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theangrycomet · 3 years

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This was supposed to be an easy mission- get in the mad scientist’s lair, download files, maybe blow some stuff up, and get out.

They would have gotten away with it too if it hadn’t been for the final line of defense.

Who would have thought a villain of this caliber would have been so old school as to set up a trapdoor connected to his desk top?

“You know, I’m surprised the Bodegamen of all people sent such amateurs to infiltrate my place.” He mused, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense before walking back towards the computer. “I’m a little hurt actually.”

The Glowsticks were now, much to their fury, tied up. Hung up like meat in a butcher shop, they dangled by their feet. Glaring at him, they exchanged short, scheming looks as they fidgeted with the rope.

The villain in question lounged in his chair, ignoring them as he tried to figure out what the heck was going on with his computer. His intern was on the other end of the room on another computer, doing something likely malicious.

“Where’s Fink when you need her?” The villain mumbled, clicking around the screen as the three realized they were being IGNORED.

“Uh hello- heroes tied up and seemingly in a stitch?” Jordan drawled, eyebrow raised (or lowered? They were upside down after all). “This is your cue for an evil scheme monologue?”

“Dr. Feakins, help me out with this.”

“One second, sir.” Crossing the room, her heels snapped against the linoleum like a BB gun. Roman shuddered as she passed, a wave of nausea washed over his stomach.

“Okay seriously- who uses rope anymore!” Jordan griped, pulling at the taut twine to no avail. Even with her strength, she couldn’t beat it without leverage which she was tragically lacking.

All she earned for her efforts were a pair of chafed wrists. Casting a longing glance at her sword, her mouth twisted downwards- or rather, upwards- into a frown as she groaned. “Ugh- why didn’t dad let me have that knife gauntlet Bismuth made!”

“I told you- you should’ve asked your mom first.” Roman muttered half-heartedly. Ugh, the feeling wasn’t going away.

What was going on? He never got sick.

He bit his lip, staring suspiciously at the redhead now typing at the computer. Feakins... Where’d he hear that before?

Kaiden, per norm, was too busy analyzing their surroundings for quips, much less questions. He was focused on analyzing all that he saw within the recesses of the lab.He could just see the corners of his eyes narrowed as they flicked about, taking in everything and putting the pieces together.

Personally, he was wondering how his friend could even concentrate with the blood rush.

“A Gempiran weapon might have helped you escape this one.” The villain straightened up from his computer, now that Feakins was at the station.

He shrugged, smugly picking up the sword beside him.

“This is lovely craftsmanship.” Weighing it in his hand, he played with the balance.Taking a few playful swipes, his form wasn’t half bad. Jordan noted the signs of a rusty swordsman who’d let himself get out of practice.

“Too bad I’ll never see it in action.” He mused, threat thick in the air.

“Oh don’t worry Professor Venomous-” Thick brows furrowing, she smirked- oozing confidence. “I’ll make sure you get a close up when we kick your butt.”

“Uhuh.” Rolling his eyes, Venomous replaced the sword against the wall. “Let me guess, your little EVO friend’s gonna help you.”

Jordan glanced as well as she could at the jacketed hero. Though she couldn’t see a lot, what she could worried her.

A miserable grimace twisted across his significantly paler face. Sweat had broken across his brow and dripped into his hairline. Shaking like a leaf, he looked close to passing out.

An oddly familiar crooked grin stretch itself across the mans lips at Roman’s discomfort before he nodded to the intern, still working on the computer.

“Nice work, Feakins.”

“Always here to help, sir.” Came her chipper reply as she undid the damage of their flash drive.

Meandering over, he went to the third Glowstick, who had yet to break his silence during this little exchange. No complaints, no smart aleck remarks.

Just a mouth set in a flat line beneath (or really above) a pair of dark shades.

“Well you’ve been quiet,” he drawled, leaning on the the railing amused. Poking his chest, he watched the hero swing back and forth lazily. “Got any last words for me, blondie?”

Kaiden glared, glasses slipping up his nose.

And than he smirked, fang peeking of from his upper lip.

“Last words?” Raising an eyebrow, his head band shifted, loosening a bit. It didn’t help that his glasses were slipping with them, catching on the pink material. “Awfully bold for a snake as out of the game as yourself.”

Venomous scoffed, opening his mouth to make some sort of counter argument. And than he stopped.

Kaiden expected a sort of superior expression- like a cat might make after knocking your coffee mug onto your laptop. Instead, he looked…

Surprised?

Purple eyes blinked at each other, Kaiden’s narrowed in challenge as Venomous’ widened in revelation. Whipping his arm out, he snatched Kaiden’s glasses, knocking the headband loose. It headband fluttered indignantly to the floor.

“Wha- HEY!” Blinking at the abrupt change in lighting in clarity, he was soon squinting angrily at the big purple-grey blur before him. “Give those back!”

“Dude- did you just take his glasses?” Roman exclaimed, immediately regretting opening his mouth as Dr. Feakins approached. His stomach lurched as his body was slammed with a cold flash.

“Okay that’s just low!” Jordan instinctively reached for Kaiden’s spares in her pocket, only to be painfully reminded of the rope digging at her skin. “Ugh, jerk.”

Staring at Kaiden’s features- his proud nose, high cheekbones, set jaw- the more he looked the more everything screamed him. How had he not seen it immediately- it was all right there. Even the eyes were the same- though Kaiden’s were far more guarded than he were at this age.

The hero in question, was more than a little thrown off at the intensity of his gaze- lessened in the blur that was his less than exceptional vision.

Kaiden wasn’t going to lie; taking his glasses? Incredibly smart move on Venomous’ part. Now not only did the professor impede his sight, he also allowed himself to see where Kaiden was going to strike.

That is, if Venomous had that combat experience to follow the eye.

He wasn’t sure if the man did.

A small seed of doubt worried into his mind as a realization struck him. Normally between the his research, POW card knowledge, and the numerous stories told by his family and friends, Kaiden had a good idea of what to expect with any prominent villain.

But Professor Venomous?

He knew nothing about him, outside of no one willing to talk to him about the guy. Only what he had observed in the last 10 minutes. Unless he figured out a plan, they might be screwed.

Venomous broke into laughter, as though reading his mind, and startling the others.

“Oh this is RICH. You three aren’t supposed to be on this mission- does anyone even know you’re here?” He asked, amused.

“Of course they do.” Kaiden lied through his teeth.

“Liar.” Walking around him, he gestured with the captured shades. “KO would drop dead before sending you to me.”

KO? How did Venomous know to call him KO as opposed to Knock Out? What was his father’s name doing so flippantly in the villain’s mouth? Venomous said his Dad’s name with such casualness- most said it with nerves strung tight in their voice.

With Venomous, it was as though he knew his Dad personally...

“You won’t see the irony here,” Tilting his head, he leaned to the side to get a better view of Kaiden’s face, noting the little necklace dangling at his throat, balance precariously on his jaw. “-but I’m actually supposed to be having my anniversary dinner with my husband in a few hours so you three making an appearance is hilarious.”

“Oh congratulations!” Jordan beamed automatically before scowling. “Wait, no you have us hog tied!- I revoke my congratulations.”

“What irony?” Ignoring her, Kaiden twisted to face him- suspicion pinching his features before settling into a mask of indifference. “The only thing I see is a fuzzy purple raisen about to get his butt whooped.”

“Aw, the little hero making threats? I’m shaking in my boots.”

“You should be.” Venomous’ eyes lit up with intrigue as a volt of violet electricity sparked jaggedly down the teen’s arm.

Venomous leaned down in front of Kaiden with a wicked grin.

“Tell you what, sport. I’ll cut you and your little friends some slack. I’ll just skip to straight to the psychological and emotional torment today.”

“What?”

“You’re lieing.” Jordan said flatly.

“And pray tell-” Roman’s teeth chattered, as Freakins handed a remote to Venomous with out a word- still at the computer. “how exactly are you going to do that?”

“Easy. Shipping you back to the Plaza with out so much as a scratch on you and showing that you three aren’t even worth the time and effort of a bored villain well into his retirement to properly defeat.” he shrugged easily. “Not too flattering on a heroes image.

The two grimaced as Kaiden frowned.

That didn’t make any sense. Just a few minutes ago Kaiden was certain he’d do something. he’d be threatening them with experiments and dissections and the like. Stooping down to mere embarrassing teenagers before their peers? Sure, it was low and would send most other heroes-in-training’s self-confidence and egos spiraling down the drain.

But it was not exactly threatening.

There had to be another angle- what was it? What could PV possibly gain by letting them go?

Kaiden frowned as the nauseating presence of the intern finally got to the EVO.

“Roman?!” The two were sidetracked as Roman heaved. Shuddering, he coughed as his throat burned with bile.

“You okay?”

“I TOLD you snack machine sushi was a bad idea!”

Venomous rolled his eyes as he pressed a button on the remote.

“Ugh it’s in my sinuses!”

“Aw buddy-”

“AAH!”

A large Box rose from the floor and opened up beneath them. The ropes were cut and they fell screaming into it- lid snapping tight behind them.

The Box was still for a moment before it writhed back and forth with the Glowsticks outrage. He could just here Kaiden’s shouts above the others.

“Fight me Venomous!”

A smile tugged at his mouth as the portal opened beneath the Box, sucking it away to be delivered at the Plaza.

Watching them disappear, Venomous leaned back on the railing, pondering.

#CN Gen 2 #Ok KO Let's be Heroes #Ok KO #Professor Venomous #Kaiden Kincaid #Generator Rex #Roman Salazar #Felicity Feakins #Steven Universe #Jordan Universe #OC Lore #AU Lore #TheAngryComet ART #TheAngryComet Writes #Posting here beacuse my Ask's never seem to show up in the tags

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shirtlesssammy · 4 years

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3x04: Sin City

Then:

Dean killed Azazel

Now:

A nun wanders an empty church, replacing hymnals. The priest finds her and offers to walk her to her car. They both find a parishioner in the balcony who gets their attention by announcing that “God’s not with us.” He then shoots himself in the head. Ooof.

While Dean and Bobby work on the Colt, Sam informs them that he’s found sightings of demonic omens. Bobby stays behind to figure out how the Colt works while Dean and Sam take off for Ohio and the new case.

Interviewing the priest, the brothers learn that things changed in the town about two months prior --the same time they opened the devil’s gate.

The brothers then head to their motel room, where Dean runs into an old hunter friend, Richie. They banter and then they all talk shop. Whatever’s happening, doesn’t make sense. (Sidenote: Dean’s pumped that the room has Magic Fingers. Yay, bby) Dean asks about anyone in town whose whole personality has changed. Richie answers, “There’s Trotter.” He’ll be at his bar in a couple hours.

The town is anything but a boarded up factory town. It’s got coeds as far as the eye can see, and Dean’s ready to do some research. Trotter’s Bar is the epicenter of debauchery. They find the priest there.

Sam wonders what the padre is doing there. He goes where the flock is.

Dean then gets to flirt mildly with the bartender and fun fact: He likes Hurricanes. I feel like this is one part of Dean’s personality not explored in later seasons. Let the boy drink his fruity drinks, 202K!

Before anyone can react, a man walks in and shoots another man dead.

Dean tackles the assailant before he can off himself. Sam throws holy water on him, but he’s not possessed. The man admits that the victim slept with his wife. (Sam sees Dana Scully’s dad from across the bar. Man, things are REALLY WEIRD here.) (Natasha: Nooo he’s the general from Stargate!)

The cops later take the man away and tell Sam and Dean that the paper will be there shortly to take their pictures.

That’s the brothers’ cue to leave. Dean wonders where Richie is before they take off.

Richie is with the bartender. She’s taken him to her parent’s country estate. It’s secluded and has toys. Just when things are getting interesting for poor Richie, the bartender reveals she’s really a demon, and she knows he’s a hunter. WHERPS. He tries attacking, but she snaps his neck in two seconds flat. Richie!

Later at the bar, Dean forgoes eating his burger to track down the missing Richie. Sam decides to follow Trotter.

Bobby, meanwhile, is getting the Colt back into fighting shape. Ruby shows up and taunts him to test out the Colt. He does. The aim is true but the bullets aren’t right. She offers to help him with the gun.

The brothers practice seriously dangerous cell phone usage (Seriously Sammy? You didn’t put it on silent? Seriously Dean? You’re driving while not hands free? UGH.)

Dean’s back at the bar and a prostitute approaches him for a discounted good time. Dean doesn’t pay. (Or is that Sam? IDK, neither of them have to pay. Have you seen them!?) The bartender is back at work and saw the whole thing. It doesn’t deter her that Dean struck out with a prostitute and they head out for fun times elsewhere.

Sam watches Dana Scully’s dad leave his office and heads in himself to investigate. Dana Scully’s Dad Trotter appears again and there’s a slight tussle before Sam realizes that he’s also not a demon. Sam awkwardly realizes his mistake and makes his exit. Sweet dumb boy.

Dean, meanwhile, is heading down the same path as his dead buddy Richie. Dean’s no dummy though and sets up a devil’s trap. He pulls out his Latin book to exorcise her back to Hell. He doesn’t have it memorized yet and she starts up a demon wind machine. He loses the pages AND the basement door caves in. Worst Date Ever.

Later, Dean explores his new prison to the amusement of the demon trapped with him. She mocks him openly for not having an exorcism memorized.

The demon taunts Dean expertly. Dean Bean’s offended at being labeled the dumb one and I am OFFENDED on his behalf! They wait to see whose rescue is going to arrive first - Dean’s or hers.

Sam frets at the bar over his missing brother, and bribes the bartender for his whereabouts.

Meanwhile, Dean and the demon’s snarkfest marathon continues. She tells him that she didn’t even have to engage in mystical hijinks to send people in town into an evil tailspin. All she had to do was drop a few suggestions about the profit of vice to Trotter and humans took care of the rest. She describes humans as weak and corrupt.

For Constantly Weak for Dean Winchester and SYMBOLISM Science:

Sam heads inside her (other) house and finds sulfur. The game is afoot!

Meanwhile, Dean and the demon enjoy a little philosophical exchange. “Do you believe in God, Dean?” she asks him while I chew my own arm off. She sets up the apocalyptic battle from the demon perspective. Humans have wrought carnage on their world, so it’s the demons’ turn to “do it right this time.”

Sam’s back at the bar again, calling Bobby to report that he can’t find Dean. I guess the game is...not so afoot after all. The bartender offers him booze before downing a shot himself and, frustrated with the townsfolk, Sam zeroes in on the priest who’s still hanging out in the bar.

Demon Casey tells Dean that she’s faithful to Lucifer, light-bringer and the one who will raise demons up. She’s a believer. Dean oh-so-casually asks what Hell is like and the BRAVADO masking the FEAR! Jensen Ackles, your face hurts me sometimes.

For HURTSSSSS MEEE Science:

She sees right through him. “It’s a pit of despair,” she tells him frankly. “Why do you think we want to come here?”

Sam, meanwhile, is involved in a terribly awkward discussion with the priest at the bar. He’s worried about his brother and thinks he might be…..in trouble. The priest offers to bring Sam to Casey. His eyes turn black as he turns away from Sam.

The demon and Dean have settled into a friendly heart to heart at this point. She tells him that she actually likes him and thinks he did something good when he sold his soul to save Sam.

Dean tries to laugh off her real talk. He thinks it’s freeing to be damned - he can live his life any way he wants now. He’s totally not scared at all. Not at all!!!

The demon riding the priest interrogates Sam, asking him about his aspirations for the future. Yeah! Why aren’t ya in college, Sam!

Dean and Demon Casey continue to bond, and the scene takes the tone of a couple kids just chilling in the basement talking about life. Which is...actually sort of accurate.

Casey tells Dean that Yellow Eyes, a.k.a. Azazel, had a plan to bring the minions of Hell to Earth, but Dean killing him put a significant wrench in those plans. She tells him that Sam was supposed to lead the demon army. Uh. Wherps. Instead of Sam, there’s a power vacuum in Hell. Demons everywhere are fighting for the crown. “For the record,” she tells him, “I was ready to follow Sam.” And damn, if I don’t get the feeling that Dean likes her a little better because of that.

Sam and his demon priest arrive. Dean issues a warning to Sam, but Sammy doesn’t have to worry because Bobby shows up with the Colt! Bobby hands off the gun to Sam, Ruby smirking in the background. The priest breaks into the basement and smashes through the devil’s trap holding Demon Casey in. They kiss while Dean looks on in surprise.

Surprise, Dean! They’ve been lovers for centuries! Casey begs the demon priest for Dean’s life and it gives just enough delay for Sam to shoot the priest with the Colt. The priest flashes out. Dean tries to stop Sam from killing Demon Casey but Sam shoots. She flashes out as well. Remember, kids, there’s no room for love on Supernatural unless it’s DOOMED LOVE.

The next morning, Dean tries to figure out what they actually won from this hunt. There are two demons dead and one alive - and very bad - human. “Maybe these people wanna destroy themselves. Maybe it is a losing battle,” Dean opines to Bobby. He notes that Sam’s dispatch of both demons was “cold” and brings up Azazel’s words to him: When Sam came back, he might have come back different. They both agree (halfheartedly) that Sam is doing FINE and is definitely not at all concerning.

Sam and Ruby meet up in a hotel room. Sam’s suffering regrets and calls Ruby a “cold bitch.” She takes issue with this assessment, particularly since she’s saved his life a few times. I mean, knowing about Ruby aside, I fully agree here. Fun fact! The word “bitch” was used four times in this episode! Ruby continues to dangle the hope that she might be able to help save Dean from his deal. Sam levels the Colt at her.

Sam threatens to kill her, but it’s just empty words. Ruby warns him that the fight ahead won’t be easy, but she’ll be there by his side. A little “fallen angel” on his shoulder. (Shakes my head at this goddamn show.)

Where Everybody Knows Your Quotes:

Toys trump oils

A demon with a heart. Wow

You don't get it. All you got to do is nudge humans in the right direction

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #bobby singer #ruby #spn 3x04 #sin city #supernatural season 2

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bibliocratic · 5 years

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For @babtest, who asked for the prompt: Martin showing normal, genuine human anger.

Jon/Martin, set in a nebulous post-160 AU. Cws in the tags.

“And if you want me to call – ”

“I know, I'll send a message.”

“And if you don't feel safe, or you want out of there, there doesn't have to be a reason – ”

“Jon.”

“I'll have the phone on me in case – ”

“Jon,” Martin snaps, and his voice is saw-toothed, edged with an irritation that serves as a defensive carapace to his nerves. “It's – it's fine, he's probably not going to be there anyway, this whole thing is going to be a waste, s-so would you please stop fussing, for – ” He releases a grunt of annoyance but tries to muster some calm, breathing with heavy huffing sounds. “I just need... this bloody Christ, this tie – ”

Martin's made a knot-eyed strangle-hold mess of it in his rush, and he tugs angrily at it, making it worse.

“Do you want me to – ?”

“No, I don't! Would you just let me do it! God forbid I be able to do it myself.”

Martin's voice raises to a shout that dips into a hollow of passive aggressive sniping. Jon stills, steps back from where he's been moving into Martin's space and crowding him, and tries not too feel too hurt, pushes down the knee-jerk cutting responses that will neither be helpful or deserved.

Martin tussles with the tie for a few more vicious seconds, his smart shirt having been tucked, untucked and re-tucked again and taking on a rumpled, disturbed pattern. He finally breathes out again, a heavy, weighted breath, closing his eyes. He takes a few calculated, noticeably deeper inhales and exhales that Jon recognises as the deep breathing his therapist taught him. Jon lets him tide through it.

“I'm sorry for snapping,” Martin says lowly, roughly. “I didn't mean – I'm not handling this very well. That's no reason to take it out on you.”

“Considering how many times I was short with you, you probably still have a surplus until we're even close to equal,” Jon replies, trying for levity. Martin wrings the abused tie miserably in his hands, and Jon wishes that this was easier, that this wasn't drawing out all of Martin's embedded poisons, his anxieties he's long laboured to conquer.

“Can you – Will you help? With the tie?” Martin says in a smaller voice, and Jon takes a step into Martin's unhappy orbit, and removes it gently from his hands.

“Of course,” he replies. “If you want to wear it. But you – Martin, you look good without it. And you hate ties.”

The last time he'd worn one was at his mum's funeral, Jon both knows and Knows. He hadn't been able to tie it then either.

“I want – ” Martin says, looking frustrated when the words don't come as easily as he desires. “It looks professional, yeah? Smart? I don't want to look – do I look like I'm, I dunno, trying too hard? It's – huh – it's only a cafe, right, not the bloody Ritz or something – will it, do you think it'll look too desperate?”

Jon touches Martin's arm with his hand. Martin's fidgeting with his shirt sleeves, the buttons at the cuffs, keeps tugging them down like he's worried they're not long enough. He twists and twists and twists his wedding ring and bleeds out nerves like a weather front stagnating in fog, and Jon selfishly wants him to cancel.

“You'll look fine,” he replies. “Smart, and put-together. And I'll think you look handsome, but that's by the by.” That coaxes Martin's lips to twitch. “But you don't... you don't have to wear it, if it's going to... if you're uncomfortable in it. Especially if you think not wearing it will make him disapprove or some nonsense.”

Martin huffs a sound that's the verbal equivalent of a long-suffering eye-roll.

“Spooky mind-reader strikes again, huh.”

“Fear my psychic powers,” Jon dead-pans, and Martin chuffs another one of those aborted half-laughs. Then, quieter, softer. “Want me to help with it?”

“I – I think I'll leave it,” Martin responds finally, with a nod to himself. “It's a Costa anyway, I'm just going to look like a hipster anyway in this shirt.”

“It's that and the beard,” Jon agrees, rubbing his hand at the thick scratchy weave of it until Martin bats his hand away with a 'get off you'. “Do you need your umbrella?”

“ 's only ten minutes down the road, should be alright.”

“You get caught in a downpour, it's your own fault.”

Martin's lips do actually quirk in a smile then, finding the grooves of their light-hearted bickering as a comforting oft-replayed melody.

“Your compassion never ceases to astound me.”

“You didn't have to marry me.”

“Not like any one else was going to do the job.”

“How noble and public-spirited of you.”

Jon kisses Martin's lips briefly, raising himself up on socked tip-toes. Martin's hand slots into his, faintly trembling.

“Whatever you decide, I'll support your decision,” he says in the tight woven space of their bodies. “Even if this isn't what you want, or even if it is.”

Martin nods, and returns a dry, bristly kiss in return before he heads out.

It starts spitting with rain not a minute later.

Jon has not been blessed with an abundance of patience. Martin's meeting is at half two, but he checks his phone at obsessive intervals, watching the screen lighten and the clock on analogue mode work through the grinding seconds. In case Martin's changed his mind. In case he wants out, doesn't want to do this. In case he was stood up, or is sat alone because there was some problem with traffic, or, or, or.

