#the hell of rattling off all these character tags...

[ciitrinitas]

bunch more chibis from wada’s recent artbook that are edited to have transparent background bc i find this very soothing to do. do with them what you please.

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

Prompt from @stusbunker: Dean used to think he could never keep up with your exhibitionism. The Demon inside him calls your bluff.

Characters: Knight of Hell/Demon Dean Winchester x You, Sam Winchester

Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY, dubious consent, exhibitionism, dirty talk, name-calling, threat of object insertion (yes, please, sir), misuse of a piano bench, pool table sex, you are a GD TROOPER for this heroic act

Words: 1,500

Author's notes: Stuie, you always give the best prompts. @brrose-apothecary and I had a lot of fun with this one!

This is the first fill for my 2024 Flashfic Festival.

Exhibition

“Dean Winchester,” you sing-song as you saunter into the backroom of the bar, where Dean’s been plucking at piano keys and downing Maker’s like water for hours.

You narrow and drag your deliberately licentious gaze over Dean’s frame, and he answers with a head tilt and a mirror of your attitude and glare. He greets you by name as he slowly rolls his shoulders back and turns away from the piano keys to face you. You pretend not to notice him setting aside his recent weapon of choice in favor of a glass filled with whiskey.

“What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place-” you pause and give the room a distasteful scan before returning your attention to Dean. “Like this?”

You come to a halt about three feet from Dean, closer than I’d allow if I could come out of the shadows, but we agreed to you going in alone. 

“Not so nice,” Dean replies, sipping from his glass as he swings one leg over the bench to straddle it. He watches you over the rim of his glass for a few beats before taking a long pull.

“Mmm, you Winchester boys really try playing the Bad Boy card.”

Dean shrugs as he stands up. You watch his body unfold, and a brief flash of uncertainty sparks in your eyes. 

“Guess ya haven’t talked to my baby brother in a while, huh?” Dean downs the remainder of what’s in his glass, as he strolls toward the bar, brushing past you, side-eye and all. 

“Tall, dark, and tight-ass? Not lately.” 

I roll my eyes at that one, but you’re playing your own cards right now and doing it well. You turn with Dean as he passes you, making sure to keep him in your sight and off your back. 

Dean scoffs at your remark as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey left out on the bar to refill his glass. “Yeah, Sammy’s always had a stick up his ass.”

He takes another long sip and feigns nonchalance, resting his elbow on the bartop, searching your eyes as you walk the ominous path to meet him toe-to-toe.

“Not you, though. I always wished we had more time together, for a little-” you sigh and bite your lip. “Remember that night in Chattanooga? I told you the coast was clear, but-” you shake your head, moving closer. “You were too worried someone’d walk in on us.”

You chuckle and roll your eyes like you aren’t baiting a Knight of Hell. Dean silently stares you down, his expression unreadable, until your combat boots kiss his loggers. 

“Think you wanted someone to walk in on us,” he grunts before taking another sip.

You shrug and play coy. “Maybe I liked an audience.”

There’s a sound of muffled voices entering the kitchen from the alley, pots and pans being utilized, and water is turned on. My heart rate kicks up a notch, but you remain composed. Dean studies your lack of reaction. 

“How ‘bout now?” he asks, throwing back the rest of his drink and setting the empty glass aside. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he towers over you, clearly using his size and mass to rattle you.

You grin and Dean smirks. He shoves a hand up the back of your hair and squeezes. It has to sting, but you whimper and start to drool, gripping the lapels of his overshirt. He angles your head to his advantage, exposing your throat, and dips in to lick a line from your collarbone to your jaw.

“Didn’t answer my question,” he mutters, taking the hinge of your jaw between his teeth and rolling you to arch your back over the bar.

You stumble and huff a breath. Your eyes are wild and searching until they find mine, and you sigh with relief, letting your eyes fall closed. You relax into Dean’s forceful onslaught.

“Maybe I still like it,” you breathe, opening your eyes again, and showing me renewed conviction.

Dean chuckles again, darker this time with a cruel edge I’ve never heard from him. He kicks your feet apart, making your skirt ride up high, and tucks a knee between your thighs, brushing dangerously against your knee-high boots. 

He kisses you then, using the hold on your hair to keep you where he wants you, and tearing at the buttons of your blouse.

“This get you off? Knowin’ the kitchen staff’s back there? That they’re gonna hear when I make you scream?”

You wrench from his hold and push him. He laughs and stumbles backward, watching you stalk after him, dropping your jacket to the floor and removing your shredded top the rest of the way.

“Keep talking.” 

“You like an audience and you like me tellin’ you about it? Want me to tell you what a dirty girl you are too?”

Dean bumps the piano bench and sits with his back to the piano, letting you climb astride his hips and push his shirt from his shoulders to the black and white keys. He grabs you by the hair again, and his other hand disappears under your skirt.

“Answer me,” he sneers.  

Your body jolts. I did not expect things to go this far—you’ve put yourself at grave risk, but you’re turned on, too. I’m not a voyeur, but I can’t take my eyes off you for even one second and leave you at his mercy.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Yes. Tell me.”

Dean nods, licking his lips. 

“I’d bet-” he pauses and his shoulder rolls with whatever his hand’s doing under your skirt, and you choke on air, mimicking the grip he has in your hair. “That dishwasher back there’d love to walk out here and see you ridin’ my hand like a hot, little slut.” 

You gasp and yank his head back, but he resists enough to maintain eye contact with you. 

“Could lay ya out on the lid of this baby grand, spread you open, fuck that bottle of whiskey into this tight, slick hole for everybody to see and hear. Give ‘em all a little sip of this pussy.”

You whimper and drop your chin to your chest and your forehead to his.  

“Listen to how fuckin’ sloppy you are,” Dean mutters. “So easy. C’mon and come and I’ll bend you over the pool table and give ‘em a real show.” 

You roll your head to the side and your mouth falls open on a silent cry, one fist tightening in his hair and the other twisting the neck of his t-shirt.

“There it is,” Dean whispers.

He gives you about three seconds before standing and carrying you to the pool table. 

“Not even wearin’ panties. You came here down to fuck, didn’t ya, princess?”

He drops you on the edge of the table then traces the ridge of your collarbone and the straps of your bra before flicking the front open and letting it drop around your wrists. You toss it aside, so you aren’t hindered by it, while Dean unbuckles his belt and pushes you to lie back.

You lift your knees and hold yourself open by the backs of your thighs. Dean rests a hand over your breastbone before trailing his fingers from your sternum to your belly as he guides himself inside you, and you both groan. 

“Oh-ho-ho,” Dean huffs a laugh and wraps his fingers around your knees on top of yours. “I knew this pussy’d be good. The old me was too much of a softie to fuck ya rough and quick back in Chattanooga. Someone might’ve walked in!” He laughs, pressing over your belly as he sets a brutal pace. “Worth the fuckin’ wait, though, shit.”

He never shuts the fuck up, talking about what it looks like sinking into you, telling you how pretty you are stretched around his hammering cock, and calling you the best, dirtiest, little bitch he’s ever had. 

He’s so caught up in the moment, so amused by the sound of his own voice and satisfaction, that he doesn’t see you reach into the hidden compartments on the outside of each of your boots.

You’re lightning fast with the holy water and cuffs. Before I can even make my way out from the service hallway where I’d been hiding since 10 AM, Dean’s on his knees, smoke rolling from his skin with his hands bound.

“Nice work,” I huff a breath, stopping short to give you enough room to gather your things.

Dean snarls and snaps as you hop down from the table and smooth your skirt over your hips. 

“Thanks.” You reach for your bra and quickly slip into it before scooping up your jacket.

“You fucking bitch,” Dean growls, rolling to his back to refasten his pants. “You can’t hold me like this, and I will fucking kill you. Both of you.”

I watch you shrug into your jacket with wide eyes. You’re trembling as you sidle up next to me. “You sure this’s gonna work?” you whisper.

I nod and squeeze your hand in mine. “I’m sure.” 

I draw a deep breath and watch my brother smolder like a raging forest fire, dragging you closer to my side than to where he’s writhing at our feet.

“It has to.”

My Dean Winchester Fic | My Supernatural Fic | My Master List

[heartfullofleeches]

Damsel in Duress

Yan Damsel + G.N Reader blurb

-

"My hero~"

Closing shift was a drag. Cooped up behind the counter till dawn - the store watched you more often than not until you were "graced" with the chance of another living soul walking through those doors. Your saving grace from the monotonous life of a gas station cashier was a patron on the rise in frequent appearance.

A cosplayer, you assumed - from their style of dress and the whimsical way they carried themselves in mannerisms and speech. You got a good laugh out of seeing them weave through tiny, narrow aisles in those giant, puffy gowns they dawned. Damsel is what you called them which - by coincidence apparently seemed to be their name. Another reason for the title beyond their attire was they couldn't do a thing on their own. Asking for sliced apples when they were standing in the very same aisle fruits were stocked. Questioning the proper ways to use a fork and if you'd teach them with demonstration. To every task you helped them with they thanked you with the tagged on honorific of "My Hero" at the end. Getting into character was one thing, but sometimes it really did feel like they just popped out of the pages of a fairytale.

It's getting pretty late. You wonder where your entertainment is-

Bang!

Sharpened nails scrap across the glass doors still rattling in their frames. Blood red as the cloak masking their features; you watch as the hand welding the crimson talons yank the door's handle and flings their blood inside. It leans against the frame - barricading the doors as footfalls rebound in the distance. Expressionless- their eyes well with tears as they scan the store finding you where you always were.

"Lock it...."

You remove your headphones. "What?"

Their lips quiver, voice rising with a hick. "He's coming... Lock the door!"

A shadow creeps over the parking lot. Reaching for your keys, you volt over the counter as it runs for the door - crouching beneath Damsel as they apply all their weight against it to keep it shut as the handle shakes violently. You lock the door, keys knocked out of your hand as the figure throws himself against the door, and drag them away from it as you stand. Their face falls against your shoulder - the scent of copper flooding your nose.

"You fucking bitch! I'll kill you!"

Damsel shrieks, assaulting yet another of your senses as it drills through your ears. They latch onto your shirt.... Weren't their nails longer a second ago? They meet your gaze - face washed in fresh tears and bruises. "Help me.... please help me... I was on my way here when that man and his friend offered me a ride. I said no, but - they started to chase me and....and..."

Damsel breaks off in a quiet sob. You squeeze their shoulders reassuring, backing towards the back office eyes trained on the man pounding on the doors "Calm down. My phones in the back and the door to the other entrance only opens from inside. We'll hide there until the police arrive."

The man presses his face against the glass, the skin of his knuckles worn down as he beats the door. "What the hell are you doing? Get out away from that thing! It killed him. Dont belive anything it-"

Damsel tucks at your arm. You tear your attention away from the door and push them towards the office. Dragging them inside the break room you shove the coffee table against the door for good measure and fish out your jacket and phone from your locker. You throw the coat over their shoulders, dialing the police as you hand them some napkins to wipe their face.

"Breathe. We'll be fine in here. I'm calling for help now and they'll make sure nothing happens to you."

Damsel dabs at their eyes - faint smile dipping at your conclusion. "I'm not worried now that you're here... Guess you really are my hero aren't all, aren't you? I've never seen anything like that before, one second he was the kindest person and the next - he was like a rabid wolf."

"It's okay... You're safe now." You drape an arm behind their hood, consoling them as they hiccup and sob against your chest. You chalk the wind exiting your lungs as they latch onto you the ending results of your physical exhaustion, and retain a calm voice as you speak to the operator over the phone. Damsel squirms in their chair as you hang up.

"They're on the way... are you okay?"

Damsel fiddles with the strings of their hood. "I um.... have to go powder my nose."

"What?"

They bite their lip, face hidden in your jacket. "Use the bathroom? I know the only one here is outside so you don't have to come with me... It'd actually make me feel better if you stayed in here."

"Damsel, I cant-"

"I-it's alright, Y/n.... Long as my hero's safety is assured I'll be okay. I'm sure he's gone by now anyway. Do you mind if I keep your jacket?"

"...No... If anything happens - you scream and run, got it?"

"It's what I do best. I hope that someday there's something I can do to rewards your braver... For now...I'll leave you with this" Damsel springs from their seat and kisses your cheek as they pass. They push the table out of the way with surprising ease, looking back at you as they open the door. They smile - locking the door behind them and snapping the key.

Damsel steps out into the station. They walk past the bathroom and inspect the collection of household necessities your store had to offer. Could be better, but they'd made due. It grabs a pocket blade, ripping open the package and leaving it on the counter along with the exact bills and change for their purchase. The man is still there - eyes now wide fear. Damsel grins at him with a small wave.

"Oh!- Hello, glad to see your still here. I was going to let you go - but then you had to go and do a nasty thing and try to turn my hero against me. They're very brave - aren't they? I'm such a lucky traveler. Hmmmm.. so I'm the hood in this story and they're the hunter... What exactly does that make you? Mmm, I think I know...."

"The slaughter."

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Request: heyyyyy can we get a short lil page or story of Janelle’s pregnancy cravings pls🤍🤍🤍

4 a.m cravings

thank you @romansnumberonegirl for requesting this 🫶🏽

for the sake of this story Publix opens at 5 am (unrealistic, i know lol)

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

Taglist: @christinabae @southerngirl41 @reci1996 @jeyusos-girl @jeyusosgirl @melaninsugababy @baconeggndcheez @bemybabiibish @purplehairgawdess @jstarr86 @nbanenefrmdao @arination99 @alyyaanna @m3llowww @gomussy @jeysbae @empressdede @harmshake @theninthwonder @badbitchcentralinc @romansnumberonegirl @bebesobrielo @venusesworld @babysyhsyh

if you name is bold, tumblr won't let me tag you.

There should be no way in hell Josh was standing outside a Publix waiting for them to open. He should be at home in his bed asleep, cuddling with his fiance. His pregnant fiance who had damn near forced him out of his warm bed because she wanted chocolate chip cookies. But she didn’t want the ones they already had, nope. The ones they had in the house already weren’t good enough. She wanted - no needed  Nestle Toll House  at 4 in the morning.

“Josh, “ Janelle whispered, poking his cheek.  “Joshua” She said again, louder. He slapped her hand away from his face and rolled so his back was facing her.  She giggled and started poking him in his back until he turned back around. 

“Janelle” He groaned, his eyes still closed. “Whatchu’ want?” 

“Cookies.” He snorted and pushed her hand away from his face, when she started to poke him again. 

“So go get em’.” 

“We only have pillsbury, they make me nauseous.” He cracked open one eye to look at her. She was sitting up with her back against the headboard. “Don’t you love me?” He sucked his teeth and sat up too. 

“You know I love you Nell.” He sighed and reached for his phone. ‘Girl it’s four a.m take ya ass back to sleep.” 

“So you don’t love me.” She pouted and he groaned loudly before throwing the covers off of him and getting dressed. 

And that’s how he wound up at Publix waiting for it to open because of his pregnant fiance and her pretty ass face. She knew what her pouting did to him. 

“Lemme guess, pregnant wife and her cravings.” One of the workers asked as they unlocked the doors and Josh nodded. He had just grabbed the cookies when his phone rang in his pocket. 

“Sup Nelle.” 

“Hi baby.” She cooed and he rolled his eyes. “Can you grab some more stuff while you there?” 

Josh sucked his teeth but listened as she rattled off what she needed.  “Grapes and sour patch kids OH! and pickles and peanut butter and can you get some chocolate covered pretzels..” When she was done he quickly hung up before she could add anything else.

Janelle was already waiting for him when he came into the house. She clapped her hands happily as he set the grocery bags on the counter in front of her. “You’re the best baby daddy ever.” She said smirking because she knew how much he hated being called that. 

“Aye, quit playin’ with me ‘for I take all this shit back.” She rolled her eyes at his attitude. 

“Love you too baby.” 

“Yeah you betta.” He rolled his eyes. “And don’t eat all the damn cookies. I want some now.” 

“Nope,” She said, smacking his hands when he tried to eat the cookie dough. “Shoulda bought two packs.” 

aah! this was so much fun to write lol. I hope you enjoy 🫶🏽❤️

[scorpioriesling]

Too Hot to Handle - Episode 7

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Characters featured: Reader, Feyre, Morrigan, Nesta, Gwyn, Elain, Emerie, Amren, Cassian, Lucien, Eris, Tarquin, Rhysand, Helion, Azriel, & Tamlin

Warning(s): light suggestion if you squint

SR’s Note: I feel like so much happens this episode… hopefully, it’s your cup of tea. Maybe, maybe not. xoxo Tags: @velarisdusk @lilah-asteria @starlightazriel @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @paintedbyshadows @book-obsessed124

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

"I missed you so much!"

Morrigan's arms are wrapped so tight around your neck, she is threatening to cut off the air supply to your lungs. You manage a grin, watching as Feyre approaches from over her shoulder.

"Morrigan, I was only gone for one night-"

"Uh, yeah," she releases you, stepping back to look at you wide-eyed. "But that one night was the night from Hell, let me tell you." She says, shaking her head.

Yeah, you thought to yourself, your mind racing to those red walls and endless pleasure instruments you weren't allowed to touch all night long. Wouldn't she like to know.

