners grew with the hellish transformation. Thus, a 7’ 6” demon was a spectacle against you who was very obviously not reaching that. Though, your hellish transformation had selected a different prowess of your physical form to alter: your strength. Fondly, you reflect on that day.

“Mr. Valentino! Sir!”

Valentino blinks behind his heart-shaped glasses. In front of him, the head of the sinner woman he was talking to gained a third eye. Valentino only blinks because as she slumps lifeless to the ground, her drink slashes on him, causing him mild stress. Then, he blinks a second time as you grab him by the waist, spinning him off the leather booth, a hole suddenly appearing in the exact spot his back was reclined on.

His lips upturn into a smile, amorous pinks and warm amber lighting raining down on his features. How theatrical you are! He mourns when your hands slide off his waist as you jump in from the shadows to do your job.

He distantly hears Velvette curse. She was sitting on his left so it is only natural she would be startled, so close to when the gunshots were fired. Valentino watches as you jump down from the high platform where the three Vees were sitting and watching the night’s performance before being rudely interrupted.

The demon is easy to make out in the crowd, Carmine-manufactured gun raised in his hand, standing at a height perhaps only three feet smaller than Valentino himself. He is not standing for long. You vault yourself over a table, kicking him down to a height you can reach and starting to take care of your job. Now, this is not as good as the performance on the stripper pole but is not half bad.

“Vox. Light,” Valentino says, turning to his right where the television demon is in a similar state as Velvette, but collecting himself. A cigarette hanging from a long cigarette holder is waved momentarily in his face.

“Thank you,” Valentino says and, smoking, watches.

There are a million tools you could be using – glasses from any of the nearby tables, the arm of a leg chair, Valentino knows you are skilled enough to grab the gun laying two yards across the club floor to finish this job. Yet, all you do is punch and punch, enjoying and savoring your job.

Raising your fist by your head, launching it down into the demon’s face. Again and again and again. Valentino watches with great delight how the speed at which the demon’s legs fail miserably underneath you wans off from panicked kicks to tired scuffling. Your knuckles are recolored. You raise back up your fist. You launch it back down into the concave space you are making. There is a nose, underneath that is a gorey sunken mess, underneath that is a disconnected, bottom jaw. The crimson warmth coating and nuzzling into your hand is a welcome feeling. You miss it dearly when the body underneath you eventually stills.

With a push, you stand back on your feet and start towards Valentino. He raises one of his four arms out to you – the upper right one drawing you in as he spins you excitedly on the platform. Valentino dips you and kisses you on the mouth, giving you the courtesy of blowing out his smoke first.

“Well done!” He pulls you back up into a standing position.

“It is my job, Mr. Valentino.” Your voice is monotone which isn’t too entertaining but it does not dampen Valentino’s cheer. “No need for praise.”

Your gaze briefly flicks over to the couch. Genuine scolding burns you up inside while looking at the hole in the leather booth, should have been quicker. You startle when you see one of Valentino’s associates staring at you. Was the television demon named Vel or Vox? Doesn’t matter.

Hating being ignored, a finger on your face tilts your gaze back to the heart-shaped glasses. Valentino leans down, humming at the side of your face when some gore must have billowed up from the mess you were making. “But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirt with you and the moth kisses your bloody cheek; all of it done and all of it set in motion.

You will never know Heaven. After some tears, skin punched off your knuckles, and snowflakes of broken glass, you accepted this. You will never know Heaven and its comforts. This is a second Heaven.

Red rivers waterfalling over and down trembling fingers. Warm pain of a bruise kissing into an ankle or wrist like an amorous cat. A crack as the cartilage of bone is split like a pencil. Skin rubbed off like latex on a scratch ticket to reveal bone, blood, and fat. Bitten tongues elongating into red syrup; a black gap in the military cemetery of teeth; an eye rolling on the ground in a morbid game of golf. Blood and injury, a frequent lover of yours. All these wonderful experiences and sensations: backdropped by the sound of sinisterly supportive cheers from imps and sinners.

Your chance of redemption. Smoke billows off your lip and past your bloody nose. This is a chance to feel what Heaven could possibly be like. Redemption and honor made possible through violence, something you have known for a long time. A moral as ingrained in you as the gold rivulets falling down your arms.

Fiddling with your cigarette with your tongue, you busy yourself with wrapping white around your hands. Over the left and diagonal across the right – like a child practicing tying their shoes.

You finish your work, checking your compression is tight, when the door opens and a muscular hellborn demon with defined biceps walks in. “(Name).”

“Yeah?”

“Only three more minutes.”

“Got it.”

Vox will never know Heaven. This is nothing that causes him any grief. During his entrance into the realm – before he set up contracts, set up VoxTex, set up a reign of control – it had been a heavy stone to lay with until erosion crumbled it down to a pebble. He will not know Heaven; so fucking what?

He put so much stock in his business that it would be unfortunate for him to be pulled into heavenly gates. This was Heaven, not a second Heaven but Heaven itself. In the military march of obedient corporate slaves, a hymn. With the simple spiral of his right eye, he could get people to revere him. Proverb 15:3 says: the eyes of the Lord are in every place (every cellphone, house security system, every television and computer), beholding the evil and the good. Alastor gone and probably buried somewhere, Vox was on top of his game. Heaven was perfect until you started acting so strangely.

Something dark stirs in him in his news studio. His brain and eyes are wired to every device in the room. Vox turns from talking with the camera operator, words automatic as if they were pre-recorded. Even when you are concealing yourself in shadows, he can see you and when you step out of them, he wants to watch.

“Sir, is this a correct height for the trucking?”

“No, you’re doing it wrong,” Vox says without even turning his body to check the camera’s position.

His attention is raptured by you. As it always is. Woefully, he watches as you talk with Valentino in the corner, before another bodyguard with defined muscles, puts a hand on your shoulder. Vox does not even try to hide the abhor spark that flicks over him. He could hear everything perfectly from Valentino’s phone but it is nothing of use. You switch out a shift and are letting your boss know that you are clocking out. Simple, quotidian activities. Nothing of use to try and decipher where you go.

This is Heaven, Vox reminds himself, standing in Hell.

“Five hundred, nineteen.”

The room tilts and billows.

“Five hundred, twenty.”

There is something about pain that is so satisfying to you.

“Five hundred, twenty-one.”

If you could stay in pain, it would be as beneficial as a plant in sunlight.

“Five hundred, twenty-two.”

You – You, huh? – You turn your head to the side slightly. Blue light fruitlessly hides from you. Oh, he is awake. Releasing the tension from your muscles, your feet take a slight drop to the ground. You can finish the last of your six hundred and sixty-six pull-ups at a later time, you relinquish.

Just as you grab yourself a shirt, Vox finally decides to speak. It is a tone as if he is trying to gauge which version of you he will receive today: your old self or your new self. “Morning.” He rises up from the pillow and smiles dubiously. “You still have a bit more than a hundred to go.”

You stare at him. In his expensive, personally tailored pajama button-up. Him, with the hesitation in his eyes. Vox. Your Vox. Who despite the distance you have carved out, you are still incredibly fond of. You pull the shirt down over your abdomen and say, “Morning.” Slowly, you take a lazy walk to the side of your shared bed. “How do you feel,” you ask as you plant yourself down.

“Definitely felt better before,” he grins lopsided, trying to flash on some boyish charm. “Think you almost dislocated my shoulder.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I liked it.”

“Still, it’s not right of me.”

“...” Vox runs a hand up and down your thigh before lifting it up onto the bed.

“What is the agenda for today?”

“Let’s see. Marketing team has a change of manager which is gonna be a bitch to handle; we have a mid-morning segment to do on Velvette’s love potion; I have a 2 o-clock, a 4 o’clock, then a 5 o’clock; today is Friday so another Vox-2-Nite is scheduled. And that is all planned without any wiggling room. So if just one thing goes wrong –” At the mere thought, his voice starts to drop in octaves, prematurely vexed. World never seems to stop spinning, even when being below it.

“Sounds dreadfully long. Are you sure your charge will hold on through it?”

“I scheduled a fifteen minute break in there … somewhere.”

“Ah, yes, Vox’s infamous fifteen breaks. Ones that always get pushed off until the end of the day.”

“They aren’t so infamous when I have you there, forcing me to take company-policed hour breaks … You really have to stop doing that.”

“Well, you’ll have to trudge through today without me or an hour break. Valentino has me booked today, honey.”

“That fucking bastard,” Vox shimmers, cursing Valentino, and you offer a timid chuckle. You trail a calming hand up and down his arm. Throughout the conversation, he and you had fallen into the lotus sex position – just awfully more clothed and less sexy– one of the numerous you two had been tangled into last night.

Last night … your mind cannot help to wander to it and not fun wandering either. Two awful images keep spinning in your mind. One: the image of you grabbing his upper arm in the cowgirl position only to push too hard and hear a sickening crack from his shoulder, his screen malfunctioning. Thank your lucky star, it was just air bubbles. Two: in the middle of your rendezvous, the image of his screen turning black because you had taken talons and dug them amorously into his abdomen, your passionate action almost punctuating his colon.

You kiss under his monitor when Vox rests his chin onto your head, feeling the warmth of electronic currents mimicking a bloodstream long since retired. You let him stay that way for a while, enjoying his presence. It is a little better than finishing up those pull-ups.

“Hey, are we alright?”

Spoke too soon.

You stone up in his arms like a garden statue – ah, his arms. He has thought ahead and wrapped his arms around you, forbidding you from escaping this question. Well, you can still escape as you had no contract requiring you to answer his questions. Avoidant kisses are speckled past his poorly buttoned-up pajama top.

“(Name).”

At the stern tone coating him saying your name, you bite into his blue-tinted collarbone. Vox is expecting this so he does not even groan at the fresh assault on an already bruised neck. He lets you fight shy of this heavy conversation through your physicality. His pride is quite grand when he does not moan as you attack his particularly sensitive spot, just in the space between the vagus nerve and jugular vein.

“(Name).” You sweat cold when you realize Vox’s voice is still controlled and level, absent of a single glitch.

“Yes, honey?”

“Are we alright?”

“Why wouldn’t we be,” you avoid the question with a question and start to unbutton his pajama top.

“Because you’ve been leaving –” his voice glitches, just a slight temperament, but you jump onto the break in his words.

“Hey, Valentino’s working on,” you press a kiss to his dead heart, “on this new segment in his porn. And it’s got,” you bite down lightly on his nipple, “this really hot position in it,” you scold yourself when your fingers mess up on a button, “called the Valedictorian. I think we should try it.” You celebrate when you manage to undo the last button by sucking on Vox’s nipple.

“(Name).”

At least this time, when your name is said, Vox’s voice is wobbling. And, thus the arms around you are less like a steel cage and more like fragile icicles. Honestly, you could have broken out any time but you would rather slip out of his arms with humane strength.

And Valentino comes to the rescue twice in this eventful morning. Mentioned in name and then showing up in the ring of your phone. Vox is in such an amorous state that he only disconnects the incoming call after the third ring which means its presence has been heard and cannot be ignored.

“(Name).”

This time he says your name mournfully. You place a parting kiss to his throat. From his fragile arms, you slip away. “Duty calls,” you say and then leave as you have done for weeks now.

EXPANDING THE VEES REIN.

That is what the agenda for today’s meeting is, highlighted in bold in the most professional serif font, Times New Roman, and thrown up onto screen behind Vox’s chair. He had wrestled with that for a while, foolishly feeling like the intern he once was in the living world. Not that Valentino or Velvette would appreciate it. Crumpled papers littered his personal bedroom, alliterations and homophones scrapped. Absent from his usual sounding-board (your spot in bed empty), he had decided after frying his favorite mug that simple and cut-to-the-point was the way to go.

Expanding the Vees rein: how can they go about that, the next slide asked to a group of two. Well, don’t damage your dead brain too hard by thinking of that alluring question; Vox was already supplying the answers and then the execution. And he readily rambled on about it:

“Now this little beauty is called SPID. It stands for spider parodying intellect-gathering device. Spied and spider, see? The task of the SPID would be to lock onto anybody’s potential target, infiltrating homes and creating a web of information through this lens. If we refer back to slide thirty-three, we can see the previous success of –”

“Vox.”

The Overlord screeches to a halt. Not really paying attention if either Velvette or Valentino were paying attention, his name being said catches him by surprise. His claws pierce gently into the plastic molded around the spider device in his hand. The SPID is just one of the dozen he has brought in, all masquerading under the purpose of Expanding the Vees Rein.

A snarl appears on his screen. “Yes, Velvette?”

“How long have you and (Name) been together?”

It gives the Overlord pause for a moment. Gently, he takes his claws out of the back of the mechanical spider. Letting the tiny creature join the others on the conference table, Vox grumbles, “eight months, one week, three days.”

He onlys that so precisely because he has a detailed timeline of everything since his fall. Give him a precise date and year, no matter how far away, and he could tell you exactly what he had for breakfast. His memory was pristine.

“Isn’t that enough time for you to trust them? And enough time where we don’t have to sit through your spiraling insecure bullshit?”

With a laugh: “As you can see, Velvette, this meeting is the betterment of the Vees. If one does not always expand his monopoly, he leaves himself vulnerable to be subdued by another monopoly. Sooo – as I was saying, this spider is going to help us –”

“He’s just being pissy because he doesn’t have his little bebito/a under contract.”

The spark of electricity that flies over Vox’s entire body is violent. Volatile energy pulses in the air as formidable as a gun. This time (because he had already picked back up the spider) the SPID dies with a crunch in Vox’s claws. All eight legs twitch in the tiny thunderstorm inside Vox’s grasps. Vox is envisioning crushing a different insect though.

“Neither do yOU.”

“I might not have their soul, but I have their loyalty. Do you?” Vox can tell by the grin pulling up Valetino’s lips that he finds this remarkably humorous. Very pleased at himself that he knows something the Vox doesn’t.

“You FUCKING –”

“Hahahaha!”

They never get to go over the additional twenty-seven slides Vox had slaved over the night before.

“Mr. Valentino? Sir?”

The strap of your duffle bag is choked by uneasy hands. When the door had opened in the back alley of Voxtek’s towers, you had admittedly jumped like a startled cat and screamed like a kid on a rollercoaster. Even when greeting the familiar face of your boss, you are still a little nervous.

“Do you need me for something, Sir?”

Though you are off the clock, so Valentino really should not be down here. In the dirtiest part of the towers, in a small sliver of space ignored by security cameras. Which makes your apprehension completely valid.

“Can’t a man enjoy a smoke, bebito/a?” The uneasy wilts out of you as he pulls his cigarette holder from somewhere.

“Of course, Sir. I will leave you to it.”

“No, stay. That other demon is such a sloppy bodyguard.”

“Oh.”

“Light?”

“Of course, Sir.”

You take your place next to Valentino, his shadow. Looking down at the duffle bag, you judge that you can be a bit late. It is not like –

“Dunhill. Refined cigarettes, cinnamon and suet.” Pink smoke billows off tiny fire, slurring up into the air in the shape of sweet Valentine candy. It never fails to impress you with how delicately opulent it looks. “You know, the best cigarette is the first cigarette in the morning. The untouched, virgin cigarette after a night starved of them. Very new. Very Dunhill.

“I do not like owning second hand garbage, (Name).”

You feel your heart beat faster just a few seconds. That tone of voice is one you have never had directed at you. The straps of your duffle bag cry for release as you strangle them in a worried grip. “I’m aware, Sir.”

“Typically, when you get out of the hole, you do not go crawling back to it.”

“Yes, typically not, Sir.”

You two fall into silence. Where Valentino luxuriously leans against the brick wall, you fall back and dig your shoulders into the brick, making sure to feel the pain and burn of a bruise. At this moment, you can feel your heartbeat under the skin of your throat. You are sure Valentino can hear it too with how he is prolonging drags off his cigarette. Typically, you were not so afraid of Valentino – even now, your fear stems from the thought of Vox instead of Valentino. You wrestle with the thought of the repercussions if Vox knew you were crawling back into that hole as your boss said.

“Answer me this.” Smoke waterfalls off his lips and you look up. The Overlord slowly takes off his heart-shaped sunglasses and bends his height. “Are you being summoned there?”

“No, Sir,” you answer with your untethered soul still inside you, pounding away on your ribcage.

“Hm.” Straightening up to his height, Valentino smiles and puts back on his sunglasses. “Good.”

It is not cheating, Vox reminds himself as he hops from television in stores windows to telephone wire to smart watches. Those four words are a fire blanket coating over his damned soul. They keep him from exploding in fiery rage. Even when he reaches a point where he has reached the last electronic he can use, he repeats that … ugh, prayer … in his head. Sparking out of a telephone wire, Vox stands formidable on the ground, energetic from his frustration.

Then, he tries diligently to shrink and draw less attention to himself.

His screen brightness is dimmed to a submerged 16 percent, all of his notifications are thumbed over to off, and a gray hoodie is zipped over his red-and-black striped waistcoat: all the preparations for this espionage set into place. He had done exceedingly well keeping out of your sight while keeping you in his sight. Head down, Vox follows around the last corner you took.