Jon, half-heartedly, tries a great number of things to distract himself, and to avoid any instances of Knowing. After an hour, he's given channel-hopping a go – watching five minutes of a mid-afternoon western, and then ten minutes of a reality show about buying houses on the coast and renovating them. (Martin loves these types of programmes, and in the spirit of them is trying to doggedly renovate the front hall. Meaning that any time Jon wants to go to the front door, he has to pick his way over old blankets thrown down to protect the flooring from paint drips, Martin's small forest of tester pots and paint pots and drying brushes).

Martin's got a window seat – the window misted with condenseness, some child has imprinted a pudgy hand as a calling card – has ordered a mocha – over-sugared, tacky in his mouth, he regrets the choice immediately –

SHUT UP, Jon fumes at himself, and tries to read, manages a few pages before he's struck with the frisson of Martin's spiking anxiety every time the ding of the cafe door pipes up, and stomps into the kitchen to occupy his mind by making himself an unappetizing lunch that he doesn't even want to eat.

His phone remains silent. Jon fights the powerful urge to send a brief check-up message, a little everything going ok? but stops himself. Martin's going to have enough on his plate.

Jon frets and waits for him to come home.

–

There's the plaintive squeak of the front gate (Martin will need to oil it again), and Jon sits up from where he's been petting the cat and poorly playing one of Martin's hand-held console games. He's been on the same level for about an hour now, and stubbornness is preventing him from giving it up as a lost cause.

The pad of two footsteps.

“You've – the flowers are nice. That you've got growing.”

“Thanks. It's not really – it's more Jon than me. He's pretty green-fingered.” The footsteps peter out. “So – er, well, this is me, heh. Close by.”

“Time really flew, huh.”

“Yeah. T-thanks for the, thanks for the coffee – ”

“Don't mention – ”

“ – and for the walk back – ”

“ – You can keep the umbrella, if you – ”

“N-no, it's, it's fine.”

The conversation stalls and splutters like an engine with the wrong fuel. Jon's moved out into the hallway, the cat restless but demanding in his arms, and sees the blurred bulk of Martin's stiff shoulders in the frosted glass pane of their front door, set high like he's shoved his hands into his pockets.

Jon skirts around the paint pots to get nearer.

“So,” the other voice – and it's so similar, strikes the same gulleys and furrows, the stop-and-start of thoughts eking their way out into expression, and it wrong-foots Jon to hear it, the ill-matching echo of it. “I – I'll see you again? If you, that is – I really liked... It was good. To catch up, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, and he sounds wrung out, straining on some mental rack he's internalised. “It was. Yeah. It was good to see you.”

“You want to do coffee again, sometime?”

“I – er. Maybe. Maybe.”

The first fuzz of hurt creeps to moss over the over-eager nervousness of the other voice. “Oh. Er, yeah. S-sure. That's... it's not a problem. Why, why maybe?”

Martin's hackles go up defensively. “I'm not sure, alright?”

“Was everything ok?”

“I guess relatively?”

“What's that mean?”

“Relatively as in, it's been thirty years, there's a few things to iron out after all that. Hence the, y'know, the maybe.”

“Right,” comes the response. “I am – you know I am trying here.”

Martin's voice goes low and flat and judgemental.

“And how long until you lose interest this time?”

There's a punch of silence. The cat buts against Jon's chin. Through the vague blurring of the glass, Martin shifts in that way of his, when he says something he wishes he hasn't, but he makes no move to take it back.

Half beseeching, half reproachful: “That's not fair, Marty.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“It's Martin,” Martin replies, blistering with something bubbling to the forefront. “It's Martin, not Marty. I'm not – I'm not a child any more, so you can just – just drop that.” He scoffs a breath, and it's hard and hurt and deliberate. “And no, it wasn't fair. But neither was you leaving. So guess we're equal.”

“I – I tried to explain,” the other man starts, a heat of his own starting to shade indignant.

“And it was bollocks – ”

“It's the truth!”

“It wasn't good enough!”

“Your mother, she was – ”

“She was ill! She was sick and you knew, you knew she was just going to get sicker, and so you cut your losses and you legged it.”

“It wasn't like that – ”

“I was eight!” Martin snarls, and there's no pausing in his words any more, no careful consideration, it's a scatter-gun of words he's had secured in his chest for a long time now. “What the fuck sort of parent leaves an eight year old in that sort of house, with that sort of responsibility? What the hell kind of a life did you think I'd have?!”

“She had – you had aunts and uncles! They were, nearby, they were always cluttering up the house, popping round. I thought – I thought if, when she got really bad, they'd take you in!”

“She cut everyone out! What a stupid – you knew her! She hated anything that felt like pity, she was proud and she didn't want anyone to see her as she got worse. You think she'd have accepted someone implying she couldn't care for her son? No. And eventually it was – it was only us, and you know what, she hated me for it. Because I looked so much like you! Because everything I did, everything I ever did was just a reminder of how much she hated you for leaving.”

“I didn't – ” The response is regret-mired, apologetic, but Martin doesn't want to hear it. “I couldn't have known that...”

“No,” Martin replies, his voice all venom and hurt. “But it's not like you checked, did you? Pop in, see how I was doing. A visit o-or a letter in the post, o-or something! Christ, you didn't even come to the bloody funeral!”

“I.. No one told me! I found out she'd... she'd passed about a month back. I swear, Marty – Martin, sorry. I swear, I didn't know.”

“And now here you are.”

“I wanted to – I wanted to make amends! To be a better, a better father to you.”

“I'm nearly forty, dad,” Martin snipes unkindly, his throat thick. “What makes you think I need you now?” He sniffs, his words damper than he'd like. “Thirty years is a long time to wait to try and play happy families again.”

“Martin, I. Look, I had a lot of problems. Back then. For a long time. I'm not saying them as an excuse – ”

“Then don't say them,” Martin cuts him off. “I don't – I don't want to hear them. I... just. Don't.”

The conversation dies abruptly. There's a horrible, terminal sort of quiet to it.

“I'm going to go,” Martin says, his tone sanded down to quiet exhaustion. “I've got – Jon'll be waiting and I – I can't do this any more.”

“Right,” Kenneth Blackwood replies with an equal tone. “I'm staying, I'm nearby if you want to – I hope to see you again, Martin.”

Martin doesn't reply. Jon has enough warning of the looming shadow in the door to skitter back as Martin uses his key to twist the lock open.

His face is ruddy, splotchy with patches of red. His eyes wet.

“Guess you heard some of that, yeah?” he bites out bitterly on seeing Jon, tugging off his coat.

“Some,” Jon admits honestly, and Martin shakes his head like he's trying to knock something loose, throws his coat over the banister head, pulling off his scarf and balling it up and chucking it in the corner by the door like it's wronged him.

“What a fucking – It was a mistake, I knew I knew it was a bad idea, me and my stupid bloody – playing the bleeding heart idiot again as per fucking usual.”

“Did it, did go badly?” Jon asks, putting the cat down and skirting the edges of Martin's return, watching him pull off his shoes unlaced and slam them into the shoe pile into the corner.

“Absolutely fabulous!” he responds with a false bitter cheer that tinges yellowed and sick. He's not calming down. His hand threading through his hair, his face continuing to redden with an angry heat, eyes welling up. “He's so bloody sincere and apologetic and what the – what am I supposed to do with that now? Where were all his sorries then, where was he when I wanted to hear them?”

Martin plows on, clearly not wanting answers.

“A-and he was so interested, wanted to see our wedding pictures, and kept asking so so many questions like it was a job interview or something – what are you doing? What do you like doing? What are your hobbies? How long have you and Jon been together? – a-and, like, I couldn't help thinking that it's none of his – he wasn't there, he doesn't get to be all friendly like he didn't just walk out. And! And then!” Martin's voice rises to a furious damp crest, throwing his hands about. “Then he wants to share! He had pictures on him and his new wife and new kids – a-and mum, she always, she always said he hadn't wanted a family, hadn't wanted to be a dad, didn't want the responsibility that'd fall on him when she got sick. But he was so happy! So I don't – what am I meant to think of that? I don't know, I mean, was it lies she told me, how much was the truth, and how much did she twist like she did everything else?”

Martin sniffs loudly. “He got married a year after he left mum, and they're still together. His other kids are finishing uni or they've got cushy jobs in the financial district, and h-he was showing me and he sounded so... god, he was so proud of them.” Martin wipes at his eyes. “S-so that's, that's just great.”

“Martin...” Jon starts, despairing, listening to the croak in his voice, the way it keeps catching, the hitching jagged rise of his breathing.

“No. No, don't you get it, it's clear as fucking crystal. Because he wanted a family, yeah, he wanted kids he could dote on and take to the park and play football with. He just didn't want me, did he? And what the hell was s-so wrong with me?! I wasn't – I wasn't a bad kid, I was quiet and I kept out of trouble, and there's no, no reason he couldn't have taken me with him when he left. S-so what was so wrong with me?” Martin's shoulders are starting to shake. “Why – why wasn't I enough for him?”

Jon surges in as Martin bursts into angry bitter tears. Sobbing into Jon's jumper, fisting his hands into the hem of it, repeating snatches of recrimination and confusion over and over. Jon tries to tell him that he's enough, that he's always been enough, that he's so so loved, but Martin can't hear over his own hitching breaths, the sea swell of his grief.

Jon just holds him and waits for the tide to go out.

–

The doorbell rings around nine o'clock, and Jon Knows who's at the door.

Martin stirs under the twisted covers with a questioning noise, but Jon shushes him.

“It's the postman,” he lies. “I'll get it.”

Martin hums.

“Put the kettle on?” he asks sleepily, as though he won't be back snoring in a minute. Jon promises he will regardless, manoeuvring himself out of the heat-packed bed and Martin's loose grip, slipping on his slippers and a shirt.

He opens the door with his most imperious of gazes already set on his face.

Martin is there. Or, a man uncanny in resemblance. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like Martin does, has the same nervous twitch in the flutter of his hands. His skin is more weathered, maybe, has built up a collection of lines Martin hasn't sourced out just yet, a further progression to the receding hairline that's beginning to retreat back at Martin's temples.

“I – um, is Martin in?”

“Yes.”

“Can – would I be able to – ?”

“No,” Jon replies. “He's still asleep.”

It's taken for the denial it's meant to be. Kenneth Blackwood makes an 'oh, right' with the same ringing nervous cast to his movements that Martin had when he first came to the Archives.

“It's...” he starts tentatively, and politely does not have his gaze stray too long on the scars on his hand, his face, his throat. “It's Jon, isn't it?”

“Jonathan Blackwood,” he responds, feeling the odd need to stake the territory here. “I'm Martin's husband.”

“Oh!” Kenneth replies, a little surprised “That's... that's good. I didn't know you took his name when you got.... That's... that's great.”

“It's a good name,” Jon responds, and his father gives a sad, crooked look.

“Not sure Martin would agree with you.”

“It's not my place to comment,” Jon counters, and Kenneth nods and replies with a: “Yeah. No, no, you're right.”

The cat has come up to the door out of curiosity and nudges at the back of his legs before deciding to stay indoors. Jon clears his throat, feeling the nip of early morning under the thin cotton of his nightwear.

“I wanted to – ” Kenneth Blackwood starts. “I wanted to apologise. I didn't keep a cool head yesterday, and he – he deserved my honesty, not my defensiveness.”

Jon gives nothing else, and Kenneth Blackwood continues, clearly grateful for the conversational opening.

“Look, I'm – I have to head back today. I live up near Preston these days. But I hoped – Can I leave my number? I know I shouldn't have pushed so hard. It was a lot to expect. He doesn't...” He makes a half-sigh. “Martin doesn't have to call. I won't contact him again, if that's what he wants. I just – I'm there. If he wants to give me the chance to get to know him again. But if he doesn't.... I understand.”

Jon takes the piece of card offered.

“I'll give it to him,” he says, firmly but not unkindly, and then gives a nod. “Drive back safe, Mr Blackwood.”

He takes it for the dismissal it is meant to be, and he returns the nod. Shoves his hands in his pockets to stave off the chill of the morning as he leaves.

Jon closes the front door with an unobtrusive click, pockets the card he was given. Pauses for a moment, listening to the lull of the house, the rumble of snoring upstairs. Then he makes his way past pots and paintbrushes into the kitchen to make Martin a cup of tea.

#the magnus archives #martin blackwood #fic #prompt #cw parental abandonment #cw emotional abuse #cw intense emotional outbursts #cw poor parent-child relationships #jonmartin #angst #some domestic fluff #this is kinda heavy so if you want me to add more tags #please tell me #i wasn't sure how to word them

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robbyrobinson · 3 years

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OWL HOUSE X CTHULHU MYTHOS CROSSOVER: GODS AWAKEN (PT. 23)

In Belos’ laboratory, three guards were surrounding the portal machine whilst others were casually speaking with each other.

“So that human woman will be the first human executed under Lord Belos?” a guard asked. They were both wearing attire appropriate to any serving the Emperor’s Coven. His partner was slightly taller and had a gruffer voice.

“Bah, I’d think the Emperor would be less merciful in regards to that rat creature.”

Beyond them, more of Emperor Belos’ enchanted suits of armor were continually being created and stowed away in boxes. The process was the same as it ever was: rock harvested from the petrified statues were collected and pitched into vaults containing scorching liquid metal. They were then placed on the conveyor belts upon being cooled and fashioned. Rinse and repeat a thousand times, and this became a daily occurrence for the guards. It did not bother them where the rocks they were using to mold the armor came from. In fact, some were blissfully going about their business without fully knowing they were harvesting rocks from petrified statues.

The doors opened up revealing the Owl Spy to be behind it. “Afternoon.”

The other guards turned around to meet the masked man. When the door was fully opened, they dropped their weapons, freezing in place. There was a good reason for it: behind the door was that owl demon they had encountered back when Lilith used to lead them. That same owl demon that completely swept the floor of them.

“I-It can’t be...” one panicked; his ankles were locking up because of fright, “It’s the Devil!”

The guards braced themselves for the imminent pound down they were anticipating. After a couple seconds, there was no hint of provocation coming from the feathered fiend. They slowly uncovered their faces in confusion.

“Why is that...thing here?” one guard finally mustering up to speak.

“The Emperor had informed me that this owl demon would be of great use to our cause,” the Owl Spy replied.

“What, but how?”

“The Owl Lady had gone through a few...sessions, and I was finally able to extract an answer from her: this owl demon is a high-tech security system; with this fine system at our arsenal, he can be a worthy weapon against our enemies.”

The guards glared at each other then back to the owl house. While the monster had filled their dreams with night terrors for months ever since Lilith led them to try to capture the Owl Lady, they did acknowledge, if ever so slightly, that he was of considerable value. With a little fine-tuning, the owl demon could work for them.

“Besides; even if the house is still loyal to the Owl Lady?” the Owl Spy noted, “the Emperor had permitted us to serve the demon in a great banquet in a celebration of the human woman’s death.”

The gruffer voiced guard nodded. “I have heard that their type of meat is of exquisite taste.”

The guards mumbled for a few seconds and shrugged. Reclaiming their electric-tipped weapons, they slowly approached the house some taking the northern and southern parts of it. They looked in through the windows to see if anyone was inside, but they were obscured by purple curtains.

“What of the prisoners,” one of the guards asked the Owl Spy.

“They already have front row seats to the execution,” the Owl Spy replied in a deadpan fashion.

“You don’t mind if I send a few men to corroborate the story?”

“Sure, by all means; why not take it directly to Belos then? I am sure that he would love to hear that one of his minions would dare question his word especially if it was ordained by the Titan.”

The guard backed off raising his hands in the air. “Well played.”

As the owl house was being brought in, a shorter-framed guard tapped his weapon on the side of the house as if to see if the house truly was, hopefully in his case, dead. Like he expected, the house did not suddenly bolt to life. While his curiosity should have been satiated at that moment, he decided to lean in closer. He walked to the door and saw the owl demon’s wretched face. Its eyes were closed tightly apparently not hearing all the running wires in the laboratory let alone the probing that was being done to its outer casing.

He walked onto the porch of the house, his weapon drawn higher than before, until he was inches away from the owl’s face. He turned to look at his men seeing that they had slowly become frightened. Turning back to the owl house, he tapped the flat end of his staff on the bird’s beak. It rung out singing a hollow tune. He waited a few minutes to see if this was the final nail that could stir the demon from its deep slumber. He was about to turn away until he heard a small murmur. His neck nearly snapped with how sudden its turn was: nearly a 360 degree. His feet became glued to the ground and he was stiff as a wooden board. The owl’s beak started to move.

“Sleeping....sleeping....SLEEP HOOTING!!!”

In a flash, Hooty’s tube body surged with a renewed energy and shot out like a speeding bullet.

“HEY GUYS!” Hooty shrieked. He looked around the room seeing all the bizarre gadgets and buttons.

“Ooo, what do all these buttons do?”

In his excitement, Hooty shoved the guard out of his way with his long body and smashed his way through the machines ripping and tearing his way through them regardless of the sparks flying from them. Slipping his way through the board containing all the buttons, Hooty resurfaced like a breached whale with a huge chunk of wires and scrap metal between his beak. Even when the wires were popping with electricity, it didn’t seem to catch any concern from the owl demon.

The guard ran down from the door post flailing his arms. Hooty’s neck struck again effortlessly infiltrating one of the guard’s masks and, somehow, Hooty crawled into four guard’s masks before erupting out the final one. He had strung himself through them as skillfully as a string going through the eye of a needle. He swung them around somehow maneuvering their bodies and making them perform inhuman actions. They were all the marionettes being controlled by their puppet master.

“It’s great to have so many friends!” Hooty shouted, hooting incessantly.

The doors to the house shot open. Before the guards could have time to react, Luz, Amity, and King sprung out. King latched his tiny body around one of Belos’ minion’s face. The man began to panic and ran around in an endless circle. He reached out to forcibly pry the small demon off his face to no avail.

“Oh, dear Titan! Get it off me! Get it off me!!”

Luz withdrew paper and slammed them on the ground. Ice propelled from the ground encasing several guards in between the large columns of ice. So many ice columns in fact, they had to scrunch together. Any sudden movement, and they could be jabbed by the sharp blades of ice. Some pieces were dangerously close to stab them in the eye.

One guard was able to slip a hand and curved their fingers over their mouths. They whistled signaling more guards to enter the laboratory to take down the threat. Luz continued to dish out paper after paper containing the glyph for the ice spell and it froze several of them in place.

Lilith and Eda emerged from the house carrying frying pans to make up for their minimal power. The sounds of the pans colliding with the skulls of Belos’ minions rang out. With their ages, they were gradually beginning to show exhaustion, but they continued trying to press on.

“Whew, my back’s starting to chafe,” Eda groaned, “how are you holding on?”

“My frying pan is already starting to wear out.” She held it up taking note of the massive dents in it. It was barely holding on by its handle. Any other swing of it, and it would likely be ground up like a piece of raw meat. “But if it’s for Luz’s sake, then I can muster up a little more strength.”

The two sisters ran back into the house to find other items to throw. The guards start to flood into the house trying to capture the two women.

“Abomination, rise!”

Amity raised her hands and from the ground, her abomination erupted. She directed her mindless servant towards the horde of minions. They turned to see the lumbering Goliath approaching them and raised their weapons to intercept the encroaching beast. A colossal fist rained down on them, falling dozens of them. They launched javelins and other weapons at the beast, but they merely stuck through him and were vacated out of the other side. Hooty was continuing to happily clobber guards and had trapped one around his coils and pinned on the ground. A board game was in the middle. Hooty had already taken his first move.

“Your turn, hoot! Hoot!!”

The guard was hyperventilating and shaking like a leaf. It was apparent that he was sobbing. “Mommy, please! Help...”

Motionless guards were around the man. Eda saw this and winced. “Almost makes me feel bad for them.”

“Come to think of it, I thought your house system had its soul tossed into space-time,” Lilith remembered, “how did he come back?”

Hypnos sat on the couch drinking tea and casually watching Hooty play his game. “Oh, I saw his soul flying around the time that Amity and Luz first arrived to Earth; just thought to save it until the time was right.”

“Hoot! Hoot! I was in some world with a lot of mushrooms, and they made me their king!” Hooty proudly proclaimed.

Hypnos snickered in amusement. “I am in awe at how you were able to get your hands on a Great Old One.”

Eda raised an eyebrow. “Great Old One?”

“You seriously thought that all Hooty was good for was being a security system? This boy here is probably the most powerful being on the Boiling Isles; usually Great Old Ones would be locked away, and for good reason: Hooty can easily destroy the Boiling Isles if he wanted to.”

Lilith and Eda shared an equal look of bewilderment mixed with horror. “WHA!?”

Hypnos nodded his head and sipped his tea. “I agree; that is quite a cumbersome dilemma; wouldn’t want to be the poor sap who has to deal with that.”

The fact that Hooty was immensely powerful and held the fate of the Isles in his invisible hands was hard to swallow. Mistreating the owl demon was something that was done without much thought. But now, Hooty could possibly bring an apocalypse on the land if he so pleased. Luckily for them, Hooty was neither good nor evil, just a creature of pure chaos.

“When this is over, remind me not to mess with Hooty, Lilith,” Eda finally said.

Lilith nodded.

Amity and Luz saw the fight beginning to die down, and they bolted for the stairs leading to the top of the portal machine. Amity looked at Luz seeing her desperately carrying the papers in her hands. They fluttered in the rushing wind. Sweat beads were manifesting on Luz’s forehead with her breathing becoming strained with every time she exhaled, her breath came out in a sharp hiss.

“You did have our Plan B if something goes wrong, right?” Luz asked Amity.

Amity nodded. She rustled through her pockets and withdrew a small box. They got to the top of the stairs and paused to catch their breath. “Alright, you start putting the glyphs down, and I’ll keep watch.”

Luz nodded. As she turned, the breath was nearly kicked out of her lungs.

“Luz!” Amity held out her hand on instinct. Luz grabbed onto the rim of the stairs and was dangling over one of the vaults containing the boiling metal. The liquid metal sizzled and popped. Luz could hear the muffled screams of terror coming from the souls of the suffering witches.

Kikimora stood by the place where Luz fell and watched her dangling from the edge. Amity got on her knees to make attempts of grabbing Luz’s hand, but the little pint-sized demon was blocking her way.

“Go out of the way you foul creature, are you mad?”

Kikimora spoke with disinterest. “I will not allow you or your friend to intrude on Emperor Belos’ plans.”

Amity strained harder to grab a hold of Luz, but Kikimora swatted her hand away. Luz’s fingers were desperately trying to hold on for dear life, but tiredness was beginning to take hold. Invisible needles were pressing into her digits. The need to clinch her fingers became ever tempting, but she struggled against fate. Kikimora took her foot and stepped on Luz’s left hand. Luz grinded her teeth to keep herself from screaming.