"Was the new arrival really that bad?" You ask, looking to Feyre instead. Her eyebrows lifted as she sighed, shaking her head slowly.

"She... she definitely left the entire group a bit shocked-"

"Shocked? Yeah, that's to put it lightly." Morrigan tutted, crossing her arms. The golden bangles rattled on her wrists, and a few of the guys looked over as her volume rose. "She walked in looking like a fucking moon goddess, right? All silvery and elegant, and, well, I don't know, goddess-like," her cheeks flushed at her lack of finding the right words. A splash behind you reminded you that there were in fact other people hanging out by the pool, and you moved in closer toward your friend, hoping she would talk quieter.

"Then, Lana -- that damned cone," she scoffed. "She kept edging us all, acting like this bitch was going to take one of our men on her date -- I swear to the Gods, had she picked Helion, I-"

"Mor, could you lower your voice? I think people are looking-"

"Oh, and I hope they do! Look all they want, for all I care. Every one of them was looking wayyyyy longer than they should have last night, as soon as the newest shiny thing walked in -- and MOST OF THEM, BY THE WAY, ARE IN RELATIONSHIPS WITH OTHER PEOPLE!" She says the last part rather loudly, and Feyre looks at the pavement in embarassment. Your eyes widen in horror. Maybe it was a good thing you and Lucien weren't here last night -- not that he was untrustworthy, after all, you'd all but gotten past the "Elain thing" for the most part -- but if it truly was as bad as Mor was making it out to be, all the more reason to not get involved.

"Well," you say quietly, hoping to de-escalate the already awkward situation. "I haven't met this new girl yet, so I can't really say anything about her until I have a chat with her. Do you guys know where-"

"Pfft, she's over there," Mor unashamedly points a polished red fingernail toward the other side of the pool, directly over your shoulder. You wait for Feyre to chastize her for pointing, swat her hand, anything... but she doesn't. Gods... the situation must really be controversial.

"Looks like she had a good enough time on her date. Maybe she's turned Eris around for the better." Mor shrugs, and glances toward the villa's kitchenette. "I'm done talking about Nesta for now, and I need a damn drink -- you ladies want me to grab you a margarita on my way?"

Nesta. Oh boy. You glance over your shoulder, watching as the new blonde in the silver bikini ties her hair up into a bun, the red-headed male beside her taking in the view in all its glory.

You take a deep breath. "A margarita sounds great."

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The tile is cool against the heated soles of your feet, warm from your walk outside to the villa's main bedroom. The day had been frenzied, people chattering about this and that, the boys working out (per usual), many of the girls lounging by the pool or walking along the beach -- but by sundown, it was time to ready for dinner. You'd stayed out a bit longer tonight by the pool, enjoying a few more chapters of your book before coming in as the rest of the group began primping and prepping for the evening meal.

You were alone in the main bedchambers, digging through your open suitcase on you and Lucien's shared bed. His side was quite a mess -- unfolded clothes, dirty socks strewn about. You'd be sure to remind him to pick up his things later.

You sighed, turning toward the floor-length mirror beside your nightstand. You first held up an orange sundress -- it was cute, and you hadn't worn it yet. But, it was a halter-neck... and that wasn't exactly your favorite. You tossed it back in the bag, pulling out a brown mini dress and held it up. Gods, you loved this one, but you disliked that it was tight, and sometimes you felt insecure, especially at dinner.

However, it would go perfect with your strappy cork sandals you brought.

Ugh... what to do, what to do. You felt anxious, and held it up again. Lucien would be there of course, and you were so hungry... God forbid you ate enough food and the dress fit how it was supposed to, but your silly anxiety coupled with your new relationship-

"Wear it. That color would look beautiful against your skin tone."

You turned, your gaze meeting a pair of silvery grey, kohl-lined eyes behind you. Your mouth opened to say something, and then shut when you didn't know how to respond.

You turned back around, facing yourself again. "I... it's... I wasn't really sure about this one." You say quietly, hearing Nesta zipping up her own bag behind you. "It's cute for sure, I mean, I really like it, I just-"

"So, what's the problem?" You watch as she approaches behind you in the mirror, her eyes meeting yours in question. You stare back, and can only shrug.

"Um... I suppose it's just, a bit fitted, maybe." You settle on. She nods slightly, then shrugs.

"Well, I think it would look great on you. You never know until you at least try it on." She shrugs. "Too tight, take it off. Looks good? Show it the Hell off." She turns, her hair swaying behind her with the movement. Her head turns to the side, a tiny, feline smile on her lips.

"Or, you can always put on the halter-neck option."

In minutes, you have the dress on and of course, it looks great.

"I knew I'd be right." Nesta smirks, bringing your cork heels over to where you stand near the entrance of the bathroom. "I'm really hoping you were going to wear these with it?"

Indeed you were. You slip them on, and she offers you a hand as you slide your feet into the wedges one by one.

You stand at full height, and she offers you a gentle smile. "I don't remember seeing you last night," she says.

"Oh! No, uh, my boyf... uh," your cheeks flush. Did you really almost just say boyfriend? "Lucien and I, we had to stay the night in the private villa..." You fumble. Nesta chuckles, her gaze searching your face.

"Ahh, I see. Lucien, he's got longer hair, right?" She asks. You nod, but before you can say another word, a loud voice calls out from behind you.

"Y/N! Come on, walk with us over to dinner!" Mor's voice rings out from the bathroom. You sigh in embarassment, looking to Nesta again apologetically.

"I'm so sorry -- would you like to walk over with us? Usually the guys end up there first, and I go with Feyre and -"

"Yeah, I'm not sure your blonde friend is very fond of me." Nesta stares at you pointedly, and you can only awkwardly chuckle. She only shrugs.

"It's alright though Y/N -- I'm not here so everyone can like me. I am glad, however, that you do."

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The chatter went on as usual around the large fire, everyone having conversations and sitting with one another. You'd had a filling meal, and had to admit the roasted chicken and Ceasar salad had been delicious. You'd worked to keep your insecurities at bay, only occasionally picking at the giving fabric of your dress and crossing your arms over your stomach. It was after the plates had been cleared that Lucien's familiar touch had made itself known across your lower back, snaking around your waist and pulling you to sit between his legs.

"I haven't seen this one before," his breath fanned against your ear, so warm it tickled. You recoiled a bit, crinkling your nose and smiling as he grinned beside you. His hands rested on your folded arms, stroking up and down.

"I haven't worn it yet," you admitted, looking down at where his fingers made contact with your forearms, hiding the part of you that Nesta had tried to made you forget you were insecure about earlier in the evening. His warm lips pressed a gentle kiss against the base of your neck and you smiled.

"And, why is that, pretty girl?" He asked. You sighed, trying to think of an explaination but not finding one quite good enough.

"Maybe... I was holding one out on you," you offered. He raised an eyebrow, a smirk creeping onto his lips as your eyes met his again. He chuckled, shaking his head at you.

"Whatever you say, city girl," his fingers traced lazily over your skin, and you glanced to your left, watching just in time as Rhysand pressed a kiss to Feyre's cheek. She laughed, her teeth shining in the firelight and you couldn't help but smile for your friend.

To their right, the sweet red-headed girl Gwyn was gazing doe-eyed as Azriel gestured wildly with his hands -- much, to your surprise, unlike how reserved he was on your date with him a while ago. Gone was the dark, mysterious male from that night on the beach; now, you watched as this adventurous storyteller seemed to capture Gwyn's attention in full, like she just couldn't look away.

You, however, continued to observe; you watched how Mor and Helion continued their banter, how Tamlin sat in his usual unassuming presence, and how many of the girls chattered away in their cliques.

Your gaze snagged though on the usually hardened, tough-guy, brutish exterior that Cassian put out in front of others, noticing the lack thereof. His fist sat against his lips, elbow propped up against the arm of the chair he sat in as he anxiously bounced his knee up and down. Your brows rose in suspicion; for someone so usually observant of others, his gaze seemed to only focus on one target.

"Good evening, guests."

The cone in the center of the table lit up, and the group quieted.

"Good evening, Lana!"

"I have some rather exciting news to share with everyone this evening," she continues, and your gaze shifts to Nesta. She sits next to Eris, who's hand is rather low around her waist, but she keeps her gaze focused forward, seeming unbothered.

"Last night, I am happy to announce that there were no rule breaks on Lucien and Y/N's villa stay, which earns the group $5000 back into the prize fund." Lana announces. The group cheers, and Mor whistles, earning a grin from you. Lucien hugs you tight, kissing your cheek in congradulations.

"In addition to all of the dates going well, I have gifts for everyone," everyone looks to eachother in confusion as small, black boxes are brought out by the staff and passed out to each person. Lucien hands one to you, pressing his cheek against yours as he snuggles you close.

"What do you think it is?" He asks quietly.

"I'm not sure... honestly, I have no idea what they'd give us at this point," you admit.

"I hope you enjoy them. Please, everyone, unwrap your boxes." The group does as she says, chatter comencing as realization dawns on the group. Small bracelets with digital circles in the middle of each lay inside the boxes. You take yours out, and Lucien sets his box aside, his fingers gliding over yours as he quietly says, "Allow me to help you?"

You oblige, holding out your wrist as he fastens the technology onto you. He nods in approval, and you blush at the simple act, cherishing the simple kindness and wishing for so much more of it to come. You help him with his too, snapping it into place around his wrist.

"These bands are a means of communication," Lana explains. "The screen in the center will light up green when you effectively open up in the way this retreat is aiming for you to do -- by opening up, you get a green light. A green light means you are free of rule breaking until it turns off."

"Nice!" Eris says, and a few group members chuckle. Nesta rolls her eyes, and you watch as the shade of Cassian's knuckles whitens.

"Along with these bands, I'd like to invite everyone to a beach party tomorrow evening," Lana continues. Murmurs of excitement mumble through the group, a few claps and cheers breaking through the crowd.

"The theme will be Candyland -- you'll be provided costumes accordingly. Good luck guests, and continue to follow my rules in order to recieve green lights."

The group bids Lana goodnight, excited for the chance at a rule-break free opportunity and for the party to come. Conversations ensue once more, everyone talking about costumes, bracelets, tomorrow night -- but you notice, again, Nesta. She talks with Eris, or so it seems, her mouth is moving as she inspects her bracelet, but he seems to only inspect the neckline of her dress.

You glance to your right, she creaking of the chair unmistakable as Cassian stands, silently walking toward the villa.

"We should get a green light in no time," Lucien says, his upbeat tone filling your heart with more hope than it should. "We're good at talking to eachother, don't you think?"

You nod, looking deep into those heterochrome eyes and thinking of every word you're not ready to say out loud yet.

"Absolutely," you say with a smile. "We absolutely are."

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

"I hope I get a sucker, I love suckers," Mor giggles, some of her Moscow Mule sloshing into the pool with an grimace and an oops.

"You would want to be a sucker," Feyre rolls her eyes playfully, and Rhysand sneaks up behind her, taking her straw between his teeth for a sip.

"Hey!" She playfully swats him, and he swallows before glancing at her.

"Damn, Fey, its-" he checks his watch. "... 11 AM and you're already drinking?" She giggles, and you shrug, taking another sip of your hard cider.

"Is there something else we're supposed to be doing?" She asks, and he holds his hands up in surrender.

"No no, do as you please," he chuckles, sipping once more before glancing behind him. "Just wondering if you all planned to try talking to the newbie today."

Mor groans, and your stomach sinks a little. "Ughhhh," she says. "Can we please move on from that? She's here like everyone else, isn't she? What's the big deal?" Mor rolls her eyes, and Feyre looks hurtfully at Rhys.

"Yeah, what is the big deal, Rhys?" She asks quietly. Rhys wraps his arms around her slender waist, pulling her close to him as she continues to frown at her drink.

"You know I'm not incinuating anything doll," he half-whispers. "I was just wondering if anyone talked to her yet, or if she had been included at all. I just don't like anyone being left out, no matter who it is." He says. Feyre's expression softened, and he kissed her cheek.

You loosed a breath, hoping not to start World War III. "I, actually, talked to her a little bit." Mor's wild eyes meet yours, and Feyre's face masks an expression of pure shock.

"Huh?" Mor says.

"When did you talk with her?" Feyre asks.

You shrug, hoping to keep things light-hearted. "Ehh, I mean it wasn't a huge deal or anything. She just talked to me last night before dinner about my dress." Mor shakes her head, her eyebrows raising.

"Just, be careful, I guess," Mor says, shrugging like it was no big deal. "You're a nice person Y/N -- I would just hate to see you hurt by someone like that." She throws back the rest of her drink, and you bite your lip in embarassment. You look to Feyre, who only stares down into her cup.

"Well, I, for one, am glad to see someone is making an effort to be kind to a newcomer." Rhys says with a genuine smile. You nod, grateful for his words, but you find yourself feeling... out of place, over the interaction.

"I need another drink. Anyone else?" Mor asks. Feyre shakes her head, and you don't move to answer as Mor wades from the pool to exit and make her way back to the villa bar.

"I think I may go inside for a bit," Feyre says quietly. "I think I might be burning a little." You look to her, and her timid gaze meets yours. Rhys' hands gently take her shoulders, guiding behind her.

"Catch you later, Y/N," Rhys says. You wave, sighing as you set your empty glass on the pool's edge. How did this happen? Why was everyone so intimidated by a single person, someone who didn't even do anything but just simply exist?

You wished your friends would at least try with Nesta. Then, maybe they'd understand better. They may understand in the way you did. Or, maybe they just wouldn't.

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Lucien and a few of the guys came back from the gym for lunch, and when he'd invited you to the beach after, you agreed. Though you knew this was his favorite time of day to surf, you went anyway -- it was some nice time away from the crowd at the villa, the peace of the crashing waves a nice bliss while you got lost in your favorite book.

"Haunting Adeline -- that one gets pretty dark, does it not?"

You look up, your hand shielding the sun from your vision as a figure in a familiar silver bikini strides over to you, her voice like smooth silk. You close your book, noting the page number and placing it on the opposite side of your body -- out of her sight range.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it does." You say. She sits a few feet from you on the sand, leaning back on one of her hands as she sips from a pink-filled glass with the other. Her gaze is fixed on the waves beyond, and you try not to stare. Mor was right about one thing; she is goddess-like.

"It's my favorite." She says. Your lips twitch, forming a half-smile on your face as you follow her line of sight to the water. Lucien is paddling out, Tarquin and Tamlin sitting this one out on the shore and giving you an open view.

"Mine too," you admit. Now, she smiles. "I figured as much," she responds, turning to look at you over the rims of her black sunglasses. "No one brings Haunting Adeline with them on vacation if it isn't their favorite."

You chuckle, and she looks back out at the crashing waves where Lucien has just surfed, and is now lazily sitting on his board in the water. The next wave comes, and as Cassian stands on his board, he cuts a clean line across the water, smiling broadly as Lucien shouts and cheers with the other boys from the shore like fools. You can't help but shake your head at their sillyness, but notice Nesta's intrigue.

"So," you begin. "How have things been going with Eris?"

She glances sidelong at you, then looks out again. "I don't think Eris is really the type of guy that ever has "things" to have "going on" with." She lifts her drink, sipping from the rim this time. Sugar.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You ask, chuckling a little. She hiccups, setting down her glass in the sand and wiping off her mouth with the back of her hand. She sighs heavily.

"He doesn't really seem like he cares about anything beyond what meets the eye," she says slowly, choosing her words with precision.

"Ahh," you nod, watching as Lucien gorgeously tips his chin back in laughter from afar. "I see."

"Not to say what meets the eye isn't worth caring about -- he's quite handsome," she reasons. You grin, watching as Lucien and Cassian wade in toward the shore. "But, again. Not why I came here."

You shrug, glancing from her toward Cassian and watching as he clocks her in his peripheral.

"I don't know you well enough yet to know your type, or what attracts you -- but, there are a lot of options for you here Nesta. I really hope you find one that came here for the same thing as you."

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

"Thank the fucking Gods -- I got the sucker!" Mor squeals, holding the giant lollipop headpiece over her head and twirling around with it. You can't help but chuckle as she smiles broadly at you, all the awkward feelings from earlier erased as though nothing happened at all. She dances over to you, tapping you atop the head with it like it is a magic wand.

"Andddddd what candy did you get?" She asks. You stare at the clothing rack wheeled into the middle of the bedroom -- the crowd bustling around it, searching for hangers with their names on them. Feyre prods her way out from the middle, wobbling over to the two of you with a peppermint-striped number in her hands.

"Ooooh! Feyy-ruhhhh!" You whoop. Feyre breathlessly puts her hands on her knees, breathing deep and looking up at the two of you.

"I... guess it... makes sense... my birthday is.... in Dec.... ember...." she says between breaths. You laugh, watching as the crowd dissipates one by one. Lucien has held back, talking with many of the other guys not wanting to get involved in the costume frenzy. You find his eye across the room, pointing at the rack and he nods, making his way toward it.

"We shall see what I get!" You say excitedly, moving closer. Many of the costumes left are huge, clearly left for the guys. You let out a tiny shriek of excitement when you find the hanger with your name on it, a little outfit scattered with hearts across the top and bottom of the skirt. Lucien's eyes widen as he looks at you.

"Is this a party? Or another punishment like that night in the villa?"