Every city has its bad areas. Pentagram City has managed to exceed the limits for a bad area quite impressively here. He has to side-step some monstrous activities he would rather soon forget. The depth of red liquid staining his shoes would put to shame a wade in a cranberry bog. Violence swims in the air like a body fragrance.

There is a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it and its morals aren’t worth what a pig could spit. Vox recounts you saying that once; he pulls up the recording in his files, listening to your voice in the back of his head. Perhaps you have meant here rather than Hell.

Waiting thirty minutes inside telephone wires after you went in was painful. He had boiled over with the anxious energy of just wanting to follow you shoulder to shoulder. He knew better. So while watching you go down a flight of cement steps, past a black gate, into an apartment complex’s basement was like water in the wires, away from him, it was necessary. If you knew about his presence before he wanted to reveal it … well, he rather not clean up shit off fan blades.

This is just a simple check-up. An in and out operation. He just … He just needs to know what you are doing.

Vox cannot really wrap his head around why you are coming here. You are so much better than this cesspool – was it a kink of yours to socialize with the lowest of the low? Skirting around the gate and the door, he walks in uninvited.

No security checks? Really is the lowest of the low. Incredulous, Vox analyzes the place.

It is a lobby of sorts — a mock imitation of it and as close to organized as a hoarder’s house — and there is evidently a large gathering around a desk. There are some outliers standing to the sides of the room. To the far left are double doors, guarded by two well-built and muscular figures.

Black, jealous spirals appearing in his right eye, Vox turns back to the crowd to calm himself. This does not look like a sex dungeon but he can never be certain. He watched as people elect to shove knives into throats instead of shoving to move up into line. Receding into his body, he feels around for an electronic he can teleport in and out of.

Hm?

Hm.

No way.

There are zero electronics in this entire place. It gives Vox such whiplash he ogles at the place until he remembers to school his expression. No one even holds a phone in their back pocket. For the first time in his reign of control over technology, he cannot feel a single spark of anything.

Vox is knocked out of his stupor when some sinner pushes him, “fucking move or lose it, flat face.” and melts into the bloody crowd.

Metal claws curl up into his right palm. He schools that whet vehemence in his soul, knowing he sadly cannot cause a scene. No one knows of his presence. Probably the only praise-worthy factor of a town empty of technology. Joining into the crowd, Vox thinks on how he will find that sinner later. Electrocuting him until his eyes pour out of his sockets like rooibos tea is a calming image to feast on. His digital mind plots in great detail as he waits to reach the front.

— according to — the eutectic point, two solids have the same melting point, of the human skin and eyeball is — between 500 to 2000 volts kills — and saline — a sponge moistened with saline as a conductive jelly for electric currents — according to —

Vox is kicked out of his browsing of the internet when a phlegmy throat clears itself. He narrows his eyes in annoyance, finally stepping up to the seat of his mind and away from the waves of databases.

At least he was recording and listening to what others said before him: “I’ll have 80 on number 7.” Vox says, combining the numbers of two separate customers’ statements. Then, he pulls out his credit card from his slacks. Even under poor lighting, the ebony and gold surface shines pristinely.

The demon at the desk raises an eyebrow at him, “We don’t accept cards, newbie.”

They don't — huh! Even the Epirorium down in Cannibal Town accepted credit cards — credit cards were the most effective way to pay for anything! A quick transaction without the hassle of juggling coins and crumbled bills. He cannot help gritting his turquoise teeth in frustration.

“You cannot be serious.”

“No cards or phones. You’re already breaking one of the rules with that fucking Samsung you got as a head.”

“It’s a LG, not a Samsung.” He can feel his teeth grinding.

“I don’t give a fucking shit.” The demon deadpans. “Do you have any cash?”

Waste of space sinner; if his patience (his very small patience) keeps getting tested tonight, something is gonna go wrong. With a grumble, he searches around in his wallet. Credit card 2, credit card 3, credit card 4, a photo of you and him, credit card 5, cred— a measly five dollar bill. Slamming it down, Vox deepens the pitch and echo frequency of his voice, “Here you go. Five on number 7.”

Worthless piece of shit.

The demon clears their throat and then hands Vox his ticket. Knowing that is all he needs from observation, the Overlord makes a swift turn to the double door. What greets him is crowds upon crowds of sinners, imps, and hellborns. A stadium of sorts? Vox walks across the top floor, analyzing the circling structure of seats. No one is sitting in the seats but they cascade down in a cup-like structure into this eight foot drop where he can guess the entertainment is. Off the top layer floor, Vox finds a staircase and sedately starts walking down them. All the while he listens to the crowd:

“Kill them! KillthemKillthemKillthem!!”

“The stomach! Go for the stomach!”

“They’re getting destroyed out there. I bet my left eye on this, if they don’t win …”

“Cheater!”

So he was correct in assessing this was a gambling spot. A fighting arena of sorts … Vox thinks he is starting to get all the pieces put together when a loud voice, unamplified by any technology but still pristinely clear, yells, “THE WINNER!” The crowd explodes; Vox lowers his hearing and disturbs the charge into his eyes. His shoes click measured on the stairs. Metal claws grasp the railing and he leans forward, curious and suspecting.

“Announcing their one thousandth, two hundred and seventy-second win, it is our one and our only (Name)!”

Some skinny demon, smaller than Vox, raises your arm up by the wrist. The golden patterns on your biceps and latissimus glow like a fanning, spiraling wind-chime made of reflective metal. A Jason Pollock of red blood coats your body. Your hands however are thoroughly drenched in red, making the smaller demon’s grip unsteady and slipping. Your expression is tired and unsatisfied. Up and down, your chest rises in heavy pants. And though you look you could really use a nap, Vox thinks you still look stunning.

That is why Heaven felt so far away: in the news studio, in his bedroom, empty from the march of corporate slaves and the clicking keys’ symphony of obedience. Heaven followed after you.

“(Name).”

Like a dog, you growl around the material in your mouth. Why could he never leave well enough alone? Him and his annoying persistence to always be in your business like a second skin! When he starts pounding on the door, you kick it back hard in retaliation. Thump! Wood groans at the assault.

Glaring as your name is called again, you work. You had told him it would take five minutes and it had barely been two.

Forceps pinched between your teeth, you gently continue what you came in the restroom to take care of before your management interrupted. (Fuck, you were always under the thumb of someone, bending yourself to them always). Performing any type suture is vastly different when fake silicone skin was not geysering out a steady stream of blood. Pulling the needle holder towards yourself, you push your non-dominant away to lay the first knot. You watch as the loop of blue thread shrinks inch by inch. When the first knot is laid, you twist your hands to do the second knot.

“(Name)!”

“For fucks sake! I told you five minutes! Not two, not four! Five minutes!” You squeeze the forceps and needle holder in the same hand, harsh metal almost crushing under your grip. You have enough control to not break the tools you need to sew up your thigh. “Am I clear!”

“I don’t care how long it takes for you to get your rocks off. You come out right now. This crazy fan of yours is causing a fucking scene and I won’t have it. It’s either you or nothing.”

“You own the souls of thirty plus fighters! Get one of them to handle it!”

You look back down at your leg, trying to fruitlessly focus on your knots. Were you on the second or third?

Your management bristles and shouts back, door almost leaning into the bathroom with the weight of his frustrated voice, “you don’t think I’ve tried that! I don’t know how they managed to do it but no one landed a single punch on them. Like I fucking said, it’s either you or nothing.”

If you were not so equally frustrated, you would have taken a moment to absorb that information. Instead, only a fourth done with your interrupted sutures, you bite back, “unless they want me coming out there with my sweats down my ankles, tell them to fuck off!” You tried to keep profanity out of your words most of the time but this was too frustrating. Putting the forceps back in your mouth, you end the conversation.

There is a ghastly noise beyond the door. You startle on the toilet seat, the metal hurting your enamels with how your mouth tenses. It is the hollow thumping noise backgrounded by raining sizzles. There is a bloody cough. The raining sizzles billow then fall back, sound momentarily expanding then shrinking. A man’s electronic voice: “I’ve already seen that.” You bite the metal harder in denial.

“(Name),” Vox says.

Absent of your senses, your hands finally get the second knot tied – it is sloppy and unaligned to the first.

How? How did he possibly find this place? It is so off the grid of the Pride Ring that no maps or GPS know the name of it. It is a rumored place, absent of technology, that only the lowest of the low lived in. You have been so careful with triple checking your surroundings. No one on this side of town could afford a phone. No one on this side of town could afford to ever get out of it.

You will never forget meeting Valentino. Long ago, he seemed supernatural and uncanny. Luxury branded cologne burning your nose and pink cigarette smoke irritating your lungs. Everything, the affluent aspects of him, down to his self-possessed smile was something alien and frightening to a sinner like yourself who never experienced the sight of wealth.

Valentino had been right about it being a hole one would never want to crawl back into. Comparing past and present, you were comparing an orphan on the streets to a prince in the castle. It was obviously better to choose the laps of luxury you had fallen into, content and chesired.

Yet home called to you and you, the bitch, came back.

You stare hard at the bathroom door separating you and Vox. Blood runs down your left thigh to floors that have never seen a mop. If there is a way to downsize yourself into abysmal nothingness, you yearn for that ability. To shrink away … you wish you could. Slowly, you take the forceps out of your mouth and hold them tight in your lap. Seems like you are going to have to address the open wound.

“Vox.”

“Can I come in, doll?”

Two things. You wholeheartedly hate two things about his question. The nickname, doll, implying you could be anything like porcelain skinned dolls; then, the fake shyness in his voice, trying to seem meek when Vox is far from that. “No, you can’t. In fact, I think you should leave.” You can smell the mounting violence.

“(Name), please. I just want to know what the problem is.”

“There’s no problem. We’re fine.”

“If we were fine, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, I’m fine with me being here, so you’re just going to have to find it within yourself to accept that.”

You surmise this is it. This is going to be the first argument of the relationship. The catalyst of whether you two were going to spark with a negative or positive charge, growing or dying from this verbal fight. Physical fights are your raison d’etre. Now you shift to a wrestling ring. Amputated from the burden of your hands and left with your mouth. Eyes drawn to your lap, you are unsure if you are going to win this.

“You’re obviously upset over something.”

“I’m not.”

“(Name).”

“Vox.”

“Why can’t you – UGH!” You can tell by the start of his sentence it would erupt into volcanic static and electricity. All the hair on your arms and exposed thighs rise as he sends a wave of energy at something beyond the stall. Good. Physicality you can handle. You wait patiently for Vox to knock down the door. “Do you want us to be public?” Your body locks up, spine pressing hard into the manual flusher behind you. Why – Why is he trying to gauge what has you upset!

As you are reeling from his question, your mouth remains shut. Vox, taking silence as a negative, asks, “are you upset about my past with Valentino because we both have a past with him!” He jumps back when the door thumps and bends with the force of your kick. “Okay, wrong choice of words. Just – ugh! Are you upset about my past with Valentino?”

“I’m not upset over that.”

“Sinners don’t just leave their home from 3 P.M. to 3 A.M. unless they’re upset over something, doll.”

“I’m truly not upset over anything,” you insist. You really need to get back to your sutures before anything has the chance of getting infected. “Vox –”

“Okay, I’ll stop hacking into your phone!” He shouts in defeat.

“You'll stop what!” This time you kick without holding back any of your strength. The locking mechanism splinters down the middle like a wafer cracker. You feel a little victorious in this match when the door hits him in the shoulder, his startled jump just a bit too slow to avoid getting hit.

“Unholy fuck!”

“My phone,” you bite at him, eye to eye finally. Vox and his Big Brother is Watching complex is one of his worst traits. “You’ve been hacking into my personal phone like I told you never to do.”

“You told me never to do it because of trust. How am I supposed to trust you when you leave for twelve hours in the middle of random nights like you’re on a booty call schedule,” Vox bites back. His red sclera are pointed down, resembling the shape of orange slices with how deeply cut his glare is. Defensiveness is written into each twitch of his body.

“What, you thought I was cheating on you?”

“What else was I supposed to think!”

That shuts you up. Your temperature on your face rises with each inch of shame that eats at you … well what else was he supposed to think. The image of him, lying in your shared bed alone, head swimming with sharks of queries about your relationship, paints itself in your mind. Eyes down, you concede that that thought of cheating was warranted. Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. Cheating? … Yeah, you cannot blame him there.

“It’s none of that, Vox. I wasn’t upset about any of that and I’m not cheating on you.”

Even when you cannot look at him, he can tell by the frequency and pitch of your voice that you are telling the truth. A few advanced polygraph technology moves into his right eye, scanning you for any sign of a lie. “I would never cheat on you.” In your chest, your heart beats. Eighty-three beats per minute, completely at rest, completely truthful.

Vox feels awful, finishing up with analyzing your heartbeat. He feels like he has just given a public report wrong on live television and he can feel the social media downfall already materializing in the air; he feels sick to his stomach. And yet he is still mad because, “Why did you not talk to me about this?”

“I was ashamed; and a little scared.” You bite your cheek. “I was ashamed and scared about you finding this place for the longest time.”

Vox raises an eyebrow. “You think I would judge you for needing to blow off steam?”

“This place is beneath you. I know exactly what was going through your head when you entered here: this place is the worst of the bad or this place is the lowest of the low.” Vox inhales through gritted teeth and you know that you hit the bullseye. “I couldn’t just bring you here. You would have been disgusted. And … and that would have led to you eventually being disgusted by me.”

There it is. You guess that is all you really can give him. Still, Vox is looking at you like he does not understand you. He is probably deducing that his past self could have overlooked this revolting place like a lover overlooks an ugly birthmark or stretch-marks. This was not a minor impurity.

“I fell here.”

Understanding dawns upon Vox’s face like a gleam on sunrise. Falling … the spot where one fell was sentimental, perhaps not in fondness but certainly in a consequential way. A fool only dares to insult the spot where a sinner has fallen, their second home.

In a sinister way, this is a homecoming for you. And – sending a wary glance to the bathroom door while he leans into the stall – Vox has realized he committed an illicit act on the same par as perhaps punching your brother or sister. Even if you hated your co-workers?, the sentiment remains.

The live broadcast analogy is frivolous. Vox feels like he is an intern who just spilt coffee on the front of his boss’s suit a minute before the higher-up was scheduled for a momentail meeting. The burn in his stomach is paralyzing.

“I-I uh,” Vox stammers. Little sparks are jumping up his body like happy stars. Frustration that mistakenly looks playful. He moans out, “Fuck, (Name).” and leans heavily on the stall’s inside wall.

You chuckle humorously and finally look up. “Yeah. I know.”

“I guess I get … the secrecy now.”

“I’m sorry for not coming clean. Even if this is a really bad hole, it is my hole.” Vox smiles at you, fondly without his previous hesitation. You know by that smile alone that you two are going to survive your first argument. However, you do not want the conversation to shift away from the thesis. Now that you two have finally managed to start it, there is so much that you have to say. “Vox?” He stares in attention. “... We’ve become domestic, Vox.”

“That bad, doll?”

“It’s awful.”

“...”

“I worry – I worry all the fucking time – about hurting you.”

“I’m an Overlord, you’re a sinner. It is a little insulting that you would think –”

“But I do! Every minute, I just worry and worry,” you interrupt, pressing a hand to your chest to emphasize those words. All your hands have managed to do are kill and maim and injure. Fighting quelled your hands. You were positive that if you drained your hands to the point of exhaustion it would keep Vox from getting hurt. “I’ve never been gentle – I’m awful – and I –!”

Vox kneels down on unwashed ground, covered in blood and piss, in his freshly tailored, iron-pressed slacks. Your dead heart pounds at that.

Then, Vox says three little words that you two have decided to put the coin of trust into, paying the fare to a relationship that both of you wanted to keep. “Hey,” he says to snap you out of your thoughts. Then, as he slowly takes the tools out of your hands, Vox says, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

As he helps you with your sutures, you still remember when Vox and you had finally said those three little words that built up your relationship. Your contract. One that in a way was not really a contract at all.

I love you. He had said that for the first time when you were checking his grammar for a broadcast. Highlighters and colored pens laid scattered on the ruffled sheets. You had been crossing out the tailing end of a sentence. Eight words stretched out when he only needed three to hammer home his point. You crossed out fifteen words in surprise. In Hell, he is akin to a shark and you are akin to a goldfish. Even so. Sometimes I think love and violence are the same thing. You had meant that as warning but he just leaned into you, biting your tongue when you two kissed.

Accepting that part of you.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #vox x reader #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel vox x reader

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tvseries-writings · 9 months ago

Text

And he is back

Wandanat x Bioquake x Bobbi x reader (soulmate au)

TW: suicide

Plot: In a nightmare, you see Hive whose persuades Diasy killing herself and now he is in your mind, again.

You see him, behind her back, the great and powerful Hive. The shadow of a sadistic smile painting his monstrous face as he whispers in her ear. He did it to you too, and now he's doing it to her. You scream at her to stop but it's no use, she can't hear you, no matter how hard your vocal cords vibrate, begging her to stop, not to listen to him. Daisy, the inhuman who stole your heart, stands in front of him, her back to him as she puts a gun to her temple, her finger firmly on the trigger.