Amity scowled her eyes flaring up. “Emperor Belos lied to you! Can’t you see that he is wanting to destroy the Boiling Isles?”

Kikimora looked at her with her one visible eye. “What are you saying?”

“It’s true!” Luz shouted, “Emperor Belos lied about everything; the Titan; the Day of Unity; he’ll destroy us all if we do not do anything about it!”

Kikimora slowly lifted her foot much to the human girl’s relief. Kikimora cupped her chin between her two fingers pondering. It seemed to be hours, but the two girls had their rest assured that the demon lady would reconsider.

“Even if that is the truth behind my master’s plans, he is my master nonetheless.”

Push.

Luz looked down and saw Kikimora fall past her. She instinctively darted her eyes away once Kikimora was obscured by a pillar of smoke coming from the sizzling concoction. Deciding the worse was over, Luz saw Kikimora’s white-golden robes on the surface of the metal before it sank underneath. At that moment, Luz completely lost her grip and fell towards the burning liquid.

“Luz!”

Luz closed her eyes to accept her fate, but she felt herself stop. Looking up, the Owl Spy had her and pulled her up. “You have no idea how long I wanted to do that.”

Luz was helped back on her feet, her breathing becoming heavier. Amity ran and embraced her. Luz’s cheeks became red. “You’re crushing me, Amity.”

“Oh...oh right, sorry,” Amity chuckled embarrassingly.

The Owl Spy saw more of Belos’ minions running up the stairs. “I believe now is time for that Plan B.”

Amity took the box running to the top of the stairs. The stairs were shaking from the combined weight. She angled the box just right and with a controlled breath, she tossed it. It landed on one of the furthest stairs and opened. The guards stopped in their tracks.

“What in Titan’s name?” one guard said.

“I’m gonna see what it is,” guard number two said.

“Might be one of those magic bombs.”

Despite the urgency in the first guard’s voice, the guard went to pick it up. However, the box was glued on the stair. He grunted every pull becoming more stressful on his back. Eventually, something oozed from underneath it. “Oh my...”

The box ripped open revealing some large, amoeba-like monster. It jiggled and shifted. Eyes were all over its gelatinous mass alongside mouths and pseudopodia. It wheezed and folded in of itself measuring around fifteen feet across. But most unappealing of the massive beast, it could form organs of varying size and shape without appearing to have the mental contingency to do so. Nevertheless, it slithered down the stairs as a writhing wall of eyes, mouths, and protrusions.

The guards fired shots into the beast, but they merely were absorbed by the pulsating walls. Protrusions reached out and wrapped around several of the guards’ legs to draw them into their gaping mouths. There were struggles coming from the guards, but the plunging pressure coming from the beast was too great.

The Owl Spy turned to his daughter. “Alright; so I will have to return to Emperor Belos to report on what’s going on; but first, I will give you the directions to find Edric.”

Amity agreed non-verbally. She and her father ran past the rampaging Shoggoth. Amity saw her Abomination while it was still in the process of clobbering the minions. It looked at the Shoggoth with a wide expression, its movement becoming stiff. If Abominations actually had hearts, Amity’s would assuredly be skipping a beat. Amity waved her hand, but that was not enough to stir his attention.

“So now you get to know how I feel nearly every day,” Amity thought to herself.

#owl house #the owl house #owl house fanfiction #cthulhu mythos #hooty #toh hooty

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susiequaz12 · 4 years

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Carrot Top- 2: Splice

It’s part 2! The story is moving along, and hopefully I can write a bit more soon. Again I’m gonna tag @imagination1reality0 (and if you want me to tag you in future posts let me know.

Also, Andrew might be referred to as “boy” sometimes, but in the storyline he is almost 20. (It’s just a way to differentiate between him and the other characters.)

CW: Manhandling, gagged, beating, mention of bullying, restrained.

The sun had climbed over the horizon and was heading towards the center of the sky by the time the minivan pulled up to the long, gray building.

Keeping just the gag on, they removed every other thing that kept him bound to the seat of the car. Once he was released he fell as dead weight in their arms. Apart from initially knocking him unconscious, they had drugged him a few times. Most of it should be wearing off soon.

Two of the men carried Andrew through the hallways of the building while the driver took the van away once everyone had exited. The building was mildly busy on a saturday morning. Guards shuffling about, other prisoners following blindly as they were shuffled like cattle from one place to the next. The sight of an unconscious body being dragged through miles of hallways was not unfamiliar.

As they walked, Andrew slowly began to gain consciousness. His eyes could barely make out faint shades of gray and white, and endless hallways of doors and rooms. They finally stopped in a hallway that smelled vaguely of chlorine and cleaning solution.

Andrew was conscious enough to realize he wasn’t bound or tied up anymore, and took the opportunity that he saw. As he tried to wrench his arms free from their grip, one of the men pulled out the same stick from earlier, stretching it out to its full length. With a strong arm he threw Andrew to the ground, placing a knee on his back, one arm holding his wrists into the floor, the other using the end of the stick at the back of his neck. Adding just enough pressure so that he wouldn't move. Andrew's chest rose and fell heavily, pressing into the cold floor, and the man leaned down, speaking directly into his ear.

"Listen. If you want to make things easier for yourself, than do as you’re told. Take these clothes, and go into the room. The door will be locked for no longer than two and a half minutes. You have that long to change into your clothes, leaving your other belongings inside. Understood?" Andrew didn't move or say anything, a look of hatred on his face. The man pushed the end of the stick a bit further into the back of his neck and Andrew winced.

He nodded, he understood.

The man eased off of Andrew but maintained a steady grip on his arm. The second man handed Andrew a small bundle of clothes before shoving him into the tight room.

The first thing he did once his arms were free was rip off that gag, spitting the soggy cloth onto the floor. His mouth was free, and he was grateful. The room was about the size of a small closet, or a bathroom stall. There was nothing but a bench built into the wall that Andrew nearly collapsed onto.

He looked through the bundle of clothes he was given. It was barely anything, was what it was. All it consisted of was a pair of standard cotton boxers, and some grey cotton Capri pants, with elastic that fit right underneath his knee. As Andrew slipped the pants on he realized they were a perfect fit. Not just your standard size, but tailored specifically to him. That was no easy feat. His light weight, plus long legs and height made shopping for any clothes incredibly difficult.

Feeling that he would be too exposed with just the capris, he kept his t-shirt on and quickly retied a shoelace that had come undone, just as the man started banging on the door. He could hear it unlocking and the room was small enough that just by reaching in, the man was able to grab him by the arm and pull him out. The man glanced him over, and was obviously displeased.

He pulled out his stick again and knocked Andrew down, whacking him in the side of his legs before he had a chance to realize what he did wrong.

Andrew yelped, crumpling to the floor, but that pain was quickly replaced by anger as he was forced face-first onto the ground.

“I thought you understood?” The man said, his knees digging into Andrew’s back. The stick laid flat against the back of his neck, ensuring Andrew wouldn’t try to get up and fight back. “You’ll learn like the others soon enough.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw the second man come over, and his shoes and socks were soon untied and removed from his feet. A shiver ran down his spine as he heard the unsheathing of a knife from behind him.

“Wait, no! Don’t, I-”

He braced himself for pain but instead felt cold air, hearing a ripping sound as his shirt was torn down the back. They pulled him to his feet and the remains of his t-shirt fell to the floor in front of him.

He stared at it for a second. “Now that’s just mean.” Andrew stated, shaking his head as his arms were pulled behind him once more. “That was one of my favorite shirts!” He tried to rip his arm out of the man’s grasp, but it was just grabbed tighter, pulled backwards at an angle that made him yelp. He screamed, yelling obscenities at the man holding him.

The man just shook his head and waved the other man over once more. As his arms were pulled backwards, the man shoved the same filthy rag into Andrew’s mouth. It was cold and soggy from his own spit, making him feel nauseous. He grumbled as the strip of fabric was tied around his head, getting tangled is his curly hair.

With one man on each arm holding him tightly, they continued walking.

It was a large building. Multiple wings. The next few minutes of walking consisted of more struggle. His arms were pulled so tight behind his back, that he was almost lifted off of the floor, and his steps more closely resembled stumbles. At one point, Andrew got so frustrated that the man kicked him in the back of the knee hard enough to make him crumple to the floor. He was then dragged by his arms for a distance until he could regain his footing.

Eventually, they made it to his office. To Splice.

“We’re here.” The man stated.

By this point, Andrew had beads of sweat pouring over his neck and shoulders, and down his spine. His face was red out of anger, and lack of breath.

They knocked, and the door was soon opened by another guard standing inside the room. Andrew was thrust forward into the office of the man known as Splice. He sat at a large desk, filled with papers, and ornamented with various tools and contraptions that looked intimidating at a first glance.

As soon as Andrew saw him, he refused to make eye contact. Instead choosing to turn his eyes towards the ceiling, defiantly. This man was a disgrace to the family, and had betrayed Andrew and his friends.

For that, he had not earned his respect.

Splice stood up from his desk, waving the man holding Andrew's arms to remove the gag and to back away. Once that was done, without anyone holding him back, Andrew stood still: silent. Looking straight up as Splice circled around him. Noticing the flushed skin and beads of sweat, Splice spoke.

"Well I hope you didn't bruise him up or beat him too bad. I was hoping to get the first few beatings and scars in myself." Splice laughed at his own joke and went back to inspecting the boy.

As Splice turned towards him, Andrew would turn away. Obviously avoiding eye contact. Splice soon caught on to his little game, and proceeded to make a joke out of it. Trying to look into his face and get his attention. Eventually Splice grabbed Andrew by the chin and his forced his face downwards to look him in the eye. Their eyes were two complete sets. They perfectly matched each other, both the same shade of greenish brown. If Andrew’s hair had been smooth and brown, instead of curly and ginger, he could have looked just like a younger version of Splice.

With his arms free, Andrew reached up quickly to strike him across the face, but Splice grabbed his wrist sharply in his hand, and did the same with the other as Andrew tried for a second punch. Holding both of his wrists, Splice threw him to the ground and he landed with a soft thud on the carpet. The guard in the room immediately pulled out a matching stick that the previous ones had as well, as if ready to use it at Splice’s command.

He considered it for a second, as a dazed Andrew started to rise to his feet, and then looked at the guard and nodded.

Raising the stick, he struck Andrew across the shoulder, across the side of his arm. Andrew rolled back to the floor, unfortunately leaving his back exposed. The guard struck over and over again. Each time, a soft “oof”, or a muffled groan could be heard, intertwined with shaky breaths. He rolled over again, tucking his knees into his chest, but the guard struck him right in the ribs. A loud cracking could be heard and Andrew’s chest heaved into the air with the measure of pain, trying to breathe in air like a drowning man.

After a few more blows, Splice raised his hand in the air and the brutality stopped. The guard stepped back to his post by the door.

Andrew laid on his back on the cool carpet, his eyes drooping, every inch of his body throbbing. His chest seemed to be on fire with the pain in his ribs, making it harder to breathe.

Splice knelt down next to him on the floor. Andrew’s eyes were glossy and filled with tears that were leaking down his face.

“I heard you’ve been causing problems all day.” The man trailed a finger down Andrew’s face, catching a trail of tears. He stood up to his full height before wiping his finger on the side of his pants. He stared down at Andrew. “Fortunately for me, that means it’ll take longer for you to break. Unfortunately for you, I get to be creative.” He called the guard over and he pulled Andrew to his feet. “For now, enjoy your nap. You’ll need it.”

Andrew struggled to regain footing and dignity as he was half-walked, half-dragged out of the office.

“Don’t give him a bed just yet.” Splice instructed. “He can have one once he’s earned it.”

The guard nodded and Andrew was dragged out of the room.

His mind was racing, but not just with the pain he’d just received. But you throw that in a blender with his humiliation, frustration, and embarrassment, and you have yourself a depression milkshake.

This was just another bully, he told himself. Just another old highschool bully who’d call him a freak, corner him after school, slap his books away. It was another beating, another normal day. This was nothing he couldn’t get through. He had gone through similar before: kicks, and punches and spits. Those couldn’t be too far off from a metal rod right? He’d feel better once he woke up. He always did.

After what felt like miles of walking, Andrew was led into a different room. Bigger than the shower room, but smaller than the average bedroom. There was nothing, only a door, and two chains attached to the wall.

Andrew grumbled underneath his breath, shaking his head. Just let him sleep on the floor, please. Too tired to fight back, he did his best to maintain his footing as one arm, and then the next, was attached to the cuffs on the ends of the chains. His hands hung loosely by his sides, but his legs quivered underneath his weight. It wasn’t long before his knees buckled and he fell onto the floor. The chains pulled his arms upward above his head, but at least he was sitting. He leaned his head up against the wall and tried to ignore the throbbing in his arms that soon began.

He didn’t stay awake for very long. It wasn’t soon after he sat down that his eyelids closed and he succumbed to unconsciousness.

#whump #oc #carrot top #restrained #beaten #whumpfic #part 2

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apharine · 4 years

Text

Blizzard in the Reach

Pairing: Reader/Argis the Bulwark

Fandom: Skyrim/The Elder Scrolls

Rating: Explicit

My Writing Commission Info | Please consider tipping me on Ko-Fi!

Read on AO3

Summary: The Druadach Mountains of the Reach are known to be dangerous for travelers - not only for the presence of the Forsworn, bandits, and monsters, but also for vicious blizzards that have killed many a traveler. You had hoped to get through the mountain passes as quickly as possible, especially with a snowstorm coming in, but now it looks like you and Argis might be in store for a night spent together on the mountains.

Notes: This started as part of a series of one-shots with Argis the Bulwark several years ago, back when I was writing for the kink meme still. Some of the one-shots have been lost to the Internet and to now-dead computers, some are still with me and in desperate need of re-working, but this one was always my favorite. I found it on an external hard drive recently, and thought I'd share it with the world - there's really not enough Argis content. I know he doesn't have a lot of dialogue, but he's always been my favorite Housecarl and follower, and I always marry him in-game. If anyone would want to see any of the other Argis one-shots, let me know, and I can see what I can dig up and re-work! I've certainly got a little more time on my hands with this coronavirus thing. Hope everyone is staying healthy and happy, and most importantly, stay at home <3

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“We need to make camp for the night, my Thane.”

You turn to face your Housecarl, Argis the Bulwark, and you immediately see obstinacy in the way his arms are folded across his broad chest, his feet spread in a wide stance. This obstinacy has served you well time and again, especially in the stubborn way he never gives up on you. He's rushed back into battle after receiving grievous injuries, his only care in all of Tamriel protecting you. He's sat up all night with you, waiting for you to explain what in Oblivion is bothering you. He's carried you, as you lay dying in his arms, to whatever nearby town was available, on the slim chance he could find a healer skilled enough or a potion strong enough for you. Yes, you're grateful for all that this man has done for you.

But that doesn't mean he's any less stubborn than he was on day one.

“We can still make it back to Markarth, and be home in Vlindrel Hall by morn,” you retort over your shoulder, anxious to keep moving. The Reach is howling with a snowstorm, and visibility on this face of the mountains is becoming terribly low. The accumulating snow and the slick rocks will only make traveling all the harder - you need to press on, not have a debate with one another.

“My Thane,” he warns, his deep voice dark. You continue marching ahead. If that stubborn man would just cooperate - “My Thane,” he repeats, more firmly, and you stop in your tracks, irritated. He knows you long ago disregarded any illusions of rank between the two of you, and that, as equals, you don’t believe in issuing him orders. He also knows that his obstinacy is driving you insane at the moment, as it so often does, and that he’s only calling you by your title of Thane to hammer home his point. Moreover, the snowstorm is already picking up more speed, threatening a full blizzard, and he knows he's right about it. All of it.

“Maybe they should have called you Argis the Bull-headed, not Bulwark,” you quip as you trudge through a snowdrift back to the man. For an instant, you think you see his scarred lips quirk up in a smile, but visibility is terribly low.

“You may call me whatever you wish,” he responds evenly, his face the epitome of calm.

“Anything?” You tease him drily as you continue your trudge, tilting your head back to affix the tall Nord with what you hope is a stony gaze.

“Aye, anything,” he agrees, his lips again twitching at the edges as he watches you - an unmistakable gesture, at this close proximity. “As long as you’re alive to say it and not frozen to death, like you will be if you try to keep on in this.”

“You are insufferable sometimes,” you sigh, coming to a stop, and Argis quirks a single eyebrow at you, as if to say you’re the one who’s being insufferable. But he doesn’t say it out loud, instead commenting,

“There was that deserted camp we passed by not more than a quarter of an hour ago.”

“There was a good lean-to there,” you agree, nodding slowly. “As long as it really is deserted.” You shudder at the thought of being snuck up on at night by bandits or Forsworn, but a moment later you shudder even harder as a blast of wind roars down from the mountain peaks, so cold as to be ungodly, and with as much ferocity as the worst frost breath of any dragon you’ve fought against. You turn away from it, drawing the hood of your cloak closer about you, but even so, your eyes water from the chill and a few loose strands of hair flutter about your face, whipping your cheeks with the condensation that quickly freezes on them.

You feel a solid form at your back, two great armored hands steadying you by your shoulders, and though the roaring of the wind hasn’t died down any, some of the worst of it is blocked from you now.

“Deserted or not, we have to get you out of the cold,” Argis says from behind you, his deep voice just loud enough to cut through the roar of the wind.

“I just hope there isn’t a fight waiting for us,” you admit, but Argis gives your shoulders a reassuring squeeze, as if to say I know, but I’ll be there. The next moment, the great hands are gone, and you start backtracking through the treacherous mountain trails, the Bulwark right behind you.

The camp is much as you had last seen it about a half hour ago, with no new tracks in the snow around it and no signs of any items disturbed. An encouraging sign, you think, but not an absolute certainty that you will be safe.

You follow Argis’ lead as he slips behind a large rocky outcrop jutting out from the Druadach mountains, peering around it to get a glimpse of the camp every couple minutes. It’s a bit harder for you to get a glimpse of the place, as Argis is largely shielding you with his body, ever protective. But when you do manage to peer around him, you realize that the camp looks decidedly made by a group other than the Forsworn. You’re relieved; you’ve discovered enough abominations at Forsworn camps to hope not to be forced into one right now. There’s also a better chance that, if the camp was made by non-Reachmen bandits, they were either traveling through or moving from site to site, instead of inhabiting the place continuously. On your second time glancing around the outcropping, you notice there is one lean-to in particular that catches your eye, the way it caught it on your first pass through - it’s reinforced with multiple furs, and looks like it might actually be made out of wood underneath versus just stretched leathers. The overhang it sits under seems to provide some degree of protection, as well, and a rather enormous firepit is positioned close to it.

You open your mouth and turn to Argis, but he gives you a sharp nod, already on the same page.

“I’m going in to scout it out,” the Bulwark says, shrugging off his heavy pack, stuffed with supplies and topped with a bedroll, leaving it by your side. You do the same with your pack, which is also stuffed full but smaller than his, aware that you won’t want to be encumbered by it in the next few minutes. “Back me up if I need it,” Argis adds, drawing his bow and knocking an arrow to it in a movement you can’t help but feel is graceful, especially for a man as massive as he is.

“Aye,” you agree solemnly. Suddenly, struck by impulse, you reach up to him before he slips off, your hand brushing against his armored elbow. He starts at the contact, turning to you, and you realize you’ve surprised him on his blind side, where he can only make out faint shapes based on contrast in the light. “Be safe,” you say, just loud enough to be heard over the storm. He eases the tension on his bow, transferring both bow and arrow back into one hand with practiced ease. The next moment, he reaches out with his other hand, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers, lingering just a moment. Never one for unnecessary words, he silently turns back to the camp, letting his fingers fall from your face and knocking the arrow to his bow again.

You’re a little dumbstruck for a moment as he sets off, keeping his blind side close to the mountain walls. Affection from Argis is not terribly uncommon - he’s a man’s man by all accounts, but you know well enough how fond he is of you. But the look on his face - the tenderness - had nearly been enough to set your heart to aching.

You recollect yourself, peering back around the outcropping, barely able to follow the Bulwark’s receding figure through the whiteout. If you’re going to have his back, you realize, you had better follow him. The trails he has broken in the accumulating snow make it easy enough for you, and you summon some fire to your hands. Not only is it nice to have the heat on your frozen fingers, but a quick blast of flames from a near-invisible location will disrupt any plans of potential marauders and buy you some extra time to help the Bulwark.

But you and Argis circle the whole camp, with no signs of any life visible in the entire place. Upon nearly coming back to the outcropping you had started at, Argis sets his bow back to its place on his back and returns his arrow to his quiver, instead unsheathing his sword. He walks boldly into the center of the camp, roaring a battle cry at the top of his lungs.

“Is there none here who would defend this place from me?” He bellows. “Show yourself!”

But he receives no reply except the whistling of the wind.

To be safe, he approaches each lean-to, beating the furs with the flat side of the sword and prying open the front flaps. You follow him again as he goes, still not wanting to lose sight of him.

“Coward! Craven! Fight me for what is yours!” He challenges at each shelter, but there is nothing and nobody. Satisfied, he doubles back to you and sheathes his sword. He doesn’t have far to travel; at this point, you can’t be much more than 20 feet away from him, or you’ll lose him in the ever thickening whiteout.

“We’ll be safe here,” Argis shouts over the wind as he comes to stand beside you. You nod your agreeance, not sure you would be able to say anything the Bulwark could hear over the increasing storm. “Let’s get you in the shelter.” One great hand rests on your waist, gently turning you around to backtrack through the path you had cut through the snow earlier. With a degree of alarm, you realize that the snow has begun to come down so fiercely that even this path has begun to fill in. Argis walks beside you, cutting a new path as he guides you along back to the big lean-to. You’re relieved when you see the place, and even more grateful to see that the overhang is keeping some of the snow from accumulating around it, as you had suspected it might.

“I’ll go get our packs,” Argis shouts again. Fear clamps around your heart, though, and you grab him quickly by the shoulder, pulling him down towards you so he can hear you.

“How will you find your way back here?” You shout, immediately frustrated that your voice doesn’t carry the same way he does. He hears you, though, and smiles.

“I grew up in the Reach,” he reminds you. “I had to learn how to navigate in storms like this. How to count my steps and my turns. But if it makes you feel better, make a big fire for me to find, and I’ll be back faster.” You glance at the firepit adjacent to the lean-to - yes, that’ll work, you think. By the time you’ve turned back to Argis, though, he is already trudging away through the deepening snow.

You set to work immediately, casting the brightest magical flames you can conjure, stoking the flames higher and higher. There’s enough of a woodpile left in the fire pit to burn brightly, the magical fire making short work of any wetness that had soaked into the lumber. You only stop when the heat becomes so searing that you’re not sure you can stand near it any more; the snow in a wide radius all around it has begun to melt away, as well, which you figure is good for keeping your camp from getting buried.