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The neon lights shining upon the sand start to blur together as you jump around, bare feet kicking up the loose sediment in their wake. Feyre's peppermint headpiece flails wildly in front of you as she dances around, the music blasting from the tiki bar.

"I have gifts!" Mor shouts, balancing four shots between her two hands. You and Feyre both take one, and Mor grins at you. You raise your brows at her.

"Damn girl, you're taking two at once?" You say. Mor laughs over the music, and Feyre leans close.

"Not something she hasn't done before!" You stare at her, jaw on the floor.

"Feyre!" More says, her mouth wide. "Oh my Gods!" She chuckles, nearly spilling the two shots she holds. You'd had quite a few drinks tonight, and the night was indeed young. However, that was not stopping you from having fun with your friends and enjoying your time on the beach.

"No, this one isn't for me -- I got an extra!" Mor shouts, then hands it to you. You take it confused, and watch as she turns, waving over her shoulder.

"Hey!" She calls. "Hey! Come here!"

Nesta makes her way over cautiously, eyeing the two and giving you a quizzical look. You look pleadingly to Mor, who only looks at you with finality.

"Here; take a shot with us," she says, handing the extra glass in your hand to Nesta. She reluctantly takes it, staring down at its contents.

"What is it?" She asks.

"Tito's," Feyre says, and Nesta shrugs in acceptance.

"Too Hot to Handle! Woooo!" Mor shouts, and you all exchange looks before clinking and chugging the burning liquid. More cheers come from behind you, and you feel a pair of strong hands on your waist as your head comes back down to reality.

You turn, the familiar scent and warmth of Lucien a welcome one any time or day.

"Well," you drawl, your head already a bit fuzzy from the drinks you had prior. "Don't you look cute in your candy hearts outfit," you giggle. He chuckles, pulling you close by your hips as his fingers toy with the band of your skirt.

"You look sweet enough to eat," he says lowly, and you smile, leaning up onto your tip toes to press a kiss to his lips. He pulls back an inch, his thumb pressing against your chin.

"Ah ah, pretty girl, we didn't get a green light yet," he says, and you groan in annoyance. Your hands find his biceps, running up and down as you stare up at him sweetly.

"Luciennnn," you plead. "I just want a kissss,"

He smiles down at you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "And you'll get your kiss, Princess -- when we get our green light, okay?"

Gods, all these cute names, how good he looks... you could practically feel your slick running down your thighs. A wicked idea flashes through your mind, and you step closer, the mesh of the bralette piece of your costume pressing against his chest. He sucks in a breath, his eyes failing to maintain in contact with yours.

"We've been so good..." you say, your fingers slowly training down his chest toward his V line. You run your index finger inside the waistband of his shorts, barely touching his skin and that's when you feel it. Against your stomach, his cock twitches once. Twice.

You press up onto your tippy toes, your hands guiding his to cup under your exposed bum to help hold you steady in your state (and, help your case a little). "This, feels like a green light to me." You whisper, and he groans, the apple of his throat bobbing as his fingers squeeze the flesh of your ass with the effort to not violate any rules.

"Y/N... we need... let's just... go dance for now... I don't think there's any way I would be able to sit and talk to you right now anyway," he says, panting with each word. You lean back, feigning innocence as you gaze into his eyes.

"Aww, what happened to our good communication skills?" His palm lightly comes down on your exposed butt cheek, and you squeak as he pulls you impossibly close.

"I won't be able to just talk to you. While you look. Like that."

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

"So... you're saying the date was not good?"

Nesta shook her head, trying for the umpteenth time to explain her feelings in a way that would penetrate through Eris' thick skull.

"Oh my Gods -- noooo. I already said that." She huffed, folding her arms. He chuckled hurmorlessly, throwing his arms wide.

"Then, I don't get it, Nes! What has happened, in these short few days, that has made you so unattracted to this?" He gestured to himself, and Nesta almost, almost burst out laughing.

"Well," she tried to keep her composure, the alcohol definately not helping the giggles welling inside her chest at the male before her. "Eris, I think our personalities aren't alike. I think maybe you appreciate beauty for what it is at face value; I just like to look a little deeper. I tend to think deeply about things, and analyze every little thing; I feel like you aren't like that, in many ways." Nesta finishes, her lips a tight line. "And... I don't even like to be called that. "Nes", I mean." Eris plants his hands on his hips, scoffing and shaking his head.

"Honestly, I don't even know half of what you're talking about, so." He surrenders his hands, brushing past Nesta and continuing toward the beach. Only then does Nesta allow herself a small smile.

"The candy corn costume probably didn't help either, I guess?" Her smile faded, and she quickly turned to face the handsome male from the beach earlier. She looked him up and down -- his fluffy, white costume a little confusing, but, he was still handsome, nonetheless. She realized her mistake the second she set foot inside the villa.

"No... uh, it definately. Did not." She grinned, realizing what he had said and had probably heard beforehand. He was right -- that pompous ass making a fool of himself while dressed as a candy corn was not something even someone as serious as Nesta could handle.

"I'm sorry he talked to you like that, anyway," he said, and Nesta looked up at him confused. The beat of silence was deafening before Nesta narrowed her brows, squaring her shoulders in defiance against the male who stood a whole foot and a half taller than her.

"Do not apologize for someone else's actions, ever. It's not in good practice, and what he said and did was not your fault." She said confidently. Cassian raised his brows in surprise, before a small smile tugged the corner of his lips upward.

"Yes ma'am."

:* ✧･ﾟ: *

[chronic-escapixt]

His Rose ~ Part 1

(Kai Parker x Bennett OC fanfiction)

content warnings/tags ~ Dark fiction, CNC, dubcon, yandere, murder, abuse, trauma, smut, stalking, innocence kink, dacryphilia, manipulation. Minors DNI

I don't claim ownership of The Vampire Diaries or its characters. All credits go to the rightful owner(s). I only own my original character(s).

Word count: 1.6k

K.P. Masterlist

Bonnie's life was on the line.. again.

The Other Side was collapsing, time was running out and as the anchor to the crumbling realm, she knew she wouldn't be spared. She stopped at her home and let Rose know. The news absolutely crushed her sister. Rose felt like she just got her back from when she died last summer. Becoming the anchor was her second chance at life but now it was being ripped away. Rose didn't even have time to argue a solution before she squeezed her in a tight hug and said goodbye. She was out the door, dashing off to pull Elena, Damon, and the others back from the Other Side.

Rose watched as the door shut behind her, wiping the wetness from her eyes before charging into Sheila Bennett's in-home study. From her life as a practicing witch and occult studies professor, their late grandmother had shelves full of ancient grimoires, scrolls, texts and items so she ought to have something that could save Bonnie. As the minutes ticked by, the piles of useless books stacked around her grew with her desperation.

"There's nothing here!" she muttered, slamming the heavy grimoire closed. The force rattled the desk and the shelf above it, knocking a scroll down in front of her. Rose blinked away her frustrated tears and lifted the dusty scroll, blowing it with her breath to reveal the Latin handwriting and symbols.

After pulling her friends back to the living world, Bonnie anticipated the approaching light. She glanced back, meeting Elena's solemn gaze. They all gathered behind her, no words left to say as they watched their beloved witch meet the very fate she had saved them from. She knew she couldn't save herself and she accepted that. She only hoped that within the next few moments she would find peace with her grams and father.

The moment she closed her eyes, she felt a jolt of energy lance through her. Something changed. When she opened them, she was amongst the others but Rose stood a few feet away, the wind of the collapsing dimension tossing her brown curls, the white light reflecting off her face.

Horror gripped her when she realized she was no longer linked to the Other Side, Rose was.

She offered Bonnie an apologetic smile as she watched tears bead down her shocked face.

"I love you, Bonnie," she uttered just before the light consumed her completely...

and she was gone.

The brightness subsided as the wind around her settled to a calm hush. Rose could finally open her eyes and found that she was standing in the same place, at the boarder of Mystic Falls but everyone had disappeared.

She dashed around town calling out Bonnie's name, looking for her, their friends or anyone but it was completely deserted. She stopped to catch her breath in the middle of the town square, the usually bustling epicenter was empty. That's when panic set in, worrying that she was actually dead, though this didn't seem like the “peace” described or even hell. For that matter, she didn't feel dead, in fact she felt very much alive something she realized when her stomach growled. “Dead people don't get hungry," she told herself as she walked into the Mystic Grill. Much like everywhere else, the Grill was desolate. She made her way into the kitchen and found it fully stocked with alcohol and food that seemed up to date, so the town couldn't have been abandoned too long ago, she thought. Rose made a quick sandwich and walked toward the bar when her eyes fell upon the bulletin board. She nearly dropped her plate when she read the date on the calendar.

May 9th, 1994.

It didn't take long for him to notice that things were different. After 18 years of complete solitude, he grew accustomed to the consistency of the realm. His strong ability to detect the presence of magic, made it all the more obvious to him when the young Bennett witch touched down in his prison world. He tracked her down to a Virginian town called Mystic Falls where he first saw her in the living room nose deep in a grimoire. He slipped through an unlocked door and watched her silently out of her view. He figured she was looking for anything that would explain where she is or how to escape but she likely wouldn't find anything in those texts. Luckily for her, he planned on revealing everything...

In due time.

Just over a week passed and unbeknownst to her, Kai was watching the entire time. He’d stay up while she slept, curled up with her fuzzy plush lamb she called lamby. Most nights she’d clutch the stuffed toy to her chest and just cry herself to sleep. Like a sad shelter commercial, he enjoyed the pathetic display, though he hated the little white lamb with a passion, fantasizing about how much more she’d cry if she woke up and it’s head was cut off.

He observed everything, from her tendency to talk to herself to the she way she put tension in her lips when she was concentrating on the Latin of her texts. Clearly, she was a beginner and her general naivety would come to his advantage once he finally decided to make his move.

Rose swayed her hips as she rounded the corner, pushing her grocery cart while singing along to ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody' by Whitney on her Walkman. He sat in a fold up lawn chair in the center aisle of the otherwise empty market, munching on a bag of pork rinds and watching with an amused grin, wondering when she would finally notice him. After deciding on a box of Count Chocula, she finally turned from the shelves and their eyes met. Her mouth fell open as she paused the tape and lowered the headphones from her ears. He smiled and gave a slight wave.

“Were you there the whole time?” She blurted breathlessly, taking him in. His face had a pleasant balance of soft and sharp features that made him both cute and intimidating and a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. The dark brunette wore a hooded jacket styled over a graphic tee, denim jeans and worn out converse.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to interrupt. You sounded amazing by the way.”

Her cheeks burned, “t-thank you… umm who are you?”

“Sorry, manners, I’m Kai. Nice to meet you.” He set aside the bag and stood up from the chair. Her eyes followed his ascent until he stood fully, towering over her. “And you are…?”

Her ears got hot. “Oh right! Rose- I’m Rose… excuse me, I haven’t spoken to another person in a while. I promise I’m not normally this awkward…” she sighed and averted her gaze downwards.

Kai shoved his hands in his pockets, “can’t be any worse than me I've been here since the very beginning.”

“You’ve been all alone for 18 years?" she uttered in disbelief.

Kai forced a laugh, “It's not so bad. There’s no traffic, everything’s free and privacy isn’t an issue… now, there is the crippling loneliness but that only creeps in once in a while.” He casually plopped back down on his chair and grabbed his chip bag.

“There’s no way out of here, is there?” She sighed.

"Nope, not unless you happen to be a Bennett witch…” he scoffed as though the thought were incredulous and popped a rind in his mouth.

Her eyes lit up. “Wait, I am! I am a Bennett witch.”

Kai grinned, “well then the odds just got a lot better.”

“So, is Kai short for something?” She asked as they walked back to her place. Kai offered to push the cart for her.

“Malachai,” he replied.

“Malachai,” she practiced softly.

“But I prefer Kai,” he tagged on.

“What about you, Rose is short for what? Rosemary or… Rosalie?”

She giggled. "You’re close, it’s Rosalina but I prefer Rose.”

“Rosalina... that's pretty, much more fitting if you ask me.” The way he said her name made her want to bite her lip but she opted to return his smile instead.

“This is me,” she announced when they came to her house. She led him inside where he was kind enough to help her put away the groceries.

“So, what is this place?” she asked.

“One of many prison worlds created by the Gemini coven. Anyone who opposes them is gifted their own personal hell dimension. I got mine on my 22nd birthday.”

“That’s horrible. Why would they do that to you?”

He sighed, “most of it is coven politics- what you know and who you know, ya’ know? Long story short, my family betrayed me for more power. I don’t really like talking about it.”

Rose understood and decided not to pry. “So, you know how to get us out of here?”

Kai leaned forward on the counter while he explained the Gemini coven always left a back door to their prison worlds and it was called an ascendant. Under the direct light of a solar eclipse a Bennett witch is to use her magic and blood to activate the device and transport them back to the real world. “We’re going to need a locator spell to find the ascendant. Without my magic, I haven’t been able to find it.”

“When is the next eclipse?” Rose asked.

“Time works a little differently here… the month of May repeats itself over and over, starting with the 9th. Every third time May 9th comes around the eclipse happens.”

"The last eclipse just passed a few nights ago… that means we have about three months to wait.”

“On the bright side, we have plenty of time to find the ascendant,” He noted with an optimistic air. It amazed her how he managed to be so hopeful and positive even after being trapped for 18 years. “After all this time, 3 months is nothing,” he murmured.

She thanked him for helping her with her groceries. “Well, I’m going to make stuffed chicken for dinner. You can stay if you want.”

“You just met me and you’re asking me to stay for dinner… I mean, I could be a serial killer,” he finished with a charming smirk.

“You’re too nice to be a serial killer,” she put matter-of-factly while taking out the chicken breasts.

“Ted Bundy was nice,” he retorted.

She smiled at his wit. “Are you staying or not? Because I need to know if I’m making one chicken breast or two.”

Kai relented, “Oh, alright. How can I say no to stuffed chicken?”

[redvexillum]

@ritualofcirice MY LOVE. I must say - when I first asked what you would like to read for Kinktober, this was definitely not on my bingo card. Wow. Didn't think I would ever revisit this story again, @crackrodent is going to end up getting a big head from someone asking for more. Thanks for keeping me on my toes, you two.

WARNINGS/TAGS: an☆l sex, dub-con, p in a, psychological, emotional s☆x, character study of adam after damnation, sinner!adam, hate f☆cking, a lot of my head canon and interpretation of adam is in here, bottom!val, top!adam, writer strongly recommends you read on camera before you read this

Every great man was destined for his downfall if he lived long enough.  

Adam, the first man, was no exception, and now he found himself deep in the bowels of Hell, where darkness dripped from every corner. The loud, heart-pounding music rattled the very foundation of the place, vibrating beneath his boots. The filthy moans of sinners and cruel laughter filled the air, a cacophony of debauchery. Bright, strobing lights flashed across the dingy walls in a kaleidoscope of garish colours, turning the room into a living, breathing beast of chaos.  

The stench hit Adam first – alcohol, sweat, and something sharp, bitter, acrid – mixing with the smell of lust and sin that clung to every surface. This was an abyss, a den where bodies tangled together,��shameless and hungry, a paradise for the damned. Adam had spent his days here since his descent into Hell, trying to drown out the weight of his existence.  

“Hey, you gonna pay off that tab?” a voice grated, cutting through the chaotic noise. The bartender was grotesque, an overgrown, green-skinned creature that loomed more like a bloated shrimp than a demon, all greasy grins, beady eyes and three sets of arms.  

Adam’s blood-red eyes gleamed, catching the colourful lights in a dangerous glow as he grinned. His twisted horns glinted darkly in the room’s neon flashes. “Told you, I’ll pay when I get the damn money,” he sneered, voice low and venomous.  

Disgust curled through him. Filthy, repulsive creatures – the kind he could easily tear apart if only he had his weapon. If he could, he’d kill them all. “Now, pour me another.” He shoved the cup across the bar, the screech of glass on wood grating, like nails on a chalkboard. “You do know who I am, right?” 

His muscles coiled, ready to snap into action, and he watched the flicker of fear dart across the bartender’s eyes. It was fleeting but delicious. The fear of the damned before the firm man, the fallen Adam.  

The shrimp demon, trying to hide his terror behind a mask of disdain, scoffed before silently refilling the cup and sliding it back toward Adam. He scurried off without another word, eager to escape the confrontation.  

Adam stared down into the swirling amber liquid, feeling the weight of the room pressing in on him. This was Hell, after all. The land of eternal suffering and carnal pleasure, where demons thrived in their depravity.  

But for Adam, it was more than that. This was the place where both his wife and sons had fallen. Cast here while he was still admitted to Heaven, before his inevitable plunge.  

Lifting the glass, Adam’s mind wandered, flickering to thoughts of his past, of his lieutenant, Lute, and the women he’d had by his side. Were they still loyal to him? Did they even care that he had fallen? Or were they relieved, glad to see him gone? Anger began to churn in his chest, ugly, gnawing feelings of betrayal, disappointment – things he refused to name, emotions he tried to drown in the endless swirl of vice and violence.  