You scream, tears streaking your cheeks as you try to get closer but some kind of barrier prevents you. You slam your hands on that invisible wall; once, twice, three times but nothing you do seems to get his attention.

"Daisy, please," your voice is hoarse and trembling and the Inhuman looks at you but her eyes are glassy, the effect of Hive's drug clouds her mind and your heart aches, you know what she is feeling and you know the effect her control has on Inhumans like you.

"Daisy, look at me, don't do it, love. There's me, there's Jemma, Wanda, Natasha, Bobbi, May, Coulson, Fitz, Mack...please Dee, don't do this."

You plead with her, falling to your knees as your tears fall so profusely that they pool in a small stain at your feet. Your heart clenches as you watch her grip the gun tighter.

Hive walks over to the hacker and girds her hips, bringing his mouth closer to Daisy's neck.

"They'll be better off without you; think about Lincoln, Trip..."

He whispers it as glibly as if he were speaking words of love as he looks at you with dark, malevolent eyes that pierce your soul. He looks at you as if he were addressing those words to you as well.

Daisy looks at you one last time before unlocking the gun's safety.

"You'll be better without me."

You scream and your heart stops when a shot rings out in the dark gray cell where you stand. You fall to the ground and watch the blood gush from her lifeless body. You watch his face quickly turn to ash gray.

"Do not despair, you will soon meet his end, inhuman."

Hive approaches you and, finally, the barrier that separated you from Daisy shatters. You start to run toward her but Hive grabs you by the arm, forcing you to turn toward him.

"Your time has come."

"No!"

You scream and as he makes you dependent again, your concern goes to Daisy's body lying on the cold concrete floor and the only desire that pervades you, before Hive takes over, is to hold her in your arms and hear her laugh once more.

………..………………………..………………

You wake up drenched in sweat and with your heart beating wildly. Your chest aches and it takes you a few seconds to realize that what you experienced was nothing but a terrible nightmare.

Chills run down your spine as you sit up; your pajama shirt is so wet that the cold air outside the covers makes you shiver at the mere touch.

You search frantically for Daisy with your eyes, and when you see her chest slowly rising and falling and her light snoring, you breathe a sigh of relief and your heart finally begins to calm a little. You bring your knees to your chest, looking at Daisy and not taking your eyes off your girlfriend. You struggle to extricate yourself from Bobbi's grip and step over Jemma to get out of bed. You need to get some air and you don't want to sleep, not anymore. You don't want to see her face again and, most of all, you definitely want to get the image of Daisy out of your head and- and.

You shake your head, gritting your teeth and trying to breathe deep to get the image of the gun pointed at her temple out of your head.

You look at the nightstand where Bobbi always rests her gun, despite your protests, Jemma's protests, and Wanda's protests. Natasha, on the other hand, along with Daisy, fully supported her. You don't think twice before taking it in your hand, squeezing it with more force than you should. If Hive is back, if he has entered your head again...No, he is dead, Lincoln sacrificed himself to make him dead. His sacrifice could not have been in vain, not-

You can't freak out, not here, not with them sleeping so you touch your bracelet, activating it, before teleporting to the gym. You sit on one of the mats May uses to meditate, turning the gun over in your hands, savoring its weight and the coldness of the metal. You sob, thinking back to the nightmare and what Hive put you through, put you through. You remember vividly the dazzling withdrawal his lack of touch caused you; the physical pain he caused you, not to mention the mental pain. If he came back--you look down the barrel of the gun and turn it toward you,toward your face. If he came back, your last moment of lucidity will lead to your death, is a promise.

"What the hell are you doing?"

May's voice makes you wince and you drop the gun to the ground. May quickly approaches you, kicking the gun away and trying to meet your gaze.

"What the hell were you doing with a gun pointed at you?"

May repeats, punctuating each word harshly as she watches your every movement.

"I-it's not what it looks like May."

You whisper; you don't make eye contact with her, yet you feel her gaze burn into your back.

" Y/n, I really don't think it can look like anything else right now."

Flashbacks of your nightmare return to cloud your mind. You don't even realize that you tried to reach for your gun again and were stopped by May.

"Y/n, y/n! This is not real, what you are experiencing is not real. Listen to me, follow my voice, let's go."

May is frightened, you don't seem to be listening to her, and the Caveman is particularly startled by the blank look on your face.

"Agent!"

May shouts, shaking you by the shoulders, and Hive's face in front of you turns into the face of your SO.

"M-May?" you whisper, your voice shaky and broken as you cling to her as if she were your only lifeline.

"It's all right, it's all right. It was all in your mind."

It takes you a few minutes to realize that you are clinging to your SO; although you see May as a mother -- well, she must not know that. You pull away from her and swing from one foot to the other, looking out of the corner of your eye at the gun a couple of feet away from you.

May follows your gaze and quickly reaches for the gun, taking it in her hands and slipping it into the empty holster on her right thigh.

"Are your girls awake?"

You open your eyes wide, shaking your head firmly.

"No, no May, you don't have to tell them anything. Please May."

The officer sighs, crossing his arms and looking at you with a raised right eyebrow.

"Y/n, you're clearly having problems and you need to talk to someone about it, okay? They are your partners, if-"

"It's Hive!" May stops and you sigh, before continuing; your back hunches, as if you are bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders, "It's Hive, May. He's back, he's entered my head again, he's brought Daisy to-a-"

Tears line your cheeks, you no longer know what is real and what is not.

May looks at you confused and shakes her head as she tries to move closer to you, unsuccessfully as you pull away from her touch.

"No y/n, Hive is dead, Lincoln sacrificed himself to make this happen...Daisy is fine and he is not in your head. Not anymore."

You chase away the tears, wiping them away with your pajama sleeve but they continue to fall copiously; again and again as your body shudders with each sob you emit.

"Rockstar?"

Bobbi's voice makes you hold back a sob. You turn to her, noticing that she is not the only one who has noticed your absence in the bed. After all, your soulmates feel, at least in part, the feelings you have; especially if those feelings are as strong as the ones you are feeling right now.

"We didn't find you and we got scared," Jemma whispers, moving a few steps closer to you.

"And Bobbi's gun was not in its usual place."

The Inhuman approaches you and, before you can pull away, draws you into a hug.

"You dreamed Hive, didn't you?"

You stiffen under her touch as soon as that name slips from her lips. It feels wrong, poisonous, you want to suck it away once and for all. From yours and his mind, knowing the pain he has caused you both.

You nod, slowly. You lean into her touch, tired of bearing all that suffering alone, like so many times before. Daisy caresses your face, brushing a rebel lock from your forehead, before leaving a tender kiss on it.

"He's dead love, he's dead. He will never come back; I will not let him hurt you again, do you understand? Never."

Jemma, Bobbi and May watch the intimate moment between you and Daisy. Although Jemma and Bobbi are dying to hold you in their arms, they understand that in this moment Daisy is the only one who can truly understand your pain.

May approaches the two biochemists, handing them the gun she had previously hidden in her holster.

"I believe this is yours, Bobbi. I would advise you to put it in a safer place, you never know what might trigger an attack, you know."

Bobbi nods, quickly taking the gun and putting it in the back of her pants only after setting the safety. Jemma looks at the gun, looks at you, and then turns her attention to the older officer.

"What did he do? Why doesn't the gun have the safety on anymore, May?"

May sighs, shoots you a look and then drags Bobbi and Jemma away from you and Daisy.

"She...had the gun in her hand and was pointing it at herself."

Jemma gasps, as does the blonde. The weight of the gun, now, is a hundred times heavier and almost seems to drag her down.

"No May, you're wrong, she wouldn't, not-" The biochemist shakes her head, clinging to Bobbi's arm and looking at the blonde for confirmation, a hint of reassurance that, however, does not come.

The blonde agent looks away, thinking about how much Hive's addiction upset you, just a few months earlier, and how you became a different person under his control.

"Bobbi? She can't, right? She can't have done that, not-"

"Jem, remember what Hive did to her, how her powers rebelled against her own control...And now think if she thought she was at his mercy again, unable to do anything. I don't doubt that she could have, though it hurts to admit it."

You only seem to break out of the little bubble you and Daisy have created when Jemma emits her first sob.

Daisy's head snaps toward the biochemist; her gaze is a mixture of concern and confusion as she searches for an explanation for the fact that one of her soulmates is in tears. Bobbi shakes her head, mimicking a "we'll talk about it later" with her lips before leaning close to Jemma's right ear and whispering something that neither you nor Daisy can hear but that makes her stand up and leave the gym.

"Bobbi, what-?" you ask, confusion painting your face as you force yourself away from Daisy and toward the blonde.

"It's okay rockstar, she's just worried about you, we all are really. What do you say we join her in bed? It's four in the morning and I think we all need a good night's sleep."

You're not convinced by his answer, but he's right about one thing-you do need sleep, and even though you're afraid Hive will come back to haunt your dreams, you fear you have to do it anyway. Or at least, you have to pretend you do otherwise your girls will never leave you alone. So you nod, nod a small smile at them, say goodbye to May and leave the gym, joining Jemma. Daisy, Bobbi and May stand there and watch you leave, avoiding talking until your silhouette disappears from their sight.

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

You are holding Jemma in your arms when you see Bobbi and Daisy enter your room. From their looks, you can tell that May has told them everything.

Bobbi stares at you for a few seconds before setting the gun down on the same nightstand from which you borrowed it not an hour earlier. You stiffen a little at the thought of the talk the girls are about to give you and shudder at the mere thought of having to tell Daisy about your nightmare. The girl you're holding in your arms notices; in fact, she lifts her head and looks you in the eye as she lovingly strokes your back two, three, four times before the other two girls also join you on the bed. Bobbi sits cross-legged on the bed, inches from you and Jemma; Daisy, on the other hand, sits beside you, taking your right hand between her own.

"Honey, what did you dream? Did you dream Hive?"

You nod, stroking her hand and playing with the ring on her index finger. You focus on the warmth emanating from her body, on her face, on the face no longer as pale and lifeless as that has invaded your mind in the past few hours.

"L-he...he killed you, Dais. Or, I, he had you under his control again and convinced you to-"

Although you are trying to hold them back, tears line your cheeks ignoring your concern, "I saw you put the gun to your temple and pull the trigger."

The three girls remain silent and you turn away from them.

"And I couldn't do anything, I couldn't teleport, you couldn't hear me and- and finally, he made me go to you and I held you in my arms but it was too late."

Sobs shake your body as you approach the bedside table. Bobbi follows you, not for a moment leaving you uncontrolled.

"Y/n..." the blonde whispers, starting to move, slowly, toward you.

"I can't let him control me again, I can't, he's still inside my head, I-I love you, I really do, but I won't survive if he controls me again."

Your thoughts race frantically, so much so that your hands shake and you suddenly find yourself on the opposite side of the room. You fall to the floor with a thud, watching your girls, previously inches from you, more than a couple of feet away.

"Fuck it, fuck it, it's messing with my head, I can’t even control my powers anymore!"

Tears roll down your cheeks; you jump to your feet and shake your head furiously, over and over again. The last time you weren't in full control of your powers, it was under the influence of Hive. You no longer have doubts. You're not thinking clearly, otherwise you wouldn't do what you're about to do. You sprint towards the nightstand and, despite Bobbi trying to get there before you, you manage to grab the gun and remove the safety.

“What-no, stop!”

Daisy is moving towards you, Jemma is petrified and Bobbi is analyzing the situation trying not to panic.

"I'm sorry, I love you"

You pull the trigger and wait for the gunshot and the pain but none of that happens. The screams of your girls are the only thing you can hear.

"What the hell did you want to do"

Natasha stands in the doorframe, her voice shaking at the sight of the gun pointed at your temple. Wanda, however, is right behind her; her face is pale and her eyes are red as she uses her magic to keep your index finger from pulling the trigger. You look at your hand, see it covered in Wanda's red magic and your heart stops for a while when you realize that you haven't completed your task yet. Bobbi lunges at you, tackling you to the ground and throwing the gun away, but not before stuffing the magazine into the back pocket of her jeans. You collapse against the floor, surrendering under the blonde's grip with the hope that what is happening is nothing more than a nightmare. You could use your powers to free yourself from her grasp but you don't want to hurt her in any way. And suddenly, despite months of therapy, you fall back into the depressive state that Hive brought you to during his time on earth. You remain helpless in Bobbi's arms; your gaze is glassy as Bobbi talks to you, shaking your shoulders when you don't answer her. Your body moves back and forth, with the same ease of an unconscious body but you, on the other hand, have your eyes open, wide open, even if the emotionless and apathetic look in your eyes worries your girls greatly and Wanda does this that you think is best for you. She kneels next to you, caresses your temples and puts you to sleep with her magic.

“What the hell is going on?” Natasha whispers, breaking the silence as all the girls look at your unconscious form in Bobbi's arms.

“I… I think she has some Hive residue in her mind,” Jemma says, knowing she's just released a bombshell. They have to help you, whatever is happening to you, they will help you.

Thanks for reading! I don’t even know what is this but hey, at least it’s something :)- Have a great day and, if you want, you can support me on ko-fi. ☕️

Taglist: @wandanatsbaby @bioquake-archives @bioquakeweek @daisyjohnsonx @wandanatsgirl @chaekhan @station19 @resilientpendragon @so-no-kissing-then @thearchpitbullmx @ashadash0904 @kingshitonly @alwaysgoodnight @callistic @xjule @yuleni18 @simpforwandanat @alexxislexi @mrsdanversromanoff @coollemonsaresour @hushed-woodsman @razorscooteer @eponine-xx @maniacallinc @michelle170 @classyig @elenaguarnieri @scarletwidow @tati3001 @cristin-rjd @your-my-mission @mr-nicely @hi-i-1 @anniethurs @ktstwice @scarlet-raccoon @maria-403 @goldfishthegr8 @wandanatfan @looiegirl-blog @bioquake-blog @daisyjohnsonx

#mcufam #natasha x reader #wandanat #wanda x reader #wanda x natasha x reader #wandanat x reader #wandanat x you #wlw #wlw fanfic #wandanat x bioquake x reader #bobbi morse x reader #agents of shield #fics #mcu fics #natasha romanoff x you #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #melinda may

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girlwiththepapatattoo · 9 months ago

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A Bit of Aid

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairing: Halsin/Female Reader

Warnings: smut, masturbation, vaginal fingering, praise, bad puns, Astarion being a little shit

Summary: A friend offers you some help.

Notes: This is going to be a PROPER ONE SHOT. (I'm telling this mostly to myself. *wags finger at my own brain*)

Anyway, I've had this mental image in my head for like two weeks and had to get it out. I hope you enjoy <3

Read on Ao3 here!

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You lean back against the tree, your face scrunched in frustration. The cool night breeze brushes over the beads of sweat at your hairline, on your neck, making you shiver softly. You pull your hand out of your pants, wiping your fingers in the grass and muttering a very heartfelt, “Fuck,” under your breath.

It’s been a week and a half since you escaped the nautoloid, waking up with an unwanted passenger behind your eye.

A week and half, and you’ve built up a group of similarly afflicted people, and a druid you saved from a goblin camp.

A group of very attractive people.

Now, you were far from a prude, but being surrounded by some of the most attractive people you’ve ever seen in your life is intimidating. Especially when you’ve always felt yourself as being painfully middle-of-the-road.

And being surrounded by the most attractive people you’ve ever seen in your life is making your active libido scream at you.

Back home in Baldur’s Gate, before you were snatched up into literal hell, you’d always get yourself off at the very least a few times a week. It was good for your mood and body alike.

But that was when you were in the quiet safety of your own home. Trying to touch yourself while you’re in a thin-walled tent while those gorgeous people sleep mere feet away is too nerve-wracking to contemplate.

And so, you’d decided to sneak away for some well earned alone time. Once everyone but Halsin (who volunteered for first watch) had gone to bed, you snuck out of camp and trekked probably half a mile into the forest. After making sure you were alone, you’d sat down at the base of a tree, loosened your belt, unlaced your pants, and shoved your hand into your smalls.

Almost an hour later, you give up. It turns out that stressing out over the very real possibility of sloughing off your current form to become part of a tentacled hive mind, nearly dying several times at the hands of goblins, and are now facing a trip down into the Underdark, doesn’t make for an easy time getting off.

Who knew?

And so you sit there against the tree, deciding to wait out the arousal swirling in your gut, to wait out the rather insistent throbbing in your clit, and once you were back to your default state to just go to bed. You exhale through your nose in annoyance, wanting nothing more than to feel that sweet, beautiful-

“Ah, there you are.”

Your eyes shoot open in terror. You hear Halsin’s voice, his footsteps approaching through the trees, and you scramble to do up your belt at least, so he doesn’t suspect.

He steps around the tree just as your hands leave your belt, and he quirks an eyebrow down at your red-face, at the way you’re not quite meeting his eyes. “Are you well? You didn’t come back to camp after you left, so I got worried.”

“O-Oh, no, I’m fine, Halsin,” you stammer, trying your best to give him a friendly smile. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out to…think.”