It feels like an eternity that you’re waiting by the fire you’ve conjured, watching the bright colors dance back and forth, hoping they can cut through the whiteout enough to help Argis. You remind yourself of what he said - he’d grown up here. He knew about how to navigate in a blizzard, how to see the tiniest remnant of a path, how to count his steps and how far he’d turned without getting confused. No Reachman who wasn’t well-versed in these things would last long outside the city gates of Markarth. But all the same, you feel an immense amount of relief when he appears again, shouldering his bigger pack and your smaller one. He’s moving at a plodding pace through the deep snow, nearly hip-deep in places, obviously fatigued. When he is close enough, you move to help him with the load he carries, and he gratefully swings your pack down to your waiting arms. You follow him into the lean-to, immediately impressed by the thing’s construction. There is wood under all the heavy furs, as you had suspected, and virtually none of the wind makes its way into the structure.

“By the Nine, it’s brutal out there,” Argis pants, unceremoniously dropping his heavy pack on the ground and plopping himself down, knees bent in to his chest, next to it. You drop your pack and move to his side.

“Are you okay?” You ask, glad to be able to talk at a normal volume instead of shouting over the wind.

“Yeah,” Argis grunts. “Just tired.” You reach out to touch his immense, armored shoulder, and let a little bit of a healing spell flow into him - not enough to tire you, but enough to help him recover his energy. He closes his eyes and drops his head back, exposing his thickly muscled throat, the large Adam’s apple, the beard stubble under his chin where the beard ends -

“That feels good,” he murmurs appreciatively. You let your magic infuse him for a few moments longer, and pull both your hand and your eyes away when he opens his eyes and smiles at you. You summon up the courage to look back at him and smile back, knowing that to be thanks enough between the two of you.

“Let’s get the bed rolls set out,” Argis suggests, raking one hand through his thick golden hair, now matted down with the melting of the snowflakes that had accumulated on him.

“Aye,” you agree, moving to open your bedroll, but he gently shoos you away from the entrance of the lean-to and towards the back of the structure with a gentle pressure of his hand on the small of your back.

“I sleep by the opening,” he reminds you. Despite his fatigue, a light comes to his good eye as he teases, “I swore an oath to protect you. We’ve been through this before.”

“I thought it wouldn’t matter if the place was empty,” you quip at him with a smile, pleased to see that he wasn’t so exhausted as to lose his sense of humor.

“Can never be too safe,” he answers, and though he tries to sound light-hearted, you know for him it’s the most serious matter in the world. You hum in response, pulling your bedroll out of its tightly-rolled Horker skin covering, pleased to find it dry, but chilly, underneath. You spread it out on the ground; beside you, Argis is doing the same with his.

“Argis?” You call to the man.

“Aye?” He answers quickly, raising his head from his work.

“You were right, earlier. When you kept me from trying to push on in this to make it home. I’m sorry for being foolish about it,” you finish.

“Lass,” he murmurs, a soft expression upon his face. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. If we were in Whiterun Hold, or anywhere in the South of Skyrim, you would’ve been right to push on. The blizzards here in the Reach are different.”

“I’ve never seen a storm as bad as this,” you agree. “The snow must be coming down a couple feet an hour, at least, never mind the drifts that are growing, and I could barely see you at twenty paces.”

“Aye, Reach blizzards build quickly and are unrelenting. They take many travelers unaware,” Argis agrees, finishing spreading out his bedroll.

“Well, thank you for knowing these lands better, and for making sure to keep us safe. The Divines blessed me the day we met, Argis,” you say honestly, finishing with your bedroll, pulling your rucksack to you, and beginning to rummage through it.

“Not as much as they blessed me,” he murmurs, and when you look up at him, the expression on his face is unreadable. You give him a small smile and return to your rucksack, triumphantly pulling out a slab of very frozen venison packed in enchanted paper, some root vegetables in a small burlap sack, and a little bit of cheese and bread. “Looks like a pretty good spread for tonight,” Argis notes, procuring a small pan from his rucksack and gathering your ingredients up.

“Aye,” you agree, continuing to root around in your bag.

“We probably don’t need much else,” the Bulwark offers, but you’ve already found what you wanted buried at the bottom of the sack.

“Here - we - are,” you grunt, pulling it out laboriously until it sits before you - prize of all prizes - an oversized bottle of beautiful, golden Honningbrew mead.

“I can’t believe you packed that,” Argis laughs, shaking his head at you in disbelief.

“But I’m sure you’re glad to see it, all the same,” you laugh back. The big Nord lets out a deep belly laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, before admitting,

“Aye, I can’t argue with that.”

As you finish your dinner, you can’t help but think to yourself that you and Argis together are formidable - not just on the battlefield, but also in the kitchen. Or around the firepit, as the case had been tonight. In fact, you were hard-pressed to find a time on the road when the two of you hadn’t managed to take whatever scraps were in your bags and conjure up something delicious out of them.

“That was good,” Argis shouts, echoing your thoughts. His voice manages to carry over the wind, which, against all odds, has again managed to pick up even further. You’ve had to set up a ward to keep the worst of it from freezing the both of you, but even the ward can’t keep all of the chill away. You smile and nod at the Bulwark, picking up the large bottle of Honningbrew mead you’d stuffed in what little snow was left by the fire. Uncorking it, you take a swig; the alcohol burns on its way down, and a warmth settles in your belly. After one more swig, you nudge Argis' arm with the bottle. Honningbrew isn't his favorite, you know. He likes that darker Black-Briar stuff. But you're a fan of the sweeter taste, and Argis has never been one to protest, especially when you’re willing to carry a surprise bottle in your rucksack and share it with him. Mead is mead is mead to him.

He takes the bottle from you, his fingers brushing yours again before closing over the neck of the bottle. His touch is surprisingly gentle for such a big man; you can’t be sure, since the fire already has your face heated up so much, but you think you might be blushing. You resist the urge to duck your head, instead reaching up to Argis’ shoulder and pulling him down so you can talk closer to his ear and be heard. There is no way you can shout over this storm now.

“You don’t happen to have any more of those sweetrolls from the other day, do you?” You ask. Argis turns towards you, his face apologetic as he shakes his head no.

“Just the meat and mead for us tonight,” he murmurs into your ear. Pulling away, he takes another deep swig of the Honningbrew mead before handing it back to you. You share the rest of the bottle in a companionable silence, listening to the howling of the wind and tasting each other’s lips on the bottle.

By the time you're crawling back into your bed rolls, you’re both quite drunk and very relaxed. Sleeping tonight should really be no problem, you muse. Still, for a little more peace of mind, you cast a couple quick lightning runes outside the tent - just far enough away to alert you if anyone were to approach. You take down the ward you’d left by the fire, setting up another one outside your shelter for the night.

Back inside the lean-to, the wind is blessedly absent, though the air is still bitingly cold.

“Do you mind if I conjure a little smokeless fire in here?” You ask Argis. The Bulwark, in the middle of unclasping the greaves that cover his shins, frowns, pursing his lips.

“Go ahead,” he says, a trace reluctantly. You know his Nord upbringing has made him naturally mistrusting of all magic, and that mistrust is still not entirely gone, despite his fondness for you and admiration for what you could accomplish with it on the battlefield. “But…please make sure it’s the smokeless kind. I don’t want to suffocate.”

“And I don’t want to freeze,” you laugh, waving your hand. A soft, blue flame sputters to life in mid-air between the two of you and, though it veritably produces no smoke, its heat still permeates the tent. You mentally thank Farengar Secret-Fire for creating this nifty little spell and for deigning to teach it to you; his work was honestly that of pure ingenuity. A condescending little snot though he may be, you admit to yourself.

Argis moves onto the cuisses that cover his mighty thighs, beginning a small pile of armor on the far side of the lean-to next to the rucksacks. You pull off your vambraces first, throwing them in the accumulating pile and starting in on your greaves next.

“Could you help me with these, when you get a chance?” Argis asks, and you turn your attention from your armor back to him. He’s pointing to the large pauldrons that sit on his shoulders, and you move closer to him obligingly.

“Of course,” you agree, your fingers setting to work fiddling with the straps and clasps that hold his heavy armor in place. You’ve done this many a night, by now, and you make short work of them, sliding both pauldrons off the Bulwark’s broad shoulders and moving to put them both in his armor pile. You help him with his cuirass next, until Argis is finally free of all armor, covered only by the light linen pants and shirt he wears underneath. You shift back to your bedroll, starting in on the cuisses over your thigh, eager to be free of the restrictive coverings as well.

“My turn to help you,” a gentle murmur comes from behind you, and a light brush of fingers at your neck lets you know that Argis is gathering your hair, moving it over your shoulder so it won’t get in the way and pulled.

“Thank you,” you reply, throwing your first cuisse into your pile.

A warm “mm,” is the only answer you get, and you smile to yourself; Argis is probably really rather drunk, having finished the majority of the oversized bottle quite quickly. The way he gets when he is drunk and tired is surprisingly adorable, you think; more like a teddy bear than the Bulwark you know him to be. You’re certain that relatively few people have ever seen him in this state.

Argis, too, knows how to make short work of your armor, and it’s not long before you’re freed of your pauldrons and cuirass, as well as the second cuisse you take off your own thigh. You sigh and stretch out, raising your arms overhead and arching your back. It feels great to be in just linens again, even if you are chillier in the slowly-warming air of the lean-to than you were with your armor on. Feeling bold, you lean back far enough in your stretch that you rest your head on the Bulwark’s shoulder behind you, smiling lazily up at him.

Argis is smiling back at you warmly - not an uncommon response to any of your antics. But, to your surprise, you feel his strong hands slide over your waist in a way that feels almost sensuous. He pulls you into his lap with ease, and you let out a quiet gasp. He pauses, his hands loosening their grip on you, his smile fading somewhat and concern that he had overstepped emerging in his eyes.

“I’m sorry -” he begins, but you cut him off, turning in the loose hold of his hands to face more towards him and hooking one arm over his shoulder. You slide your other hand up his chest, letting it rest on the large swell of his pectorals.

“You’re so warm,” you sigh, leaning into the Bulwark, a heady feeling stronger than the mead itself building in your brain.

“And by the Divines, you are cold,” he murmurs, that warm and soft smile spreading back across his face as his hands hold your waist more firmly once again. “How can you be so chilly with a fire right above you?”

“Only a Nord could ask how someone could be cold in the middle of a blizzard,” you tease back with a laugh, resting your head against his powerful shoulder and gazing up at him flirtatiously.

“Aye, very well,” Argis concedes, pulling you still closer to him, so that your breasts are pressing into his broad chest. When he speaks again, his deep voice is murmuring in your ear, the heat of his breath fluttering against your skin. “Then join me in my bedroll, and let this Nord keep you warm tonight.”

“Gladly,” you answer breathlessly. Argis lets out a quiet, low groan, one arm winding all the way around your waist now while the other reaches back for his bedroll, unfurling the covers. With ease, his powerful frame carries you close to him as he shifts back into the sheets. He lays down with you resting atop his broad frame, chest to chest, one arm still wound around your waist. With the other hand, he pulls the blankets of his bedroll over the top of the both of you, and moves beneath you, tucking them in on one side. You reach one hand up to his thick blond locks, threading your fingers through his hair and braids. Argis finishes tucking the sheets in on both sides and turns his attention back to you with another of those heart-achingly tender smiles. Gently, his thick fingers find their way into your hair, playing with the locks there. At the same time, the hand around your waist slides down, slow inch by inch, until it is resting on the outside of your hip. Still moving tortuously slowly, he slides his hand away from your hip, moving across your ass.

Hand still in his hair, you pull him in for a deep kiss. His lips are surprisingly soft and full, and you can feel the ridges of the scars that run over them as he kisses you. He’s yielding at first, moving his mouth gently against yours, the fine, trimmed hairs of his beard tickling your skin. Your head is buzzing and your whole body feels like every nerve is lit up. You’d always imagined a kiss with Argis to be rough, dominating - but this kiss, his soft lips, his hands in your hair, it’s romantic and sweet and just a little hungry, and it’s so much better than you could have ever hoped for.

“Oh, Argis,” you breathe against his lips. He lets out a deep moan; you can feel the rumble of it in his chest. After a long moment, he licks at your lips, asking entrance. You grant it to him, and he starts slow, exploring your mouth. But it’s not long before he’s battling your tongue, then winning, and he ravages your mouth in deep, hungry, passionate kisses.

The hand on your ass gives it a firm squeeze mid-kiss, and you feel a jolt of pleasure - of need - start in your core. You moan into Argis’ mouth, and he continues the hungry kiss for a long moment, pulling away slowly.

“Oh, little lady,” he growls against your lips. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How badly I’ve wanted you.”

“How long?” You breathe against his lips. You let your hand leave his hair, reaching instead for his beard and toying with the blond hairs on his chin.

“Truthfully?” He asks, and you nod. He lets out a bark of laughter, a wry smile spreading across his lips. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

“Really?” You ask, a little surprised - he had hidden it well, always professional towards you in the early days, and warm and kind towards you as your companionship blossomed.

“Aye,” he confirms, unabashed. Then, watching you carefully, the smile fading from his face, he adds, “And you?”

This time, it’s your turn to let a wry smile cross your lips, as you remember how handsome - how gorgeous, really - you’d thought the big Nord was when you first met him.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, too, big man,” you admit. The smile he gives you this time is no longer wry - he seems relieved to hear you speak those words, perhaps even genuinely happy. He pulls you back into another hungry kiss; you meet his lips with yours enthusiastically, and as he again ravages your mouth, you grab at the enormous swell of his biceps, almost as if to steady yourself. You run your fingers over the thick, bulging muscle, marveling at the size of it, how your hand doesn’t cover even half of the swell of it, how the portion you can feel ripples under your hand with power. As you explore his body, Argis squeezes your ass again, and yet again, you feel that primal jolt of pleasure. You let out a sound in response to his ministrations - a sound that is, to your ears, surprisingly needy and submissive.

This seems to trigger something in Argis, as he grabs you and maneuvers you off his broad chest, rolling so that his powerful frame now hovers above you, supported on his elbows and knees. You rest one hand on his broad shoulders, and let the hand that had been exploring his biceps move under his shirt to his chest. You run your fingers through the thick blond curls that cover his pectorals, then grope at the enormous muscles themselves, unable to keep from thinking how many times these muscles of his had saved your life. Tenderly, Argis presses another gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then works his way down your jawline and to your neck. You move your head to grant him more access, loving the way his full lips and bristly beard feel against your skin.

“Oh, little lady,” he moans, lips ghosting over your collarbone. Slowly, he lowers his hips down to rest partially atop you, some of his frame shifted to the side to keep from hurting you with his weight. As his hips come to rest atop yours, you feel the hard length of his manhood pressing into you, and you can’t help but note that your earlier name for him had been correct - he is a big man, both thick and long. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, and asks, “Is this okay for you?”

“More than okay,” you answer, grinding your hips up into his cock. He drops his head down into the crook of your neck again with a groan.

“I’m going to finally make you all mine tonight,” he rumbles, his lips against your skin.

“Please,” you breathe, grabbing at his heavily-muscled shoulders as he nips and sucks at your neck with renewed vigor. You slide your hand down from his pectorals, through his chest and body hair, to the ridges of his abdominal muscles, not yet daring to go too low - you want to enjoy feeling his body for a little longer first. You do, however, grind upwards into his manhood again, and feel him stiffen further against you. Argis grinds back down into you in response this time, and you moan to encourage him.

“And you want me to take you, don’t you, little lady?” He growls, continuing to grind into you. “You want your Housecarl to have his way with you.”

“I do,” you agree, sliding your hands just a little lower on his stomach.

"Then let’s get these clothes out of the way,” he suggests, grabbing the bottom hem of your linen shirt and starting to slide it up. You help him get yourself out of the garment, and while your hands make short work of your breast bindings underneath, Argis pulls his linen shirt off his frame. “By the Nine,” he groans when he sees your breasts laid bare before him, though you could say the same about his sculpted torso. He wastes no time, though, lowering his head to one breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple while one hand gropes and kneads at your other breast. You arch into his touch, desperate for more, but he pins you back down on the ground firmly. The hand that isn’t busy with your breast quickly gathers both your wrists up, pinning them above your head in a firm grip.

“Oh, Argis,” you moan, trying in vain to squirm against him for more pressure.

“You like the way I make you feel?” He asks, before doubling down on his assault on your nipple, flicking back and forth over it fast with his tongue.

“I do,” you agree.

“Good,” he murmurs, then pauses his ministrations to look up at you. “Because I’m going to fulfill your every desire tonight, lass. And when I’m done, you’ll know that no man can ever take care of you, as both your protector and lover, the way I can.” He moves to your other breast, first swirling it with his tongue, then flicking at it quickly.

“Argis,” you moan, halfheartedly wishing your hands were free so you could move his head down south a little- so he could put that tongue to use somewhere else.

“Promise me something,” he rumbles, this time without looking up at you.

“Anything,” you agree, all reservations gone. You’d give him just about anything right now.

“Promise me you’ll moan my name like that when you’re stuffed full with my cock,” he growls, pulling away from your nipple with a sharp scrape of his teeth.

Well. For someone who usually didn’t say anything that didn’t need to be said, he could certainly be a dirty talker in bed, you think to yourself.

The hand at your wrist releases you, and he moves to your waistband, pulling the linen pants and your undergarments down. You lift your hips obligingly, and soon, you lay completely bare before the Bulwark.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, letting his hands trail down your waist, over your hips, and over the tops of your thighs. The look he gives you is another of those heartbreakingly tender looks, and it occurs to you that Argis might not just want you - he might really love you, too.

The thought is gone a moment later as Argis maneuvers his own linen pants off himself, allowing his manhood to spring free. His cock bobs before you for a moment before flattening up against his belly.

“You’re huge,” you blurt, and it’s true - he’s so thick, you wonder if your hand would even be able to close around his base. Looking at him, the size difference between you, a Breton, and Argis, the largest Nord you’ve ever met, becomes more apparent than ever, and you wonder for a moment if he can even fit in you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, reading the concern you struggle to conceal in your expression, leaning back over you. His thumb brushes your cheek gently. “I’ll make sure you’re ready for me. I promise I won’t hurt you. And if it does hurt, we’ll stop.” You reach up for Argis, your hand caressing his cheek in return. You have no doubt that he means what he says, and again, the thought that he might love you enters your mind. Staring up at him, the man who has served as your protector, who has carried you to safety, risked his life for you, and given you his unyielding friendship, you know you can trust him with everything and anything - including this.

“Okay,” you agree, and Argis smiles, pulling you in for another deep kiss. You reach up to his enormous body above you, feeling the thick cords of muscle rippling over his chest, once again running your hands through the soft blond curls of hair that cover his chest and belly.

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” you manage to tell him between open-mouthed kisses. He smiles against your lips.

“Oh. Thank you,” he mumbles, and you’re certain he almost sounds embarrassed, but still pleased. A moment later, his larger hand reaches for yours, and gently guides you just a little lower down his belly, until you are brushing against the tip of his manhood. He lets out a quiet hiss at the contact, and though he lets go of your hand, you know what it is he wants. You oblige, grabbing him at the base of his length - as you had suspected, your fingers don’t meet around him at his thickest part - and give a long pump up his shaft. When you slide back down his shaft, you take a moment to reach down to caress his balls, which are heavy and large in your palm.

You quickly return to pumping Argis up and down, and when you look away from his manhood, you see his eyes, heavily-lidded, watching you carefully. His hands are kneading your thighs, working further up them, until one hand reaches your core. He gently parts your folds, finding your clit and swirling his thumb around it. You moan and squirm under him, and he takes his other hand and pins you down at your hip, holding you in place. Continuing with the quick circles, he delves in between your folds with his fingers.

“Little lady,” he groans, “you’re so wet for me.”

“Of course,” you answer, your voice husky. “I want you so badly, Argis.”

“You’re going to have me,” the blond replies, slowly pressing one finger into you. Even his fingers are thick and long, and he takes a long moment, letting you adjust to the digit within you. Rather than begin to pump it in or out, however, he plays with the angle of it for a long moment, pressing against your front wall. It’s not long before he finds what he wants, and gently begins crooking his finger against the spot. Within moments, you’re seeing stars, the pleasure within you absolutely explosive.

“Oh, by the Nine, Argis,” you gasp, feeling the pressure against your hip intensify as the Bulwark has to work harder to hold you in place. “I - oh, Argis, that feels amazing.”

You get no response besides a low growl as Argis presses another finger into you, joining the first in its motion as his thumb keeps working away at your clit. The second finger begins to stretch you, and you try to grind into the feeling of fullness, forgetting about pumping Argis’ manhood for the moment. It’s not long before a third finger joins the first two; the sensation is almost painful, but you quickly adapt to it, spreading your legs just a bit more to accommodate Argis’ ministrations.

The pleasure is relentless, and you drop Argis’ manhood entirely to grasp at the pillow behind you with one hand and to grasp at Argis’ shoulders with the other. He watches you, seeing your pleasure build, and when you reach for the hand of his that rests on your hip, he obliges, taking your hand and holding it with a firm but gentle pressure. You hold to him tightly in return, grateful for the gentle point of connection between the two of you. Truthfully, you’re not sure if you’ve ever had sex good enough to make you cum like this, and you are feeling increasingly vulnerable before Argis, as he continues to stoke your pleasure relentlessly.

A stream of curses and cries of Argis’ name are falling from your lips, and the coil of pleasure is building ever more tightly within you. Finally, your orgasm breaks over you, slamming you in wave after wave of throbbing pleasure, and you tremble under Argis’ hands, crying his name one more time. He continues stroking you through it, eventually stilling his fingers within you, and slowly, the waves subside. In the end, you are left looking at the Bulwark, who is watching you like you’re the most gorgeous creature on Nirn.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“Oh, little lady,” he groans, pulling his fingers out of you and smearing the fluids on them across his cock. “You’re so perfect.” He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, the feeling of his beard scratching against your lips and his chest hair against your breasts electrifying. You pull him into you hungrily, and you feel him smirk against your lips. “Do you want more of me, lass?”

“Please,” you manage, feeling Argis lower himself so that his hips rest between your legs.

“I love the sound of you begging for me,” he growls, moving so that the tip of his manhood presses against your slick folds. “Begging for your Housecarl, your protector.”

“Please, Argis. Please take me,” you repeat, sliding one hand down his broad back to grasp at his firm ass and try to push him towards you. He obliges, one of his hands lowering to his manhood to guide himself as he presses into you. His tip slides in more easily than you would have expected, and he continues pressing into you, stretching you, with a low groan. He stills halfway in, waiting for you to accommodate him, but you’re already so wet, so desperate for him, that you want more. You move against him, trying to take him in further, and he chuckles, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ready for me, are you?” He sounds pleased as he eases himself the rest of the way in. You feel, for a moment, like he could split you in two, he’s so large. But then he starts moving in small, gentle thrusts, and the way he presses against all your walls, fills you and stretches you, is unrivaled. Slowly, he works up to larger thrusts, pulling back to watch you carefully for any signs of pain, but you’re already seeing stars, sensitive and excited from your last orgasm. “Doing okay?” He grunts.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Take me how you want. However hard you want.”