The bitterness in his gut rose with every passing thought, but before those dark feelings could consume him, Adam downed the drink in one burning gulp. The alcohol blazed a trail down his throat, momentarily silencing the storm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze already searching the room for some sinners to help numb him further. They were always successful at filling the voice with something primal yet, unfortunately, fleeting. Sex had always been the answer – if only for a few hours.  

Before he could rise, though, a shadow loomed over him. Something in the air shifted. He looked up, and his lips twisted into a snarl.  

The demon standing before him was an eyesore. Lilac-skinned, tall, and spindly with an absurdly gaudy outfit – a pair of heart-shaped glasses perched on his angular nose, a feathered hat sitting askew, and a hot pink coat lined with fur. The demon looked ridiculous, a garish mess of mismatched colours and clashing fabrics.  

Adam’s red eyes narrowed, leaning back against the bar with an eyebrow raised, his voice a low growl. “The fuck do you want?” 

The demon’s smile oozed malice, his voice high-pitched and slick, the kind that made your skin crawl. “Ah, a pleasure to meet you, First Man... Adam, correct?” His tone was drenched in slime, the kind of voice that made everything around it feel dirtier just by association.  

Adam despised sinners with every fibre of his being, yet there was a twisted thrill when he saw them quake in recognition of his status. The fear in their eyes – the reminder of who he was and all he had once commanded – fuelled him like the strongest drink.  

“That’s right,” his lips curled into a feral grin. “What’s this? You want my autograph or something?” He snorted, a mocking sneer playing on his face. “Too bad you’re uglier than sin itself. Now scram,” he added with a dismissive wave, his fingers already twitching to flag down the bartender for a refill.  

But the moth-looking demon beside him remained stubborn, his laugh forced but unwavering, and through those ridiculous pink glasses, his red eyes glower – a prey thinking he was a predator. “My name is Valentino,” he cooed, his voice all smooth velvet, layered with sweet malice. He eased himself onto the stool next to Adam. “I thought you might be interested in a deal, or perhaps...a proposition?” 

Adam’s laughter was sharp, derisive, filling the smoky air with scorn. His grin spread, amused by the look of faint disgust Valentino tried so poorly to hide behind that grin. But, Valentino pressed on, his voice laced with false compliments, his eyes narrowing just slightly at the edge of each hollow word.  

“You see,” Valentino continued, feigning politeness as he withdrew a long-stemmed pipe from his coat, drawing a deep breath that released plumes of sickly sweet pink smoke. “I own most of the strip clubs in this district.” 

“Skip to the damn point,” Adam sneered, legs sprawled as he leaned back with a smirk, letting Valentino’s facade crumble just a bit more. Watching him struggle to keep that thin smile of professionalism brought Adam more satisfaction than any drink could.  

Valentino took another long drag from his pipe and then, with a snap of his fingers, flagged down the bartender. Without a word, the shrimp-demon quickly poured before them with shaking hands.  

Valentino’s lips curled, sharp as a knife, his crimson eyes gleaming with a sinister glint. “If you agree to film one pornographic scene with me, all of this,” he gestured with a lazy flick of his wrist, “booze, drugs, women – or men, if you like – would be yours. Free of charge, for as long as you’re here.” 

Adam barked out a loud, hearty laugh, seizing his drink and downing half of it in one go. “So let me get this straight,” he snorted, his voice filled with mockery. “You’re offering me a lifetime supply of booze and sex for filming one little scene? With you?” 

Valentino’s long, manicured fingers brushed along the fur of his collar, his eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. “Precisely,” he purred, lips curving in a delighted, almost mocking smile.  

Adam’s stomach twisted in disgust, a shudder rippling through him as he sized Valentino up with obvious disdain. “Hell, no offence, but you look like a damned stick bug. I don’t do bugs – or dudes.” 

Valentino’s smile faltered, a barely restrained growl rumbling low in his throat as he took another drag from his pipe, his eyes flashing with irritation. “You’d do well to reconsider, considering that tab of yours keeps growing. And I have every reason to believe you’re not in a position to pay it off anytime soon.” 

Adam’s laughter faded, and for a moment, he considered. He was only able to get by because many of them recognized him as the general leading his army of angels to slaughter them. But he wasn’t sure how long he could bully them to give him free shit from just fear alone.  

His gaze slid across the room, lingering on a few scantily clad sinners flaunting themselves on the dance floor, their eyes hungry and vacant, lips parted in anticipation. A lifetime of indulgences, endless nights filled with booze, bodies, and numb pleasure – all it took was one decision.  

With a dark chuckle, he drained the rest of his drink, feeling the warmth buzz through him, loosening his muscles as he leaned back against the bar. Hell wasn’t going anywhere, and he’d be stuck here for a while. He might as well enjoy his damnation.  

“I’ll do it,” Adam said, the words dripping with mocking resignation, an edge of dark humour tugging at his grin. But he lifted a finger, wagging it in Valentino’s face. “On one condition.” 

Valentino’s eyes narrowed, his mouth curling into a slight, intrigued smile. “And what would that be?” 

Adam leaned in close, voice dropping to a murmur, his gaze glimmering with a glint of wicked satisfaction. “You’ll be the one getting fucked, and you’re gonna call me the Dick Master while I’m deep inside you.” 

He couldn’t help but smirk when he saw Valentino falter, just for a moment, the confidence in his polished demeanour cracking. It was faint – a small, barely audible squeak escaping him, but Adam heard it. The anger simmering beneath the sinner’s facade was palpable, flickering like embers in his crimson eyes. Valentino’s smile wavered, clouded with confusion and barely restrained fury.  

Alcohol surged through Adam’s veins, heightening his arrogance as he leaned back in his chair, legs spread wide in a gesture of dominance. “You should be grateful I even agreed to fuck you,” he drawled, his hand lazily gesturing toward his crotch. His grin widened as he saw Valentino’s gaze flicker downward, lingering on the front of Adam’s pants before meeting his eyes again. “Bet you’ve never had the honour of fucking an original man’s dick before.” 

A sense of thrill bubbled within his chest, his heart pounding with a heady mix of excitement and ego. He could see the tension rising in Valentino, a mix of shame and intrigue flashing behind this ridiculous pair of pink glasses. 

“My dick is the best dick,” Adam declared, a wicked grin pulling at his lips. “The original dick. Every single cock in existence? They all descended from mine.” He chuckled, a dark, throaty sound, as he waved the bartender over. He pointed to the two glasses – his empty and Valentino’s half-full, before snatching Valentino’s drink and draining the rest of it without a second thought. “Think about it, man. You’d be one of the lucky few in Hell to say you got fucked by the first dick ever created by the big man upstairs.” 

The bartender, clearly eager to avoid whatever was unfolding, poured Adam’s drink almost to the brim before hurriedly excusing himself. Adam took a long swig, savouring the burn of the alcohol as it fuelled his swagger. “My dick? God’s perfect creation,” he said, his words drenched with self-satisfaction. “A perfect dick.” 

Valentino, to Adam’s surprise, remained silent. His face was impassive, but his eyes betrayed him – they darted back to Adam’s crotch now and again, clearly absorbing every arrogant word. Adam continued, emboldened by the alcohol and the sinner’s silence, rambling on about the magnificence of his cock in absurd detail. Time seemed to blur as drinks kept flowing, and his words slurred together, becoming a hazy tirade of self-praise.  

By the time Adam paused, Valentino’s cheeks were faintly flushed, his posture rigid as though trapped between fury and reluctant agreement. Finally, Valentino cleared his throat, his voice tight. “Fine,” he muttered, extending a hand in a gesture of surrender.  

It was settled. One porno shoot, with Adam fucking Valentino, who would call him Dick Master, in exchange for a lifetime of sinful indulgences. Booze, drugs, sex – Adam could have it all. How hard could it be? After all, an asshole was just another hole, right? Just a second pussy, basically.  

-- 

The next morning, Adam prepared himself for what was sure to be a bizarre day. He tipped back half a bottle of scotch, the last of what he’d swiped from the club. No one questioned him anymore – he'd simply pointed at Valentino and declared his tab paid for all eternity. It was done.  

He did, however, have a secret. As much as he mocked this whole situation, he’d caught glimpses of Hell’s porn stars during the annual extermination trips down here. Billboards featuring Angel Dust, the infamous spider sinner with the absurdly fluffy chest, had always caught his eye.  

Sure, the guy was part of some redemption nonsense rub by that bitch’s annoying daughter, but Adam would be lying if he said he hadn’t “researched” the tapes he smuggled back up to Heaven. Most of it was male-on-male action, sure, but Hell’s sinners didn’t hold back on the kink. Maybe Angel Dust would show up for this shoot...but Adam quickly shoved the thought aside. He wasn’t about to entertain that idea.  

When he arrived at the studio, it wasn’t what he expected. It was surprisingly clean, sterile even, with bright lights pointing at a heart-shaped bed covered in tacky pink satin. Adam wrinkled his nose in distaste. Everything about this place screamed tacky. The entire setup looked like something out of the cheap, over-the-top romance movies he sometimes saw the girls watch.  

Valentino was already there, standing by the bed with his usual sleazy smile. Adam barely spared him a glance, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, ready to get this over with. “Let’s get this done,” he muttered through a yawn, his disinterest clear. He didn’t miss the way Valentino’s eyes darkened, a vein pulsing with tension along his neck.  

Without wasting time, Adam stripped down, kicking off his pants and tossing his shirt aside carelessly. He stood before Valentino, who was lounging on the heart-shaped bed, his eyes raking over Adam’s body. That absurd coat Valentino always wore? It wasn’t just fabric – it was part of his wings, and as he shifted, Adam noticed the faint gleam of a gold chain hanging from his pierced nipples.  

Adam’s stomach twisted, the acrid burn of alcohol mingling with nausea at the thought of what he was about to do. The whole sordid arrangement churned in his mind; sure, he’d had his share of cheap thrills, but at least those sinners had something appealing.  

Valentino, though? He was about as appetizing as roadkill. The only thing pushing him through this was the promise of endless booze, sex, and indulgence – a freedom he would taste over and over again for the rest of eternity.  

“A deal’s a deal,” Valentino finally murmured, his tone drenched in irony as he shrugged out of his clothes, revealing his bare, lanky frame and a cock that only served to highlight Adam’s confidence. Adam let out a low, mocking laugh, not bothering to hide his disdain. He stripped off his own clothes and let his dick stand at the centre of attention.  

Valentino rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a tight smile. “Alright Dick Master, time to fulfill your end of the bargain,” he said dryly, his voice layered with sarcasm as he gave a cursory glance over Adam.  

Adam forced himself to smirk, stretching out each step as he advanced. “You’re not my type,” he shrugged, eyeing Valentino with open distaste, “but hey – free booze, free girls? I’d do a lot worse.” 

Standing just inches from Valentino, he leaned in, their bodies almost touching. He shut out the details of Valentino’s bony frame and imagined instead a lithe, slender woman – anything to get through this nightmare of a deal. His cock, fuelled by raw ego and the throbbing pulse of hatred, began to rise. “You read for this?” he gave a sharp grin, his tone low and predatory, “This is the original dick – God's masterpiece.” 

Valentino scoffed, an eye-roll barely hidden behind his pink glasses, reaching for a bottle of lube and slicking his hands. He tossed the bottle aside with a flick of his wrist. “Let’s just get it over with,” he muttered, voice flat as he began to idly stroke himself.  

“Sounds like you’re all too eager,” Adam shot back with a smug grin, his hands lazily pumping his own cock. “So, I just need to fuck you until I’m done, right?” he confirmed, voice dripping with mockery.  

Valentino forced a nod, raising his hands in mocking air quotes. “Yes, Dick Master,” he gritted out, almost sound tired of this whole event that he specifically sought Adam out for. The fucking bitch.  

Adam’s jaw clenched, anger bubbling beneath his intoxicated haze. Here was this scumbag – this lowly sinner – who had practically begged for his cock, acting as if he were the one doing him a favour? Adam tightened his grip, stroking faster until he was hard and ready, his cock red and angry.  

The direction shouted “Action!” and, in a single, brutal motion, Adam seized Valentino by his thin, bony waist, flipping him onto his stomach. Valentino’s wings flared out briefly before settling awkwardly against the bed, his limbs visibly tense.  

“Lube!” Valentino choked out, scrambling for the tossed bottle, which he shoved over his shoulder with a scowl. “Here,Dick Master,” he spat, his tone a barely contained snarl.  

Adam chuckled, dark satisfaction pooling in his chest. Seeing this sinner – sprawled on all fours, well six, powerless, waiting – was better than any liquor that burned his tongue. He leaned down, letting the weight of his words hang heavy. “Say please,” he said, pressing the head of his cock teasingly against the taut ring of muscles. “And maybe I’ll consider it.” 

Silence stretched between them as Valentino’s shoulders tensed, but Adam could feel his resistance breaking. Finally, a strained, venom-laced whisper reached him: “Please,” Valentino ground out, his voice threaded with hate, his crimson eyes burning behind those pink lenses.  

With a wicked grin, Adam snatched the lube, twisting off the cap, and squeezed out a gratuitous amount, letting it trickle down between Valentino’s cheeks. The slickness glistened, pooling in the hollows of his ass, and Adam watched with cruel satisfaction. 

Before Valentino could utter a word of protest, Adam rammed his cock into the tight confines of the sinner’s ass, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal motion. The heat and pressure of Valentino’s body wrapped around him like a vice, and despite himself, Adam’s jaw clenched, a groan tearing free as the overwhelming tightness milked him.  

“Oh, fuck,” Valentino moaned, his head dropping low as he raised his hips higher, practically begging for more.  

A twisted laugh escaped Adam, sharp and bitter. It was no surprise – every sinner down here was a whore, eager to debase themselves further in Hell’s inferno. As long as he kept his focus on Valentino’s back, he could pretend he wasn’t fucking a gangly bug but some faceless chick from the week before. “Look at how fucking tight your ass is,” Adam growled through gritted teeth, his hips snapping forward with brutal rhythm. Each thrust sent his heavy balls smacking against Valentino’s own.  

“Say my name,” Adam snarled, his voice dripping with contempt as he thrust deeper, faster, his movements rough and punishing.  

Valentino’s body trembled beneath him, his face pressed against the mattress, his moans vibrating through the bed. “Oh fuck, Dick Master,” he whimpered, his voice breathless as the second pair of hands reached back, spreading himself wider to accommodate Adam’s thick, relentless cock. “Fuck, dump your hot cum in me, Dick Master,” Valentino begged, his words filthy and desperate as the cameraman steadily approached closer.  

Adam’s vision clouded with a lust-soaked fury. Valentino’s submission, the way he trembled, the way his body clung to him – it fed into Adam’s anger rather than appeased it. His hands slapped away Valentino’s own, and with a savage grin, he brought his palm down hard on Valentino’s ass. The sharp crack echoing in the room. The sting radiated through his hand, and the whimper it warned set another spike of satisfaction through him.  

It was a sin to sodomize another man, wasn’t it? The thought flickered idly in Adam’s mind, only to be crushed by the weight of his bitterness. What did it matter? Sin was all he knew now, and the moment he’d been cast from grace, the moment He turned His back, Adam had given up any pretense of goodness. His lips curled into a snarl; his legs spread wider as he began to pound into Valentino with savage intensity.  

Fuck everything.  

That had become Adam’s motto long ago when his world shattered. Since his fall, since the exterminations, he’d lived by it – both in the literal and metaphorical sense. He had killed his sons during the first extermination, slaughter the flesh of his own blood. His ex-wife Lilith had found sanctuary in Heaven, probably gloating in her new peace, untouched. And his second wife? Gone, disappeared without a trace. Adam had nothing left but the rage that ate him alive.  

His hand cracked down again on Valentino’s ass, the sound of flesh on flesh satisfying in a way nothing else could be. Valentino cried out, his moans filthy, his body shaking with pleasure at the brutal treatment. The anger, the frustration, the hatred for everyday spent surrounded by the scum of Hell boiled over in Adam’s chest. Each slap, each thrust, was an outlet for the festering fire coursing through his veins.  

“Call my fucking name,” Adam growled, driving forward, his hips pistoning with reckless abandon. He wanted to hear Valentino scream it, wanted to own that moment of debasement.  

“Fuck! Dick Master! Dick Master!” Valentino panted, his voice a broken, trembling echo, repeating the words as his body bucked beneath Adam. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room, wet and slick, the lube drying into a sticky crust as Adam’s cock pounded mercilessly into the sinner’s ass.  

For Adam, there had always been one thing that set him apart. He was the first human to enter Heaven. He had been chosen. He had been faithful. 

He had been good. 

But that had been before. Before he was cast out. Before he killed his sons. Before Heaven turned its back on him. Now, there was nothing left but bitterness and betrayal, nothing but the rage that consumed him whole.  

Despite it all – despite being cast from Eden, despite the endless punishment, despite every sinful act he’d committed since – he had once believed he was good.  

But those damned red eyes. Every day, those scarlet irises watched him, glimmering with a twisted amusement that ate away at his mind. The sharp, curling horns at the top of his head were a sick reminder of the devil who’d robbed him of his wives, his peace, his faith.  

He was adrift, wandering without purpose or end, chained to a fleeting pleasure that only numbed him for a moment before reality pulled him back – back to a body drenched in the physical proof of his sin, of the brutal truth that he was no longer good... 