“To think.” He tilts his head a little. “I understand the appeal of having a private spot, but the middle of the night in these woods is more dangerous than you’d suspect.”

You give a weak smile. “Yeah…sorry for worrying you.”

Mortified at what he almost caught you doing, you move to stand. But when he crouches before you, smiling in his normal, friendly way… “Would you like some help?”

You freeze, your eyes locking onto his bright hazel gaze in shock. Did he just…? “Um. What…do you mean? Help with what, standing up? I got it, I promise.”

He chuckles. “No, no. I mean, help with reaching orgasm.”

You pray that the ground opens you up and swallows you whole.

“I…” You clear your throat so that more comes out than just a squeak. “W-Why would you…think that I…I wasn’t…”

His expression is soft, kind. You’re pretty sure that only makes it worse. “Be at ease. There is no shame in desire. For most people, it’s as natural as hunger, as thirst. And there’s no shame in accepting a helping hand…or two. After everything you’ve been through so far, it’s no surprise you’re having trouble on your own.”

Against your will, your eyes flit down to his hands. Thick fingers are laced together between his bent knees as he squats before you, and the thought of what they could do on your flesh makes the hair raise on the back of your neck. You’re suddenly hyper aware of your own body, every inch of skin sensitive.

“And if you’re worried that I’ll be offended if you say no, you needn’t be.” You look back up at his face in surprise. He gives you a serious look. “I would never touch you without your permission. If you don’t wish my help, say the word and I’ll head back to camp.”

His words go a long way to reassuring you, and you take a moment to really think about it. It’s been so long since you last had anyone to share an intimate moment with, and you could easily die at any moment. Why shouldn’t you indulge in this man who seems more than willing to help you out?

You lick your lips. Nerves race through your gut, along with your growing arousal, but you meet Halsin’s eyes. You mean to say something like yes or all right then or hell yes let’s wake up the camp with my screaming, but instead all that comes out is a whispered, “Please…”

His lips quirk up, his eyes darken even as they flash in delight. “Hm. Please what?”

His voice has lowered, his customary rumble more pronounced. Your mouth goes dry. “Please…I’d like your help,” you respond.

“Gladly,” he all but purrs. “Let’s get comfortable then.” He has you move over, and as you shift he pulls his leather vest off. You inhale sharply, your eyes darting over his torso. His shoulder muscles ripple as he lowers himself to sit down with his own back against the tree now.

What really surprises you though is his body hair. Elves as a whole don’t tend to have hair at all below their heads, but Halsin…his forearms are thick with it, his chest sports a nice patch, and there’s a tantalizing line running from his navel to below his belt. “Gods, you’re gorgeous,” you breathe.

He chuckles softly. “I’m flattered you think so.” He reaches out a hand to you. “Now, come here to me.”

Anticipation roils in your gut. You take his hand, warm and calloused and huge. He tugs you over, helping you sit down on his lap, and you gasp as you feel a half-formed erection press against your ass. He rumbles in enjoyment at the sudden friction, tugging you firmly by the hips so that your back is flat against his chest. His cheek presses to yours on your right sight, and his voice vibrates into you, along your back and into your jaw.

“We’re going to adjust your clothing now. Pull your pants and smalls down for me, hm?”

His tone is soft and gently encouraging, almost casual, as though he’s teaching you a new skill. It makes you feel desperate to obey. You wriggle your pants and smalls all the way off in your eagerness, which makes him chuckle. His left hand pats your thigh, sending prickles over your flesh. “Lift.” You do, your toes balanced on his knee. He slips that arm under your leg. “Lower, and tuck the toes of both your feet under my knees.”

You swallow hard at how open this leaves you for him. His thumb caresses your inner thigh almost fondly, which has you breaking out into sensitive shivers. You feel his cheek shift as he smiles.

“That’s it. Now, pull the hem of your shirt up over your breasts.”

You do so, taking your bra with it. Your shirt bunches up to your mid-back, and you can feel his belly hair on your skin.

“Mmm, you’re lovely,” he purrs, nuzzling his cheek with yours. His thumb suddenly traces the curve of your breast before his hand cups under it, giving you a soft squeeze, and you shudder hard on his lap and whine his name. “My, my, you are eager aren’t you?”

He feels your face heat against his cheek. “S-Sorry…it’s been a while,” you whisper.

“Trust me, sweetling, that was not a complaint,” he replies, giving you another soft nuzzle. “I like it. Your desire is as beautiful as you are…”

He turns his head toward you, and he presses his lips to the side of your neck at the same time the pads of the fingers of his left hand suddenly press between your legs. You gasp loudly, your hips bucking at the touch. “Easy,” he murmurs soothingly against your skin, waiting until you settle.

You can’t believe how quickly he’s already gotten you dripping. You’ve barely been on his lap a minute, and you’re already desperately turned on.

His fingers move again, his index and middle fingers parted and rubbing slowly up and down your outer lips. “Fuck,” you gasp out, and he chuckles softly.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had such a mouth on you,” he teases gently.

You want to say something clever, something that’ll make him laugh that low, sexy laugh again, maybe even something that’ll have his cock twitching in his pants. But words are a bit beyond you right now, and so you very eloquently say, “Hnng.”

You feel his jaw shift, as though he was going to speak, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers make another pass, nice and slow, up and down your outer lips, before gently parting you open. The cool air of the forest on your overheated, slick core has you stifling another curse under your breath.

His index finger swipes through your slick as the other hand suddenly gives a pinch to your already hardened nipple, and you have to turn your head to stifle a cry into his neck. “Shh, sweetling, I know,” he murmurs, as though he weren’t the one making you lose your mind. He’s so warm behind you, and he smells so good, like the woods and clean sweat.

He rolls your nipple between his thumb and index finger, all the while slowly, slowly dragging his touch through your dripping folds. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit.

“You feel so good,” he rasps as he builds your desire. “So warm and wet for me…One day soon, I would like to take you properly, to feel all this around my cock.” As he finishes his words, the middle finger of his left hand slides slowly into you. You inhale sharply, your eyes nearly rolling back into your head at how good it feels to have someone else’s touch inside you. His finger is thick, nearly twice as wide as your own, and the feel of it makes your hips buck.

He chuckles softly. “I know, sweetling,” he soothes, pressing a line of gentle kisses up the column of your throat. His right hand gives a soft tug to your nipple, before reaching across your chest to give the other the same treatment. The finger that’s inside you starts to move, gently pumping in and out of you, dragging against your walls…

Curses fall from your lips, muffled into the spot where his throat meets his jawline. You can feel him grin, glad to know that he’s doing a good job.

His right hand leaves your breast, tracing calloused fingertips down over your belly. You shiver hard, wrapping your hand around his bicep as you realize where he’s headed. His fingers slip through the soft hair at the apex of your thighs, down over your mound to your leaking slit.

The first touch to your clit makes you hiss, and he eases up on his touch, brushing a kiss over your cheek in apology for being too harsh. He gently pets at you, testing, watching your reactions carefully to learn what touches are the best, what gives you the most pleasure. But once he figures it out…

“There we go,” he growls as you moan into his skin, unable to stop the sound that rips from your throat as he works you perfectly. His fingers slide wetly over your engorged clit just the way you like, his other hand pumps two fingers now into your drenched hole, rolling them to hit every sensitive spot you’ve got. You shudder and writhe on his lap, feeling yourself begin to sweat.

You also feel his cock, fully hard now against your ass. He’s rumbling out soft groans next to your ear as your motions rub yourself on him. “P-Please…please, i-if you want, fuck me now,” you gasp out.

You feel him growl at your words, and his fingers speed up their pace. “No, not now.” He nips at your ear gently. “Tonight is about you. Besides, I know in my heart if I have you now, your sweet body will be the only thing on my mind. I’ll want to do nothing more than take you, day and night…and we have too much to do for that, I’m afraid.”

You make some sort of choking/wheezing sound in the back of your throat. You’re pretty sure that’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to you. Your soaked walls clench around his fingers, and he growls again at the feeling. “F-Fuck, you…you can’t just say something like that and then deny me!” you gasp out.

He chuckles, low and dark. “Apologies, sweetling. One day soon I’ll more than make it up to you. We shall be testing the limits of your stamina…but for now…”

His fingers speed up, rubbing rapidly over your clit. He adds a third finger, stretching you wide around his massive digits, and you shriek his name. Almost as soon as the sound starts to leave your throat, he turns his head and kisses you deeply, muffling your noise. His tongue plunges into your mouth, tasting of the remnants of supper and something uniquely him, and you eagerly twine your tongue with his.

You feel it, then, the sudden swoop in your lower belly. Your eyes snap open at the same time he feels your walls begin to flutter around his fingers. Your eyes meet his, those intense hazel orbs sharpening. He pulls away from your mouth, grinning in triumph. “There we go, that’s right…come for me!”

You throw your head back on his shoulder as your pleasure builds and builds, your hips bucking into his hands. Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as, somehow, he speeds up even more, his fingers pounding into your cunt. He growls your name, you choke out his-

-and you nearly arch completely off of him as you explode. You howl your pleasure to the night air, lost completely to the torrent of fire and lightning rushing through your nerves. You barely hear Halsin, whispering encouragements and praise by your ear as he works you through it. “That’s it, sweetling, that’s it, soak my fingers. Oakfather preserve me, you feel so fucking good gripping me like that…”

So lost you are in the throws of your orgasm you don’t see his eyes flash gold a couple times before he gets himself under control. You just writhe in the circle of his arms as he works you through it.

When your movements begin to slow, so do his. He floats you gently down, down from the high he’d sent you soaring to just a few moments ago. You shudder and slump against him as he pulls his fingers from you, gasping for breath and shivering as the cool night air caresses over your sweaty skin.

You hear him grunt suddenly, and you peel your eyes open just in time to watch him begin to lick your juices from his skin. You inhale sharply, your inner walls clenching hard around nothing at the sight of his tongue lapping you from his fingers. You watch, slack-jawed, as he licks every trace of you from his hand, and once he was done he smacks his lips. “You’re delicious,” he purrs, pressing his forehead to yours. “Next time you’d like help, I think I’ll take you apart on my tongue instead.”

You shudder at his words, thinking about what he could do with that mouth. “K-Keep talking like that and I’ll be ready for round two right now.”

He chuckles softly, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “Much as I would love to give you another one, we should get you to bed. We depart for the Underdark in the morning-you must get some rest.” He helps you to stand, then from a pocket in his trousers he pulls out a clean rag.

You blink in surprise as he wipes at you gently, careful not to overstimulate you. “You…brought that with you? How did you know I’d say yes?�� you ask, your thighs shaking a bit as he cleans you.

“I didn’t.” He grins up at you, on his knees before your gently trembling body. “But in my years, I’ve learned that always coming prepared saves a lot of uncomfortable walks.”

You snort, stifling giggles into your hand as he helps you into your smalls and pants. It’s quiet then as his fingers do up your laces, and then your belt. He gently pulls your shirt back down, tugging it into place, before he smiles softly to you. “If you ever need my help again, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry for tomorrow morning, when I’ll inevitably be embarrassed that it happened at all,” you say with a soft grin.

He can’t help but laugh, leaning down and brushing a fond kiss over your forehead. “I hope one day you’ll unlearn the shame. Now, let’s get back to camp.” He sweeps his hand back towards where the rest of your companions are hopefully still slumbering.

You both walk in silence for a little while, before you pipe up. “Earlier, a little bit before I…finished, I could have sworn you were about to say something.”

“Hm? Oh, that.” He grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d uh…been having trouble talking through the pleasure. I was going to tease you a little, but the joke I’d settled on may have distracted you from my touch, so I kept it to myself.”

“Oh?” You couldn’t help the curious, amused look up at him. “What were you going to say?”

He sighs, looking embarrassed at himself now. “I was going to ask, ‘bear got your tongue’?”

You have to stop to lean against a tree, you're laughing so hard. He huffs at you, but he’s smiling, unable to find it in himself to be upset. You both bicker like old friends as you return to camp, no awkwardness at all between you.

Of course, when you get back to camp and Astarion is sitting at the fire, obviously waiting for you both, you immediately blush as the vampire smirks knowingly. “Really, Halsin, you were supposed to be on first watch. I didn’t expect dereliction of duty from you.” He stands, languid grace incarnate, and starts to walk back to his tent. “Good thing I was awoken from my trance when something screamed out in the woods. Goodness knows what could have attacked us in our sleep!”

He sounds of nothing but pure, pleased mischief. You’re left practically steaming in embarrassment, and before Halsin can say anything, you scuttle to your tent and tie yourself in. The huge druid sighs, shaking his head, but he can’t quite get rid of the fond smile on his lips as he settles back in for the rest of his watch.

#baldur's gate 3 #halsin #halsin silverbough #halsin x reader #my writing

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theartisticpixelbit · 7 months ago

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Equestria's most autistic world leader is up next!

════ •✧• ════ MIDDLE NAMES WORK THE SAME AS LAST NAMES IN MY AU, MOST CHILDREN TAKE THE LAST NAME OF WHICHEVER PARENT THEY WANT ════ •✧• ════

~Bio~ Name: Thorax Atena Nicknames: King of the Changelings Gender: Genderfluid (Pan) Race: Changeling Parents: Queen Chrysalis Siblings: Pharynx Partner: N/A Children: N/A Other Relatives: All Other Changelings, Ocellus

~Headcanons~ 🐛 Thorax and Pharynx are Royal Changelings. Unlike the standard Drones, they have gems on their chest. Gems are reserved for Changelings of the royal court. 🐛 Thorax has an anxious habit of rubbing his legs together when nervous and it makes cricket noises. 🐛 During the first few weeks after his reformation he often banged his antlers on stuff since he wasn't used to them or his new height yet. 🐛 Rarity and Thorax do fashion shows and Rarity has a collection based around the reformed changelings to spread awareness that they aren't bad anymore 🐛 In the first week or so, Thorax kept forgetting he was the new leader of the changelings and had to be reminded as a result 🐛 Spike tried to introduce him to Ogres and Ouellettes, but it didn't go well at first because Thorax kept trying to make friends with literally every encounter. 🐛 Hes still not quite used to being a leader so he gets really embarrassed/flustered when people call him ”your highness” or anything of that sort 🐛 He now has the duty of fathering the next generation if the hive, much like Chrysalis before him mothered his generation 🐛 Thorax sees himself in Ocellus and has taken her on as his personal student, and when he couldn't teach her anymore since she knew everything he taught her, he enrolls her in Twilight's School of Friendship 🐛He doesn't enjoy politics, finding such diplomacy either boring or stressful. Even so, he is very well read up on these matters, to ensure he can represent his people well.

[Image Description: A digital art reference sheet of a redesigned King Thorax from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. He has a lime green chitin coat, sharp fangs, and orange bug-like mandibles, a pair of transparent light green insectoid wings, his legs are also segmented with spaces of orange in between the segments, no visible cutie-mark at all, and his hooves are separated into two segments like short pinchers. His is very tall and also has dark magenta eyes with black pupils, a twig-like unicorn horn, two orange moose-like antlers, a wavy light green fin mimicking a mane on his head, and a light green wavy fin on his tail, a plum-colored saddle, and a yellowish-green rib plate, the plating also is segmented up his neck. His eyes have a double pupil: a normal black one within a normal round one. His antlers are also displayed casting a brilliant blue colored magic. The image also includes a watermark reading 'TheArtisticPixelBit'. End ID]

#(✿~autistic_artist~✿)#(✿my_art✿)#art #mlp #redesign #mlp art #my little pony #thorax #thorax mlp #mlp thorax #changling #mlp changeling #mlp king thorax #mlp redesign

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bryhoney · 7 months ago

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Recognisance pt.2

TW: Torture, Kidnapping, Drugging

This is shaping up to be looonggg.

Also on AO3

The control room is a hive of activity; Men and women speaking frantically to one another as they crowd around screens. There are people running messages back and forth across the base, each one seemingly vital for the Federation's continued success.

You find yourself standing alone, staring up at one of the boards in the command centre that is regularly updated with anything even remotely related to the Ghosts. It's dedicated to the most recent images and reports of the task force, some of the notes tacked onto the wall are just simple descriptors.

It always takes you a second to muster up the courage to look at the board. It's Gabriel's shrine to them, and recently you'd adopted his mission; To understand these men to the best of your ability and hunt them down. You know you should hate them, fear them after what they did to you. But the memories of your time with them were mostly in the dark, their faces were blurry and secondary to the pain they inflicted.

You'd read every file that Gabriel gave you regarding the ghosts. Most of them were heavily redacted or had large portions missing, individual pages torn away from the document. You had thought that going over these files would jog something in your memory, but as of yet, nothing. As such, you must have read every piece of information on the board in front of you several times over, you've made it a ritual since being allowed back to work.

You recite the information silently.

Two of the Ghosts are brothers, the Walkers. There was a third Walker amongst the Ghosts, Elias Walker, but Gabriel had killed him over two years ago. They -

They're ------.

"----! You're school re----, your brot--- --- -----! -----! Leave h-- -l---" It's a voice you recognise, but from where? An older voice-

You turn to the other images, Merrick and Keegan.