Argis wastes no time in obeying your order, his hips slamming into you suddenly. He sets a grueling rhythm, ravaging you with such force and power it’s all you can do to hold onto his shoulders through it. You wrap your legs around his muscular waist, offering him the opportunity to plow more deeply into you, and he takes it, never once breaking his rhythm.

A breathy moan comes out of you, followed by Argis’ name. Argis lets out a loud groan of your name in response - and then one of his enormous hands is at your neck, choking you with a gentle pressure as he continues to pound you. You feel even more pleasure coil within you at this, at your submission to the muscle-bound man fucking you without mercy.

Argis doesn’t change positions - he doesn’t need to. It’s not long before you’re coming undone on his cock, screaming his name to the heavens and clenching his manhood between your walls so tightly you feel that your orgasm may never end. He holds his pace through the waves of pleasure, but as you begin to wind down, you feel his movements becoming erratic, his hips stuttering in a desperate bid for more pleasure.

“Oh, love,” he gasps. “I’m close - I -”

Argis comes with a wordless roar, not unlike the ones you’ve heard him loose in battle, his cock shooting cum deep into you as he loses his pace entirely. Even as he rides through his orgasm, you feel the hot strands of his cum leaking down the insides of your thighs, threatening to spill onto the bedroll beneath you. Finally, he has spent himself, and he collapses above you, letting go of your throat to support some of his weight on his elbows, his face again buried in the crook of your neck.

You reach up from his shoulders to stroke his thick blond hair soothingly. Had he called you love, just then? Did he really mean it, you wonder, or was it just a figure of speech he’d used in the heat of the moment?

But when Argis raises his head from your shoulder to look at you, you see again that tenderness and adoration in his face, and you suspect that he really had meant to call you his love.

“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting off you and onto one shoulder, pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his body.

“More than okay,” you answer earnestly. “That was amazing.” Argis chuckles in response.

“I’m glad it was as good for you as it was for me. Let me get you cleaned up.” He disappears from the bedroll for a moment, moving to his rucksack. You can’t help but watch his form as he moves - from his impossibly broad shoulders to his narrow hips and powerful thighs, you’re amazed by how gorgeous he really is. When Argis returns, it’s with a small piece of cloth, and he cleans you gently until you have no more of his hot cum leaking from within you. He wipes himself clean quicly, too, then throws the cloth to the side. You’re grateful when he returns to the bedroll, which has begun feeling chilly without him.

“The smokeless fire has gone out,” Argis mumbles into your hair as he draws you back into his chest, tucked beneath his chin. You nestle into him gratefully.

“Couldn’t keep enough focus through all of that,” you laugh. He laughs, too, but asks,

“Are you cold? Do you want to start it again?” You pull back in mock surprise, amazed that the Nord had volunteered to put up with your magical proclivities for once.

“Are you actually asking for me to use magic?” You tease with a smile, but flick your hand out from the bedsheets, starting the smokeless fire above you again.

“Only until you’re warm again,” he returns, pulling you back into the warmth of his chest again.

“Fair enough,” you laugh, one hand playing with the golden curls on his chest. “After all, I don’t know what Skyrim would do if the mighty Dovahkiin froze to death tonight.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Argis murmurs, his voice a deep rumble in his chest, reverberating throughout your body. His strong arms tighten around you, gently, protectively, and you feel the soft brush of his lips against your forehead.

“Nor I without you,” you murmur back, tipping your head up and managing to reach his lips for a return kiss. He kisses you back for a moment, then hums contentedly, deep in his throat, and tucks you back down under his chin.

“The Divines have blessed me,” Argis sighs. “This life is a hard one, at times, but by the Nine, am I blessed.” You wrap your arms around his chest, feeling the slow, soothing beating of his heart in his chest, and though you have a thousand – a million – questions for him, you don’t know how to ask any of them. Maybe they shouldn’t be asked, just yet.

“I’m blessed, too,” you whisper to Argis, and you know he hears you by the way he holds you just a little tighter. And not long after, the comfort of each other’s arms and the mead and the heat of the fire conspire to overtake you both and send you both to sleep.

#argis #argis the bulwark #argis skyrim #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #reader insert #the elder scrolls #blizzard in the reach #the elder scrolls fanfiction

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kenmas-consoles · 4 years

Text

HAIKYUU X READER PURGE KARASUNO EDITION

"₦Ø₮ ɆVɆⱤɎØ₦Ɇ ₵₳₦ ₥₳₭Ɇ ł₮"

PROLOGUE:

It felt like any other day, for (Y/n) atleast. Walking the streets in such an ungodly hour should be a sin but the team had morning practice and this week she was assigned with key duty. With eyes lidded and a limp to her step dragging her body along the concrete pavements the girl could easily be mistaken as a corpse. This wasn't exactly uncharacteristic of her as she's normally this way after pulling all nighters on the day before morning practices. The last time this had happened Tsukishima had practically scrunched his nose in disgust towards his classmate and team manager seeing how much of a sleep deprived zombie she was.

A gust of wind sped past that made the girl shiver, cursing herself for not bringing a jacket she folded her amrs together.

"Oh, it's (Y/n)-chan!" Hinata said as he saw the girl sluggishly walking. He rode up to her in such inhuman speed flailing his arms a little bit to catch her attention.

"A simple hello would be nice, it's too early to make this much noise." The girl said burrying her face into his back as the boy offered her a ride on his bike.

"E-eh, sorry (Y/n)-chan I was jusy excited." The boy replied stiffening at her touch as well as making the tips of his ears go red, 'I've never been this close to a girl before' he thought only making his face burst with the same red hue. He silently thanked the gods she was practically half asleep and behind him.

"4:30 is way too early to be at school and practice is an hour later," Getting of the bike the female had whined stretching her arms crickets could be heard chirping in the background and the morning breeze had caused her to involuntarily shiver yet again.

"I didn't think I would get here this early normally I'd make it here by 5 on foot" the girl mumbled, puffing her cheeks as she said so.

Still somewhat sleepy she rubbed her eye and looked at the boy who was parked his bike at the bike rack by the school's entrance "Why are you up this early though?"

"Hmm," the boy put a finger on his lips, "No particular reason, I couldn't really sleep last night either maybe because I was excited for today's practice. Something big is happening today and I feel it in my bones."

While the girl had smiled at the boy's enthusiasm and her luck that they were able to cross paths today she let out a sleepy yawn.

"(Y/n)-chan sure is tired, were you not able to sleep last night too?"

The girl shook her head in response. Hinata then crouched down before her with his back facing her and offered her a ride on his back. After a bit of convincing the pair made their way on to the gym, with (Y/n) on Hinata's back.

★彡★彡★彡

It was currently 6:52 and practice is now ongoing, and had been for almost an hour or so.

Right after the pair had made their way to the gym Kageyama was unsurprisingly the next person to arrive, the boy being a little bitter Hinata arrived first. The other members soon filled in one after another some more lively than the rest.

Now the girl sat on the bench as the boys did their drills. Takeda-sensei couldn't make it to morning practice today as the school board was having a faculty meeting at this hour as well. So here she was inbetween Yachi and Kiyoko watching the boys practice.

Daichi had proposed a mini-game between the team and as soon as he said it the boys had already split into two seperate teams and started a rally as a way to conclude training.

Kageyama was extremely out of it during the game, his serves had less power in them and his tosses lacked accuracy (nothing the team would notice but still). 'Something doesn't feel right, was it the Mackerel this morning? no no no it couldn't be maybe it was because I wasn't able to wash my pair of favorite kneepads' he thought.

"Kegeyama!" Nishinoya had called signalling him that the ball was being passed to him so he had assumed a setting position, jumping he felt the ball fit perfectly in his fingers flicking his wrist he tossed it to the otherside of the court where Hinata was ready to swing.

'Crap, it's low' The boy thought as the ball had left his fingers watching at how the trajectory was down by atleast 18 degrees. Hinata was ready to spike, he felt the surge of adrenaline kick in as he stretched out his hand. He felt a jolt as the ball collide with his face instead of his palms. It all happened too fast for anyone to register, Hinata was soon found on the floor face first hurt, confused and ready to fight Kageyama.

"Hinata!" Daichi had shouted.

"A-are you okay?" Asahi asked as the whole team had circled around the boy who was still laying face flat on the floor.

"He's silent. . .

Ryuu do you think he's dead?!"

"I would be surprised if he wasn't" a certain megane snickered.

"Now now let's not jump to conclusions, Hinata are you alright?"

The boy groaned in reply refusing to sit up.

(Y/n) stood up from her spot and inspected the orange haired boy. The boy had an obvious red mark on his cheek and a growing spot by his forhead and nose, it was only a matter of time before it started bleeding.

Daichi sighed watching (Y/n) escort Hinaya towards the other managers he looked towarss his team, "looks like this is the end of our morning practice, In the mean time the rest of you can do cool down stretching individually and leave. Hinata would be taken to the nurse's office and Suga and I are going to the teacher's lounge to talk to Takeda-sensei about the new training schedule and updates on this mornings practice."

On the otherside of the gym (Y/n) stood by Yachi who was tending to Hinata who had his nose pinched with a tissue. Yamaguchi and Tsukishima stood a few ways from them snickering at the boy's predicament while Kageyama was silently sat next to Hinata.

"Ano, Hinata-kun I think it's best to go to the infirmary now, your nose is bleeding quite a lot." Yachi said scratching her cheek.

"A-ah you're right."

Noya bounces in with Tanaka and Ennoshita in tow, while Narita and Kinoshita finish up their stretching.

"I'm coming with you!" Noya declared, "I need to ice up and bandage my arms too, plus what kind of senpai would I be if I didn't accompany my kouhais to the infirmary." Noya said with an intense aura that nearly blinded Yachi that had left Tanaka laughing.

Kiyoko had volunteered to go to the Infirmary as well to request for a first aid kit as these accidents have been happening quite frequently these days. This had only caused Noya to sky rocket since he'd get to be within a foot radius with his beloved Kiyoko-san.

Daichi, Asahi and Suga stood by the entrance looking over at the team. Suga let out a playful exhausted sigh watching at how loud and energetic Noya is even after morning practice. The boy was laughing with his arms spread looking over a star strucked orange haired boy while Tanaka seemed to hype them up as well (Y/n) and Kageyama looked geniunly confused with Ennoshita face palming behind them. It was a sight to behold, truly it was.

"Sure is energetic, huh?" Daichi said.

"Well, I wouldn't put it pass him, he's always been lively." Asahi said meekly using a finger to scratch his cheek sweatdropping at the scene before him.

With his hands on his hips, lips twisting to the side, "Kinda envious actually, I feel like some old dude now especially when I'm with you slovenly bunch." Suga replied.

"Suga you aren't even old" Daichi said sighing at how dramatic the setter has been lately, ignoring his latter comment the trio exited the gym heading towards the teachers faculty. Hinata, Nishinoya, Yachi and Kiyoko left the gym as well to pay a visit to the infirmary not long after the trio.

7:23

The rest of the volleyball club still stayed by the gym, the door closed, shoes sqeaking and balls being hit could be heard from the gym. None of the boys even bothered to change out of their gym attire yet and class was about to start in an hour.

"Daichi and Suga aren't here right?" Narita asked picking a stray ball.

"Nope, they went to see Takeda-sensei, I'm sure they already left for class after." Ennoshita replied also taking a stray ball and placing it inside the cart.

"I don't think so, they left their bags here." Narita said using his chin to point at where their bags were, by the bleachers along with a few of their teammates belongings as well as a napping (Y/n).

7:30

The lights glowed dim and flickered this caused the group of males to stop their ministrations.

"Did the lights just go out for a second or was that just me?" Tanaka asked aloud.

"I bet it was nothing," Yamaguchi said dismissively, as he was about to practice another float serve the lights went out.

"Who turned out the lights"

"Shit"

"Is it a black out"

"Do you think something happened to the main building??"

Narita takes initiative to go towards the door to check, waning to see if they were the only ones affected from the cut off in electricity.

"Do any of you have flashlights"

"Use your phone"

"It honestly isnt really all that dark you guys are exaggerating"

Narita grabs onto the sliding handle and tugs at it, jerking it with a little more force but to no avail.

"Guys. . . we're locked in."

Kageyama's faced twisted as he ran over and started pulling at the sliding door hoping it would budge but after his actions proved to be uneffective he hit the door with a loud bang.

"Shit" he whispered.

The lights then started to flicker on and off, a loud alarm blaring from the intercom and announcement speakers outside. A wave of panic coursed through the students in the gym.

ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʀᴇɴ, ᴀɴʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ, ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ꜰᴏʀ 12 ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴏᴜꜱ ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ. ᴘᴏʟɪᴄᴇ, ꜰɪʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴇʀɢᴇɴᴄʏ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴜɴᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛᴏᴍᴏʀʀᴏᴡ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ 7 ᴀ.ᴍ., ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀɢᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ. ʙʟᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ʙᴇ ᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴡ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ, ᴀ ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʀᴇʙᴏʀɴ. ᴍᴀʏ ɢᴏᴅ ʙᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ."

"What the fuck"

Ḯ̸̡̡̨͙̹̞̟̞̃̊̎͆̔͗̚͝ť̴̢̢̫̭̙̞̱̆́̇̌̉̔́͝͝ ̶̺̊h̶̠̫͉̲̘̔̅̑͛͠ͅͅả̷̢̳͚̦̽̓͒̃̾̋̈́͜s̵͙̱͙͒͆ͅͅ ̵̧̝̭̫̟̫̝̎̈́͆̈́̑̕͠͝͝ḇ̶̙̄̌͝e̶̦͘g̵̛̟̖̉̀̋̄͜ụ̵̡͖̘̹̖̘͔̆̀̆̂̓̊̒͛n̷̨̪̆̅͒̇͛͆͝

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lemonyellowlogic · 4 years

Text

the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun: chapter nine

-o-

first

-o-

chapter nine: the confession

“So, I guess the two of you are friends now?”

Virgil’s cocky, sarcastic voice floated into Roman’s head, and he barely blinked his eyes open, the word fuzzy as he woke up.

He swallowed, brushing his chestnut hair out of his eyes and looking around confused, his arms feeling heavy, seeing Virgil standing in front of his with his hip cocked and a grin on his face.

Virgil really was pretty, in a sharp kind of way. Beautiful eyes, skin, smile, and a good personality. Roman shook his head as the thoughts took root, his eyes shooting open.

“Good morning, Ro. How’d you and Dee sleep?”

Roman’s brow furrowed until he looked down and took in the weight in his arms. His arms didn’t get heavier during the night, Diego was just lying in them, completely asleep with his face buried in Roman’s shirt, his curly hair an absolute mess.

Roman turned bright red, “We weren’t doing anything!” He exclaimed.

Virgil's eyebrow raised, “I didn’t say anything happened, just walked in my friends room to wake him up for breakfast and saw my other friend cuddling him with both of them completely asleep.”

The longer Virgil spoke, the more strained his smile seemed to be, like he was unhappy or something.

“We were just talking, and then we got tired and I guess we fell asleep, that’s it.” Roman assured, his flat voice contrasting with his flushed face.

Virgil’s eyes lit up, and he sat down on the bed next to the two, “So you did talk! Did it go well?”

Roman groaned, “It went fine, we’re good now.”

Diego groaned, one of his eyes opening a tiny sliver before closing. Then they shot up with the speed of light and Diego shoved Roman off of him, throwing the human to the ground.

“What are you doing here?”

Roman groaned, rubbing the back of his head from where it struck the floor, “Ugh, we were talking and passed out, then Virgil came in here and started bullying us.”

Virgil put his hands up, smirking at his friends, “Guilty as.”

Diego narrowed his eyes, getting up in Virgil’s face, “I swear if you tell anyone-”

“Tell anyone what?” Emile walked into the room that felt like it was getting smaller every second, “Oh, Roman! There you are, Remy and I were worried where you went. Sorry about taking the couch, where did you end up sleeping?”

Roman froze, glancing at Diego who glared at him, saying with his eyes that he would kill Roman if he told Emile that he slept on Diego’s bed with him in his arms.

“I just...slept on the floor. Just passed out there!” Roman huffed out a fake laugh, which Diego echoed, “Then I woke up early and talked to Diego, right, Dee?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re good now.”

“Oh, I’m so proud of you two for talking it out! Wait until I tell Remy, they'll be sad they missed it!”

Diego called out, “Wait!” as Emile raced out the door to go tell his partner, and then groaned into his hands as Virgil cackled.

Roman swat at Virgil’s am, sighing, “Stop it, let’s just go to breakfast and pretend this never happened.”

Diego nodded, but Virgil smirked, “Oh, I’m not gonna forget this, but I won’t mention it to Remy or Emile if you don’t want me to.”

Diego groaned, “Please.”

He touched his arms, “I think I’ll take a quick swim after breakfast, my scales feel dry.”

He stood up, groaning as he stretched his back, his shirt pulling up to reveal a sliver of deeply tanning skin on his side. Roman and Virgil turned beat-red and stood up together, Diego cocking an eyebrow at the two, “What?”

Roman croaked but Virgil shook his head, “Nothing, Dee.” before he grabbed Roman’s arm and tugged him out of the room and into the kitchen, Diego following.

Emile sat at the table, his wings twitching as he told Remy where he found all of the boys as Remy smiled contently at their husband. The floor creaked as the three teenagers walked in, and the two turned to look at them. Remy looked at Roman, who felt like their eyes were burning into their soul.

“Come on, sit down.”

“Remy and I helped make pancakes this morning, it’s all we can do well.”

Diego snorted, nodding as he sat down and pulled a plate of pancakes to himself, decorating the top with blueberries and sugar. He took a small bite before he began consuming an incredible amount of pancakes in each bite.

Roman stared in wonder, but felt Remy’s eyes narrow in his direction, so he tore himself from the sight and continued to sit down as well and silently eat his pancakes with syrup.

Soon enough, breakfast had ended, and Diego excused himself to go have a swim as Virgil left to practice some magic or something. Roman stood to go to the garden, but Remy’s voice pulled him back down, “Emile, if you excuse us, I need to go talk to Roman about something.”

Emile looked a bit shocked and confused, but he smiled, kissing Remy’s temple and saying, “Oh, alright, dearest.”

Remy held a hand out to Roman and he took it, feeling a shock run through him before standing up and following Remy. They ended up outside near the woods, on the other side of the cottage from the river.

Remy pulled a sword out from nowhere and pointed it towards Roman, who jumped in shock.

“W-what’s happen-”

“I heard you can sword fight, would you like to practice with me?”

Remy’s words were asked, but there was no question behind them. Roman swallowed, “Alright, sure, yes.”

Rey smirked, pulling another sword from the air and pointing it towards Roman, “En garde, then.”

Remy struck first, sharply swinging the sword in Roman’s direction. Roman automatically parried, stepping back and walking slowly and Remy began advancing again. As Remy would swing, Roman would dodge, doing everything in his power to not swing towards the Alimagian.

Eventually, a swing came too close and as Roman parried it, it came very close to Remy’s body. They grinned, swinging again and forcing Roman to go on the offensive. Roman didn’t want to fight Remy, but knew that this wasn’t a battle.

He calmed himself down, reminding himself that this was just a simple game, before going on the offensive, swinging calculated swipes towards Remy, forcing the mage to step back and parry. Roman disarmed them, causing them to stumble backwards.

Soon, Roman’s sword was at their neck and Remy was on the ground, their grin unmoving. Roman stepped back, his sword tip pointed at the ground, and Remy sat up, their sword abandoned on the ground as they clapped, “Good job, Roman. I’m considered good with a sword, so I’m impressed you managed to disarm me.”

Roman stalled, rubbing the back of his throat with his free hand, “It’s nothing, just something I picked up.”

“Still impressive, where did you learn, mm?”

“I...there was a studio near my home where we were taught.”

“Hmm, strange. Your style was very much like the one taught to knights, do you know?”

Roman’s blood ran cold, and he stammered, “Well, my teacher was a retired knight.”

He wasn’t lying, there was in fact a swordf-ighting studio somewhere in the village bordering the castle, just Roman had never gone to it. His teacher was, however, an actual knight.

Remy looked at his face and hummed, “I’d believe it. Where was it again you lived?”

“I...I lived in the town where the castle lay.”

“I’ve been to Sanders village before, never found a sword-fighting studio.”

Roman’s brow furrowed, he knew he was right, “Are you sure, because there's been one at least for the past five or so years.”

Remy's grin fell slightly, “Hmm, well that was a test. I wanted to see whether or not you were being truthful.”

Roman’s eyes grew wide, “I-truthful-”

“See, some of your story doesn’t make much sense. How were you disarmed so easily if you are so good a sword fighter? Why did you let strangers you’d never met before come with you on your travels? And I’ve never heard of an attorney named Lopez from Sanders village.”

“I-I-”

“Roman,” Remy’s face grew stern, “Are you going to tell me the whole truth or should I tell the others of your fibs? I see how you look at Virgil and Diego, and I know knowing you’ve been lying would hurt them.”

Roman’s blood ran cold, how did they...Roman sighed, his hands covering his face before he looked back at Remy, his lip slightly quivering but he willed his voice to not, “I’ll tell you the truth, but please, don’t tell the others.”

Remy hummed, “I’ll tell them if I find it vital to them, but if not, I won’t, I promise you.”

Roman sighed, “I...My true name is Roman Sanders, not Lopez, and I am the crown prince of the Sanders kingdom.”

Remy’s eyes grew wide and his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief and shock, “What?”

“I have a younger brother who’s always hated me and I was sent on a scouting mission that was originally for my brother, but my father, King Augustus, sent me instead. My brother had arranged my knights, but I discovered that they weren’t to be trusted when they attacked me.

“They meant to kill me, but I escaped, and I heard them leave me for dead as they rode away. Virgil found me and took me here, but I promise, I never meant anything to happen. I’ve never done anything that could put you in danger or harm, I promise you.” Roman pleaded, and Remy continued looking at him in slight understanding, nodding.

“Alright, I can tell you’re telling the truth.” Roman let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “I won’t tell the others, I just needed to know.” They placed their hand on Roman’s knee, “If you ever need to tell me anything, I am here for you. Emile, Diego, and Virgil will not hear a word of this. I trust that you aren’t lying, but don’t let that trust be in vain, Roman.”

Roman nodded, but tears pricked his eyes at the honest words. He never had had anyone speak to him in such a way, never had anyone who he could be honest with. Remy was concerned, moving closer to the boy, who had placed his face into his hands, “Roman?”