...that he had failed.  

The surrounding sounds – the gasping moans, the slap of skin on skin – faded to a hollow echo. He shut his eyes, shutting out the sight of Valentino beneath him, the sight of his own hands gripping those narrow hips. Pleasure built, higher and higher, even as his anger sank, deeper and deeper, until it smouldered at the base of his chest, another ember in the ever-burning pit of his agony.  

And then he released.  

A ragged gasp tore from his lips as his eyes flew open, his grip bruising Valentino’s hips as he felt himself pulse, his body rocking through the blinding flashes of his release. Pleasure surged through him, mingling with the hollow ache it left in its wake. Slowly, he pulled out, the cool air hitting his spent, sensitive skin as he came down, left empty and raw.  

Valentino rolled onto his back, sprawled with his own cock half-hard, his skin gleaming with sweat. “Oh, Dick Master,” he purred, a wicked glint lighting his eyes, “how about a second round?” 

Adam nearly laughed, not from humour or satisfaction, but a bitter disdain that twisted his mouth into a cold, unamused smirk. He folded his arms across his chest, looking around the gaudy studio, ignoring the cameras still rolling. “Sorry, pal,” he said with a shrug, a tinge of mockery lacing his words, “I’m a tits-and-ass kind of guy, and you’re missing the goods in every department.” 

Valentino’s smirk faltered, a flicker of surprise parting his lips, but Adam didn’t care. He’d fulfilled his end of the deal. 

“So,” he barked out, his voice loud and grating, “where’s my booze and my women?” His laughter rang out, harsh and hollow, a shield against the torrent of dark thoughts that clawed at his mind. Beneath that sharp, crooked grin, his heart twisted, the empty laugh barely covering the grimace that ached to break free. 

All he wanted was to drown. 

To drown in sin. 

To drown in fleeting pleasure. 

To drown in the pit of his own damnation. 

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[galway-girlatwork]

written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge

Fandom: Narcos

Rating: Mature-There is angst, fluff and smut if you squint really, really hard. 😊

Central Characters: Reader/Pena/Murphy

Central Relationship: Pena/Reader

Word Count: 3,478

AO3

Please do not copy or reblog my work without tagging me

Music inspiration: The Pretty Reckless

SUMMARY:

A tumultuous relationship with a fellow DEA agent, is marked by tension and unspoken feelings. Can a growing affection, mixed with reckless behavior, drugs, death, money and power, really survive? From Bogota, to Miami, to Rome, how far will it go?

A Broken Silence

As the last of the Cali Cartel fell, like little toy soldiers, she wondered what was next. She’d been down in Columbia, longer than she’d lived back in the states. It had taken years of dedication, long fucking days and even longer nights. Elise thought of the hundreds of people that had died, gotten hooked on blow and for what? Power and money. That was the root cause of it all, power and money. She’d been assigned to Columbia a year after she became DEA. They told her she’d be an asset, it turned out to be a load of shit. Women agents were looked at as glorified secretary’s but that was until she met Pena and Murphy. Pena looked at her like a piece of meat, Murphy actually used her intelligence to their advantage. Did she ever actually make it into the field? Yep, as an undercover hooker, Pena’s idea of course. His exact words to her, as she stood there in a slinky red dress was, she had a body, might as well use it. That was the first time she hit him. The second time was when he drunk on whiskey and made a pass at her.

The three of them had been working together for a year before she realized she actually cared about Pena. She’d been sitting in her car, in the parking lot of the embassy when she saw him pull in, a gangly female crawling out of the passenger seat, as he got out, pressing herself against him, her tongue half way down his throat, his hand on her tit. Part of her wanted to vomit, part of her wanted to punch the whore. She knew the woman was a whore, those were the only types of women Pena seemed to be interested in. It was that afternoon, the dynamic of the relationship changed between them because she realized she’d been jealous and the only reason a woman was jealous was because she wanted him. She wanted all of him but knew it would never happen. Her attitude towards him went from indifference to straight up bitch, Murphy snickering every time she went for a kill. By the time Escobar was riddled with bullets, Pena hated her with a passion, which he made clear before he was sent to DC, Murphy back to Florida and she was right back where she started, glorified secretary.

A month later she had been re-assigned, working with some head honcho on the Cali cartel and the intel needed to break up their little surrender deal they had going, cringing inward when a jean clad hip, found the edge of her desk.

“Well, well, seems something is working out for me, how’s is shaken Tanner?” “Are you fucking serious right now Pena? I am working with you? Again? Can someone please tell me who I pissed off in a past life?” “Probably the devil himself hermosa.”

“Don’t, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Come in here thinking I won’t deck you for bein a polla.”

“Whoa, Spanish is improving.” 

“Get the hell off my desk Pena and go find yourself a whore. I’m sure there were slim pickins in D.C.”

“You offering?”

“Vete al infierno.”

“Already there babe.”

Getting off her desk, he went into his office, slamming the door, watching the glass rattle before he threw himself in the chair behind his desk. Fuck, he thought Elise would have been stateside by now, along with Murphy but as luck would have it, she was here to torment him. It was hard seeing her right now, needing to focus on Cali but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Fuck she was still beautiful and her temper gave her skin a glow that most women he knew would kill for. Closing his eyes, he remembered all the nights he thought of her. Imagining his hands twisted in thick, curly brown hair, looking into eyes so brown, they were almost black, as he slid into her, marking her as his. He not only wanted her but had fallen in love with her. He wasn’t sure when it happened or how but he realized it the day he had been shipped to D.C. thinking his career was over, sitting in an airport bar with Murphy. Murphy knew it and told him to do something about it before it was too late. He’d laughed it off before giving his partner a hug, both of them going their separate ways. Well God had a sense of humor, he thought as he walked in, seeing her sitting there in jeans and a t-shirt, chewing on a pencil as she read the file on her desk. Yea he was so screwed and not in the way that made him want a drink and a smoke.

The next six months were unbearable, her nerves frazzled when it was all over, thrilled when they gave her a month before she was going to her next post in Miami. Just because Cali fell in Columbia didn’t mean the drug trafficking did, since it was still all about power and money. What was that saying, he who dies with the most toys wins? Well, these bastards were gonna make sure they had all the toys and more.

Sitting on a bar stool, surrounded by co-workers, they celebrated with food and drinks, the beer and tequila flowing freely, except for Pena, who leaned more towards whiskey.

“To victory,” Javi toasted, his eyes lingering on Elise longer than necessary.

“To victory,” she echoed, smiling, but there was a wistfulness in her eyes that Javi couldn’t decipher. As the night wore on, one drink led to another to another and before she could stop and form thought, she found herself in Pena’s apartment, passion flaring between them like an arc of lighting. His lips found the base of her throat, suckling at the skin and come morning, it would be a purple blossom of broken blood vessels. Fingers tugged at the buttons of his shirt before she grabbed the sides, yanking as hard as she could, buttons pinging to the floor before they moved to his belt. She wanted him knowing in the morning she’d be gone. One night wouldn’t kill her, right?

Fuck, he thought, as he yanked her t-shirt off her frame, breasts held in place by a wisp of lace, was this really fucking happening right now? Her skin was warm and soft beneath his hands as he undid the button on her jeans, hand sliding into the waistband, his mind focused on one thing, and he almost died right there as he slid his fingers into her depths, feeling how wet she was. God fucking damn he wanted her, laid out in his bed, beneath him, his body marking her as his.

She moaned against his mouth as his fingers slid into her, the pad of his thumb against her clit, every nerve over firing, sending dopamine coursing through her, limbs melting from one feeling to another until they were both naked, not remembering if they had even stopped kissing at this point. He was rough with her, one hand tangled in her hair while the other slid under her knee, teeth nipping at her earlobe. Reaching between them, hand wrapping around the thickness of his cock, she positioned him at her entrance, his name a whisper into the space between them.

That was all it took for his control to snap like a rubber band wound too tight and he slammed into her. He held still for all of thirty seconds before he lost control, hips bucking against her like teenager having sex for the first time. She was warm, wet, tight, her skin sweet on the tip of his tongue as he dragged it across one nipple before moving on to the other, lips attached themselves to the skin of her collar bone, sucking on it, knowing he would mark her there just as he did to the left side of her neck. He knew some thought hickies were tacky but he didn’t give a fuck. When she walked the streets of Columbia, he wanted everyone to know she was taken. He pulled out of her so violently, he wondered if he’d hurt her, but that thought was fleeting as he flipped her over, bringing her to her knees, fingers digging into her hips as he pulled her back, sliding into her with no remorse for the brutality of it. He was feeding his soul with her body and she was allowing it. He exploded violently within her as her orgasm hit, her walls clenching around his hardness made it impossible not to, his name screamed out into the sex filled air surrounding them. Arms wrapped around her, his chest against her back, holding onto her for a moment before he left go, collapsing on his back.

Her body had a mind of its own at this point, falling on her side, facing him, watching as he took in deep gulps of air. He turned to look at her, eyes making contact, it was like they had just seen each other for the first time and there was something so intense in his stare and she felt it within her soul, feeling as if he knew everything about her and still wanted her, wondering if he actually cared, if all the hate fueled words he’d thrown at her, was a façade. She shook her head, displacing those thoughts as she moved over him, wondering how many more times they could lose themselves in the moment before dawn streaked across the sky of Columbia.

He woke up to an empty bed, reaching out, only to find Elise’s side cold. Panic surged through him as he saw a note on the pillow.

*Javi, 

Watch your back. Be safe. 

Elise.*

Fuck, he thought, as his heart sank, crumbling the note and throwing it across the room. He’d never been good with words, especially when it came to expressing feelings. He’d cared for Elise, but kept that buried, not wanting emotions involved because they were a distraction in the dangerous world they’d been living in. But now, that time was up down here, he realized he couldn’t let her go and now he had to find her.

Finding her hadn’t been as easy as he thought it would be. By the time he got cleaned up and to the embassy, he found out that everything was being sent to the field office in Miami, her next assignment. He wasn’t due to leave Bogota for another week. By the time he got to Miami, his nerves were on fire, feeling like he was always just one step behind her. She’d checked in with the field office but twenty-four hours later, she’d gone on vacation and no one knew where, all they could tell him is she wasn’t due back to the office for a month. Where the fuck could she go for a month?

It took him two days and breaking protocol, something he did with ease; to find out she was in Rome. How the fuck was he going to find her there? He’d never been to Rome and no idea where to start. That was when he broke into her new apartment, searching for any clue and found just the name of a museum, Galleria Borghese. What the fuck was he doing, chasing some woman across the fuckin world? This was out of character for him, he was the fuck em, use em, kick em to the curb kind of man but now he was standing at a ticket counter, passport in hand, heading to Italy.

Everything she’d done since she landed were things she did on the fly. There was no rhyme or reason to where she went, how she spent her days, just happy to be away from drugs and death. Don’t get her wrong, she loved her job but Columbia had taken a lot out of her and she needed time to breathe, to find herself again. But her thoughts kept drifting back to Javi. The night they shared had been everything she had ever wanted, and yet, she knew it was impossible. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d come here instead of staying close to home. Maybe she was running and didn’t even know it. Maybe she was just a tad crazy about a man who went through women like he did cigarettes.

She wandered around Rome, trying to take in what was around her from Vatican City, to The Colosseum, every art museum and tonight to the Trevi Fountain. She’d learned that it was best to go at night, the crowds were not as bad and to make sure she threw three coins into to the water. Gelato in hand, she was standing at the edge of the fountain, the white marble still warm from the sun that had beat down on it from the day. Even she had to admit that it was beautiful and again that is when her mind went back to Javi. Fuck, why the hell did she had to be in love with that man? He was more a man of action, not of words. She had seen him break hearts before, and knew she was just another casualty.

The Trevi Fountain loomed ahead, Javi been all over the tourist places and had come up empty. He was frustrated, pissed and was beginning to wonder if he should just go back home and wait however there was one small problem, he was not a patient man, anyone who worked with him could tell ya that much. When he reached the fountain, the third time he’d been there, the coins glinted at the bottom, knowing each one was a wish, a hope and without a coin to toss in, he couldn’t help but think about his own wish, to find Elise. He was too stubborn, refusing to go back and wait. That was when he saw her, sitting at the very edge of the fountain, rubbing fingers over his eyes to make sure it really was her. About fuckin time, he thought, as he watched her throw a single coin over her shoulder. He moved towards her, pushing his way through the crowd, ignoring annoyed mutters and sharp glares of the other tourists he jostled aside. He was less than a foot away from her before he stopped, “What did you wish for?”

Shock couldn’t even begin to describe the look on her face when she saw him standing there, asking what she’d wished for. He looked out of place among the tourists and well everything that Rome was but his eyes were intense, filled with determination, a look she’d seen before when they were in Columbia. “Javi what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came for you.”

“Why? My assignment in Columbia is over, so is yours so I am a little confused as to again why you’re here.”

Grabbing her hand, he began tugging her away from the fountain, looking for someplace where they could talk, finding a doorway, he pushed her back against the old, faded brick, kissing her, tongue slipping into her mouth, tasting lemon against her lips before he pulled away from her. “Why the fuck did you leave Bogota without saying goodbye?”

“Wait you came all the way to fuckin Italy to ask me that? Are you insane?”

“No. Yes. Fuck. I came here because I didn’t realize until I woke up to an empty bed, a fucking note, and you gone, that I love you.”

“You have lost your mind. Javi please don’t do this because I seriously can’t handle it. I’ve seen you with other women, I’ve seen you use them, hell I’ve seen you break them, and I can’t be just another one in a long line of em.”

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re not just another one of them. Te quiero hermosa.”

“Yea heard you say that a time or two. Look, what happened that night, it was, and this is not to feed your ego, was amazing but I am also not stupid. I can’t take the chance that this is nothing more than a fling and, in the end, the only one picking up the pieces is me as you move on to whoever can give you intel on whatever big bad you’re chasing.”

“God you fucking talk too much.” He kissed her again, hands wrapping in the thickness of her hair, before he nipped his way to her shoulder, teeth and lips, digging into the curve of muscle and sinew, suckling until he heard her gasp, her fingers digging into his hips. The tip of his tongue ran over the red mark on her skin, knowing he marked again, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now every man in Rome will know that you belong to me.”

“I am not a possession Javier Pena.”

“Fuck I didn’t mean it that way. God damn it, Elise. No one is fuckin perfect but I’m standing in the middle of a fucking country I’ve never been to, chasing you around the globe wanting you, no one else, why can’t you see that?”

She stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide with shock, his words hitting her like the tidal wave crashing over her. Taking a deep breath, she slowly let it out, “Because I don’t want to be hurt, can’t you understand that? I’ve been in love with you, all this time and there is a part of me that wants you too, to love all the parts you are. Demanding, possessive, passionate, asshole, dedicated. The risk? Of this? Of believing you want me this much is something I don’t know how to handle.”

“It’s not going to be cut and dry baby. It ain’t like intel where you dissect it all. Just feel it.” He took a deep breath, frustration giving away to relief, stepping closer, eyes locking onto hers. “I get it hermosa, never been down this road before with anyone. Scared shitless that I’ll fuck it up but let’s try to see where this goes.”

Feeling the warmth of his body against her, hearing all the words, let’s be honest, every woman wants to hear, “Okay,” she whispered, voice barely audible. Something in the back of her mind was telling her this was a mistake, of the highest, but fuck it, she thought, because she didn’t want to be that person who turns a hundred and has regrets. Fingers tugged on the belt loops of his jeans, she pulled him closer, tongue tracing the outline of his jugular, skin tangy with the salt of his sweat.

His breath caught as she pulled him closer, feeling her mouth against his throat. “I just want to get away from all of this. Just you and me, away from the crowds, from everything. I want to be alone with you, beneath me. Fuck we need to go now or I am going to take you against this building and we’re getting arrested.”

As dawn began to creep along the city, fingers pinched her nipples as she straddled him, hips rolling in circles, his cock buried deep within her body, he pulled her down to him, lips hard and demanding against hers, devouring her orgasm as his spilled into her depths, her heartbeat erratic against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

His name was whispered breathlessly, her voice trembling with the aftermath of their orgasms, feeling his embrace tighten around her, hands now trailing down her back, she pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, a soft smile playing on her lips as she rolled off of his body, laying on her side. “Didn’t get much sleep last night. We should stay in today, order room service.”

Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her towards him, a hand cupping her breast, nipple still erect beneath his palm. “I don’t think I will ever get enough of you hermosa, so I am in agreement with you on that. Te amo.”

“Yo también te quiero, cariño.”

“Getting better with the Spanish.”

“Been practicing.”

Fuck, he thought, hearing his native language fall from her lips, he was in deep with her and it was a realization that hit him with a force of a hurricane, watching her as her eyes drifted closed, breathing steady as she fought staying awake, losing the battle. How the fuck had he fallen for her? He, who had always kept emotions in check, as he whored his way through Bogota, taking down drug cartels, not wanting involvement. Figured he would be scared out of his fucking mind but he wasn’t. The last thought he had before sleep claimed him? How he could get re-assigned to Miami.