"Look at ---"

You're kissing someone, holding their head against the crook of your neck. You hear them whisper "mine," before you feel his teeth move against- it's that deep gravelly voice, it's-?

You audibly gasp at the memory and quickly cover your mouth, shaking the thought away. Inappropriate, incomplete. Shut up.

Looking back towards the board, you take a shaky breath. These men hurt you and took everything from you and yet you hardly even remember them. A part of you worries about what damage it'll do to remember everything they inflicted upon you.

"Oh ---" is it your name? A callsign? It's fuzzy and sounds-?

Your head is pounding.

"NO! -----! I'll kill you! LOGAN! LO-" It's another male voice, do you know who it is? It sounds so far away and yet...

Your feet are bleeding but you stalk forwards anyway.

Your feet are bleeding.

You know that name, you know that voice.

"Logan!" you're screaming, you can hear the panic in your voice.

Your eyes flit upwards, towards the pictures of the Ghosts.

LOGAN WALKER - M - 2001

Oh God.

Your heart sinks and suddenly you dread the idea of remembering. You hate that one of the Ghosts is now more than a name on the wall. You suppress a sob, steeling yourself momentarily before moving towards Gabriel and the commanding officer. Despite being engrossed in their conversation, Gabriel must sense your discomfort as his hand moves to hover over the small of your back. His eyes never leave the man in front of him.

Had you hurt Logan Walker? Is that why the Ghosts wanted you? The man's voice was furious, sincere, and threatening.

"Did you get that?" Gabriel asks, disturbing your train of thought.

You shake your head, "I-"

"There's been a sighting of them, New Mexico, we'll be flying out towards the border in three days, you're with me," he repeats. His tone is hard and unwavering, you know better than to argue but you can hardly help yourself.

"With-? I don't have any field training, Sir," you stutter, taken aback at his proposition. Rorke was a man who almost exclusively lured his prey on foot, out in the open. He had told you that you were involved in the intelligence-based side of operations once upon a time.

Rage. Blinding rage. You had shrugged your water-logged shoes off, stalking quickly towards the broad back in front of you. You held your knife tightly in your hand. You had the singular goal of eviscerating and killing -----. In the last few feet you launched -- ----- and -- -o---- --"

The memory is interrupted as Gabriel laughs, "Oh, don't you worry, we just want 'em to see you".

It's dark. It's always dark.

Someone had drugged you, you kept repeating this under your breath, trying to remind yourself that the shadows and noises you can hear moving around in the room aren't real. They're just hallucinations.

Not real. Don't look at them.

It becomes harder to ignore the bright eyes that blink at you from across the room sporadically. Figures would move in front of you, at inhuman speed. They weren't real. They weren't real.

You yell into the abyss, "Hey! I can see you! You're not real! You. Are. Not. REAL!" your voice is hoarse. It hurts to scream but you do so anyway.

Your chair spins and suddenly you're face-to-face with a skull.

No. A man wearing one of the Ghost masks. You couldn't make out which one they were. The stains on the mask were moving and shifting.

He grips your face hard between his gloved fingers, his voice sounds warbled and is almost static-y in quality. Colours shift around him as he moves, creeping into the holes of his mask. It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.

Which one was he?

His voice is cruel, "I'm real though, ain't I?" A hand creeps over your shoulder, digging into your skin before vanishing in the next second. You flinch at the sensation and the hand holding your jaw tightens.

"AIN'T I?" He yells against the shell of your ear, a scream erupts from your chest. Your bones are shattering and knitting themselves together all at once. His voice is underwater and it's drowning you.

The air around you splinters into blinding flashes. You're blinking rapidly, trying to adjust to the onslaught of light.

"Yes. You're real, you're real," you whisper, trying to draw all the air you can into your lungs. Your broken ribs prevent a full inhale.

He's behind you, you hadn't seen him move. His mouth pressed against the shell of your ear and you sob at the sensation.

"Oh, sweetheart," he whispers, the vibrations are needles of sound that pierce you, "are you afraid of the Ghosts now?"

You hear his laugh echo around the room, as a knife carves its way through the flesh of your sternum.

You hear someone screaming, it sounds like you.

You wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. You launch yourself across the room and hit the wall hard, scrambling for purchase. You crumple to the floor, sobbing into the darkness as you rapidly assess the room around you. You're not in the hole. You're not back with the Ghosts.

You're safe. You are safe. Safe.

Your hands come up to your chest, checking for open wounds but all that remains are the silvery, raised scars. It's the middle of the night, you've likely woken someone up.

Your door crashes open and you throw yourself backwards once again, sliding across the wall. A cry leaves you and you hate how pathetic you sound.

"It's okay, I've got you, baby. Daddy's always got you," your heart ached, your dad loved you.

You wanted your Dad. You wanted to go home. You wanted to remember.

Gabriel stands in front of you for a moment before rushing to your side, assessing you.

"Ssh. Ssh, I've got you" he whispers, pulling you towards him and you finally break, crying into his arms. Your hands rush to cover your face, legs tucking themselves closer to your body.

"What did you see?" His voice is soothing, he runs a hand over your head, holding you close to him.

"It was them - I was back in the room with-" You're sobbing freely, grateful he's here.

"I know, I know. You're safe now. You're with me" He easily lifts you and places you gently on the bed, tucking you under the covers as he continues to hold you.

You're uncomfortably warm in his embrace but for once, you're being held tenderly. Whilst your time in the hole isn't always clear, you can always remember the pain.

That's how you fell asleep that night, in Gabriel's arms.

You don't dream again for the rest of the evening.

—

You’re terrified to be in the air, to be flying towards the conflict. Towards the ghosts.

You’re doing all you can to not physically shake at the thought. You want to lash out and scream at Gabriel and yet you're relying on him to get you through this. How could he do this to you? He knew what this must be costing you, but he trusted you and saw your value.

Fuck.

“Sir, 10 minutes out” the pilot states across the comms.

You might see them in just ten minutes and you hate how vulnerable you feel. You're absently thumbing at the sleeves of your dress, some thin grey thing that went passed your ankles. The rest of the team were in their uniforms, armed to the teeth whilst you sat there idly, entirely dependent upon them to protect you. Gabriel had disarmed you, made you weak.

He argued that you were there for intel and behind-the-scenes work, so civilian clothes were appropriate. You wished that this was the only reason he'd given you, he'd gone on to explain that you were going to be used to draw them out. Gabriel wanted to entice them to act irrationally, apparently, they were furious you had gotten away from them. He was going to lure them out, and you didn't need weapons for that.

You weren’t sure why he thought you’d be that important to them, or why they’d go against all their training to take you and Gabe down. But you trusted him, he was the Ghost Hunter, the best of the best.

He was also your commanding officer. So, what he said was law.

—

The landing pad was out in the open, in front of the base that overlooked the dry mountainous region it was nestled within. Gabriel wouldn’t tell you anything, not why he thought they might be overlooking the base at that time, why he didn’t want to engage with them face to face. How was he so sure they'd see you as you alighted the helicopter? How could he be so blase about the situation? They might just decide to fire some RPG as soon as you ste-

Shut up.

You suppress a yelp as the helo touches down, taking Gabriel's hand as you move to step off the aircraft. Your stomach turns as his hands move to your waist to help you down.

Your dress whips around your ankles as the helo thrums back to full power, taking off almost immediately after the last soldier's boot touches down.

“Dad’ll kill you – he catches you —eaking out – meet some b—-. Let al—- if Hes- ca—-- you —. You’re still the ba—-. Quick! Go– I’ll co—-” A kind voice, muffled still but there was laughing, smiles, comradery. Your teenage years? Your brother? Your father?

You had a brother?

A family? Why couldn't-

You didn’t like how frequently these memories were coming back, how they were less fragmented and easier to understand. What else would come back-?

Before you could properly dissect the new memory, Gabriel had a hand on your shoulder, urging you to duck slightly as the helo took off. He began leading you to some of the men who’d been waiting for your arrival. They were smartly dressed and flanked by men on both sides.

“Higher!” It was your voice, happy, laughing, young.

“You’ll fall!” A boy laughed at you, his voice deeper, older.

“I’ll catch you!” another boy, younger, arms raised.

The sun is in your eyes.

You shook your head, dispelling the tears that rose to your eyes and you greeted the men alongside Gabriel. His hand had slid from your shoulder to your lower back.

You smiled and nodded politely, thoughts torn between piecing together the revelation that you had a brother, someone else who called the same man, “Dad” and the uncomfortable feeling of Gabriel's hand on you, as though he was all that anchored you to Earth.

After what felt like a lifetime, you felt yourself being manoeuvred across the landing pad, towards the very edge of the rooftop. It was a sheer drop, this base carved into the side of a mountain. He pushed you until your toes were over the edge, hovering over nothing. Your arms moved to grip him, "Gabriel?" You didn't plead with him to stop, you trusted him. His hands tighten their hold on you.

You trusted him. You trusted him?

“One of us”

His voice was low as he whispered, “Can you feel them?”

“What?” you whispered, unable to understand his meaning. You felt completely out of your depth and terrified of the drop in front of you.

“They’re out there, can’t you feel their eyes on you?” His hold tightens even further before he leans forward, over the edge. Your heart plummets and you gasp at the sight, whipping your head skywards, as though you could counterbalance him. You were leaning over a drop of at least 10 floors. It wasn’t his actions that terrified you though.

He’s talking about the Ghosts. He was saying they were right there, watching you.

“Sir, please - what if-” your heart rate is frantic. You were out in the open. They were out there. Watching you.

“You’re good, they ain’t gonna shoot us out here, they’ll want to get closer for that”. His voice reverberating from your collarbone where his chin was resting. It was inappropriate, wrong.

“Only I get to —-” a hand was around your throat, his mouth was-

He laughs at your breathy inhale, slapping his arm onto your shoulder and roughly turning you back to the compound. His change in demeanour was startling, but you realise that the Gabriel you know at the base and the Gabriel who thrived during the hunt were two very different people.

He was right though, you could feel their eyes on you.

#keegan p russ #keegan russ x reader #call of duty ghosts #cod keegan #adopted walker!reader #logan walker #hesh walker #Rorke is not a good guyyyy #Elias Walker being a good dad

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tastylemonbread · 6 months ago

Text

At long last, Library's bio is here! A plain text version is available under the cut.

The next god to receive a bio is being voted on now here!

Image 1:

[This one is divided into sections, kinda like a newspaper. The specific formatting isn't really relevant, and it's pretty plain anyway.

Library, #17

Domain over data, memory, and organization.

AKA The Librarian, The Archivist, The Cryptkeeper

[Next to this first section of text is a neat black and white drawing of Library's sigil, a simple symbol comprised of a 2x4 grid of eight rectangles forming a square. The borderlines of the square extend a little past the corners, and an extra line lays horizontal at the bottom of the symbol.]

(next section of text)

PRIMARY:

As old as written word, Library has sought to archive all written works, but expands their purview to include new technologies as they are invented. Though many may assume Library to be meek and nerdy, They can be quite a powerful force if they want to be, possessing abilities such as teleportation, mind reading, and spatial manipulation. It's rare to see these powers used outside of the Grand Library. Being arguably the god of information, they have quite a good understanding of the human mind, and can effortlessly transmit and receive thoughts as long as they have physical contact with the person. Even gazing into Library's odd shelf face is enough to get the mind racing, overclocked with too much miscellaneous information to process. Despite all this, Library is pretty incompetent when it comes to social interaction.

(next section of text)

DOMAIN:

Library holds domain over every written word, work of art, video, audio recording, line of code, punch card, receipt, label, stone carving, and anything else that may be used to store precious precious data. Though Library considers each of these (and more) to be fall under the umbrella of their domain, they do not have control over these. Rather, Library can simply feel when something like that is created, and a copy is set into Library's mind.

(next section of text)

REALM:

Like many other realms, the Grand Library is located on a plane of existence parallel from standard Earth. The Grand Library does not appear to have a floor, walls, or a ceiling, instead contained within a hazy white void filled with neat rows of bookshelves. Despite there being no visible floor, one can walk around as if on solid ground. The rows of shelves go on past what the eye can see, and the place is so large that finding another visitor is incredibly rare. The only entrance and exit to the Grand Library is a set of very large fine oak double doors which connect to the lobby of the Bureau of Divine Intervention, which is the realm of another god that I won't elaborate on here. There are other ways to access the Grand Library, but those doors are the only permanent fixtures. A reception desk is by the entrance inside the Grand Library, at which Library is typically stationed. Since the Grand Library is so inconceivably large, a guide is always needed to find a specific book, and that guide is Library. They can take your hand and instantly zip you to where you need to be. The process is very disorienting, especially for mortals and those who don't regularly visit. Library can always sense where you are, and can always hear you ask for help so long as you are in the Grand Library.

(next section of text)

Relations with other gods:

good: monument, arts, drama, machine, health, hive

bad: flame, sea, war, death, rot, fear

(end of the first image)

Image 2:

[Standing in the center of the image is a tall, slim figure with one hand behind their back and the other raised to wave awkwardly. They are wearing a plain yellow raincoat that conceals most of their body, and brown gloves and boots. Their neck is long, curved, and round, made up of a thick tube of wires with a metal zip-tie keeping them in place. Their head is a cubic bookshelf, with the open side of the bookshelf acting as their face. The multicolored books within the shelf head are arranged in a way that resembles the static color bars of an old CRT TV. There are two more doodles of their head from two different angles, which are described in upcoming text so I'll leave it out here. Around the figure are bits of text that kinda correspond to various physical features of the god.]

(these are the bits of text:)

When walking, their head bobs like a bird.

head is actually a bookshelf, with four little shelves at the bottom. Library's sigil in burned into either side. On the back of their head is a little computer with some wires connected running seamlessly into the shelf.

Big weird hands. Also wires?

Seemingly normal raincoat with a reflective stripe. Nobody's ever actually seen what's under it.

in comparison to other humanoid gods, library is very lanky, standing at 7'3" (222 cm).

Leaves no footprints?

(end of the second image)

Image 3:

[This one has sentences and paragraphs placed around without much purpose. There was some empty space, so I copy + pasted the same doodle of Library laying on their stomach with their feet in the air, but I stretched out the doodles to make em look sillier.]

MISCELLANEOUS BITS:

Prayers, summons, and ceremonies are often answered with very verbose personal letters expressing gratitude, and rarely result in actual face-to-face communication.

Library has been spotted reorganizing human libraries and archives on Earth. They admit that this is a guilty pleasure of theirs, as they usually try not to get involved in mortal affairs otherwise.

All publicly available books in the grand library have been translated into a "universal script" which can be understood by absolutely anybody who is able to read in at least one language. Library is eager to teach people how to write universal script, but lessons are so long and dry that Library is still the only one who knows how to write that way.

Though Library's life is known to be well documented, they have taken efforts to seize all record of their past and politely refuses to share these records publicly.

The largest book in Library's head is actually a binder filled with articles, notes, photos, and other information about each of the gods. Library doesn't actually need to consult the binder, but they like to update it often.

Like many other gods, Library's voice is heard from a listener's POV as if it's just a voice in their own head. Library's "voice" varies depending on who hears it, but consensus seems to be that they speak gently, eloquently, and with a vaguely African accent.

Pulling on their wires isn't a good idea.

Though they appreciate Order's efforts to document and regulate godly affairs, Library finds it too much of a headache to navigate the Bureau of Divine Intervention, and tries to stay away from anything to do with it.

Miscellaneous books and scraps are always seen floating around the Grand Library, sliding into and out of shelves.

(end of third image)

This is the most I've had to describe, but lucky me, most of the images are just comprised of text. If there's any unexpected issues with this plain text version, please let me know. Even if it's just nitpicks, I'd love to hear it.

Thank you for reading/listening to my silly thing :^)

#art tag #oc #writing tag #oc: librarian #oc line: divine

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random-thot-generator · 10 months ago

Text

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 10

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

TEN: Let the Sleeper Awake

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: Simon returns in time for the May Day celebration, wanting to surprise his doll, but watching her perform has him viewing her in a very different light.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Spice- just a pinch, Mention of masturbation, Fluff & Feels, Simon checks out doll, Doll checks out Simon, Idiots in love lust, the 141 have a chat sesh, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Beltane (a.k.a. May Eve/May Day) is a fire and... ahem!... fertility festival. So, I thought, what better time for Simon and his doll to finally realize that there's a little more than friendly feelings between them. Let the sleepers awake. 😏)

Word Count: 2.9K

Chapter 10

“Beltane magick here we sing

Chant the rune and dance the ring

Joy and blessing shall it bring

Let the sleeper awake!”

― Doreene Valiente, Beltane Chant

The village green was a hive of activity, preparations for the May Day celebration in full swing.

Booths, tents and stalls lined the streets, vendors setting up their wares and stocking up for the large crowds expected for the two-day celebration. An abundance of flowers, real and fake, decorated the whole of the village’s heart, garlands and wreaths attached to every available surface, every shop window sporting bright floral displays.

The maypole had been raised at the back of the green, its brightly colored ribbons fluttering in the warm breeze. The volunteers performing this year were gathered off to the side taking a break from their practice, you and Fiona among them.