“I-I’m okay, I’m sorry, I just-just-”

Remy wrapped their arms around the teenage prince, who froze in them before melting into the comfort of them, digging his face into their shoulder.

After a few seconds, Remy pulled back, holding Roman’s face in one hand, “I trust you, Roman, now trust me as I say we will not hurt you or hate you. Virgil and Diego will not even after you eventually tell them your secret, I can already tell you’re too important to them,“ Remy grinned at Roman’s soft smile, wrapping him back in their arms.

The silence was comfortable, broken only by quiet sounds from the woods and Diego’s splashing from the river. Roman pulled away, panicking slightly, “Wait, how loud was I? Could anyone hear m-”

“No,” Remy smirked, “I placed a spell over us as I touched your hand in the cottage. No one has heard us since.”

Roman let out a nervous breath, “Oh, thank the Five. I don’t want to tell them yet, I know that both Virgil and Diego have...qualms with human-kind, and so knowing my true identity would cause me to lose both of them.”

Remy raised an eyebrow, “Well, at least we have a reason for your dramatic language now.”

Roman flushed red as Remy continued, “But I don’t think they’ll hate you. They’ll be mad, sure, but anger can fade, real connection can’t.”

“What do you mean ‘real conn-’”

Remy interrupted the flustered teenager, “Do you think you would've ever told me if I hadn’t pressured you to?”

Roman let out a breath, “I don’t know,” He ran his fingers through his once tidy hair, “I don’t think so, because even though I’m a prince and whatever and should be strong, I hate losing people. I’ve already lost my mother to a fire and close friends to time, I didn't want to lose you four too. I planned on leaving eventually once I made a plan to expose my brother and have him banished, and then when I was king, to visit when I could and maybe then reveal my identity, but now that's gone.”

Remy hummed, “I don’t think it would've worked. You’ve already captured Emile’s heart, and my husband’s one of the smartest people I know, So i believe he’d eventually figure everything out. But, if you’d like, I could tell him for you-”

“No, please don’t, Remy. I-I’m-” Roman looked aside, ashamed, “I’m too much of a coward.”

Rmey placed their hand on his shoulder, “You’re not a coward to be afraid, you’re just a person.”

Roman swallowed, “Sure, but please.”

“I won’t tell him, Roman, but I want him to eventually be told by you instead of someone else, alright?”

“I-” Roman’s throat felt like sandpaper, “I will.”

“Okay, I’m proud of you, Roman, for telling me the truth.”

Roman blood froze at their words, haven’t having heard them in any circumstance since his mother passed. His nose burned as tears pricked his eyes, but he swallowed, standing up with Remy, “Thank you, Remy, for not hating me.”

“I can’t hate you, Ro,” Remy smiled, “As much as you’ve wormed our way into my family’s hearts, you’ve wormed your way into mine too.”

Remy hugged him, before pulling back with a grin, “Now go bug one of the others, you’re boring.”

Roman laughed and picked the sword up from the ground, offering it back to Remy. Remy thought for a moment, before shaking their head, snapping their fingers and a sheath for the sword popping into the air, “No, you can keep it. I trust you’ll be smart with it?”

Roman smiled, grateful, “I will.” Remy handed him the sheath, and he slid the sword into it. He turned, waving at Remy as he walked away, who had sat back down in thought. Roman felt the air snap around him as he passed his garden, like the quiet spell Remy had placed had been pulled taught before breaking.

Roman felt like his heart had lightened after speaking to Remy, but he wasn’t planning on telling the others anytime soon. He’d just become actual friends with Diego and he was good with Virgil, why would he throw that away on a chance they’d trust him?

-o-

masterlist

#lemon talks #lemon writes #thtrtsts #thtrtsts spoilers #sanders sides #ts sides #thomas sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #janus sanders #remy sanders #emile picani #dlamp #remile

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jkoojeon · 5 years

Text

Beautiful Sin ch 1

summary: When you first appear in front of Jeon Jungkook, he thought you were the most beautiful girl he ever laid eyes on. Maybe that is why he agreed to be your blood donor. But, poor sweetie pie Jungkook has no idea what you have in store for him.

pairing: human!jungkook x vampire!reader

masterlist

Jungkook can’t believe it. Never in his years of living think he would actually witness something that is beyond scientific belief. Is he dreaming? It has to be a dream, right? Sure he has wacky dreams, but this is a different wack.

His eyes are wide, face drain of color, and frozen at the alleyway. He is still holding his ice cream in his hand, not feeling the treat melting to his hand. The bag full of snacks from the convenience store is dropped, creating a soft thud on the ground.

That sound snaps you back to reality as you pull away from the dying man’s neck to see who is intruding on your meal. That is when you see him, completely petrified. You look back at the man you were feasting on. Declaring him dead, you take out your knife from your back pocket before slitting his throat and then push him off of you.

You stand up straight to face the horrified young man. You put your knife back in your back pocket before stalking your way to him.

Inside, Jungkook is screaming, telling himself to run before you end up like that man. But he can only stand there. His flight or fight response thrown out of his body. He watches you slowly make your way to him. He sees you lick your bloody lips like a total predator. He then meets up to your eyes. They are red and almost glowing. Isn’t there a rule to not look into your predator’s eyes.

If he isn’t shitting himself right now, he would think you’re absolutely pretty. But it’s not the time to think about that because he is literally seconds away from dying.

“I should kill you. Leaving witnesses behind will be bad on my part,” you hum as you saunter around him, lightly trailing your fingers at the circumference of his body. You stop in front of him and look up at him. He’s tall and has a sturdy, muscular physique. From afar, you look non-threatening to him. However, up close, that is not the case. You have the upper hand, and dominating him with great fear. You lift yourself on your toes a bit then bury your head in his neck before inhaling deeply. You stand flat on your feet again. “But I’m not.”

“Y-You’re not going to kill me?” Jungkook squeaks, finally have the courage to speak even if it is small. You shake your head. Instantly, he feels like he dodged the most gigantic bullet. Relief taking over him, he relaxes a bit.

“Not unless you let me get a taste of you.”

Jungkook freezes up again. Taste? As in him on your tongue? But taste what? Jungkook glances at the dead man then your lips, then realizes it’s his blood that you want. Oh my God. Vampires are real.

“I-” His words get caught in his throat.

You tilt your head up at him mockingly, “What? You’re scared? Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle since I do have a liking of your face. So, what do you say, little bunny?”

Never in his life, Jungkook would think a small girl like you is scaring him. He gulps down his fear, but it only goes back up. If he doesn’t let you taste him, then you will most likely kill him. If he’s scared of anything, it would be death. Oh, and you too. Gotta pick one or the other.

“O-Okay.”

Immediately, you grab his shirt at his chest then slam on against the brick wall, making him gasp and drop his ice cream in the process. You are eager, too eager. The moment you took a whiff of him earlier, your mouth salivated like never before. He smells so damn good.

Jungkook is trembling. He holds onto the wall behind him to steady while you pull him down so that his neck is at your height. He looks at the building wall opposite from the two of you. The wind waft around the both of you. As inappropriate it is to think about this but, you smell really good. Your hair smells like coconut shampoo.

The sensation of your wet tongue on his neck pulls him away from thinking about how good you smell. He lets out a tiny whimper, anticipating pain to be struck.

He feels you bite down. It hurt, quite a lot actually. It’s like an icepick piercing his skin. But the pain doesn’t last long. Within a few seconds, he can feel his blood being sucked out of his body, literally. It’s also quite arousing. He can’t help but moan, which makes him press his lips together. He doesn’t understand how it feels so pleasurable. Maybe it’s because of the sucking and the way your tongue laps against his skin, especially at the sensitive part.

You smirk when you feel him relaxing, being carried away by pleasure. You press your body onto him more. After you have enough, you give licks to his wound, closing them. You pull away from him, giggling at how his legs almost give out on him.

Making sure he’s watching you, you lick the residue from the corner of your lips. His frighten reaction brings you satisfaction. He doesn’t say anything but stares at you. Just when he thought he is done, you’re not. You come close to him to where your mouth is next to his ear.

“See you later, little bunny.” Then you are off.

Jungkook doesn’t move for a long minute, his mind malfunctioning. See you later? See you later?! He’s going to see her later?! Oh my God. Jungkook quickly scoops up his bag before sprinting off to his apartment.

The heavy eyes, eye bags, disheveled hair, lazily gait are the evidence of Jungkook not having any sleep. Once he plops his ass down on the chair in his class, he lets out a loud yawn, not caring if he’s drawing attention to himself. Right now, he just wants to get through an hour of lecture and go back to his apartment to make up for the lack of sleep.

“You look like absolute death.” Jungkook hears his best friend, Yugyeom, say and sit next to him. It makes sense to look like death since he faced death last night. He lays his head down on the table.

All night, Jungkook was paranoid to his wits. When he got home, he locked every window and doors in his apartment. Hell, he even created a salt barrier because that’s what movies taught him. He spent hours on his computer, researching about whatever you are, which he is sure is a fucking vampire.

“Don’t even,” Jungkook groans.

“Did you stay up late to finish an essay, again?” Yugyeom asks, ignoring his friend’s plea to stop talking. “If you weren’t so engrossed in that game, you would probably get enough sleep.”

“I will literally pay you to stop talking,” Jungkook’s voice is muffled in his arm, but Yugyeom hears him clearly. When he is about to reply, someone approaches him. More specifically, you. Which makes Yugyeom jaw to drop. Why? Because holy shit you’re beautiful.

You are wearing jeans with an oversized sweater that makes you look small. Your hair is in light waves and both front sides of your hair are loosely braided with strands falling from them.

“Don’t look now but a cute girl at ten o’clock,” Yugyeom leans to Jungkook and says discreetly. Jungkook only shrugs him off, not caring if there’s a cute girl. All he wants is quiet and sleep.

“Hello, I was wondering if this seat is taken? I’m new to this class.” You say, pointing at the unoccupied chair next to Jungkook.

Huh. Jungkook swears he heard that voice before but then doesn’t know because it sounds a bit different.

“Go ahead. No one is sitting there,” Yugyeom sweetly says before nudging Jungkook from under the table, which the latter ignores.

“Thank you,” you say. You take a seat.

Too lazily to lift his head up, Jungkook curiously turns his head in his arms. When he sees your face, immediately he sits up aggressively. You turn to the commotion, only to meet his wide and terrified eyes. You tilt your head at him curiously, almost like a kitten.

Jungkook stares at you with bulging eyes. Now he definitely knows that voice. Though, the tone is different, like day and night. You also look day and night. You looked so sadistic last night, but now you look like an angel. He questions if that is really you because emit a different feeling. But when you tilt your head, he definitely thinks it is really you. The fucking vampire that drained him.

He falls out of his chair, an attempt to get away before standing up and frantically gathering his stuff.

“Jungkook? What’s wrong with you?” Yugyeom asks as he watches his friend being a lunatic. He can’t even stop him because Jungkook is already bolting out the room. Both you and Yugyeom look at each other.

“Was there something on my face?” You ask.

You walk down the apartment building’s hall, glancing at each apartment number that passes you. You are sure it’s somewhere here. Ah, there it is. You beam and stop in front of the door with a plaque that says “314″.

You knock on the door a few times, hoping your new roommate is inside. Your stuff should be already inside since they were delivered yesterday. You wait for about twenty seconds before the door opens.

There in front of you stands a stun Jungkook with a cookie in his mouth. You can’t help but smile at how adorable he looks with his wide, surprised eyes. Before you can greet your self, the door is unexpectedly slammed in your face, causing a forced current of air to hit you.

Then you hear the screaming of “OH FUCK NO!” coming from behind the door. You hold in your laugh before knocking on the door again.

It takes Jungkook a while to answer. This time, he only opens the door a crack, gripping tightly on the knob. You tilt your head at him.

“Hello, I’m Y/N, your new roommate,” you say, voice dripping with honey.

Oh God, you have to be fucking with him right now.

“R-Roommate?” He stutters before shrieking at the realization, “ROOMMATE?! YOU, AS IN YOU,” he emphasizes, “ARE MY ROOMMATE?! AS IN YOU LIVE IN THIS APARTMENT?! WITH ME?! AS IN ME?!”

You nod slowly, confirming his words, no matter how anxious he sounds. “Yes, me. As in me, Y/N. Can I come in? I want to unpack my stuff.” You go to the door and try to push it open, but he is holding it in place. You pout. Jungkook would think you look cute if he isn’t terrified.

“That’s your stuff?! As in-”

“Yes, yes, those are my stuff. I had a long day can you let me in? I’ll forgive you for suddenly bolting from me in class earlier,” you sigh. When you see he is not going to budge, you plea to him, “Please?”

Hesitantly, he opens the door for you. You smile then walk right in before closing the door behind you.

“So,” you beam, “where’s my room?”

Jungkook shuffles away from you when you take a step forward before pointing at the first door on the other side of the apartment. Just when you are going to thank him, he rushes to his room, which is next to yours.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Jungkook chants while gripping onto his hair and pacing around his room with anxiety. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening. There is no way, no fucking way.”

How is it possible that you’re here? Did you follow him? Are you here to torture him? Or make sure he doesn’t report you to the police for murder and harassment.

But, why are you acting like nothing happened? Because stuff for sure happened. And he is damn sure that you and the vampire are the same people. You both look exactly the same. Wait, maybe you have an identical twin. Yeah. Yeah, that got to be it. There’s no other explanation. That’s why you don’t recognize him.

Jungkook nervously laughs, feeling a bit better. Then he suddenly pauses, the laughter dies in his throat.

If that’s your twin then what are the chance she is going to come over here to visit you? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jungkook goes to the wall between your rooms. He presses his ear against it, seeing if he can hear anything. There is only rustling and boxes being drag around the floor. So, he does what he always does when he’s in a dilemma. He calls his mom.

“Hello? Sweetie is that you?” He hears his mother’s sweet voice through the line. He sighs in relief at hearing her voice.

“Mom, I’m scared.”

“Scared? Scared of what, honey?”

Jungkook glances around before cupping his mouth to the phone, “My roommate. I-I think she’s a vampire.”

There is a pause before hearing an annoyed sigh, “Jeon Jungkook, are you really calling me to say you think your roommate is a vampire? A creature that drinks blood? You are ridiculous. I think you need to stop playing those games because they’re getting into your head. Now, call me when you miss me. Bye, I love you.” The line goes dead.

Jungkook blinks then scoffs in disbelief. His own mother doesn’t even believe him. Then, he hears your bedroom opening. He tunes his ear, hearing you pad your way to the kitchen.

Gathering all the courage he has, which is not a lot, he rips his door open, determines to confront you. Because if he doesn’t, it’s going to kill him before you do.

He goes to the kitchen where you are. Then halt his steps. You are drinking a red liquid from a cup, his cup actually. Now he is convinced that you are the vampire.

You notice someone watching you. You turn your head to see your roommate watching you with an open mouth. You raise your eyebrow at him, wondering why he looks like a bucket of ice water was dumped on him.

“Can I help you?” You ask, making him snap out of it.

“What is that you’re drinking?”

You lift your glass and look at it, swirling the liquid around before meeting your eyes to his. “Oh, this?” You tilt your head. Jungkook feels like he can’t breathe because the way you tilt your head is the same exact way the vampire did last night. It’s taunting and cruel. He then swears he sees a mischievous glint in your eyes but it goes away when he blinked. “It’s cranberry juice. I hope you don’t mind since it’s yours.”

Jungkook never wanted to slap his forehead so hard right now. Of fucking course, it’s cranberry juice. He has cranberry juice in his fridge. He literally bought it two days ago because the store ran out of fruit punch. He feels so stupid. He takes back what he thought before. You are not that vampire.

“It’s pretty good. You want to try some?” You ask, holding the glass his way. Jungkook smiles at you, feeling a humongous load lift off of him.

He declines your offer, “No thanks. And you can use or eat anything in this house. I don’t really care. If there’s anything you want, just let me know.” He’s finally feeling at ease.

You smile gratefully before walking up to him. You are close, which he stops breathing for a bit, and hears his heart pounding loud in his ears.

“There is something I want,” you blink innocently at him.

“What is it?” he asks a bit too eagerly, but the way you’re looking up at him makes him have a need to give you whatever you want. Soon, he regrets it because of your next words cause his airway to constrict.

You tiptoe to him then whisper, “A little bunny.”

#jungkook #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenario #fluff #supernatural #vampireau #jungkook vampire #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts scenario #jungkook x reader

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planetsxend · 4 years

Text

“Moist”

@sweettifalockhart issued the writing challenge: moist. I posted a snippet so I’d stay on track, and hell did I stay on track. Probably OOC in places, but that hasn’t stopped me writing before :P Reno/Tifa below the cut, set very loosely in the tie between OG/Remake & AC

1 year, 4 months, 2 weeks, 3 days after The Plate

“- and then she threw me out the bar! Literally threw me. How is that even possible?”

“... It’s Tifa,” Rude says, as if that explains everything from gravity’s pull to the magic show of pigs suddenly sprouting wings and taking to the sky (although that wouldn’t be magic so much as fucking freaky who has the alien head this time?). “Would’ve paid for a video,” his partner’s quiet addition, the bare bones of a smirk flirting with his mouth and Reno well - he can’t let that one go unchallenged. The bastard doesn’t even startle when the elastic band pings off his shades. Hmmph.

He grumbles some more, under his breath, and he’s well-versed in the feeling of eyes on him, knows Rude’s picked up on the fact he’s legitimately out of sorts with this recent development. Knows that behind those shades, Rude’s staring at him, measuring the weight of each word on his tongue before lending voice to it.

“Either start talking or start writing. This paperwork isn’t going to finish itself.”

“There’re memories in that bar,” Reno replies, the last he’ll say on the matter simply because it covers the entirety of his discomfiture.

~ ~ ~

7 months, 3 days after The Plate

It’s the first he’s properly laid eyes on her since... since The Plate and he slinks in like a cat on the scavenge, well aware there’s a dispute in his very near future the further in he goes, vividly aware he’s out of his depth. He’s still got a sharp smart in his ribs to prove just how hard she punches on a bad day. But here, now, on her turf? Where every territorial instinct she has will be on red alert the second she clocks him? Where every protective instinct will kick into high gear the second she recognises a threat? He’s gonna wind up with his face smashed in and a couple teeth knocked loose and he’ll probably roll over and thank her for it after.

Better than the guilt gnawing him open from the inside out, right?

Sure enough, he’s not even singled out the quietest corner when she spots him, and because he keeps bouncing between where to sit and where’s the danger, he sees it. The smile for her patrons vanishes so fast he might as well have smacked it off her, face settling into an expression carved from stone. Empty. Blank. Carefully so, but she can’t do shit about her eyes. They burn, even as her spine snaps straight and her chin lifts just so.

A challenge he doesn’t meet. A challenge he can’t back down from, either. His own issued when he approaches her directly, well and truly in the lion’s den.

“What do you want?” She spits, and if words were acid he’d be stripped to the bone in seconds. A lesser man would flinch, and a smarter man would leave, but neither man is him and so he slaps on a smirk and replies cool as Shiva’s kiss - he’d like a drink, if you please. He sure as shit doesn’t imagine the creak of leather around her fists, but she’s a gracious host, and everyone’s welcome in Seventh Heaven, she can’t go around denying customers willy nilly without consequences.

He’s actually surprised when he survives that first drink, never mind the entire goddamn night.

7 months, 2 weeks, 5 days after The Plate

It’s almost a game between them a few weeks later, this animosity. Every night he intrudes on her space and every night she’ll hiss at him like she’s ready to claw his face off. Sometimes he’ll get blackout drunk and someone has the decency to phone Rude to cart his ass back home, sometimes he doesn’t and he’ll nurse one drink the entire night, every second under the same roof as her an agony. When will she do it, he wonders. When will she snap? When will that practised calm give out in favour of confronting him? Just what the fuck is it gonna take?

He’s not drunk tonight, just on the wrong side of tipsy, weaving one way on his stool then jerking centre and weaving the other. Loose-lipped, too, if anyone thought to talk to him, but the suit keeps most folk at a respectable distance. She comes at him when most of the regulars clear out and over the blast of the jukebox he thinks fuckin’ finally.

‘Cept she slams a glass of water down in front of him, sloshes some of it over his hand for good measure. And while he swears and trips over his own tongue and waves his hand around and wipes it down with the stupid fuckin’ square Tseng always insists on cramming into his breast pocket, she parks her ass down opposite him, and jams both elbows down on the table. There’s no warning creak this time, because her hands are bare of their usual gloves, and the fire in her eyes isn’t quite so bright tonight.

The hell?

“Why do you keep coming here, Reno?” She asks, and if anything should catch him off guard maybe it should be that she remembers his name. Instead, it’s her tone, the tired quality to it curling ‘round the words and robbing them of the caustic bite she usually keeps in reserve all for him. Like she’s as weary to the bone as he is. Like she’s beaten down and wrung out and barely hanging on by the tips of her fingers.

Like maybe - just maybe - she’s in the same boat as him.

You got snarlin’ little beasties crawling around in your head, too?

But he doesn’t ask that, it’s early days yet, right? She’s more liable to smash the glass on his head and jab him in the eye with one of the resulting pointy bits, right? So he looks at her instead, fighter-turned-bartender, damaged soul under all that easy charm, and lets his own trademark smirk fall just a little. Just enough to clue her in on his little secret - I know the taste of regret, and it sure is bitter.

“To drink. To forget.”

~ ~ ~

It doesn’t make things right between them, not by a long shot. But the water’s her white flag, and his truth an apology. It’s a step in some direction, maybe not the right one.

9 months, 1 week after The Plate

She asks him about it eventually, just like he knew she would. She’s a blunt woman, Tifa, when it comes down to the nitty gritty details. Her patience has its limits and beating around the bush as they are, tolerating one another as they are... something has to give somewhere. So she asks him. About it. About The Plate.

Such a simple question, really. Do you regret it?

Does he have an answer for it? Oh sure, he has an answer alright. Yes. Yes he regrets it, every damn time he thinks about it his stomach curdles and his skin goes clammy. So many questions circling his head ‘til he’s dizzy: was it necessary? Was it worth it? How many died? How many people suffered - trapped under crushing weight, their last moments ones of terror and darkness and indescribable pain? How many begged for help on their last breath? How many stretched out broken hands in the hope someone beyond the rubble would grab on and help them free? How many people ripped apart? How many families struck from the census records in one fell swoop? What were their names? Their ages? How many kids died that night?

“Yeah,” he says instead, voice wavering under all that strain locked up inside his skull, queasy and not from the food he’d ordered (still not poisoned, she’s out of her goddamn mind). He doesn’t know what he looks like in that moment - can’t stand to look in mirrors much these days except to scrape the scruff off his chops in the morning - but she does. Tifa looks at him then and sees whatever he can’t smother, standard Turk mask of indifference be damned, and a switch flips between them. Animosity to understanding.