[shes4twnksinatrnchct]

Hell of a Show

Jake Kiszka x fem oc

Fifteen years after resigning from Greta Van Fleet, for reasons undisclosed to the public, Coley Payne is asked by her former band members to tell her side of the story.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, angst, fluff, first love, drug and alcohol abuse, mental health struggles, character death, familial grief, reference to sexual situations, *explicit sexual situations (smut warnings will be mentioned pertaining to each chapter it occurs in).

Words: 2.8k

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has liked/commented/reblogged and even has just read this story so far. It really does mean a lot and I appreciate the support and your time! Thank you.

Please keep in mind this is a work of fiction and enjoy!

***LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED***

***Table of Content***

The Beginning: Part II

JAKE: Greta Van Fleet was born about four years later, and was done so without Danny or Coley, initially. 

It was me, a drummer that my brothers claim I “poached” from Jazz band in high school, Josh was singing, and Sammy—who Josh and I had ‘practically press-ganged into playing with us instead of doing his homework one random afternoon–was on bass.

2013

She can’t put into words the utter admiration and love that fills her while watching them perform, cheering and whistling as if it was her first time experiencing it anywhere else aside from the Kizska’s garage. 

And it doesn’t evade him—the undivided attention she offers up on a gold platter through starry-eyes and beaming a smile that shines a light of its own back onto him from where she’s made sure to get closest to the stage every show. 

It’s branded his memory like an iron, his mind tracing over the stamp of it as metaphorical bows are taken and curtains fall, the four guys finishing their set and making their way towards family and friends who have come to support them. 

He sees her engaged in conversation with Sherri and Julianne, Ronnie and his mother having joined them. 

When the girl his eyes are set on takes notice of them, she lights up. 

Jake’s always holding out a hope that perhaps one day, it’ll be him that she automatically locks eyes with after it’s all said and done, grinning ear to ear as she does so. 

But for now, she’ll go out of her way to ignore him to save herself some grief, and he’ll continue to step aside to let her bypass him and his brothers without interruption. 

As always, he refuses to watch her jump into Holton’s arms—her fingers in the damp locks of his ginger hair while letting out a laugh that she fakes to convince herself she’s happy—before the feeling of victory is run out of Jake’s body by defeat, and solidified in a kiss. 

JAKE: Holton was our first drummer, before Danny came into the picture…he was also Coley’s first boyfriend. I introduced them without realizing I was introducing them, and Holton chased after her endlessly until he got her. 

I realized, rather quickly, it was a conflict of interest by the time Coley joined the band.

The Kiszka’s garage rattles with the loud bouts of hollering taking place between the group of teenagers. 

“Look, we can try it and see if it’s—” Coley’s attempt to calm her riled friend and fellow bandmate is in vain as Jake ignores her entirely and cuts out to Holton, “I’m tired of repeating myself! I said I didn’t want the double pedal and you—”

“—You won’t even give it a chance, Jake!” Holton snarls at him. 

“Guys, please just take a breath, it’s not that serious!” Sammy pipes as Josh simultaneously shouts, “I just want peace!” despite the fact he has no problem ensuing such chaos of his own with his brother. 

“I don’t have to give it a chance because I know it sounds like shit!” Jake snaps back to the drummer, not even acknowledging his brothers or Coley. 

“Okay, Jake, let’s not start—” Again, Sammy is cut off. 

“—I’m surprised you can even hear it over the sound of your train-wreck shredding that you demand be blasted at the highest capacity!” Holton hisses, stepping closer to Jake, prompting Coley and Josh to ease between them should it result in the many arguments Jake and Josh get into. 

“Hey, we’re not doing this shit!” Josh harshly scolds them, needing this rehearsal to wrap up so he can head back to the school for his play practice. 

“It’s to cover up your lack of fucking tempo, prick!” Jake harshly barks back to Holton. 

This jumpstarts the both of them in a screaming match, sounding like two dogs fighting as they push closer to one another until Josh is dodging out of the way and yanking Coley back with him upon the realization that neither of the boys are paying any attention to either of them.  

Karen’s furrowing her brows in her bedroom, hearing the distant commotion of shouting downstairs, followed by the sound of breaking glass. 

Ronnie’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen’s entryway to the garage as she watches the scene before her with wide-eyes, having rushed to witness what was unfolding. 

Josh, Coley, and Sam have stumbled back to avoid getting hit with flying shards. 

The double-bass pedal lies in the grass of the yard, having sailed through the window of the garage by Jake’s hand. 

It issues silence momentarily, Coley’s hands resting over her mouth in shock and fear of Mrs. Kiszka barreling in here to let all of them have it.  

Holton only rolls his jaw, keeping his cool the best he can, and stomps to leave the garage to retrieve it. 

 Jake, in turn, rushes past him to get to it first—his two brothers and best friend running after them. 

“Stop being a child!” Coley scolds him as he fights Holton off the pedal, and slings the piece of equipment even further away from them. 

As soon as he turns back to face Holton, the drummer’s fist is colliding with his cheek. 

SAM: Jake and Josh would get into it all the time. Thrown equipment and punches were never a big deal because they were brothers, you know? They’d go at it, mom would come out screaming, and in a few minutes they’d be back to normal and complimenting one another's genius…but Jake and Holton got along great until Coley joined…I think it had a lot to do with the fact that Holton didn’t want Coley in the band and Jake knew that—but asked her anyway. 

Karen angrily finishes making dinner, fed up entirely with her son and his bandmate while overhearing Coley shouting at her boyfriend over the phone from the guest bathroom down the hall. 

She can somewhat manage Jake and Josh throwing fists and equipment, but Holton isn’t her child. 

He’s someone trusted in her care, and she’s not at all comfortable with the idea of he and Jake knocking heads so harshly that it comes to the destruction of property and results in blows. 

“…He threw it, Coley! That isn’t cheap!” Holton says to his girlfriend, who’s glaring at herself in the mirror as he speaks, her heart rate still high from witnessing Josh and Karen have to peel the two boys from one another once Jake tackled him. 

Thank God Holton’s mom was as understanding as she was, chopping it up to, “They’re boys. Boys fight over stupid things. They’ll grow out of it.” 

“Holton, you don’t hit people just because they make you angry.” Coley fiercely defends Jake, which is no surprise. 

“He threw $179.00 through a fucking window, Coley! I don’t think you’re hearing what I’m saying!” He outbursts. 

“I hear what you’re saying, and it’s still not an excuse to lay hands on someone!” She exclaims, her voice hurting her own ears in the small half-bath tucked away in the Kiszka’s downstairs hallway. 

“We’ve been together for a year now.” He says to her, pacing his bedroom. “You’ve been in the band for half of that, and that’s coincidentally how long he’s been a complete dick to me.” 

“What the hell do you want me to do about it, Holton? He’s his own person.” She exhales, waiting for his response. 

He wants her to care that their band mate is disrespectful and dismissive toward him. 

The drummer always looks at Coley to agree with him, take his side, and railroad Jake’s opinion the way Jake manages to do to his. 

But she endlessly tries to coax her boyfriend to just trust Jake’s judgment on a song, or a sound…

That’s what started Holton’s speculations that she has feelings for their lead guitarist. 

And, because he’s not blind, he knows for a fact that Jake cares about her beyond the reach of friendship and band-like comradery. 

He can see it plainly from his place behind the drums: the looks they exchange right in front of him, the silent flirting, the obvious attempts Jake makes to impress her…

In fact, the one thing Holton and Jake can agree on is the fact that Jake very much likes Coley, and she knows it—choosing to play stupid for the sake of not hurting anyone’s feelings. 

Holton falls silent, collecting himself before he says something to potentially hurt her feelings even more, eventually getting out, “Are you gonna crawl his ass like you’re crawling mine right now or is he gonna get puppy-dog eyes and a half-assed, ‘Please, don’t do that again, Jakey’?”

Wrinkling her nose, she rolls her eyes and states, “I’ve never called that boy ‘Jakey’ in my life.”

“I don’t know what the hell you call him when I’m not around, Coley.” He blatantly blurts, not even hiding the venom in his voice as he does so. 

Coley digs her teeth into her tongue, exasperated with the amount of times this gets brought up. 

So exasperated, infact, that she feels no need to defend herself anymore in the midst of his allegations, and hangs up on him. 

Leaving the bathroom, she rubs her forehead and lets out a deep breath before stepping into the kitchen. 

“I’m about to go, Mrs. K.” She tells Karen, softly. 

“Before you do, can you grab that bag of fruit from the fridge and go throw it at Jake? I told him to put it on his cheek and he didn't listen—shockingly enough—and I don’t want him to swell up anymore.” 

The icey chill of the freezer air nips at her fingers and she grabs at the mixed fruit in its bag, holding it up. 

“This?” She inquires, to which Karen glances at her and pipes, “Yep. He should be in his room.”

Jake winces when he tries to prop his pick between his lips in the midst of playing around with a riff he’s stumbled across. 

The ache in his cheek has spread to the muscles connected to his mouth, making it uncomfortable to even speak to himself under his breath. 

It’s when Coley shakes the bag of frozen goods that he stops what he’s doing and notices her standing in the doorway. 

“Your mom wants you to use this.” She throws him the bag and it lands on his bed next to him. 

Glaring at it, he disregards his frustrated mother’s attempt to ease his pain. 

He takes in a hiss when Coley plops down on the bed in front of him and presses the bag of frozen strawberries to his swollen, bruised cheek, not even bothering to flinch back and see if she accidentally hurt him any more. 

He eyes her like a wounded puppy—his big, obnoxiously pretty, brown eyes looking at her. 

“I’m so sick of this, Jake.” She tells him, her phone vibrating with the notification of Holton’s incoming call that she ignores, and he watches her do so, before he’s starting, “Maybe if he’d stop being such a dick—”

“—You took it too far.” She’s fast to get it out, shaking her head. 

“He punched me in the face, and I took it too far?” He inquires, furrowing his thick brows. 

“You threw it through a window!” She scoffs. 

The look of defeat on her face pulls guilt from him for the first time. 

Of course he feels bad for once again screwing up the window in the garage, but it seems he’s trampled all over Coley’s feelings in the process of proving a spiteful point to her irritating boyfriend. 

“I can’t keep defending you when you act like this.” She adds, having never volunteered to be the one trying to keep the peace between her boyfriend and her best friend—although she feels as if she has.

“You defend me?” He knows she does, he can see it in any disagreement he and Holton have.

The blonde rolls her eyes at his question, looking at him pointedly but not saying anything, to which he adds, “You don’t have to, you know—defend me, I mean. I’m a big boy. I can handle a few bitch fits.”

“I know.” She mumbles. “But I also know that Holton tends to be more harsh toward you even if it’s unwarranted, so…” 

His eyes shift as they look into hers, his hand leaving its stagnant place on his guitar to gently lay overtop hers that’s pressing the frozen bag to his face. 

Pulling her hand away, slowly, his eyes flicker to her lips. 

“I wouldn’t say it’s entirely unwarranted.” He speaks to her lowly, feeling a lump form in his throat. 

“Don’t look at me, look at the guitar,” is what he would say to her at least once each time he’d work with her after they turned fifteen, smiling almost shyly at the fact she had completely forfeited her specific attention on his teaching to just study him.

By the time they were sixteen, Coley was having to tell him the same thing in the process of trying to run a riff by him that she had learned on her own, feeling nearly paralyzed under his brown-eyed gaze. 

“Don’t look at me, look at the guitar.” She had stated, to which he didn’t even bother looking away from her to say, “I don’t need to look at the guitar. I can hear if it's right or not.” She  didn’t doubt him for a second because the only way he had learned to play was by ear, but his cocky little smirk highlighted the fact he used that as an excuse to permit himself to keep memorizing her the same way she had done him…then Holton started coming around, and because she wasn’t friends with him prior, and didn’t run the risk of losing him altogether, he was the more comfortable choice. 

Regardless of that choice, however, Jake’s list of priorities that included guitar and his freshly formed band, had shifted to make room for Coley, too. 

Rarely does he go without letting her know it without even having to say a word. 

The repeated ringing of her phone once again rattles against the bedding, pulling her away from him while she whispers out a soft, “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

It’s the million dollar question that she has yet to provide a good enough answer for. 

“I’m with Holton.” She repeats what she has to every now and then when it's just the two of them. 

“You don’t have to be with Holton.” He states. 

“We’re not shitty people who sneak around and cheat, Jake.” It sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself of it, pulling her brows together. 

“It’s not cheating if you leave him, first.” 

“Me breaking up with him and immediately getting with you is no different.”

“Things happen, feelings change, and avoiding them doesn’t make them any less real. Not everything has to be so damn black and white, right and wrong, Coley.”

“This is wrong.” She motions between them. “He’d be crushed if he knew we were even having this conversation, Jake.”

He stares at her, watching as she pulls her hand from his and grabs the bag of frozen fruit in her palm. 

“I promise you, Coley, he knows we’re having this conversation.” He says it while his fingers go back to the strings of his acoustic, picking at them quietly as if ending the conversation before she can argue. 

They both know that her boyfriend isn’t oblivious to what’s been brewing between the two of them for years now. 

“I have to go.” She mumbles, grabbing her phone to see she has two voicemails from her boyfriend.

Jake observes her blank stare momentarily, before pulling his gaze from her when she adds, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Yeah.” He quips, not attempting to speak anymore about it for the night. 

It’ll inevitably get brought up again in another month or two, and they’ll continue on as if it doesn’t exist. 

COLEY: It was a miserable place to be in for all three of us. I think relationships are supposed to be fun at any age, especially when you’re still kids growing into adults. 

None of that was fun for me or Jake—regardless of what the third party has spoken publicly in the past. 

I didn’t enjoy having feelings for someone else, while also bearing this self-imposed responsibility to stay with my partner at the time because I believed it to be the most sound decision. 

And Holton being kicked out of the band had nothing to do with any interpersonal workings of anybody’s feelings.

JAKE: Quite a bit was tolerated through that whole year of Holton being with us. 

Him being late to rehearsals, him wanting to be paid for rehearsals, skipping out on rehearsals altogether…lucky for us, Danny and Sam had grown to be close friends, so he was over at the house quite a bit, and even played guitar and drums. 

So, when Holton would no-show practices, Danny would step in. 

The last straw was the night that Danny officially replaced him. 

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Tag List: @edgingthedarkness , @zooweemama555

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 3 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur are both faced with decisions that will change your lives.

Author’s Notes: Chapter three of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Three: Hunger and Desperation

Word count: 2307

You awoke like it was your first breath, startled into your body, taken back by the feeling of being alive. You sucked down air and felt before you saw. But seeing came on quickly, and with it brought panic.

You were laid in someone’s wagon.

Everything came flooding back to you. It took you a moment of lying there before you could find the strength to move, to lift yourself, to escape. Only you couldn’t. You looked down at the immense pressure at your side to see that your torso had been wrapped in bandages. They delayed your movement enough that the pain wasn’t unbearable. But it was close.

“Welcome back, miss.” A rough, gravelly voice. A gray and red haired head sticking up and obscuring the light pouring into the wagon. A stranger. Was there no shortage of them?

It took all you had, but you pushed up onto your hands. You meant to get up but couldn’t before needing a break. A breath.

“Arthur got you stitched up well enough. He’s not exactly our finest, but you should live to see another day.”

Arthur. The name rattled around your brain a moment before landing on the man who had brought you here—under the watchful eye of all these people. The thought made your skin crawl. Just like that, you found your strength.

You got up and worked through the pain, ignoring the protests of the man and pushing past him. The drop down from the wagon seemed a mile, but you did it anyway and allowed a small cry to escape before you were shuffling away—your best attempt at a run.

“Miss! I really don’t encourage-”

“What the hell’s going on?” The lone voice you knew, the one you didn’t want to hear. Because it was the only one that could stop you.

You continued on, blindly running into the trees, trying not to trip when your vision blurred.

The men behind you squabbled before you heard footsteps. They gained on you so fast you almost laughed in pity for yourself, unbelieving you had ever let yourself get so weak.

There was a hand on your shoulder in seconds. You shook it off and kept going. Even when its owner said, “Hey, I’d stop if I was you, lest you hurt yourself worse.”

You could only feel panic rising in your throat at where you had woken up. Around all those people, inside a wagon. How dare he bring you there. The feeling of the wagon wood digging into your back, your side, the world coming down around you—you tripped up and crashed to the ground without warning, the woods rushing up to meet you.

“What did I say?”

You felt hands hook under your arms, drag you back to a sitting position. You couldn’t do a thing to stop them. You felt like you would be sick again but knew you were beyond the capability. Too empty.

Rough hands steadied you, bringing into focus the same man you wished more than anything you had turned down. You could be lying dead with them now if you had.

“You okay?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

Always. Your blank stare must have given you away. “Lie back then, let me have a look at you. Make sure you didn’t pull your stitches.”

You did as he said, the soft, enveloping ground like a final resting place. You wished it were.

The pressure in your side heightened as the man pulled at your bandages. You couldn’t make out what he was doing when he got them undone, too busy being accosted by memory to care. You wanted to crawl out of your skin so as not to feel that wagon against your back again.

“Looks fine. You’re lucky. Really could have hurt yourself.”

Lucky. What was the opposite of luck? What was this feeling clawing to be free from your chest? It gripped you like a vise when he spoke. “Let’s get you back-”

“Don’t touch me.”