The two of you had been roped into volunteering, so you both had to learn the performances from scratch. Fi especially was struggling with the interweaving moves, cursing under her breath every time she made a misstep.

“If I’d known it was goin’ t’be this big of a pain in me arse, I would’a hid in the loo when I saw Margie comin’,” she groused, wiping a forearm across her brow. She turned up her bottled water and took a large gulp as she glared at Margie Bartleby, proud owner of the Tea Room and the entertainment director of the festivities this year. “All tha’ woman needs is a bloody whip t’crack over our heads.”

You sniffed in amusement, not bothering to comment. You knew Fi was just venting her frustration and didn’t mean a word of what she said. You and she both adored the older woman, though you had to admit that Margie could be a right task master when she wanted to be.

You sipped at your water as you pulled your cell from your back pocket to check your notifications, drifting under the shade of a tent to see the screen better. You were hoping to see a message from Riley, but you were again disappointed.

He’d been gone since the last week of March, only a week and half after you had moved in with him. There had been no word from him save for a single text around mid-April to tell you if all went according to plan, he might be home by the end of the month. You had really been hoping he would make it back in time for the May Day celebration, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. He always seemed to be deployed during holidays.

“Still no word?” Fi asked, joining you.

You sighed and slipped the phone back in your pocket. “No.”

She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe ye’ll get a May Day miracle an’ he’ll show up dressed like Jack o' the Green.” Her grin turned lewd. “Can’t ya just picture it? Riley wearin’ nothin’ but a patch o’ moss over his dangly bits with oak leaves stuck all in his mask?”

“Fi-ona!” Heat crept up your neck to your cheeks, yet the image she created popped unbidden into your head.

Your face grew hotter as you imagined him dressed as Fi had described, the mental pictures in your head far from chaste. Riley was built like a Norse god, and even with the mask he earned his fair share of appreciative glances. You couldn't help but look, too; you were his friend, but that didn't make you immune to him.

When you heard Fi laughing at you, you blinked out of your daydream and narrowed your eyes. “Shut up,” you hissed at her, but couldn’t hide your wry smirk.

“Come along, lovies! Break's over!” Margie called to the group. “Let’s get back to it. We need to practice the bonfire procession and dance next!”

Fiona groaned, scowling. “God, I’ll be glad when we’re done with this. Never again,” she vowed as the two of you trudged back out to the green together.

Simon sat back in his seat, eyes focused out the window of the plane, half-listening to Soap and Gaz arguing about how they were going to spend their first night on leave. His cell phone was in his hand, your last text open. It was an image of the green decorated for May Day.

“Oi, Ghost! Ya should come with us t'night. We’re goin’ to that new pub in Hereford,” Gaz invited.

Simon slanted a glance his way, dark eyes glinting inside his skull mask. “Can’t. Got plans.”

“Ah, c’mon, mate. Readin' in your bunk isn’t plans,” Gaz replied, scoffing.

“Did ye ferget?” Soap spoke up, a mischievous smirk on his face as he bumped the other sergeant's arm. “Ghost has t’get’ home t’see his doll dance. Ain't tha' right, LT?”

Simon scowled at him. The nosy bastard had overheard him tell Price about you performing in the May Day festival, after the captain had asked him how "his doll" was doing. So, of course, Johnny hadn’t shut up about it since, pestering him for intel about his ‘wee doll’.

“Oh, that’s right,” Gaz drawled, his smile spreading wide. “Maybe we should go home with Ghost, then. You can introduce us to your doll.”

“Not happenin',” Simon gruffed. “Ya lot ain’t gettin’ anywhere near ‘er.”

Soap chuckled, puffing out his chest. “Worried I’ll nick yer lass, LT?” He smoothed his hand over his mohawk, flexing his bicep with a cheeky grin. “Canna blame ye. There’s a lot here t’tempt her away,” he teased, making his pecs jump beneath his tight tee. Gaz cackled.

Simon stuck his phone back in his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest, tipping his chin down at the sergeant. “Ain't worried. Dee knows a wanker when she sees one."

"Oh-ho!" Soap crowed. "So, it's Dee, is it? Slipped up an' said her name, LT." He winked at Gaz as Simon muttered a curse. "Dee an' Johnny. Got a nice ring to it, aye?"

“Enough, lads,” Price called from behind his laptop, not even bothering to look up. The two immediately shut their gobs.

As soon as the plane touched down, Simon was up and heading down the ramp as it lowered. Grinning like a devil, Soap was ready to head after him when Price grabbed him by the back of his tac vest and hauled him back.

“Bloody hell, lad, give it a rest,” he uttered lowly.

Gaz came abreast of them and leaned into whisper, “We just wanna know about her, Cap. I mean— it's Ghost. Kinda hard to imagine him havin' a bird. Has he told ya anything about her? Have ya seen a picture of her?"

Price scrubbed at his beard. “Never met the lass. Ya lads know he likes to keep his personal life private. Now, both of ya, leave it alone.”

“Canna believe yer no' a wee bit curious, sir,” Soap persisted. “Would ye no' like t’meet the lass tha’ caught the Ghost?”

Price wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t curious, but more than anything, he was just glad to see his lieutenant at ease, for a change. He was still a right broody cunt, but his attitude had definitely improved. “Lads, as long as she makes him happy, that’s all I care 'bout. Now, mind yer bloody business an' leave him alone, yeah?”

“Think he’d show us a picture of her if we asked nice?” Soap wondered aloud, undeterred. "I bet she's a right bonnie lass, aye? Have t'be t'get the LT all hot an' bothered." He waggled his eyebrows.

Price dragged a hand over his face and groaned.

Simon ended up parking behind the Dog when he finally made into to the village. Coming through the alley, he could see the crowd milling about the green and vendor booths, the smell of fried food and sweets wafting down the ginnel on the breeze. His stomach growled and he cursed himself for not eating something before leaving the base, but he'd been in a hurry to get home.

He usually stayed on base if he wasn't deployed when events like this were going on in Banfield. He hated dealing with the extra traffic and large crowds that descended on the village, but he could suck it up and deal with it just this once, since it was for you.

Apparently, he'd made it back just in time. Most of the crowd had gathered near the back of the green around the maypole, Margie's familiar voice loud and clear over the PA system as she announced that the maypole dance was about to begin.

Simon pressed through the throng of people, ignoring the looks and startled gasps as they shuffled out of his way. His eyes scanned over the dancers, searching for you, his eyes going a little wide when he spotted you standing with your back to him.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but he felt like he'd been poleaxed, his dazed eyes roving over your figure. You were dressed like the other dancers, wearing a pastel satin undress covered in layers of wispy, see-through tulle, but the underdress clung to your breasts and hips, the swell of your bum accentuated by the slippery material. When you shifted your weight to pose in the starting position, a split in the underdress revealed the length of your thigh, the layered tulle separating to expose it.

Simon's mouth fell open under his surgical mask, eyes avid as the music began to play. He watched with rapt attention as you skipped and dipped and twirled, weaving in and out with the other dancers to braid the colored ribbons around the pole. Your hair had been left loose, a crown of flowers on your head, makeup done to give your features an ethereal cast. You looked like a fairy, flitting around, he mused. A really curvaceous, sultry, sexy fairy...

A familiar feeling tingled low in his abdomen and the front of jeans were suddenly too tight. He shook his head, grunting at his base reaction, but now that he'd seen you this way, he knew there was no denying it. You were stunning, the prettiest bird he'd ever seen. His pretty doll. Possessive pride welled up in his chest, straightening his spine and lifting his chin. That was his beautiful doll out there dancing; his.

When the dance ended, all the performers took a bow and then the crowd surrounded them. Simon hung back, waiting, wanting to see your expression when you finally spotted him.

So worth the wait.

It was Fiona that saw him first, nudging your shoulder and whispering at your ear as she pointed him out. The slight frown of confusion on your face transformed into a look of joyous surprise, your smile wide and beaming as you rushed to meet him, crying out, "Oh, my God! Ri!" as you leapt up to wrap your arms around his neck in a tight hug.

It stunned him at first, being greeted that way. Anyone else would have found themselves thrown to the ground with a knee in their back, but you? You he caught up in his arms and held on tight, breathing you in as his hands molded to your back and waist like he had done this a thousand times. It was instinctive and felt so right.

You pulled back to gaze into his eyes, your smile becoming something softer, more intimate. "I'm so glad you made it, Ri. Can't believe you're finally home. I've missed you."

His chest went tight, a pleased flush warming his face. He pressed his forehead to yours. "Missed ya, too, doll. 'S good t'be home."

He had a sudden, intense urge to pull down his mask and kiss you. His fingers twitched on your back, muscles spasming in his arms. He couldn't recall the last time he'd kissed a woman on the lips, but damn if he wasn't gaggin' to bloody do it now. From the soft, hazy look in your eyes, he didn't think you would mind it, either, which only made the temptation worse.

You both turned your heads, startled, when Fiona giggled. She was already lowering her cellphone to look at the pic she had just taken. Simon tensed, his first instinct being to bark at her to delete the photo, but then another idea popped into his head.

He lowered you to the ground, stepping behind you before planting his hands firmly on your hips and pulling you back against his chest. "Take another one, Fi. Want t'send one t'my team."

She dutifully took the picture, smiling as she stepped forward to show you both how well it had turned out. "That one's a keeper."

Simon stared down at the picture, liking the way the two of you looked together. A rush of heat coursed through his veins at the sight of his hands on your hips, your hands covering his. He glanced over at your face as you studied the photo, and he could only describe your expression as incandescent; you were bloody glowing.

His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you into his side as his eyes met yours. "Yeah," he murmured. "Definitely a keeper."

Simon ended up with dozens of photos saved on his phone by the time the festival was over. His favorite was the one Fiona had first taken, the one where he was holding you up in his arms, your heads together. He set that one as his screensaver.

However, the one he viewed the most was the one he took at the bonfire the last night of the festival.

He took it during the bonfire dance, you and the other dancers circling the high flames as you swayed and undulated in a jaw-dropping, frenzied dance that had wrecked his world. His heart had been beating as hard as the drums, his eyes fixated on you with a predatory intensity.

Then you had looked at him.

You had seen him in the crowd, a teasing, open-mouthed smile directed his way as your arms lifted over your head and you rolled your hips in a move that punched the air out of his lungs. He had lifted his phone and snapped the photo, capturing the moment.

He captured your sultry smile, that hooded gaze that was meant just for him. Your body's curves stood out in stark relief against the dark, your silken skin aglow from the flames. Every time he looked at it, he ended up in the loo with his cock in his hand, choking back his groans as he desperately fisted himself to completion.

It was bloody torture watching you disappear into your own bedroom later that night, every cell of his body on fire with the need to follow you. He didn't, but he wanted to. It was the fear of losing you that finally had him shuffling off to his own room, settling for your photo and his calloused hand.

It was on Sunday afternoon that he got a notification that the team was in their private group chat. You and Fi were gone to the shops, and he was sitting on the patio, drinking a Stella and enjoying the garden. Might as well join in, he thought; he had nothing better to do at the moment.

As soon as he entered the chat, Soap and Gaz started asking for details about the festival and, of course, you. Feeling a bit sadistic, the first photos he shared were of the green, the bonfire, the pub.

[SOAP]: Come on LT. U ken what we want! Show us a pic of ur doll. 😏 [GHOST]: No [GAZ]: Pleeeeaaaase!!! 🙏🏿🥺 [PRICE]: Bloody hell. Ignore them, lad. [GAZ]: We just want to see her Cap... [SOAP]: Is she ugly? I bet shes ugly. [PRICE]: SOAP! [GHOST]: Far from it johnny [SOAP]: Ur killn us LT! Just 1 pic pls pls pls!!! [PRICE]: Stand down, Sgts! Jesus Christ!

Simon couldn't help himself. He wanted to show you off. There was a smug smile on his face when he forwarded them the photos of you in a zip file.

There was a minute of inactivity, then the messages began to ping in rapid fire succession.

[GAZ]: That's ur doll?! She's bloody gorgeous, m8! 👍🏿 [SOAP]: sTEAMn fUKnJESUS!!!! [SOAP]: Insta-chub 👀🍆 [PRICE]: Well done, lad! She's a beauty. [SOAP]: Shes ded bonnie. U should introduce me 😈 [GAZ]: When can we meet her??? Is her friend single? 😏 [PRICE]: Behave, lads...

Simon huffed in amusement, feeling rather cocky as he began typing.

[GHOST]: Thx cap. [GHOST]: Her friend is single gaz. [GHOST]: U can suck it johnny. She's MY doll [GAZ]: Yeah. Suck it Soap! 😅 [SOAP]: Fair enough but... [SOAP]: Can I keep the pic of her @ the bonfire? [PRICE]: Christ. I need bloody a drink. Congrats, Simon. *(PRICE has left the chat.) [GHOST]: Hm. Just the one pic? [SOAP]: 🙏🥺 PLS??? [GHOST]: LOL [GHOST]: Hell NO [SOAP]: 😭 [GAZ]: 🤣🤣🤣

Prev. >> Next

@stillinracooncity @cumikering @cutiecusp @deadbranch @ghostlythots @thetiredtoad0-0 @glitterypirateduck @gothgirl6-6-6 @sofasoap @cathnoneofyourbusiness @shuttlelauncher81 @luminousbeings-crudematter @crunchlite @delilah-grimes @bobochacha @igotmajordaddyissues

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x fem reader #ghost x fem reader #simon riley x fem reader #cod ghost x fem reader #love thy frenemy #love thy frenemy/tenderness au

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jupiterswasphouse · 4 months ago

Text

WASP REVIEW - THE HIVE (and more) (HOLLOW KNIGHT)

[Image ID: The official artwork for the Hiveling, Hive Soldier, and Hive Knight, followed by a second image for the Hive Guardian, from Hollow Knight /End ID.]

Now this is one of my favorite bug games! I'm sure almost all of you are familiar with it, being the lore-heavy indie hit and highly prevalent, much deserved bugblr fan art fodder that Hollow Knight was. This is a very good one, and takes inspiration from many different species of terrestrial arthropods as well as other invertebrates and fungi. However, many of them are much, much different from their real world counterparts, in part due to their design style as well as the infection which has taken hold in Hallownest, which certainly calls into question how The Hive and its honey bee inhabitants fare.

First, as always, let's take a look at them visually! All the bees that you fight generally seem to share many of the same features. Black and yellow stripes, a generally darker upper half, and fuzzy bodies, as found in real honey bees (although you tend to be able to see more of the exoskeleton through the setae of a real bee), but they also are all missing the middle pair of legs (Which I've noticed is shockingly common in fictionalized depictions of bugs). Most of them also have somewhat accurate antennae that bend forward with an 'elbow' (the pedicel, which sits between the flagellum and scape, allowing greater movement control of the antennae) in the middle, the antennae not present in the Hiveling, and a pair of wings, as opposed to a real bee, which has two pairs, the wings not present in Hive Knight. Another thing I find notable about these guys is, they all have a fairly round body, fatter than the average honey bee, with no discernable waist nor separating point between the head and mesosoma.

[Image Sources: Jupiter's Wasp House, ie Myself, and Wikimedia Commons, Tanner Smida | Image IDs: Two photos of different, black and yellow honey bees, one on a light-skinned human hand and the other on a wooden surface /End IDs.]

Another two things that these bees lack, which real bees have, are ocelli (the three simple eyes on top of their heads), and a pair of mandibles (and seemingly other typical mouthparts). It is, at the very least, shown that the Hive Soldiers and Hive Knight do have mouths, although they're more like mammalian mouths but with a sort of sharp, angular outer edge. Also, strangely, the Hive Knight is also shown to be capable of spitting out Hivelings, which raises a few questions.

[Image IDs: Two in-game screenshots that show both the Hive Soldier and Hive Knight opening their mouths, the Hive Knight spitting out Hivelings rapidly /End IDs.]

The Hive Soldier specifically also has one big difference, as its metasoma splits apart into seven stingers. One in the middle, and six that spread out radially, seemingly partially retractable into the mesosoma. Whether or not the others have stingers is entirely unclear, as the Hivelings and Hive Guardians attack with their bodies, and Hive Knight (Already predisposed to lacking a stinger, being a male honey bee) attacks using some form of blade or lance.

[Image ID: An attack sprite of the Hive Soldier /End IDs.]

There is one more bee in this kingdom, which you have already seen in a previous screenshot, that being the Hive Queen, Vespa. She looks very different from the rest of the bees, having a more realistically (although far from perfect) segmented body, which sort of resembles that of a paper wasp's body moreso than that of a honey bee queen, although she maintains the fuzz, specifically around her neck in a way that is reminiscent of a fur coat or a rabbit's dewlap. She also has a teardrop-shaped head, an extra pair of (presumably compound, although they could be simple) eyes, and a notable lack of wings.

[Image Source: Wikimedia Commons, Scott Bauer, USDA Agricultural Research Service | Image ID: The artwork of Hive Queen Vespa as viewed as a spirit, followed by a honey bee queen, artificially marked with pink paint, surrounded by other honey bees /End IDs.]