There should be surprise when she closes the bar early, promising discounts for the inconvenience, when she sets a bottle of hard liquor by his plate... and two glasses. Instead he musters up the ghost of a smile and leans back - almost makes an ass of himself toppling right over, but hey, the reflexes have saved him from worse (like Strife’s sword) - daring to drag his eyes from her face to her waist and back up again. “Come to confess to the big bad wolf, doll?”

“Eat a dick, Turk,” she snaps back and twists the cap open, sealing their fate.

~ ~ ~

“We, I, killed people, too... when we... blew up the Reactors. Maybe not... maybe not every life lost was immediate but... the riots, the robberies, the people dying at home because their heating went out and never came back on again. I don’t know how many deaths can be traced back to my hands.”

“That’s not the same as-”

“Does the how really matter, Reno? People died. By our actions. By our choices. That is the burden we bear.”

~ ~ ~

He comes awake the following morning to the unforgiving thump of a combat boot in the ribs, and bright sunlight stabbing a thousand daggers into his eyeballs, and a behemoth using his head as a chew toy. It’s Strife above him, hands on the table he’s shoved aside to get to him, baby blues gone dark and thunderous and hell if that ain’t a safe wake-up call. From his left somewhere a pitiful moan as Tifa rouses, and Murder Face turns his attention elsewhere, moves in her direction, giving Reno just enough space to try and get his legs under him. Where are his legs again? His - where the fuck’s his shoe?

“What did you do this time?” Rude asks the second the call connects as he trips his way out the bar, and all Reno can manage without upsetting his entire lack of balance is a raspy laugh and cradling his head in his free hand.

“Made a mess, prob’ly.”

11 months, 1 week, 4 days after The Plate

“Are you asking me out?” Really, she doesn’t need to look so suspicious. What’s he gonna do, chuck her in a chopper and fly her across the continent? Avalanche’d kill him deader than dead in two seconds flat. Still, she’s not exactly wrong, which. Yeah, okay, this isn’t one of his better ideas by far but. Hm.

“No? Figured it’d be a better bonding experience if we had a chat while stone cold sober, is all. You like coffee?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Tseng.”

Call him crazy, but her laugh sounds less hollow than he’s ever heard it.

~ ~ ~

Marlene nails him in the back of the hand with a fork and Denzel gets melon juice all down his shirt. Accidental his ass.

At least Strife is upfront with his threats of bodily harm if he breaks Tifa’s heart.

1 year, 2 months, 3 weeks after The Plate

The next time they wind up under what he’s dubbed their table, alcohol has absolutely nothing to do with it... Well. Except for the sticky residue he can taste on her fingers.

He has enough common sense to make sure they drag their asses upstairs and to her bedroom before dawn. Enhanced senses must suck balls, though, because when Strife drops by the following afternoon he doesn’t even bat an eye at Reno’s perch at the bar (munching away at the remnants of a fruit salad the brats didn’t take to school), but he does when he gets closer and breathes. His nose scrunches up as he sniffs in Reno’s direction like a dog - or that snarling wolf emblem he’s so fond of slapping on anything he can get his hands on - and darts those baby blues between his shit-eating grin and Tifa raised brow. Try me, that look says, complete with the casual gathering of her hair into a high ponytail, the flex of her fingers after it. Do they smell of each other, then? How cute.

“... I don’t even wanna know,” Strife eventually says, and Reno laughs.

1 year, 4 months, 2 weeks, 3 days after The Plate

The punch she lands smack on his left pectoral is a love tap compared to what she’s capable of, and instead of the fire he’s half-expecting there’s... mischief in her gaze.

“Tifa -”

“Never say that word in my bar again, Reno, or I’ll ban you permanently.”

“Yes Ma’am, lesson learned.”

“I might even ban Rufus, too. Make sure the lesson really sticks.”

“Aw naw, c’mon! That’s hitting below the belt!”

“Please. We both know you’d be sobbing on the floor if I did that.”

He pouts (she does have a point). Tifa laughs. It’s fast becoming his most favourite sound in the world.

#sweettifalockhart #stories for your ears only writing #can this even be called a drabble? What word count qualifies as that iahufhesuhffhrhg

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vios-rockland-corner · 5 years

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Rockland: Misfits and Professionals connection

The date of this post is 3/27/20. Please note that information revealed at this time via Patreon or any of the creator’s blogs may be subject to change after this date.

With a visual line-up of at least four characters each for the Misfits and the Professionals, I finally get the chance to delve a little into the connection between the groups.

(Few spoilers below for The Misfits: First Blood demo)

There’s an additional source of information here I’ll be using that I won’t give away yet because it’s definitely more of a “the creators should be responsible for announcing it when they feel it’s ready.” It’s a work in progress. Don’t worry though, it’s not like you’re missing a lot of information. Really the only information that wasn’t posted on tumblr I’ll be discussing here is ages and some family relations.

Let’s get the easy one out of the way: The biggest difference between the known characters that make up the Misfits and the known characters that make up the Professionals is age. The Misfits are adults but much younger (in their 20′s) while the Professionals are middle aged. The name “the Professionals” pretty much tells you all you need to know. These are established adults who know what they’re doing. While we can still speculate a little on the nature of “the Misfits,” it’s probably safe to say they likely aren’t as organized or put together (either when it comes to killing, career or personality wise) as the older characters are. To me is almost looks like you’re comparing a group of trouble-making “kids” to well-kept serial killers.

Yes I know that there’s not an official confirmation that all the characters from the Professionals are murderers as well, but I think it’s a pretty safe bet because of how closely these characters are connected. For example, pretty easy for everyone to spot in the line-up Quinton Willow, Charlie Willow and Alchemy Willow. Quinton (who I’ll refer to as Quill) is Charlie and Alchemy’s son. If you’ve played the Misfits: First Blood demo, you MIGHT remember Quill talking about learning from a man called Alchemy and talking about how the funeral home is a family business. At the time, I had no idea who this Alchemy person was. Quill kept spouting a million things a minute and throwing out all sorts of names without reservation that it was hard to decipher who each new character was. Bonus: NOW I get theSydney reference he makes when he uses an injection to knock out the MC (Hmmm so does Sydney also have such needles? Or does he have a different knock out method he prefers?)

It’s strange to me that Quill calls Alchemy by his first name. There’s three possibilities for why though: a) He doesn’t have a good relationship with him, b) he has more of a professional relationship with his father than anything or c)...on rare occasions some kids just DO refer to their parents by name when growing up (it’s not always for negative reasons either, they just do). I’m doubting it’s (a) only because Quill doesn’t sound resentful when talking about Alchemy.

Getting back on topic, Quill said the funeral home was a family business. Which means Quill has been trained as a mortician by very own family. Stating the obvious here, either Alchemy or Charlie (or both jointly) own the funeral home. Quill also specifically says “murder is a family affair,” so you know it’s a high possibility that not only do his parents know that Quill engages in sinister activities, but they may be partially the reason WHY he’s taken up such a dark interest.

That makes me wonder how far back this particular family business goes. Not knowing a lot about the Rockland universe, I have no clue if the Willow family has only fairly recently established themselves in the town/city....or if they have a long standing in the area. A long standing existence in the area is particularly concerning because it means they’ve been able to murder people covertly for who knows how long. How do they get away with it? Well actually, straight up owning a funeral home is a big plus for them because they literally have every means available to dispose of dead bodies without looking suspicious. Lots of police cases have started over people finding dead bodies that eventually surface from bodies of water or by someone’s dog accidentally digging up a dead body in the woods. Morbid thought I know, but what I mean is it’s not always easy to get rid of a dead human body and have absolutely NO ONE find out about it. The other reason they may have gotten away with the murders is because their position holds SOME form of power in the city/town (why, I’m not sure), or they have connections.

Now we have new characters like Dante and Rory Stryker who I’ve never even heard of until now. I don’t know what their profession is, but maybe they have something like a political position for example? That’s usually an easy way (unfortunately) to cover up rather suspicious behavior. Hard to go against the people in power.

We do know there’s also a black market in the Rockland universe. I want to say Baer works in it? Having connections with the black market probably also helps to sweep things under the rug. After all, an organization as large as the black market has to be both extremely careful and durable if it wants to say in business.

It just struck me. I’ve kind of wondered before if there would be any survival routes in the Misfits: First Blood game that allowed you to GO FREE at the end. It seemed like a strange thought to me. I can’t imagine with what the MC learns that they’d be able to just...walk out Scot-free without their kidnapper worrying about getting snitched on. Wouldn’t any self-respecting citizen like to report having been kidnapped and possibly assaulted by a maniac? The MC’s likely going to be either craving revenge against their assailant, keeping themselves safe from it happening or preventing the same thing from happening to someone else. Any one or all of these reasons at once are enough for someone to seek help. That’s why I thought if there’s going to be any survival endings, I thought it’d either end with you kind of being inducted into the group (though that sounds a little quick to me unless you play an MC that has an darker or extremely curious side to them), or you stay trapped somewhere. That’s kind of what other games I’ve seen of a similar nature do. Seriously, you can’t just threaten to cut someone up (or ACTUALLY cut someone up) and then expect no consequences.

But what if...the Misfits know that they can pretty much do whatever they want because their parents know how to clean up their messes for them? Perhaps some of the Professionals are such an intimidating figure in society that even the authorities don’t like to delve into cases around them TOO much. Or they’re just flat out too threatening towards the MC that you get too scared to try anything funny. Say they threatened to have you kidnapped and trafficked in the black market? Or even a friend or family member of yours? I know that’d freak me out for sure. Some players may value their health more than trying to get someone locked up.

Another scary thing about all this is that if you mess with even one of these characters (intentionally or unintentionally), you may accidentally set off a chain that gets you trouble with some more dangerous individuals. I won’t spoil too much, but I will tell you the Strykers are actually parents to at least two of the shown Misfits. The connections I’m not 100% on how each of them fit together sometimes (someone reading this is probably wondering the same thing because you may notice that none of the Misfits bear the last name of Stryker). Looks like there’s some adoption going on and...not sure if affairs or second marriages happening with any of these folks. There’s names I see of characters I also don’t really know anything about yet. They do connect in multiple ways though, so the point still stands that if you mess with the wrong person, then you cause the ire of another.

#Rockland #Rockland Games #the misfits #the professionals #runawayoutlaw #rottenbonethief #horror

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rendiggitydog · 5 years

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Karaoke Night!

“Are you guys ready to get schooled?” Ren sassed loudly as he set the microphone on the stage.

“You wish!” Doc called back from the door of the studio, greeting hermits as they came in.

“Ha! You guys are going down!” False yelled from the ladder where she was setting up some speakers.

“Alright, is everything ready?” Cub strolled into the room, commanding everyone’s attention.

“Yep! Just waiting for Scar now!” Ren saluted in greeting.

“Perfect!” He glanced over the decorations in the ConCorp studio, a small smile growing. “Perfect.”

“They’re on their way!” Cleo whispered urgently, sending everyone into a frenzy. Hermits dove under tables and hid around corners, hidden in five seconds flat.

“No, that’s how it’s supposed to look!” Scar’s voice drifted around the corner.

“I’m not sure, it looks like someone messed it up..” X lied convincingly. Being a partner in the business, it was agreed Xisuma could be a convincing distraction, to lure Scar to the ConCorp warehouse.

“Look, I’ll show you-” Scar rounded the corner, freezing at the strange banners and balloons scattered about the room.

“SURPRISE!” His friends appeared from nowhere, cheering and smiling.

Scar stumbled back into X’s arms. He was stunned for a moment, and then grinned widely. “I can’t believe I forgot what day it was!”

“Can we sing the song already? I want cake!” Iskall rubbed his hands together.

The group struck up a rough rendition of the happy birthday song, out of key but full of heart. Cake, made kindly by Cub, was passed around until everyone had a big slice. Small conversations sparked up around the studio, and the room was filled with the sound of clinking silverware and laughing. Someone seemed to have tossed a potion into the fruit punch, so a few hermits (Ren and Iskall) were starting up a drinking game.

Finally, as the sun began to set, the hermits settled in their seats for the main event. Cub tapped the microphone, making everyone cringe and chuckle.

“Thank you all for coming out tonight! It’s always fun to celebrate birthdays with you all! Now, as is tradition for Scar’s birthday, it’s time for the karaoke battle!”

Cheers rang out, and Ren punched Iskall, making him yell.

“We’ll draw names, and everyone who wants to sing can compete for the grand prize!” Cub displayed a vex-blue shulker box, gaining everyone’s attention. “First up, Ren!”

Ren pumped his fist as he ran onto the stage. He quickly flicked through the list of songs on Cub’s phone, grinning as he picked one. The lights dimmed as the music kicked in.

I don’t wanna write the whole song and stuff, so I’ll just give you the name and you have to look it up coz I have eccentric taste sksk

Legend (from beat saber)

Everyone cheered as Ren panted, having fully invested in his choreography. Ren jumped off the stage, high-fiving everyone as he ran past.

“Next up, Python!”

“Oh, I dunno…” Python made excuses all the way up the stage. He muttered to himself as he picked a song, and smiled apologetically as he began to sing.

Nobody Likes the Opening Band (idkHow)

Everyone cheered their approval as Python bashfully waved them off. He jumped off the stage, handing the mic to Cub, and scarpered back to his seat.

“Now get ready for Cleo!”

Cleo bounded up, unplugging Cub’s phone and plugging her own into the speakers. She selected her song and smiled cruelly as Rick Astley kicked on. Groans filled the room, and Jevin dived onto the stage trying to unplug her phone. She sang loudly, ignoring all the hate until she finished the song and dropped the mic. “Thank you Hermitcraft!”

“Ugh… Mumbo’s up next, maybe he can help us forget that ever happened.”

Everyone turned to Mumbo, who froze like a deer in the headlights. Grian gave him a little push, and Iskall gave him a supportive thumbs up, so he stumbled up the stage nervously.

“Mumbo sang last year, didn’t he?” Someone whispered.

“Yeah, he’s got a great voice!”

Mumbo heard the whispering, and smiled to himself. He picked his song, and stood proudly on the stage as the guitar strummed.

Dear Winter (ajr)

The cheering was deafening. Everyone was shouting something nice at Mumbo, who stood awkwardly on the stage, smiling at his friends. “Thanks guys!”

“And last but not least, the birthday boy himself, Scar!”

Scar ran onto the stage, waving at his friends. “Hey guys! Thanks for this party, it’s seriously a blast every year! What movie should I do this time?”

Everyone shouted a different Disney movie, trying to out-yell everyone else.

“Zed, I did Tangled last year! And no X, I still can’t sing every. Single. Character in Beauty and the Beast. Oh! Who said Almost There?” Scar flicked through the long list of Disney songs, arriving on Almost There, from Princess and the Frog.

The song ended and everyone cheered as loud as they could. Scar got better at impressions every year, and it was so fun to hear him sing all the songs.

“I forgot how much I love that movie! Let’s do one more!”

All the hermits joined in for the chorus of Dig a Little Deeper, pulling out their diamond shovels. They had to stop about halfway through the song, when Iskall accidentally hit Doc with his shovel and a skirmish broke out.

“No more fruit punch for Doc!” Iskall cried as Doc was dragged out of the room by Wels, growling.

“No more punch for anyone, you’re all getting tipsy and it’s late!” Stress announced as she dumped the last of the punch in the grass outside.

“Bummer! Let’s sing a picker-upper!” Scar yelled as I Just Can’t Wait to be King blared through the speakers.

Ren got really into that song. He didn’t even notice when the song ended, singing to his own rhythm.

“Aaand it’s bedtime for you.” Mumbo took Ren by the hand, guiding him out the door. Iskall ran after them, tears streaming down his face as he cried for Ren.

Within the next hour, hermits dropped like flies. Scar, lost in his own world, played song after song. Hermits who had too much to drink ended up collapsing in some way, and were then led home by a more sober friend.

By midnight, the only people left were Tin, Stress and Scar who was still singing, although his voice was wearing out.

“Alright luv, its time ta go.” Stress stepped onto the stage, startling Scar out of his trance.

“Stress! Do you wanna sing a duet?” Scar reached to change the song, but Stress held him back.

“Scar, it’s past midnight. Everybody’s been gone for an hour! Let’s get ya ta bed.”

“Noooo I gotta finish my playlist!” Scar scrambled for his phone, elbowing Stress in the nose.

“Oi! Cut it! Tin, help!” She strained.

Tfc trotted up the stage, wrapping his arms around Scar. “Cool it, kid. Let’s go.”

“I don’t waaaaanna….” Scar whined, throwing his hat on the floor.

Tin didn’t say anything, simply guiding him out the door. “Get to bed Stress, I’ll handle Scar.”

“Thank you luv, sleep well!” Stress waved as she split ways with the other two.

“Tiiiin, I want Cub!” Scar pouted.

“He’s already asleep, you can see him in the morning.”

“I. Want. Cub!” Tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

“Tomorrow. This is the wildest birthday you’ve ever had, you need sleep.”

Scar whimpered, collapsing in Tfc’s arms. He went boneless, dragging his feet in the dirt and slipping out of Tin’s arms.

“Ugh, like a child…” Tfc nudged Scar’s limp body with his toe, earning a long whine. “Cmon, wouldn’t you rather sleep in a bed?”

“I waant Cuuuuub…..” Scar mumbled into the dirt.

“Fine. I’ll take you to Cub, whatever.”

After a long walk, they finally found Cub, dead asleep at ConCorp. Scar cried out, collapsing at the foot of his bed, bawling.

“Cub, Cub I miss you, Cub please don’t leave me, Cub-!”

“Shut up!” Tfc hissed. “He’s just asleep!”

“I promised I would never leave you, I’m sorry Cub, I’m sorry-”

“Look, just-” Tin snatched a blanket off a nearby bed, tossing it on the floor next to Cub. “Sleep next to him.”

Scar curled up and fell asleep instantly.

Tfc chuckled. “Happy birthday, I guess.”

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angstymarshmallow · 6 years

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game night; part one (bryce x mc)

[A little note: an idea struck me about hosting a game night in a story after doing one myself recently. But, then it got kind of long and now here we are Pardon my cliche summary].

[Summary: when Maci (MC) invites Bryce Lahela for game night, it had been a last minute judgement call. Now that he’s here, Maci is slowly realizing she may gotten more than she bargained for].

[Words counted: 3949]

Maci ran her fingers against the sheer material of her blouse, wondering for the fifth time since changing her outfit on an early Saturday evening if this was the one. It wasn’t particularly showy as some of the others had been, despite its lacy trim. Still, it had the common subtleness most of her clothes favoured; modest cleavage notwithstanding along with its tasteful sophistication at the silky material that hugged her shape – without living much to the imagination.

And it came in her favourite colour.

But something was off. Or perhaps, it was all her. Maybe she was off – standing and examining herself whilst tugging the hem in her skirt. It could be deep down, she hadn’t settled yet. And perhaps, another check through her wardrobe for something else was still feasible.

Since making the declaration of hosting their first game night of the month, Maci had prepared and organized a series of games to break the ice. The snacks helped and even without them, they were already beginning to climb past the social anxieties of new friendships.

She checked the time of the silver watch on her slim wrist.

She wanted tonight to be perfect. It had to be perfect. Mac would accept nothing than perfection. However, once her eyes flew to her wrist a second time – instead of feeling a familiar rush of excitement she had experienced almost all week at the prospect – suddenly, all that excitement had prolapsed into a cloud shrouded by doubt. She enjoyed being in charge, thrived on being in charge. She was uncertain if they would enjoy it, because a part of her unease came from recognizing her efforts might not go as smoothly as she planned.

You know why. A tiny voice inside rang plaintively inside her head. A tiny voice she pointedly ignored. It’s because you invited Bryce.

She froze for a moment, frowning at the thought. Was that the affronted reason as to why her nerves were seemingly getting the best of her?

She released a sigh and touched the bridge of her nose.

Lately, Bryce seemed to be at edge of nearly all her thoughts.

She blamed it on the last time they spoke.

Their last conversation had ended tersely after she flat-out declined his suggestion at stopping by. And their friendship became strained as Maci found herself making excuses to until she nearly stumbled into him on a quick snack run to the lunchroom. She told herself it was purely coincidental but the moment she saw him, her stomach flipped.

He looked tired – which was frustrating because even tired, Bryce managed to wear well. She wasn’t as fortunate. She had to hide her exhaustion through a layer of makeup from all the double shifts she’d taken recently. Still, it was difficult not to melt when his eyes met hers’ across the breakroom and even more difficult for her to look away. For a few seconds she simply couldn’t and had taken a misstep before her shoulder had promptly flared in pain. She realized with mild annoyance in her blunder, she ran into the snack machine. To make matters worse, he had the galls to laugh at her.

Her cheeks had gone flush before she frowned and turned away. Making a fool of herself was rare and to do so in front of him was…unacceptable. Why couldn’t it have been anyone else? When she turned her attention back to him again, he had taken quick strides to close the distance between them.

Her heart leapt in alarm.

His dark eyes were still sparkling as they sought her attention again. His laugh was contagious enough to draw a reluctant chuckle from her lips, and she remembered shivering slightly when she felt his fingers brush across the tender spot between her tendons, pausing there until she relinquished a small nod.

Then the tension which lingered between them before, disappeared altogether as they grinned at one-another. His arms slid to his sides and as they caught up within each other lives; sparing no pause at the latest office gossip through hurried whispers in the corner of the breakroom. It was in her weakness of seeing him again that Maci had blurted the impending game night.

Perhaps, she was simply thinking about it now because it had been completely impulsive and not a decisive method of making her mind up when it came to all things Bryce.

Stashing aside the conundrum for another time, Maci grabbed the few pieces of paper for tonight’s games and headed downstairs.

There would be at least time to regret it later.

She met Sienna’s enigmatic smile at the bottom of the stairs. The woman had beamed a smile at her before splaying her hands out wide. “Ready to win tonight?”

Maci couldn’t help but grin back. Sienna’s enthusiasm was always infectious that way. “You bet.”

Although they had broken the group into little teams, she knew Sienna was still holding out on her to join as her partner instead of Jackie. But Maci wanted to be the perfect host. And it was better to keep an eye out to ensure everyone else was having a good time than to join herself.

“You know,” Sienna began, dragging Maci’s attention back to the present. “It would help if I actually knew what games we were playing tonight.” She tried to peek around her shoulders at the paper that had otherwise been loosely by Maci’s side.

“Nope. Nope. Nope.” Maci brought the papers tightly against her chest and laughed. She warded her friend’s inquisitive stare with a flick of her wrist. “No way am I going to let you see what I’ve got planned.” She shook her head, darting away from her. “That would be cheating.”

“Spoilsport.” Sienna pouted.

“What can I say?” Maci shrugged, grinning cheekily. “I’ve always been a stickler for the rules.”