He paused, one hand hovering over your still-open bandage cloth.

“How could you.” It was a breath, all the energy you had left poured into the hurt of those words. Not a question but a declaration.

“What, save your life? Ride you all this way, keep you from getting yourself killed?” The anger in his voice made you want to melt away into nothingness. You shut your eyes. He sighed like he always did, like he didn’t have the patience for this. “Look, I know you don’t like it here with these folk, but they’ll help keep you alive. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Did you? Truly? The fact was you were too hurt to cling onto life for your parents’ sake. Too broken. You hadn’t factored that into your decision to come here.

You must have been quiet too long for the man’s liking. He scoffed, making you look at him as he stood. “Stay here then, see if I care. Ain’t my job to make you see sense.”

He was right in that at least. You watched him walk away, back toward all those wagons. Each step of distance made your chest well up with sadness. It wasn’t that you were ungrateful. You just couldn’t do this. He was pushing you to live too hard and too fast.

You laid there contemplating what to do. If you truly wanted to live, there wasn’t anything he or any one of the people in that caravan could do for you. It would have to be your decision, your strength. But it was a difficult task when you had such little strength left. Like hanging off a cliff, holding on with two fingers while the world urged, up.

Would you climb or let go?

You looked down at the cloth wrapped around your middle. The fall could have killed you, but it didn’t. The wound could have too. All manner of things—the wrong man finding you under that bridge, an animal sniffing out the carnage. The ride here, these people. You could be dead ten times over. But you weren’t, and your parents were, and there had to be a reason for that. They wanted better for you. You wouldn’t have gotten here if that wasn’t true.

You recalled the last conversation you had with them and felt guilt creep in and make a home within you. You had been arguing over the trip’s outcome, what happened once you reached Nebraska. They were trying their best not to admit it, but they wanted you to stay there without them when they went back home to Montana. They insisted the new place would grow on you, that you wouldn’t want to leave when the time came. You were trying to spell it out for them—you wanted to die on the land you were raised on, keep the homestead running after they were long gone. Had that been too much to ask?

The conversation was cut short when your father had mentioned dinner. Then darkness fell, and with it, the whole world.

You shut your eyes tight against the memory. It had felt like being ten years old again. The whole trip had with all the decisions being made for you. But this was your decision now. The first time out from under their heavy-handed guidance, would you trust their judgment or spite them?

As eager as you were to do what you wanted, you knew your answer. Owing it to them wasn’t enough anymore—you had to want it for yourself. You had to want to live, because doing them the favor didn’t give you the strength to stand up, walk back into that camp of people and prove it. It was all in your hands now. And your parents didn’t raise you to quit when things got hard.

You were a living legacy. What would the world see when it saw you?

You opened your eyes. You were defiant at your core, stubborn and true to your word. You had taken the stranger’s hand, you had held onto the edge of the world. You would not falter now.

Through gritted teeth, you sat up. You swallowed your fear and tightened your bandages. You rose to your feet. The world swayed, but you stood firm. All thought of obligation behind you, you took the first step.

You would live.

~

“She’s your responsibility now, Arthur.”

“In case you ain’t noticed, she don’t want me around. Any of us for that matter, and I ain’t forcing her to act otherwise.”

Hosea leveled Arthur with the same knowing look that never failed to rile him. Like he knew better. And maybe he did, but that didn’t make the situation any less impossible.

“So what, you’re gonna leave her out there? Let her die?”

“I’ll help,” Arthur shot back. “But I ain’t convincing the woman to live.”

“Arthur,” Hosea chided. “It ain’t about-”

“Leave it, you two,” Dutch said, ambling over. Arthur was ready to argue with him too, his anger having nowhere to go until Dutch nodded his head toward an approaching figure. You. You looked miserable, curled in on yourself whether from pain or embarrassment Arthur couldn’t tell. He was willing to bet on the latter given that you wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye.

“She ain’t talking. To me at least,” Dutch said.

Hosea looked to Arthur, though he wouldn’t meet his gaze. He didn’t have to look to feel that knowing attention. Instead he watched you shuffle over with your hand over your bandaged side. When you were finally close enough, you stopped and stared at him like no one else was there.

“Take me to Nebraska.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up at your nerve.

“Please,” you added.

He had already considered it when you asked the first time and had already thought better of it. Colorado was easier.

“Why there? Why not just-”

“Family’s there,” you interrupted.

Tired of talking in circles, Arthur looked to Hosea for help. He shrugged.

Dutch spoke. “I thought you said you didn’t have family.” You flinched at his voice but otherwise ignored him wholly, eyes planted on Arthur. Why he had had the fine idea of rescuing you in the first place when this was what it landed him…

“Just come with us. It’s a hell of a lot quicker, and we won’t starve to death in the meantime. Or I can let you off at the next town.”

You shook your head as soon as he got the words out. He felt his patience nearing its end.

“Forget it. Stay here or find someone else to take you then, cause I done more than enough already.”

“Arthur,” Hosea chided.

“What?”

“He’s got a point, Hosea,” Dutch said. “We need him here.”

Hosea studied you long enough that silence took over. It seemed to make you uneasy—you finally met the old man’s eye.

“Why don’t you take her?” Arthur muttered to him.

“Now, hold on. I ain’t having him going out and getting killed on account of-” Dutch started before Hosea held up a hand, silencing him.

“I can take her. What do you say?” This to you. Whatever hopes Arthur had of you accepting plummeted when you met his gaze again. You were afraid, eyes wide like an animal’s, pleading.

“You should go with him,” he assured you. “He’s a whole hell of a lot easier to get along with than I am.”

You shook your head and whispered, “Please.” And damn you for looking so helpless—it tugged on something deep within Arthur he normally had a better hold on.

“If I say no…” he started, wondering how desperate you really were. “What’s your plan? Running off on your own?”

Tears started to form in your eyes. And again he had that nagging feeling—the want to help where help was needed. The same feeling that had made him take you all this way.

“Please,” you said again, this time with the hint of a sob in your voice. Begging him.

Arthur tore his gaze away. He couldn’t stand that.

“Take her, Arthur,” Hosea urged.

“We can’t spare him,” Dutch replied. “We need him here.”

“John can scout,” he shot back. “And anyone can hunt as well as he can.”

“Hosea…” Arthur met his eye, unspoken words passing between them. He was tired of being pushed to do these things, to do the right thing. At the end of the day, none of it would matter. They were still a bunch of no-good outlaws. But Hosea didn’t budge. And Dutch didn’t argue. And you were starting to cry.

He took a long breath. “Fine.” The way your eyes lit up made him add, “But I got preparations to make before we start off.”

For the first time, a smile crossed your face. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” You turned to walk away, and Arthur was left feeling like an idiot. “Goddamn Nebraska,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know it’s the right thing,” Hosea said.

“I know it is, and I also know it’ll take me months to get back to you lot. Not to mention the trip she and I could both die on in the meantime.”

“You’re savvy enough,” Hosea said. “Your hunting could use a little work, but that’s nothing a little hunger and desperation can’t fix.” He slapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and smiled. “It’ll be good for you.” Before Arthur could argue that particular nonsense, Hosea left him standing there. He rounded on Dutch for help.

“He’s right, you know. Infuriating as always, but right.”

Arthur brooded as Dutch walked away too. He wondered for the first time in his life what those two fools would do without him. But, it seemed, he was about to find out.

_________

Chapter four is here.

tag list: @tommys0not0beloved @ultraporcelainpig

[ladykailitha]

Ser Stephan of Harring’s Town Part 1

Just like with Little Runaway the tagging cap is at 20.

*

Steve had finally been convinced to join the Hellfire Club’s main campaign. It actually took Mike begging him to join, that finally convinced him. Though Mike only did it to impress Eddie and Will, but Steve going to take it as a win regardless.

So he offered to have it at his place so that when this went to shit like it did last time, he’d have somewhere else he could go, but still be able to take kids home.

Eddie and Dustin arrived early to help set up and get things ready for the session.

Eddie handed Steve a small velvet pouch that rattled when it dropped into his hand.

“What’s this?” Steve asked furrowing his brow.

“Open it,” Dustin said bouncing on his heels excitedly.

Steve opened the bag and poured out the contents into his other hand. In his hand were yellow and orange dice with black numbers.

“Oh wow,” he whispered. “These are neat.”

“They’re yours!” Dustin said. “Every player has to have their own set.”

Steve smiled. “Thanks, guys.”

Soon everyone arrived and got settled in, Eddie in the DM’s chair, Steve to his right and Will to his left. Dustin was on Steve’s other side. Mike was next to Will and Erica and Lucas were at the far end of the table.

Steve looked around at everyone’s character sheet and then looked at Eddie. “Do we have time to roll up a character for me? I kinda forgot we needed to.”

Eddie smiled and handed Steve a piece of paper with a flourish. Steve took it gingerly.

He frowned. “Ser Stephan of Harring’s Town?”

“Yup!” Eddie said popping the last consonant. “We talked about it and figured the best way to introduce you to the game is to get you used to the game mechanics first. Your character is you. All you have to do is act like you would act and we’ll guide you through the rest of it.”

“I’m a barbarian?” he asked softly. “That‒that doesn’t sound very cool.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Erica said. “Barbarians were originally just people the Romans thought were inferior, despite getting their asses handed to them on the regular. It might mean someone who is crude now. But it didn’t always.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “It’s a cool thing?”

“Very cool,” Eddie confirmed.

Steve looked down at his character sheet again and the frown deepened. “Is ten in intelligence bad?”

“It’s average,” Lucas said. “No bonuses but no penalties either.”

“So, I’m not smart?” Steve asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Steve sweetheart, you are focusing on the bad. Look that the rest of your stats.”

“Seventeen in strength, fifteen in dexterity, eighteen in constitution, sixteen in wisdom, and fifteen in charisma...” he rattled off. “Okay...but I don’t know what that all means.”

“Strength is how hard you can hit stuff or how much weight you can carry or lift,” Dustin said.

“And seventeen is good?” Steve asked.

“Oh yeah,” Mike said. “Especially for a level one without bonuses. You hit hard.”

Steve nodded feeling a little better. “And what’s dexterity? That’s how quick you move, right?”

“A little,” Will said. “But it’s also how agile you are.”

Steve nodded. “I know what charisma is,” he said with a wink. “And fifteen is above average, right?”

“Yeah,” Erica said. “I had to argue that one to be higher.” She glared at the boys. Who promptly had elsewhere to look.

“And the last one, what’s the difference between intelligence which is low and my wisdom which is high?”

“Intelligence is knowing it’s raining,” Eddie explained. “Wisdom is knowing to bring an umbrella because it was cloudy when you woke up that morning.”

“So I’m smart in a different way?” Steve asked.

“Hell yeah, you are, Stevie,” Eddie said with a grin.

Steve looked down at his sheet one more time. “Anything else I need to know?”

Will looked over at Eddie. “Can I explain rage to him?”

Eddie laughed. “Go for it, Will the Wise.”

“What’s rage?” Steve asked.

“When a barbarian’s hit points drop to a certain range,” Will explained excitedly, “they go into this fugue state where they deal more damage but they sacrifice their intelligence until it wears off or until their hit points reach zero.”

“But I don’t do that,” Steve said, frowning again.

“Honey,” Eddie said gently, “I’ve seen you. You ripped a demobat from tip to tail with your bare hands, shirtless and barefoot. And spat out the blood like it was a bad tasting beer. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was awesome.”

Steve blinked. He vaguely remembered doing that. “Oh.”

“Look at your weapon, Steve,” Mike said excitedly. He was nearly vibrating with anticipation.

“A mace? I don’t know what that is...” He was starting to think that this was all a way for them to make fun of him.

Eddie whipped out the players’ handbook and began flipping through the pages. He stopped and then turned the book over to Steve.

Steve looked down at it awe. “It’s like a badass version of my bat.”

“Exactly!” Mike said. “Isn’t it awesome!”

Steve smiled for the first time since he sat down. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“And the final thing,” Lucas said. “Is improvised weapon proficiency.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“It means you can pick up anything,” Erica said, “a bottle, a chair, or anything like that and you don’t get an penalties for your attack rolls.”

Steve thought for a moment. “Oh you mean like I did with the phone and the Russians?”

“Exactly!” Erica said.

“Oh.” He looked down at the character sheet with a little bit more enthusiasm.

“So just play the character as is,” Dustin said, patting Steve on the shoulder. “We’ll help you do the game mechanics until you get the hang of it. And then when we start the next campaign you can create your own character and learn to roleplay.”

Steve looked down at his sheet again. “Okay. Yeah. I can handle that.”

“Everyone ready?” Eddie asked. When he got a series of nods and agreements, he began. “You are all in a large tavern that seats about sixty to seventy people. There are three barmaids, a dark-skinned human, a half orc who looks like she could double for security, and a halfling...”

Steve would stop him every once and a while asking questions about what things were or what they meant and each time someone would explain it to him.

Finally they wrap up for the night and Steve is chatting as happily about the campaign as the rest of them.

“Dude!” Lucas said. “Eddie was right, you are a barbarian. A kick ass one, too.”

Steve blushed. “Thanks man. I thought I would be a cleric or a paladin. But I guess not.”

Erica pats him on the back. “Starting with magic users is hard to begin with, and picking something because it looked cool is even harder. I learned that the hard way too.”

“You do realize that you’ve said some variation of the word ‘hard’ three times, right?” Mike teased.

“Shut up,” everyone shot back.

Mike ducked his head, but Steve ruffled his hair. Mike blushed but pushed a laughing Steve off him.

Will raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing.

“So, big boy,” Eddie said, strolling up to the party. “You coming back for round two?”

Everyone turned to look at Steve with baited breath.

“Hell, yeah!”

And cheer went up.

“You hear that, Eddie?” Dustin asked jumping up and down. “He’s coming back!!”

Eddie just smiled at Steve.

Steve ducked his head and blushed.

“Okay,” he said with a cough. “Who am I taking home and who’s going with Eddie?”

Mike and Sinclairs went with Eddie and Will and Dustin went with Steve.

Dustin crawled in the back seat, like he always did when he was too hyper for the front seat. Something Steve insisted on, so that he could actually drive.

Will got into the front seat. “I’m glad you had fun, Steve.”

Steve grinned. “Me, too...though I will admit it wasn’t looking very good to start with.”

“I told them we should have started with the fun stuff so that the other stuff didn’t come out as insulting, but no...” Will muttered.

“It wasn’t insulting!” Dustin protested. He paused. “Was it, Steve?”

Steve looked in the mirror and smiled softly at the crestfallen look on his young friend’s face.

“Nah, Eddie was right,” Steve said. “I was focusing on the negative.”

“Because you’d been burned before,” Will defended. “Which is why I wanted to start with your weapons and your feat. Because that stuff is badass.”

Steve grinned again. “Hell, yeah that was. Who knew that medieval weaponry could be so cool. I thought it was just axes and swords with maybe bows and arrows.”

“There is way more to it than that,” Dustin said, his enthusiasm coming back. “There are spears and morningstars and war hammers. All sorts of cool stuff.”

They chatted about medieval weapons until the dropped Dustin off. As soon as they had pulled away from the curb Will spoke.

“I have something for you,” he said digging something out his bag. Steve glanced down at the drawing and smiled.

“That’s awesome, Will,” Steve said with a grin. “My very own Will Byers original. Is that supposed to be me?”

Will nodded. “Yeah. I just didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone.”

Steve’s eyebrows went up. “Because you thought I wouldn’t like it?”

Will shook his head. “I didn’t want draw everyone’s characters.”

“Down side of being an artist, unfortunately,” Steve agreed. “If you play an instrument they demand you play something for them, if you draw, draw something for them, I think the only time people don’t demand art from you is when you’re a writer, but they always ask if you’ve written a book.”

Will frowned. “Sounds like you know from experience.”

Steve glanced at him and smiled. “Don’t tell anyone else, but I draw, too.”

“You do?”

“Not like you,” Steve admitted. “It’s not very good. But it’s fun and I enjoy it.”

“Can I see some?” Will asked tentatively.

“Sure,” Steve said. “Like I said, I’m not very impressive, but come over tomorrow. I don’t have work.”

“I’d like that,” Will said softly. 

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

Find the word tag

Thanks @kidukami for the tag!

Rules: I give you words to find in your WIPs, then you tag others and give them words to find!

My words: drink, wake, anger, light

Your words: sight, almost, close, tired

Softly tagging @gracehosborn @theelfauthor @thepeculiarbird @reneesbooks @buffythevampirelover @ohnomybreadsticks @emabatis @hallowedfury @andyswritings @blind-the-winds @jezifster and anyone else who wants to play!

Keep reading for:

Kelsey?? Jealous ??? It's more likely than you think

Akash?? Hiding something?? It's more likely than you think

Carmen??? Upset?? It's more likely--

Also there's a little mystery in SOTL I used the word light too many times in TSP so I thought it'd be easier to pull from there. It's funny because I'm only one step ahead of the characters since it's not far in development.