When she appears as a spirit, she's not too much taller than the Hive Knight, however, her carcass lays just in the background of the room in which you fight her dear protector, who does not yet seem to realize she's gone. In this form, her final physical self, she had grown too large to leave the hive, easily 5 times her original size or more. Again, honey bees do not get this big in real life, but it is true that queens are generally larger than their "subjects" by way of their longer abdomen.

[Image Source: Carolina Honeybees | Image IDs: An in-game screenshot of Hive Queen Vespa in the background of the room in which you fight the Hive Knight, followed by an illustration that shows the difference between a drone, queen, and worker honey bee /End IDs.]

Now, I've posted about this before, so I won't go on about it for too long, but I do have to call into question, out of curiosity, the naming of Vespa, given her name is not one that is entomologically associated with honey bees, but instead, their distantly eusocial relatives of the family Vespidae, genus Vespa, the hornets. Something tells me I have an idea as to why she was named this way, but we'll get to that later! It certainly doesn't make the species discrepancy any less confusing.

Finally, there is one more resident of The Hive, although this one is not a bee, but instead, a Hive-specific variation of an enemy that reoccurs all throughout the game. The Husk Hive shambles through the halls of The Hive, surrounded by and/or fused with a structure that is, itself, a miniature hive. The Hunter's Journal describes this enemy as follows: "Cowardly husk, its body colonised by hivelings | Did the hivelings build their nest around this sorry bug, or did the bug squeeze its body into their nest? Either way, they seem happy enough together."

The relationship between the Husk Hive and the Hivelings seems less parasitic and more symbiotic, as the Hivelings protect the Husk Hive and the Husk Hive flees from danger, attempting to remove the Hiveling's living space from locations which may prove to be dangerous.

[Image ID: The artwork of the Husk Hive /End IDs.]

With all the residents of The Hive out of the way, let's discuss The Hive itself.

Now, of course, being part of Hallownest, The Hive resembles something that's less like an actual hive and more like a human community, or, perhaps more accurately, a town or village built of one continuous building, containing mostly wide open areas, but also including areas of rest, with tables and chairs, and a locale or two that resemble the shelved rooms of a library.

[Image ID: An in-game screenshot of an area of The Hive which contains a table, chairs, lights, and shelves that contain tablets /End IDs.]

One thing you'll notice, passing through, however, is that the hexagonal structure that makes up The Hive, outside of the shelves pictured above, doesn't seem to resemble the cells of the prototypical honey bee hive. Not only are they elongated in a way that resembles the Rupees of The Legend Of Zelda series, they appear filled in and crystalline. Some of this unusual material glows, which appears to be what the lights of The Hive are filled with, as opposed to the lumaflies used in other areas of Hallownest.

It's possible that a lot of this is built of crystalized honey, as it is shown that the honey of The Hive can become very hard, very quickly. This is perhaps showcased best in the room, in which you find a bench encased inside of a large, already cracked glob of honey, hanging from the ceiling, which The Knight has to smash open as if it were made of glass. Several other objects in The Hive act the same way.

[Image ID: An in-game screenshot of the bench room of The Hive, in which the bench hangs up /End IDs.]

One thing that's completely unclear, is how brood spawning occurs in The Hive, with seemingly no cells that contain eggs or larvae. Furthermore, it's unclear how long it has been since the queen died, so depending on the time past, it may be implied that it's not just Vespa who held sole responsibility over populating the hive.

Perhaps, as is the case with a few Hollow Knight characters species as they mature in this universe, they don't follow the same lifecycle as a real honey bee, emerging as something close to their final form and molting into later stages should the hive need Soldiers, Guardians, or Knights. It can also be inferred that, maybe, the cells in which the young live in their initial stages are themselves living creatures, such as the Husk Hives and the Hive Knight.

Finally, I find it interesting that The Hive is walled off the way it is, in a similar way to how the nest of a colony of hornets would be, as opposed to the open, tree-hanging slab nests of real world honey bees, seemingly with multiple entrances apart from the ones entered in the game, and also partially subterranean, as evidenced by one of the lower entrances of The Hive.

[Image Sources: Wikimedia Commons, Michael Apel, and wildalongtheway | Image IDs: A photo of an empty paper European hornet, Vespa crabro, nest on the inner part of a human-built structure of some sort, another photo of an empty honey bee hive hanging from a tree branch, and two in-game screenshots showing the upper and lower entrances of The Hive /End IDs.]

With all that said, it's safe to say that Team Cherry really respects their bees, but doesn't mind making them too inaccurate in the name of cool lore! It also provides a lot to think about. I know I've gone on a bit long, though, so I'll get to the point and give these g-

HERE COMES A NEW CHALLENGER! - MANTIS YOUTH

[Image ID: The artwork for the Mantis Youth /End IDs.]

Ok, this one's outside The Hive, and by its name, not even a wasp, but I wanted to give these guys a quick mention. I always found these guys confusing, but it wasn't until it was brought up in conversation by Rev that I truly thought to question what they had going on.

For one, Mantis Youth? Mantises rarely fly in the first place, but their young don't even have wings in the real world. On top of that, they have a stinger, being literally described in the Hunter's Journal as delivering "stinging attacks", a stinger being a modified reproductive organ only found in wasps (if you haven't gotten the memo by the rest of this post, bees and ants are included in that). Plus, they don't have the same almost scythe-shaped forelimbs as the adult mantises, as well as all stages of real mantises, do.

If anything, minus the specialized forelimbs, with that sort of neck, they moreso resemble Neuropteran mantidflies. But otherwise, I'd say they're the closest thing to non-bee wasps we have in Hollow Knight!

[Image Source: Michigan Nature Guy | Image ID: A photo of a wasp mantidfly, Climaciella brunnea, on a green leaf /End ID.]

My only guess for why this happened, considering the mantises are unaffected by the infection, would be interspecies mating, but the mantises are, in lore, known to detest outsiders, as evidenced by the fact they completely disapproved of the love between the Traitor Lord's daughter and the Grey Mourner for the very reason of the Grey Mourner being an outsider.

But maybe this happened a long, long time ago, before they became their own long-standing and wholely independent tribe. I mean, having interspecies children with varied features isn't unheard of in Hallownest, the Pale King and Herrah The Beast had a child together, that being-

HERE COMES A NEW CHALLENGER! (... AGAIN) - HORNET

[Image ID: The artwork for Hornet /End ID.]

Yeah, remember when I said earlier that the whole weird naming thing would come up again? This is it. The sibling of all the vessels, the half-Wyrm half-Spider, the gendered child (The White Lady's words, not mine), and the probably-still-canon-but-it's-unclear trainee of Vespa after she was thrown by the wayside by the Pale King in his neverending quest to win a Worst Father Ever Award.

Now does this explain why Vespa is called that? Honestly, not really? It's still confusing as to why they decided to name the bee hive queen after a very distant relative and our dear hopefully eventual Silksong protagonist after an insect genus that isn't on either side of her family. But one, certainly, at least, explains the other, as stated by a Team Cherry member here, Hornet and Vespa share a related name on purpose! So one of the two was named first, and they gave a related name to the other.

Now that THAT'S out of the way, though, it's safe to say I can't give either Hornet or Mantis Youth a proper rating due to the fact neither are true wasps, but I can absolutely give a rating to those this review was about in the first place, the bees of The Hive!

... Also please let there be actual non-bee wasps in Silksong.

Overall: 5.5/10

Leave your wasp review suggestion in the replies, tags, or askbox!

Next week's wasp has not been chosen yet!

#Wasp House Review #WHR: Wasp Review #Bugblr #Wasps #hollow knight #hive queen vespa #hive knight

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antlerlad · 2 years ago

Photo

attempting to understand Peeled Eris (TM)

[heavily inspired by @/haykebyr‘s peeled eris]

Image ID: A portrait of Eris Morn from Destiny without the mask that covers her face and her hood. Her skin is medium-tone, but washed out from a lack of sunlight. She has scars on her neck and chest from Hive claws. Her three eyes are glowing green and appear grafted onto her face. The eyes weep thick black tears. Her ear is a bit torn up. She has dark curly hair. End ID.

#eris morn #destiny 2 #destiny eris #destiny the game #destiny fanart #fanart #eris

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rae-gar-targaryen · 2 years ago

Note

this is a lil thot here but excuse you the breeding kink and baby fever go brrr.. anyways imagine mickey like finding out you want kids and then going FERAL. i just- that image in my head is one i am PROUD of creating

But it is an IMPORTANT thot. This awakened something, I think. A lil nsfwish so 18+, and there's a cut. (Reference to their conversation about what they'd name their kids from "swallow you like sunshine") ahoy, ahoy this became a whole thing --

so deep in love with you (baby love) [mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!civilian!reader, aka “cielo”]

Word Count: 1.3k (always a nerd, never a blurb) of nerves, honey-sweetness, and the eternity of love’s promise

Warnings: hints of smut, fingering, breeding kink (obvi) and comeplay. mildest of mild hints of choking. 18+, please.

Why were you so nervous?

No, seriously, why were you nervous? You and Mickey had had this conversation before. There was no reason for you to be this anxious, sitting silently during the dinner he had made for you, twirling spaghetti around your fork endlessly.

If Mickey found your silence disquieting, he had the good grace not to say anything, eyeing you with those bourbon-honey swirled eyes of his that drove you absolutely crazy.

You could do this. This is Mickey you were talking to. Mickey, who had stood in front of the censor so the sliding door at the grocery store stayed open while you tried not to slip in a puddle on your way in. Mickey, who wraps his hands around you and puts them in the pouch pocket of your hoodie while you wait for movie tickets. Mickey, who brought you coffee in bed this morning. Mickey, who plays with Bob's kids, talks to them like they're adults, and excitedly talks too fast when he spills to you all the new facts he's learned about cuttlefish after spending an afternoon with them.

You could tell him this.

"Ehm," you cleared your throat, putting down your fork that had a veritable hive of spaghetti twirled to the end of it by now. "M?" You ventured, waiting for his eyes to meet yours across the table before continuing.

"Yeah, Cielo?" He must sense your nerves. He put his fork down, too, waiting patiently for you to continue.

You cast your eyes down the smear of red sauce across your plate that looked vaguely like a bloated bear before, murmuring,

"Ithinkimreadytotry," you rushed.

Mickey cocked his head to the side, eyes swimming with questions, "Sorry?" He asked.

"I think," you exhaled, tilting your jaw to boldly (in your opinion) meet your husband's eye. "I think I'm ready? To start, you know, trying? Only if you are, I mean, I know you leave again soon, so we don't have a ton of time, and it doesn't have to be now, but I'm ready if you're ready and I just wanna have a baby with you, if that's cool--" you rambled, cutting yourself off when you saw Mickey's eyes widen, his hand reaching over the table to press his finger gently over your lips, rendering you silent.

"Baby," he chuckled. "A baby?"

You nodded, slumping back in your seat, deflated, at the toll your rant had taken on your body.

Mickey eyed you again, seemingly not eager to respond.

He nods, pushing his chair back and standing up, making his way around the table and over to you.

"So," he reaches for you, beckoning you up from your seat with the gentle tug of his warm arm around your waist. "Which one do we try for first, hm?" He asks as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, lips trailing the thrumming pulse along the column of your throat. "Vero or Valencia, boy or girl?"

Without giving you a chance to respond, Mickey hoists you over his shoulder, carrying you through the threshold to the living room, gently depositing you on the couch. You gasped at the feel of his fingers tugging at the waistband of your leggings, seemingly perpetually warm, something that emanates from him, tried and true.

And Mickey barely lets you get a word in edgewise, as you open your mouth to respond, he fuses his lips to yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth as his fingers continue to tug your leggings down your legs.

Like a heatwave on a summer's day, Mickey had overwhelmed you, sunshine and molten gold, his hips now rolling into yours on the couch.

"W-wait," you pushed his shoulders, his lips separating from yours, flushed, kiss-bitten, and honeyed. "Now?!"

"You just gave this whole spiel about how we don't have a ton of time," Mickey reasoned, his fingers trailing to your waist as he rolled his hips into yours again, causing you to buck at the feel of him through his sweatpants. "Why not now?"

"M!" You swatted his bicep lightly with the back of your hand, "I haven't showered today. I'm wearing ratty old leggings, for god's sake. I look a mess!"

Mickey hmm'd, a purring little hum of dissent lodged in his throat, like a perpetually displeased jungle cat.

"Agree to disagree, amor," he eyed you as though you were the meal he had been enjoying moments ago.

"First of all," he presses a kiss to your throat, one hand coming up to follow it, fingers lightly wrapping their way around your neck as he feels the effect he has on you in the blood rushing through your veins, beneath his fingers, heated and heady. "You aren't wearing your leggings ... Anymore."

He presses a kiss to your lips, following the gentle gesture with an intentional scraping of teeth, a little bite to his bark.

"Second of all," his other hand at your waist now slips between you to feel the now-soaked lace at the very center of you, plucking it aside to allow him to stroke the seam of your cunt, his touch causing your lips to part in a gasp, your eyes to flutter closed. "You look hot as fuck. Always do."

With that, Mickey slips a finger inside of you, pleased at the feel of your heated walls around him as he plays you to an unheard rhythm, rolling his thumb over your clit. Eagerly swallowing your breathy little moans as he kisses you through his attentions.

"M'gonna fuck you, Cielo," he murmurs, the heat of his body leaving yours as he rocks back on the couch to shuck his sweatpants down. "Gonna give you a baby. Gonna make you come first, though..."

"I want that," you sigh, twining your fingers through the curls you know will be shorn once he leaves, eager to tug, eager to capitalize. Eager to make him yours. "Want everything with you."

...

Later in the night, Mickey takes in the serenity of your features bathed in the white-blue glow of the television as you two take in "The Empire Strikes Back" with unseeing eyes, exhausted and high off of each other. He had put on the movie and grabbed you a chocolate bar after round ... Three, was it?

And he didn't know if it would take right away, really. But he was hell-bent on trying, having fucked you into the couch until you'd forgotten your own name, pushing his release back into you when he had withdrawn, fingers gently sweeping along your opening to urge you through another orgasm, while keeping his spend inside of you.

Now, he's admiring you, the curve of your waist. Imagining the way your stomach will swell someday, the genesis of your collective devotion.

So, really, he doesn't know what compels him to tell you, but he says it anyway --

"You know," your eyes meet his at his words, lips curled in a sweet, sleepy smile, encouraging him to continue. "If you get pregnant this year, Javy owes Payback twenty bucks."

"Excuse me, what?!" You cock an eyebrow at him, seated on your elbows the better to take in what your husband had just said.

"Ehm, yeah," Mickey was sheepish now, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "They were teasing, you know how they are... And, well, I know that I've got it in me, so really, I don't know what they were trying to imply. Just giving me shit, I think."

You put your hand up to silence your husband, biting back a chuckle as you clarify,

"M, do you mean to tell me you wagered with your co-workers about how soon you could knock me up?"

And Mickey, expert at reading you though be was, was grasping to tell whether you were amused or upset. It's a fine line to walk, sometimes, truly...

"Uh, yeah, I guess I did..." He trailed off, glancing at you with apologetic doe eyes.

A laugh bubbled from your lips, a tipsy little thing, telling champagne bubbles as you laughed at your husband's ridiculous antics, tugging him toward you, and pressing your lips to his.

"Claro. C'mon then, daddy," you murmur, kissing him with each word. "We've gotta get Reuben that money."

tagging some fanboy girlies (so sorry): @joaquinwhorres @withahappyrefrain @thegirlwhowritesfics @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @moonlight-prose @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @siriusfahey @the-navistar-carol @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid @maxmayfield @eagerforthesky @callmemana @mxgyver @andrewrussgarfield @bioodforbiood @the-purity-pen @luxuryberzatto @liz-allyn

#my writing #fanboy thoughts #mickey 'fanboy' garcia #fanboy garcia #mickey garcia #mickey fanboy garcia #fanboy #fanboy tgm #fanboy x reader #mickey garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy x cielo #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader #tgm fic #danny ramirez #danny ramirez fic #top gun maverick fic #sinful sunday

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asquared-ohgodnotthehorrors · 8 months ago

Text

I wanna make a Lancer storyboard about the Mourning Cloak. Actually, lemme write up what I would do in it real quick:

A battlefield, shrouded in darkness and flame. The fight was finished not too long ago. A scout team walks through the ruins.

Suddenly, they recoil in fear, backing away, guns raised. All are terrified… except one.

Within moments, it’s obvious why. A specter he alone could not see cuts his head off, not even behind him, but in front of him. The blade microns thick, the only hint of its existence a glint of red across the length of it, and the slight shimmer as its broad side was slightly bent. The blood is everywhere.

The scouts open fire, spreading out to surround the wraith. Shots stay clear as the mourner dashes, an ivory streak dodging stream after stream of bullets. One hits clear, punching into an arm. The one who landed is greeted by the thing behind it, sliding the crimson blade across his throat. Blink. Another lies dead with the thing beside it, arm cradling the body gently while blade of folded metal slides through him, long as his body.