“Oh, really?” Sienna lifted her chin, as if to challenge her statement. “Is that why you were late to meet up with us? Because you’re such a stickler for the rules?”

Maci forced herself to laugh, ignoring Sienna’s coy smile. God, had she been that transparent? “Yeah right,” she rolled her eyes. “Me late? Come on.” She kept her expression impassive and only paused to arch an eyebrow at her friend.

“You mean…it wasn’t you and Bryce I saw sneaking into a supply closet?” Sienna asked, fluttering her eyelashes innocently.

Oh. Maci wanted to curse herself for not double-checking they were alone. Shoot, she told him they hadn’t any time but Bryce simply cupped her cheek and suddenly the last thing on her mind had been finding them. Fighting to remain composed, she stepped forward. “I can explain –”

Her friend held up a hand, warding her off with a shrug. “Believe me, you don’t have to. Bryce is a total hottie.”

“Oh, I trust me – I know.” Maci snorted. That was part of problem.

“He seems like he knows how to have a good time.”

“So you’re really cool with me inviting him, tonight?” It had been a last-minute addition on her part. One she had to account thoroughly for when Bryce mentioned the possibility of bringing a few of his friends.

“Hey, the more the merrier – maybe we’ll have enough to beat them at something other than shots.” She lifted her hand for a high-five.

Snorting, Maci returned the gesture. “I hope you brought your A game then, because I’m not giving you guys any clues.” She lowered the papers in her arm and tapped them on her shoulder for emphasis.

“Not even one?”

Maci’s lips quivered at Sienna’s pouty face. She shook her head.

“Gah, you’re indomitable.”

“I prefer the term intense.” Patting her amiably on the shoulder, Maci turned on her heels. They clicked along the floor as she strode down the hall, only pausing to toss her hair over her shoulder. “We should probably check on everyone before we start.”

In it to win it had started off without a hitch.

Jackie and Sienna had been in the lead after Elijah threw the last challenge. He accidentally knocked the pyramid of cups, leaving Landry too many to recover from within record time. The mishap allowed Sienna to catch up, with Jackie urgently cheering her on as a complete look of concentration crossed her face.

The timer running low, Maci flexed between watching their attempts at building to the timer on her phone, keenly aware that less than a minute was now left. With each passing second came another grunt and cry in frustration and Maci hid a quiet smile at how much fun they were having.

They were entirely glued to the task in front of them.

Ten seconds…

Landry laughed at the sound of Jackie’s swearing.

Five seconds…

Elijah’s cheers grew louder, momentarily drawing Maci’s attention away from her countdown.

Two seconds…

Before Maci could call the time, Sienna threw her arms back and yelled in triumph after quickly placing the final cup atop of all the others. Her stack of cups quivered for a moment as though it would tower over. Then just as quickly, it remained still and her pyramid stood proudly tall as Laundry finished a few seconds after.

His shoulders sagged in defeat at the horror of losing finally seemed to dawn on them.

Maci hid a smile behind the papers in her hand. Ultimately, Elijah and Laundry had thrown their own lead from gloating their earlier wins of the night.

Usually the quiet one, Laundry’s eyes narrow at Elijah before one of his hands lifted and poked an accusatory finger at him. “If you hadn’t sneezed and dropped a whole bunch, we would’ve won!”

“Hey!” Elijah’s nostrils slightly flared as he spoke. “I recovered pretty quickly! You’re the one that dropped three more than me!”

“That’s not fair, you know my hands get sweaty when I’m nervous!”

“Yeah, well maybe you should –”

“Boys.” Jackie drawled; the word on her tongue sounded more of an insult than an endearment. Immediately their bickering came to a dead halt as they shifted their attention to the gorgeous-looking woman standing with her hands on her hips. “The least you could do is accept defeat gracefully.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, smirking at the sight of their expressions darkening with a scowl. “Quit embarrassing yourselves.”

Sienna whooped, stumbling to her feet before Jackie’s arm instantly came around her hip to help in keeping her steady. She mumbled a word of thanks before she leaned across their coffee table to grab her beer. “Cheers to the best partner this side of the country.”

Grinning, Jackie tilt her head back. “Cheers to women always being on top, where we belong.”

Sienna followed suit and together they kept their chins angled until the last bit of liquid disappeared from their bottles.

“I request a rematch.” Elijah shook his head, “preferably with a different partner.”

“No no –” Jackie pointed a finger at them. “Battle of the sexes, remember? That was the deal.”

“And so far, we’re winning.” Sienna added, earning a high-five from Jackie.

“...Not that I’m enjoying the turn of events,” Maci cut in, finally putting a stop to the protests coming from half of the table. “But we’ve still got other games to play. Maybe your luck will turn around.”

“Is it another one of these in it to win it games?”

“No, it’s even better. Just give me a second,” turning on her heels, Maci disappeared from the room for a moment. The whiteboard she needed for charades had been carefully hidden inside their storage closet and she hadn’t wanted to ruin the surprise by simply announcing it.

Her thoughts flew briefly to her phone as she passed the hall. She left it by the banister intentionally after receiving no confirmation from Bryce if he still had plans on coming tonight. With the better half of the night almost over, she had deduced that to a resonating no and was trying hard not to dwell on it. She was supposed to enjoying her friends bickering – not thinking about some scalpel jockey – who for all intense purposes, wasn’t supposed to come tonight anyway.

Still, Maci would have liked knowing he had changed his mind. At least that way it would have prevented herself from thinking about him. At least that way, it would have easier for her to get over the strange ache settling inside her chest. Get it together Lawson, she told herself forcefully as she turned on the lights in their storage room.

Within seconds, she found the board still safely tucked in its hiding place. Uttering a small sigh of relief that everything was co-operating tonight, she tucked the uncomfortably large item underneath her arm before slowly trudging back to the hall.

By the time Maci grew closer towards the front of their apartment, the sudden ringing of their front door had stopped her inside her tracks. She blinked at the time – 11:34 pm peering right back at her before she managed to drop the whiteboard gingerly against the side of a wall and stepped towards the front door.

In her mind she had no doubt it was him. Who else would be visiting them at such an ungodly hour? “I got it!” She yelled quickly down the hall before anyone else had the chance to meet her at their doorstep. She ignored the slight quiver of anticipation inside her stomach as she timidly pulled open the door.

Bryce hadn’t meant to be late.

The hours seemed to have simply blended into one another, mending themselves into one long period of work until his feet ached and his eyes threatened to close. When his shift had ended, he made it his mission to find the quickest cab ride home – all while being acutely aware of time slipping between his fingers every moment he spared a glance in its direction.

He was going to be more than just a few minutes late. He thought about texting her; possibly cancelling altogether after the weird couple of weeks they had.

The last time he suggested coming over, Maci had shut down so swiftly that Bryce had been left flabbergasted onto how to proceed.

He could find no other comparison than one of a light-switch. In a nanosecond her entire demeanor had gone stiff. Her smirk disappeared instantly and she straightened her shoulders enough for him to notice a visible tension. He hadn’t known how to break the immeasurable coldness in her gaze then – not when she had been staring at him with enough intensity to make a lesser man fumble and retreat. Though he hadn’t been the one to turn away first, he was still reeling from its after effects – because in all the recent weeks of getting to know her, he had never seen her walls. Never seen how high she could build them against someone. Against him.

She was hardworking, intelligent, independent and a little intense when it came to work, but off-duty had been another side of her that had prompted him into thinking they were capable of being more than simple friends.

She was flirty, hell – he had been too, and he found it refreshing that she was never one to turn submissive against his relentless teasing. Instead Maci dished out just as quickly as he served. And Bryce liked to think he served his very well – hot but also pretty scalding to the touch. He was relieved that there were no pretenses. They could just be more than friendly and have it be enough.

Then why hadn’t felt enough now? Standing at the doorstep of her flat, while shifting anxiously on his feet. Nearly three hours later, Bryce tucked his hands inside jeans pocketed. He felt restless in more ways than one, waiting and wondering if he had made a mistake.

The door had opened swiftly with a soft creak. The motion had been enough to jar him out of his thoughts. Bryce’s eyes flew up to meet Maci’s expectant arched brow. He squinted.

She hadn’t looked surprised to see him, but she hadn’t exactly seemed happy either.

Trying to gauge her reaction, Bryce recovered seconds later; embellishing his trademark smirk before allowing his eyes to travel down the length of her. It would have been a crime not to. “Good evening Maci,” he felt a surge of satisfaction at catching her gaze lingering on him as well. “You look good.”

“Good enough to eat, I hope.” Maci quipped back, grinning broadly before stepping close enough for him to place the scent of her perfume.

“Don’t tempt me.” As though to emphasize his point, he raked her with another once over.

He watched as the dimple he remembered quite fondly appeared on her left cheek, and he bent forward slightly to embrace her. She smells good. It’s criminal for her to smell so good.

“Took you long enough to make it.” She murmured after which, he released her.

Keeping an arm loosely around her waist, he tugged her closer. “So, you are excited to see me.”

She rolled her eyes, then they eyed him curiously. “Excited isn’t the word I’d use exactly, more like indifferent – ” she stepped out of his embrace, clutching the papers inside her hand a little tighter as she created a few of distance between them. “We should probably let the others know you’re here while we’re at it. Could you grab that white board? I still need a couple things from the storage room.”

“White board?” He repeated with a frown. “What are we playing?” Bryce wanted to add something else but when no words came, he simply followed behind her.

“It’s a surprise.”

He leaned against the doorway of their storage room, watching her intently as she began gathering what appeared to be office supplies from one the lower cream-coloured cupboards.

She paused to raise a brow at him “Are you going to help me, or just stand there looking pretty?”

“Standing here and looking pretty is what I’m good at.” But he was also good at working with his hands and they were itching to be put to work. Still, he couldn’t resist teasing her.

“You’re lucky I don’t mind the view.”

“Does that mean you’ll tell me? I don’t just give a full view of this,” he gestured to himself. “For free.”

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” Yet he heard the sound of her laugh as she turned away, and gave him full view of herself bending over the storage sink.

It stirred something inside him. Being in any storage area with Maci always did that. It surfaced fond memories of other times they had been together alone, pleasantly alone in close spaces, pressed against each other – or anything else they could find for that matter before their hands found their most sensitive spots. Sometimes all it took was a subtle caress here and another there before their lips found each other.

Placing the board gently down as she kept her attention elsewhere, Bryce snuck up behind her.

While her hands busied themselves with grabbing something on a higher shelf, his slipped around her waist. He was close enough to bend slightly forward to reach her ear. “Even from me?”

He visibly felt her reaction. The shiver she tried to mask with a shrug as she angled her face to give him a side way smirk. “Even from you.”

His hands ghosted across her hips, then traveled further down to trace tantalizingly slow patterns across her inner thighs. “And there’s nothing I can’t do to convince you otherwise?” He was used to being good at doing the teasing; of dropping his voice and making bedroom eyes at other people in order to get their attention.

And he knew he had her attention even before she titled her chin and allowed him access a generous proportion of her neck.

“You can certainly try.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Bryce brushed his lips against her skin; felt the fluttering pulse of nerves underneath before leaving a trail of kisses down her shoulder and then back. His hands continued to draw lazy patterns across her thighs, not-so-innocently brushing towards her center where his fingers itched to be.

He heard her soft intake of breath and grinned against her skin. “Is it working?” He whispered, relishing the sound of her pulse fluttering once more as he pressed himself intimately into her. He loved being good with his hands.

Without answering, Maci leaned further back and hooked her arms his neck. She gave him a full view of her cleavage and as one of his hands slid upwards; he had no doubt her excitement matched his own.

“Cold.”

“Mmmm?” He nipped her ear.

She retrieved his hand. Slowly and without breaking eye contact, she guided his hand in between her thighs.

He sucked a breath.

“Warmer.”

After placing another soft kiss by her neck, he angled his chin to rest by her shoulder as his hand caressed her inner thigh. He was comfortable with staying here; leaning heavily into her with one hand pressed against her while the other had tightened by the side of her waist. He was more intrigued however, to see what she would do next. If she would take things further than him simply kissing her shoulder.

He felt her nails biting into the top of his hand for a moment, before he the pressure increased until one his fingers had swept past the waistline of her skirt. “Much warmer.”

His heart was suddenly racing and her shiver against him encouraged him to slip another. And god, it felt good to touch her.

“Mmmf.”

He managed to swallow back his groan but his voice hadn’t been so lucky. It shook slightly with need as soon as he spoke. “How about now?”

God, he wanted her. He wanted her right there and then. It would be almost too easy to yank her skirt up; to pull her silken underwear past her thighs and sink on his knees in front of her. He wanted nothing more than to taste her, to watch her eyes widen in pleasure when he’d finally have more than just a simple taste.

Bryce had nearly forgotten where they were until she suddenly twisted away.

Her hair moving past his shoulders at the motion and he nearly whimpered aloud at the sudden loss of her warmth. “Maci –” He stopped, pausing to peer down at her.

Her cheeks were flushed and the look of triumph in her eyes made him his eyes narrow before she reached between them to cup his raging hard-on.

He hissed.

“It appears you’re much hotter under the collar than I am.” Her voice – the little vixen, had managed to sound incredibly smooth and composed despite how breathless she appeared to be a few moments ago. She ran her fingers through her hair, straightening its curls without using as much of a mirror before reaching up to do the same for him. He tried to catch her wrist but she was faster in pulling away. “Which is a shame really, imagine if you’d only been here earlier, instead of – ” she checked the time of her watch, “three and a half hours late.”

Adjusting the top of her blouse, Maci gave him a quick kiss on his cheek before pushing past him with utensils he hadn’t realized she had found, safely tucked underneath her arm.

Bryce watched her go, watched the sashay of her hips and her over the shoulder smirk before disappearing down the hall.

He stared after her, a crease pinching his brows until he laughed at the irony of their circumstances. He wasn’t sure who he was more upset with – himself or the fact she was proving to be damn good at being a tease too.

Chucking again, Bryce shook his head and gathered the white board on his way down the hall; all too certain that whatever the rest of the night had in store, he would ensure to at least return the favour.

Perma Tag: @cora-nova

other tags: @talesandteacups, @mkiss723, @divergentofhogwarts

#bryce lahela fanfiction #bryce x mc #bryce x mc fanfiction #open heart fanfiction #playchoices fanfiction #bryce lahela x maci lawson #bryce x maci #playchoices #open heart #ns*wish #an angstymarshmallow writes #long post #i should edit more anddd yett -#here we are

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makumii · 5 years

Text

Good Omens Angst

I am kinda drunk but apparently this didn’t stop me from writing a small angsty thing for those two dorks.

This hasn’t been proof read and I am sorry for wonky grammar

Just a warning: this is ficlet takes place right after Az got discorporated and how Crowley deals with the loss of his best friend. So it’s pretty much all sadness and grieve.

Maybe I’ll upload it to ao3 once i get my account back

The bookshop is currently burning down, and he was gone. His best friend. His angel.

Crowley sank to his knees in middle of the flames, shoulders hanging in defeat. The firefighters outside were shouting in panic, since they didn’t expect a civilian to just run inside the brightly lit building. The demon ignored them. He also ignored the flames that started feeding off his jacket. ‘So, this is what it feels like’, he thought, ‘what it feels like when you lose someone dear to you’.

Next to him a bookshelf collapsed and sent another wave of sparks through the room. Crowley dared to look up from the ground to observe the once so beautiful bookshop. The flames swallowed everything. From rugs to ancient books. Nothing was spared. Not even his angelic companion, who he shared thousands of years with. Pain struck Crowley again. It felt like he was hit by a bus repeatedly, so he screamed. He was sad and furious and struck with grief and if it wouldn’t have been in his best friend’s sanctuary he was currently in, he would’ve lashed out, thrown stuff, set more things on fire. Right now, his only option however was to get out, to get away. He couldn’t take it any longer, so he ran. Out of the remains of the shop, out of Soho. He didn’t pay attention to the confused firefighters or pedestrians or cars. He just ran.

When Crowley stopped, he found himself in St. James’ Park. ‘Fuck’ he said. Memories of their time together in the park took away his breath. The picnics, the completely-unsuspicious meetings every other week, but also the times they fought. ‘Had minor disagreements.’ He corrected himself. Crowley shook his head and slowly walked along the familiar gravel path. Some ducks eyed him, hoping he would throw them some crumbs. The ducks are smart, they remember who feeds them. The park was surprisingly empty, Crowley noticed, so he sat down on their regular spot. As he watched the ducks swim around, he felt a tear slowly trickling down his cheek. He blessed himself. Since when did he cry. Since when did bloody demons cry. He swallowed hard and once more shook his head. A couple walked by and looked at him with pity in their eyes. Crowley took a second to look at himself and couldn’t blame them. Ash covered him and his jacked had burns all over. Usually he would just miracle himself into a presentable state again but this time he couldn’t care less about his appearance.

Hours have passed, or it could’ve been mere minutes, since Crowley sat down. The serpent didn’t care. Far away he heard some glasses clink and loud laughter and he knew what he needed right now. Extraordinary amounts of alcohol. He reached behind the bench and pulled out a bottle of wine. ‘Why.. just why’ He took a big gulp, the wine leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. ‘Are you happy now?’ Crowley shouted facing the darkening sky. It’s nearing dinner time. Some days he would just skip it, but other times he tempted his angel to some nice dinner at the Ritz. Crowley appreciated these moments. They both could forget about their sides and the rules and just enjoy a nice evening out, being themselves. Occasionally the angel would even invite Crowley over for dinner and they’d prepare a nice meal together. The human way, no miracles involved. ‘No more meals together.. no more angel.’ Another gulp. By now the bottle is half empty, the alcohol doing almost nothing to Crowley so far.

He decided to relocate to a more private place. With heavy steps he started walking in the direction of his own flat.

The next few hours involved lots of alcohol and blessing and screaming. Crowley didn’t know what else to do. The place where humans had hearts physically hurt. It pulsed and tugged and tore him apart. When it got almost too much to bear he would scratch and claw at the nearest piece of furniture. When he had nothing but walls within reach, he would dig his nails in his arms and throw himself against the solid wall. He wrecked the entire place and it would need more than just one miracle to get this place cleaned up.

As the sun started to rise, Crowley cowered in a corner surrounded by a dozen emptied bottles and wrapped in his wings. At one point it just took too much to keep them in. All the anger and sadness and grieve got replaced by a feeling of emptiness. Crowley didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to leave his cocoon and face reality. Maybe if he wished for it hard enough, he would get Az-..his angel back. But Crowley knew better than anyone that She didn’t answer wishes. She always played her own game.

He lingered in this position until late afternoon. Slowly he pushed himself up the wall, every limb and wing stiff from being in the same spot for too long. Shuffling through the bottles on the floor the demon made his way to the bathroom to take a shower. He avoided looking at the mirror, because as confident as he was with his current look, he also knew he must look like shit in that moment. Turning the water as hot as possible he stood there, staring at the wall. Memories from long ago hit him again. Memories of the first rainfall, the first storm. But also, how the angel shielded the serpent from said rain with one of his wings. Crowley caressed his own wings, feathers all ruffled. Not as neat as usual. On time he proposed to his angel the idea of grooming each other. Crowley knew his friend almost agreed to it. Almost. He turned off the water, dried the heavy feathers and put his wings back where they belong. Once he was done in the bathroom, he finally dared to look in the mirror. He truly looked terrible and not in a ‘I’m a big scary demon’ way. More in a ‘I lost all hope and will to live’ way. He took a quick tour through his personal space and decided he really didn’t want to stay in this miserable place any longer. So, he headed out and made his way to an old pub he once discovered in the middle of the city.

When he entered the shabby building, he earned a few distrustful glances, but also a sympathetic smile from the bartender, a middle-aged woman who knows the look of a heartbroken man all too well. She also made sure the drinks were coming and Crowley never had an empty glass. So, Crowley sat there, drinking and thinking. He sat there for hours. Once the pub closes the bartender politely kicked everyone out, except Crowley. This would hardly be considered a miracle, Crowley thought.

So, he sat there, getting more and more drunk. Slowly the feeling of emptiness got replaced by despair. No matter how much he drank this feeling would get stronger with every passing hour. At one-point Crowley stopped keeping track of time and just focused on not falling apart.

On the third day he finally broke. It was early in the morning and no one was at the pub yet, when the tears started streaming down his face and uncontrollable sobs echoed through the empty room. He cried and cried and couldn’t stop. Occasionally he stuttered words, unintelligible for humans since they were spoken in a tongue not known by men. But they would roughly translate to ‘They took my beloved’ and ‘why him’ or sentences of equal meaning. For the first time in days he also spoke his friend’s name out loud. Just a small word against the loud sobs. ‘Aziraphale..’

In his sadness he reached out to something invisible, hoping he would be able to somehow take a hold of his angel. But nothing. Crowley let his hand fall flat on the table and just started out of the windows he was facing with an empty look. It all had no point. What was he supposed to do without his angel, his literally better half. Tired he rested his head on the table, arm still sprawled across the table. He could almost hear the angel. ‘Oh, my dear boy’ He would say. He would also gently touch his hand.

Crowley’s eyes snapped wide open. ‘Am I going insane?’ he thought to himself. He felt just the slights hint of an hand on top of his own. He didn’t dare to look up. It was surely his mind playing tricks on him. But he heard the voice again ‘Crowley, dear’ it said while his hand got gripped a bit firmer. The demon took a deep breath and prayed, for the first time in eons, that this wouldn’t be another one of Her cruel tricks.

Slowly he rose his head and turned to the window. Sitting there, beautifully illuminated by the setting sun, was his angel. His Aziraphale. A gasp escaped Crowley’s mouth as he gaped at the ghost-like appearance in front of him. ‘What happened to you? Oh, I am so sorry’ Now the hand gently cupped Crowley’s face, who was still pretty much in shock. Slowly he got a hold of his senses and stammered out ‘I.. you…. the fire!’. Aziraphale only looked at him confused so Crowley tried again. He removed his shades and looked at his partner with swollen eyes that held all the world’s sadness and pain in them. And Aziraphale understood. ‘Out of all these years we’ve been friends I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry’ His thumb caressed the demon’s cheek, as if he was trying to wipe away the tears. Swallowing down a big lump in his throat Crowley replied: ‘I never had a reason to. It may not have been easy for me all the time, but never ever has someone killed my best friend.’ The angel just gaped at him with wide eyes, realizing what his partner just said. Crowley grieved because he thought he was dead. ‘Oh, Crowley dear, I got discorporated. But now I’m back, see?’ he put his second hand on the other cheek of the demon ‘I just need to find a new body, my dear’ Crowley nodded slightly, slowly calming down and processing what has happened and that he got his angel back.

For the first time in eons he thanked Her.

#this is the first thing i wrote in ages please be gentle with criticism #good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens spoilers #kinda #my stuff

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