As a grenade fires upon it, the impact lands, the horrible crunching of metal almost louder than the explosion as it silently whips around, clawing at the air. The lone heavy who fired it learned too late that it wasn’t a claw. It was a throw. The arm holding the rocket launcher is exploded to bits. A cavity in his chest soon followers as he is launched back, unceremoniously dead on the ground.

The last of the group, huddled together, hold their guns shaking at the haunting. It stares at them… and vanishes. They panic, shooting short bursts at where it was, where it might be, where it could be approaching. Nothing lands. Any traces. it could be making were nowhere to be seen. Yet it’s gaze… it was still boring into them.

Three of the final four couldn’t handle the pressure. They break off in separate directions, to the protests of their comrades. All that is heard when they vanish from sight are the gunfire, then silence.

Now there is only one, panic overtaking him as he darts around, looking to where his allies, his one saving grace could be.

The Specter, like the wind, grasps his neck, slams him into the ground. The long, distorted image of what man had wrought was choking him. The other hand follows, and in these final moments the soldier can see. This thing. It is not invulnerable. It has been wounded. Yet it still acts, despite the pain, any injury, because it is not a beast. Not a monster, not a god, not even a man. Simply a machine with a task to fulfill. A Hornet in a Hive.

The beauty is lost on him as it snaps his neck with a sickening crunch. It stands still, its body in full view as it hunched over the field of corpses. It is not a visceral sight, each of the bodies were killed with only blood spilling, dying with beautifully clean efficiency. It stood over its masterpiece, balls of the feet and tips of the fingers the only contact with the ground. A dancer of death. Poised as to resolve, but ready to leap into its act yet again.

A gun raises to our view, the sights aiming at it. The frightened breathing of the soldier being the first voice we have heard in this massacre, loud over the absence of gunfire and the ring of death in our ears.

It looks at the soldier, down the sights. We get close to its face… something has gone wrong. The camera does not move. The scene begins to distort. A whisper of a scream, distorted a thousand times over begins to rise to a forte. The hand of the specter rises to its face, smearing blood across it. It scratches it. It crunches it. The scream is so loud we can barely hear the soldier joining it, static and abstract distortion overtaking the face.

Then… silence. The camera hasn’t moved. But we have. It backs away. Slowly. The Mourning Cloak in a showroom, filled with other weapons like it. Its injuries only visible to us, contrasting the pristine unblemishnent of its brethren. Yet it is still the most beautiful one in the room.

Everything is silent as we pan back. Pure silence. Recording studio silence. Like a memory that isn’t his own. His hand enters the periphery, and it’s holding a clipboard. A requisition for a Mourning Cloak License. We linger for but a moment. All still.

In an instant, we are back at the battlefield. The camera has not shifted. The specter is gone. All we hear is the soldier’s panicked breathing. And cut to black on his last exhale.

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #lancer game #lancer mourning cloak #mourning cloak #fiction #writing #the horrors #I’d make it a full animation but I don’t have the artistic will or capability to make that a reality #in fact now I’m probably happy with this and just this #lancerrpg

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cardinalcanis · 24 days ago

Text

Follow me

Summary: The aftermath of a recent conflict against the forces of the Tyranids weighed heavily on the Primarch, his newly appointed head of the Logisticarum attempts to raise his spirits.

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x M!OC

TW: none, just be prepared for awkward fluff.

Word count: 2,934

Tag squad (let me know if you wish to be tagged on stuff): @jaghatai-khock @horuslupercal @moodymisty

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

In the quiet confines of the warship, a sense of heaviness clung to Roboute Guilliman. The aftermath of a recent conflict against the forces of the Tyranids weighed heavily on the Primarch, his usually resolute demeanor dulled by a palpable sense of loss and responsibility. Guilliman has been staring at the same report for at least thirty minutes, his azure eyes clouded with thoughts of countless losses, the burden of leadership pressing down upon him yet again. The creeping fear that he would not live up to the expectation that has been given to him, to save and guide the Imperium. He placed a hand to the lower part of his neck where the scar left by Fulgrim resided, so long yet still hurts, healed but still leaving him this sense of emptiness that consumed him. Unknowingly Ovidious Sulla was also paying close attention to him.

“It wasn’t your fault my Lord.” The human said remaining polite and formal. He’s had the man working for him for several months so far, it always surprised him how he could pinpoint his well sealed emotions with such accuracy. “We are cunning but our enemy is also. We have all the data. They are evolving to fight us, but we are also. We’ll compile it to fuel the Imperium’s next victory.”

Guilliman stood up a bit violently, the chair behind him almost topping and falling to the side. There was pent up rage in his movements, the image of Sulla flinching at the act took him back into his body. Closing his eyes he tried to relax just like while meditating, pushing the feelings deep inside where they could be properly contained. He is a man of logic, not emotions. Emotional dysregulation was what drove his fallen brothers into Chaos, he couldn’t, no, he mustn't fall into their same mistakes.

He paced towards a wall nested among the many rows of bookshelves, a mural depicting an astral chart of the five hundred worlds of Ultramar as they were in the 31st millennium, drafted from detailed description out of Guilliman’s superhuman memory.

“Victory.” He said, his voice dragging a bit. “That is what the preachers cry from the spires of their temples, what commanders tell the soldiers in their service” the tone takes the mask his voice wears every time he has to address a large crowd for a speech “the Indomitus Crusade meets with triumph after triumph. Day by day, we tear Imperium Nihilus from the Despoiler's grip. And though we are beset on all sides, with each battle we drive back the mutant, the heretic, THE ALIEN.” his nose flares in frustration, rest of the body following a well memorized pantomime. “As I speak these words, our forces engage the remnants of Leviathan. Reclaiming lost worlds, atoning for old shames. A crusade to cleanse the stars.” paused with his voice turning slightly guttural, swallowing a cry. “Taking the fight to the enemy, we routed the Tyranids at Baal.” the pause became longer “We broke their hive fleet. Soon, their foulness will be but a memory.” Guilliman placed his armored hand on the mural, caressing a memory only he seems to still hold “THAT is what the preachers say.” his hands turned into fists as he spoke, knowing full well the human could read his disgust and frustration. “Belief will not save us, lies will not protect us, but it is our hope that will damn us.” he rested his forehead on the mural “In the spires and the slums, our people sing of victory.” once again he knocked his forehead slightly on the mural.” Victory, as the galaxy burns.” again “Victory, as the Imperium rots around us.” yet again “Victory, as humanity rages against the dying of the light.” one final time, just a bit harder, enough to dent the wall “Victory…”

He had heard him approaching as he spoke, if something Guilliman had to give it credit was for braveness.

“Remind me to vox the Factorium to get this repaired.” admitted the Primarch in a bit of a defeated tone he shouldn't be showing in front of anybody. But there was this unspoken treaty written between them, one that discussed the secret trade of snippets from himself he must not be let out.

Ovidius hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, closing the gap between them even more. The tension in the air felt almost electric. He saw him take a deep breath, then gesture at him with an outstretched hand.

“Lord Guilliman, follow me” he said softly.

Guilliman studied the gesture, unsure if the queue meant that he only wished to be followed or for the Primarch to take his hand. Which seemed very silly by all accounts. Theoretical: he does want him to grab his hand. Practical…

He reached out and grasped Sulla’s hand, their fingers intertwining in a tentative hold, already regretting the choice his body had made without him thinking properly, was Roboute Guilliman that tired his body acted on primal thought? Ovid’s eyes opened widely, confirming that he didn’t have the expectation nor plan for the Lord of Ultramar to make any physical contact. Yet instead of letting go he clutched the bigger hand tighter. Roboute felt an unknown rush of warmth flooding through him with the contact, which he couldn’t identify the reason for as both men were separated by a mechanized steel and ceramite.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and led him through the lesser-populated hallways of the ship, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors. Giving a reassuring glance back from time to time. Even if Guilliman’s grip loosened as they walked, his didn't, no matter how awkward it was to hold his armored hand by a normal sized human.

They arrived at a small observation deck, a hidden gem that overlooked a vast expanse of the galaxy. Stars twinkled in the distance, the brilliance of the cosmos casting a serene light across the room. Ovidius turned to face Guilliman, gesturing toward the spectacle before them.

The accountant finally let his gauntlet go and took a seat on the sailing, resting his body on the voidship grade glass.

“I’ve been juggled between ships most if not all my life, every time I’ve found myself overwhelmed in the ships,” Ovidius began, his voice steady “I would try to find a pier facing outside, in these times making sure it is away from the Cicatrix Maledictum, that opening to the warp.” He pointed toward the vastness outside, where the darkness of the warp loomed threateningly, a stark reminder of the chaos that could spill into their reality at any moment. “Instead, I’d seek out a view overlooking the actual galaxy, remembering that my job is for them,” he said, indicating the stars that flickered with life and potential. “At least that’s what I tell myself, maybe I am also full of that hope that bothers you.”

Guilliman’s expression shifted, the weight of his burdens momentarily lightened by the beauty before them. The Primarch’s eyes softened, the deep blue depths reflecting the starlight.

“Hope is not what worries me it is…” he couldn’t keep talking, he had already shed too much of his shell in front of the man. There was a long silence in which Guilliman joined Ovid, seating by the window, just at an arm's reach and with an effort due to the bulkiness of his armor.

“You seemed to have found your way easily around this ship, I don’t think I’ve ever been in these parts.” Guilliman noted, dragging the charisma out of his tiredness to change the topic the best he could, even though he had calmed a bit, the sound of moving machinery beneath the walls was strangely soothing.

Ovid smiled and nodded, the afterglow on his expression denoted his understanding of The Primarch’s attempt to change topics.

“I could find my way around any unknown ship faster than in my home town, or any town, after this long I’ve grown to find non vessel places daunting.” His new head of the Logisticarum drove eyed the passing starry landscape, at the distance there was a nebula with the same hue of his eyes.

“You tend to speak about Maccrage with nostalgia but is there also apprehension I sense in your tone?” He asked politely.

"I was born in the deep countryside of Macragge, a place far removed from the greater cities my homeworld has. But it, and the planet I came from, are strange to me. I was taken into the Administratum by recruitment when I was very young, my Lord. I've spent most of my life far away from the worlds of Ultramar.” his tone relaxed before returning back to its formal iteration “But those are some things you may know pretty well from the dossier you read."

Guilliman listened closely, noting the careful, practiced tone of a man who had explained his story many times but rarely with any personal investment. There was something almost clinical about it, as though Sulla spoke of another person’s life, not his own.

“But what if this time I want to hear it from you? You’ve seen how Imperial documents tend to fail at… ” his head reviewed term after term, not finding the correct one. “... capturing the true soul of things.” No, that still wasn’t the correct word he had in mind.

“Want to capture my soul my lord?” The question sounded innocent enough but there was an underlying tone in it that Guilliman couldn’t decipher, and there was that weird heat again. He looked at the ventilation system intake, he may need to order getting it checked around the ship.

"I’ve kept contact with my family, of course," Ovidious continued. "I know of them; their names, their lives, what they are up to, but it feels… distant. I speak our planet’s language, but my accent is wrong. It’s more like that of an immigrant just learning."

He sighed softly, face dragging a cheek on the window, a rare crack in the formal veneer he always maintained. Guilliman could see the tension in his shoulders, the discomfort of a man who found himself between two worlds but fully belonging to neither.

"They..." Sulla hesitated for a brief moment, his voice softening. "They have managed to send me some family pictures a couple times despite me ranting to them about the expenses they would have had to pay.” he paused “They look similar to me, you know? I have my mother’s nose and my father’s eyes. The silhouette of an identical jawline or the copy of the same mouth, but… it feels mismatched. Like I do not truly belong among them. Our expressions, our way of dressing, our body language. I often find myself thinking how I am as alien to them as the xenos we fight.”

As Guilliman processed those words, the sense of isolation that echoed in the man’s tone struck something deep within him. His brothers; his fellow Primarchs, had always been different, Jaghatai’s untamable soul, Lorgar’s zeal, Magnus’ lust for knowledge, Dorn’s stoicism… All connected by the same ‘father’ but with such different cultures and upbringings, views on… everything. Guilliman had always been the builder of empires, the one who sought to create something lasting amid the destruction. But that had always set him apart, even from his family.

For a moment, Guilliman felt the weight of his own disconnection pressing down on him. He was the son of the Emperor, a symbol for the Imperium; but what did that truly mean now? What did he represent, truly, in this new age where even the Emperor was but a fractured consciousness on the Golden Throne? And in many ways, like Ovidious, he too had been taken away from what he might have been, forced into roles and responsibilities that left little room for a personal identity.

Against his better judgment, Guilliman spoke, his voice quiet and more vulnerable than he intended.

"I know something of what you mean, Sulla. I... have found myself a stranger, too. To my family. To this galaxy. To the Imperium I once sought to guide. And now this new… nightmarish place I woke up after 10,000 years, it has made me feel even more stranded. It can be, just as you had said, as alien to me as the xenos we fight." There was a beat of silence as he realized how much he had revealed, more than he ever intended. He quickly retracted, stiffening his posture and returning to a more formal tone. "But that is neither here nor there. We all have our roles to play."

But Ovidious the always perceptive, though, had caught the shift, he had over the months learned how to hear the unspoken truth beneath Guilliman's words, and his now attempt to return to professionalism. There was a pause as he weighed his response, his honey gaze studying Guilliman who pretended to ignore it. With a soft but steady voice, Ovid spoke.

"You can always talk to me if you wish, my Lord. You always know where to find me, anyways." His smile was short and sheepish. “Or don’t, silence is also fine."

Guilliman looked at him, the words sinking in, more comforting than he expected. It was such a simple offer, but it carried with it something profound. In the vastness of his duties, his responsibilities, and the expectations placed upon him, someone had quietly and earnestly offered him a space to simply be himself. It was disarming, and Guilliman found himself, for a moment, unsure how to respond.

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging the offer without fully committing to it.

"Thank you, Sulla," he said, his voice measured. "I will... keep that in mind."

“Just Ovidious is fine, at least when it is just the two of us.” the redhead interjected shily “Or Ovid, as you prefer.” he paused, the conflict on his expression showing the want of maybe taking back the words. "Only if you wish, my Lord."

Guilliman’s eyes flickered back at the unexpected offer. There was a subtle shift in his expression, a moment where his formal exterior cracked just slightly, and his gaze met Ovidius’ with a hint of warmth that hadn’t been there before. The offer, much like the earlier one to talk, was an invitation. It was Ovidius offering Guilliman a small sliver of normalcy; something human, something grounded. And Guilliman realized how much he longed for that, how much he needed someone who wasn’t just a subordinate or a follower but someone he could connect with, even in these brief, stolen moments.

“Just Roboute then, at least when it is just the two of us.” he proposed in exchange before realizing what he was saying, to his and Ovid’s surprise.

Ovidius froze, his gaze hovering over the galaxy outside, eyes then lifting slowly to meet Guilliman’s. The air between them suddenly felt charged, as if a sacred boundary had been crossed. Guilliman felt it too, the weight of what he had just said sinking in. But he didn’t backtrack. Instead, after a brief, tense pause, he added quietly:

“Only if you wish… Ovidious.”

For a moment, Ovidius looked as if he didn’t quite believe what he had heard.

"Roboute?" he repeated, as if trying out the name, feeling the weight of it.

"You don’t have to," Guilliman quickly added, sensing the weight of his own words and the surprise in Ovidius’ expression. He felt vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries.

But Ovidius’ eyes softened, and he smiled, a small, genuine smile.

"If that’s what you wish and not because you feel obliged to," he said gently, "Roboute."

Hearing his own name spoken like that, without the weight of command behind it, sent an unfamiliar shiver down Guilliman’s spine. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it; being called by his name, not his titles. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his composure slipping ever so slightly.

"Yes," he replied, his voice low and steady, "I think... I would like that."

And with that, the space between them felt different. Less rigid. More human. Ovidius went back to observing the galaxy, but the atmosphere had shifted.. Guilliman, for the first time in a long while, felt the warmth of genuine companionship. They spent a long while sitting in silence, observing the stars go by. It wasn’t uncomfortable nor bothersome, just for this moment he was immersed in a moment that didn’t expect anything out of him. The space around them seemed to shrink, the distant stars fading into the background as he focused back into the man.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Guilliman said, his voice a husky whisper, laden with unspoken emotions.

“One of my functions is to lessen your burden, my Lo… Roboute.” they held their gazes in silence again. “Are you ready to return?”

“Are you ready to guide me again?” What made it ask that question? He had a superhuman mind and was capable of memorizing entire books in seconds, Ovidious also knew it, remembering the couple turns they took on the ship was nothing for him.

“So apart from me needing to save you from the oh so horrible plastek flimsies every time you have to wear that armor, does it make it now that I have to guide you through your own ship?” He stood up and grabbed Guilliman by the Hand of Dominion, having to use both of his to even grip it properly due to its sheer size. “Just this once, don’t get used to it.”

#fanfic #warhamer 40000 #my writing #roboute guilliman #roboute guilliman x male!oc #wh40k oc #m!oc #fluff #pining #primarch headcanon #primarch

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