Drink - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Maddie POV)

“So, Maddie,” Akash said, propping his forearms on the table, “how’s it going?” “Define it?” “I dunno, school, training. Is Liam a good teacher?” “He is,” I said, perking up. “I get to research a lot of cool facts about animals whenever I’m working with him. I’m super excited for today’s session. Liam’s gonna have me and Sam do a 1-v-1 and we’ll put what we each learned from him to the test!” “Dude, that is epic,” Akash said, taking a quick sip of his drink. “I think you’re gonna get quite the audience.” I paused mid-chew of my burrito for a moment. Sam would want an audience. I didn’t exactly, but it wouldn’t, like, hurt. Besides, I could show off my cool moves to everyone that were otherwise lost in a whole-group battle or smaller sparring scale. Now that I thought about it, it actually sounded pretty cool. I ate my burrito faster so I’d have enough time to digest it before the morning training session. “What did you and Noelle talk about while we were in the lab?” Hye-Jin asked Akash. “Oh, my God, who cares?” Kelsey muttered under her breath. I glanced at her, confused. “Oh, so much stuff!” Akash said gleefully, unaware of Kelsey’s comment. “I told her all about my time here. There’s this shelter that I’ve volunteered at—” As Akash rattled on, I leaned into Kelsey. “What’s wrong?” I whispered. Kelsey stared down at her hands in her lap. “I dunno, Hye-Jin’s just been acting weird and giddy about Noelle all morning. I’m over-exaggerating, but I’m not sure what she sees in Noelle.” I glanced at Noelle in the seat next to me, adding to the conversation Akash led. I didn’t like talking about her in this close proximity. “She’s fine,” I told Kelsey in a low voice. “I know.” Kelsey sighed. “I’m gonna get some orange juice.” She stood and walked to the replicator.

Wake - from The Secret Portal Part One (Akash POV)

“Akash! Akash! Wake up!” I blinked open my eyes, surprised to see Gwen in front of me. She relaxed when she saw I was awake. “Oh, thank God.” “Aw, you were worried about me,” I taunted, despite my head pounding. Gwen rolled her eyes slightly. “Can you stand?” “Not really,” I said. Gwen nodded, not realizing how hilarious I was. “What happened to Kelsey?” I looked around the room the best I could from the floor. The monitors and computers were sparking—all fried. The entire room looked like it had been through a fire. “It looks like the effects of pyrokinesis, but that’s not anything like Kelsey demonstrated.” “You mean, you have no idea what power Kelsey has?” I shook my head. A small groan came from behind Gwen as Robbie regained consciousness. His glasses were askew, but not broken. He held his head. “Wh— what the hell was that?” “No idea,” I said. Robbie fixed his glasses and blinked a few times as his surroundings came into focus. “Holy shit,” was all he could say. I said to Gwen, “Can I talk to him for a second?” Gwen nodded, stood up, and walked over to her friends on the other side of the room. Robbie dramatically crawled his way to me. “Get up, Robbie.” “I can’t,” Robbie wheezed. “I’m dying.” He collapsed. “Tell my story!” “Robert!” I snapped harshly. Robbie looked up, surprised at my tone. Gwen glanced back. I flashed her a quick smile before she furrowed her brow and continued on. I lowered my voice. “I can’t move.”

The door burst open again, and Tyler raced to be beside Carla’s bed. “Will she be okay?” “I believe so,” Jedi answered from behind the monitor. “It looks like she was just rendered unconscious.” “Wade was able to get to her,” Tyler explained. “That explains the lack of severe psychic damage,” Jedi replied. Carmen stared down at the young woman on the bed. Or, the girl that should have been a woman, if not for getting frozen in time. Carla had not opened up about what happened to her, or how long she was frozen, but until last September, Carmen thought the girl was dead from the experience. It didn’t take a genius to know that Carla was younger than she was supposed to be. Not for someone she used to know. Carmen’s hand inched to brush the girl’s dark hair behind her ear. How she looked like Atsila. From her facial structure to her small body. With her eyes—lighter than Atsila’s—closed, their resemblance was uncanny. Carmen felt a pained anger rise in her chest as she tightened her hand into a fist to control the urge. “Hathaway needs to learn more control,” she said between clenched teeth. “If this should happen again—” “You need not blame Ashley,” said Jedi. “If it was intentional, I am sure it would be significantly worse.” “Oh, thank you, Jedi, that is very helpful and comforting. Do you not realize how powerful of a telepath she is? She’s a danger to the rest of the Aequales if she cannot learn proper control.” “Then we will teach her proper control,” Jedi said. Carmen grunted in frustration, but didn’t say anymore.

Anger - from The Secret Portal Part Two

Note: spoilers in purple italics

Light - from School of the Legends Year One

Jack clicked the door to his room shut after turning a lamp on for temporary light. As he was about to crawl into bed, his eyes rested on the harp from the giants’ castle. He pulled a small stool aside and sat beside the harp. After Angel laid a golden egg, Jack was now more curious than ever about the other artifacts from the castle. Not that he wasn't already curious--the sheer fact that these were supposedly left for him was curious enough. Jack reached out his palm and brushed it along the pillar of the instrument. Small rough carvings ran against his fingertips. “Hm,” he muttered as he tilted his head and the harp until the engravings were clear. Jack instantly recognized writing--although it was in a completely different language from what Jack knew. “Jill!” Jack called. A moment later, she opened the door. “I thought I told you to go to bed.” “C’mere,” said Jack, waving her over. “See this?” Jill tilted her head, reaching out to lightly touch the harp. “Yes. What is it?” “I was hoping you would know,” said Jack as his sister stood. “Well, it’s obviously writing,” said Jill, “although I don’t recognize the language.” “Brilliant,” Jack muttered under his breath. “Don’t you think this should have been something the giants told me? If I’m the only one who is to have this harp, then why put it in something I can’t read?” Jill shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to figure it out.” “Thanks.” “Hey, you will,” said Jill, smirking slightly. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll discover a second power that will help you decipher that.” Jack chuckled as he stood as well. “Maybe.” “Good night, Jack,” said Jill as she shut the door behind him. “G’night,” said Jack as the door clicked shut. He crawled into bed, turning off the lamp.

[oldworldgal]

{ gen, 8k words, rated T+ }

Nick wasn't expecting any rescue party to show—but nothing surprises him more than who exactly comes knocking. Some mysteries walk and talk and follow you to hell and back.

characters: Female Sole Survivor, Nick Valentine, Piper Wright, Hawthorne, John Hancock, Skinny Malone

warnings: references to child death, canon-typical violence, brief senses of unreality

tags: Chance Meetings, Nick and Sole have a slight history (but not like that), Canon Rewrite, One Shot

link to ao3

full fic under the cut

It’s on the twelfth day of his captivity that he hears the gunfire. Long, empty hours interrupted by the sudden and muffled but unmistakable reports from some distant place behind lead and steel and dirt.

He pauses in his pacing, listening intently, gaze shot toward the lone porthole of a window in this, his cushy prison cell. Only, there’s no disturbance on the other side of that glass. A few seconds more and the great thumping slows then ceases, like the death throes of some immense beast.

His personal watchdog and unfortunate company for the evening didn’t hear it.

He gives a short hum in thought because the noises were… peculiar. More echo than anything, with a deep metallic timbre when they thundered into the room, emanating from a particular place. Opposite from the door and window.

He drifts toward that area now, and doesn’t have to wait long for another burst of far-off violence. The steel of his skeletal hand meets a set of standing shelves with a tap, and on hidden wheels they move easily away from the wall.

Behind those shelves, a certain panel of the fake wood vinyl has a larger gap around the edges compared to its neighbors.

And here he thought he’d already found everything there was to find in here. The terminal alone he went through five times from a sheer lack of anything else to do.

With a brief glance cast back over his shoulder, he tests the gap with his metal digits—his most resourceful set of tools, he would have to admit. Not the first false panel they’ve pried up, and he still has a bit of hope that it won’t be the last.

Once a thin fingertip is jabbed behind it, the vinyl comes away as easily as a page in a book. A solid section little more than two feet wide, three feet tall. Only when he sets it aside it doesn’t reveal any door or hidden passageway and for the first time in his operational existence he’s glad for that fact, even if it would have made his predicament a hell of a lot simpler. Going two weeks in this godforsaken box-in-a-box without spotting it simply would have been too much. He’d have hung up his hat on principle.

But what does lie behind that panel might be even more curious.

Five circular vents, each about the size of a plate of Port-a-Diner pie. The radial slats are all shut tight and each vent has a little handle that could be levered out and pulled clockwise a short distance, presumably to open them.

“Huh,” Nick Valentine says.

Someday he’d have to answer once and for all the question that nags at him the most: why exactly mysteries are so prone to finding their way onto his lap even when he’s not looking for them.

But for now, at least he has something to do.

The preceding minute and a half of silence is cut short by two dull but decisive bangs, each chased by a faint metallic rattle. It ceases just as the synthetic polymer that serves as Nick’s skin touches the first vent. Still, he thinks he can feel the last traces of reverberation, picked up by the filaments winding through his endoskeleton all the way down to the fingertips of his left hand.

He waits. Whatever it was, it’s probably now over before it even really began. There’d been no less than five shmucks at the front office alone when he himself had strolled into the Park Street station a week ago, and many more besides from there to the vault entrance itself, from which he suspects the sound first originated. And they all are armed to the teeth. (How confident he’d been then, that he and Malone could have worked this out like decent men. Like old acquaintances if not old friends.)

But then—there it is again. No more than ten minutes go by before another ruckus kicks off. And this next volley of gunfire is a prolonged spat, more unsettling the longer it goes on, accompanied by indistinct shouting. Whoever’s here, it is one hell of a party.

It’s the second vent that shudders ever so slightly this time. Flicking that particular handle out and easing it down rotates an interior plate just enough for a yawning void to peek through the slats. Just enough for the gunshots to become not exactly clear but a hell of a lot sharper: the tell-tale rattle of a whole fleet of weaponry that he doesn’t have to guess at the make and model of, having been prodded and jeered at with them enough times these past two weeks to last him a couple more generations. That many automatics working together forms the rhythmic and systematic sound of manufacture, a diligent and savage machine, but behind it are a few stabs of sound that are certainly a pistol or two, punctuated by the booms of some maniac with a shotgun. Boom. Boom-boom. Two maniacs with shotguns?

So perhaps four people total, if none of the SMGs making up the industrial clatter are on the away team. Too few to be a rival gang, not enough explosions or general chaos to be raiders. But the notion of a rescue party seems unlikeliest of all; all of three people outside this vault are aware of Nick’s last known whereabouts and none of those people are crazy enough to pull off this stunt, which is sounding mostly like an interesting way to die by suicide.

Nick closes the vent again and sticks on his thinking cap. (That is, he resumes his pacing and taps out his last prized cigarette, jabbing it between unfeeling, crumbling lips. He doesn’t light it just yet—if all else fails it could still come in handy, if not as a tool then a bargaining chip with some particularly dull and desperate tough.) The gunfire continues, muted once again. Just firecrackers down the street, lit by the neighborhood kids.

There’s no telling what Skinny Malone plans to do with him. If it were only Skinny he were dealing with, the gangster might let him walk. But not with that new moll by his side. She knows just what buttons to push and where they are.

The only thing Nick detests more than being locked in a room with absolutely nothing of interest for two weeks is leaving a case unresolved—or letting it end unhappily. Tragedy is already too common in their current era for him to not fight for something better, come hell or high water—but right now, his priority needs to be getting out. There’ll be more happy ever afters.

Second-best case scenario, he can use the ongoing chaos to his advantage and slip out between the cracks one way or another. He’s made crazier escapes. But if the assailants are actually here for him—wishful thinking—there’s not much he can contribute from inside this private little retreat of his, much as he’d like to.

Just as he turns to complete his ambulatory circuit he pauses, thinking back to the first day he’d been thrown into this office. Going through the various drawers and cabinets had produced the construction plans for the vault. And wasn’t the map divided into sections, delineated by pen, by hand? Numbers One through Five?

Nick wheels around and grabs for where he stashed it, wedged beside a drawer in the desk, sure it would be useful. When it’s laid out on the ground out of sight of the window, with one rusty phalange he traces the section labeled ‘2’—Maintenance, right at the edge of the unfinished excavation site. There’s a tumbleweed of scribbled ink; a rough dot in the middle of the hallway that he would bet his hat marks the location of a suspect and oddly conical air duct. Rather effective at funneling sound right up to the Overseer’s office through a network of metal tubes that perhaps would have been replaced with a more sophisticated system had the vault ever actually been completed. A simple method reminiscent of the old Old World, but there’s some artistry to it. He could at least hand them that, the nosy, voyeuristic bastards.

If he can’t physically help his unknown hypothetical saviors, he could at least keep track of their progress and maybe suss out their destination. Won’t do him much good if they drop dead at the front door.

For an hour he listens to the intermittent bouts and tracks their movements from one section to the next, his optics flicking from the map to the little porthole window that serves as his only view of the world outside every time he has to inch open a vent to get a better bead on their location. It seems more and more unbelievable that the man on the other side of that window hasn’t heard the gunfire, even as the party draws closer. But then, the large gaps between volleys seem to suggest that many of his gracious hosts are being caught unaware. Turns out that vaults aren’t just marvels of architectural engineering and capitalist greed and moral deficiency, but of soundproofing as well.

Or maybe Dino just fell asleep outside. Surely Nick couldn’t be that lucky.

Regardless, the longer the racket drags on and the closer the newcomers get to the atrium, the more Nick can’t help but get his hopes up, to the point where the long stretches of silence in-between become somehow even more worrisome than the gunplay itself. It’s a veritable war out there, the whole of the Malone Crew bearing down on this small, over-ambitious force.

And still they push forward. And still their guns number four. The sheer force of will or providence or skill or even luck is nothing short of inspiring. Nick finds that he’d like to get to meet them after all, whoever they are.

Perhaps it is this thought that finally ends his own internal war that he’d been conducting, judging what horse to bet on, what his best move might be. To play it safe and hide and wait for his mysterious benefactors to scour every last inch of the vault when their bloody work is done (because no scavenger worth their salt would pass up a locked door in a vault) and jump out when the time is right? Or to hope for friendlies and maybe distract his guard dog from their arrival? Maybe even send him packing, if Nick could play his cards right.

The gunfire draws ever closer to Vent 4. Passes right beneath it, and away again. The inky dot is just a few halls away from the Atrium.

What’ll it be, Nicky? Hope or hide?

“Ah, hell,” he finally mutters, making it to his feet with the creak of a joint or three, a ting in the left knee in particular, which hasn’t sounded quite right since his date with a certain young lady and her baseball bat. There was only so much repair work he could attempt with what he had on him and what he could find in this glorified box.

He needs eyes on the door to the Atrium, and he’s gotten pretty damn tired of sitting still and shutting up for days on end, anyway.

Nick straightens out his shirtsleeves, fastens the cuffs, snatches his coat from the back of the mostly dismantled office chair. Everything is put where it ought to be: coat slipped on, collar straightened, wall panel placed over the vents, shelves in front of the panel, and finally the map tucked into an inside pocket of the coat. He suspects no one here is going to need it anymore after today.

His last cig he holds casually aloft between two skeletal digits as he approaches the window, casting a glance up and down the walkway outside, across the atrium to the door on the second tier walkway below, and over the tables and their assorted relics and detritus on the open bottom floor. No sign of Dino, but no sign of any of his fellows, either.

“What’s a guy gotta do for some decent conversation around here?” he calls out in the crankiest voice he could muster.

There’s a pause, the scrape of chair legs across the floor, a leisurely tap. tap. tap. of footsteps before Dino’s form appears, smug as ever, hands tucked in his pockets.

Nick was right. The man hasn’t a single damn clue. And there’s no movement in the rest of the room that he can see.

Nick composes his expression into something he hopes is monumentally unimpressed. Not that this particularly pugnacious foe is difficult to goad. “You’re still here? Ah, and here I was hoping for something civil.”

“What’s the matter, Valentine?” Dino jeers. “Ya gettin’ bored? Want a snack?”

He rolls his cigarette between three fingertips, considers it briefly while he speaks. “Dino, you and I both know the only appetizer with which you’re familiar is a knuckle sandwich. And not a particularly good one, I’d wager.”

No dice. The man doesn’t spare a glance toward the object of temptation. Not a smoker. But at least he loves to hear himself talk.

“Naw, don’t be sore about Darla givin’ you what-for. The leg still in three pieces? Ya lookin’ to own a matchin’ set, that it?”

Nick doesn’t have to look directly at a certain door across the room to see it open as the goon chatters on, oblivious. Now or never. He can use the threats and the topic of Darla to pull the ace from his sleeve: an important morsel of information he’s kept in mind from years past, about a certain little black book belonging to a certain ironically named mob boss, and the nature of the names written within back then. It’s sure to keep his attention, at the very least.

Nick opens his mouth and Dino’s blood and brains explode across the window with a crack. His body flops to the ground.

“Christ,” he sighs quietly to himself. Well, that’s one way to solve a problem. He looks to the proffered smoke in his hand, what could have been a peace offering, and at that turn of events finally lights it up with a few flicks of his lighter. He raises it in a silent salute. So long, Dino, you sorry jackass.

His imprisonment, it seems, is finally coming to an end one way or another. Whether what’s next is better or worse remains to be seen.

It’s quiet outside, and difficult to see through the red painting most of the glass. Only the faintest shuffling; steps on the stairs. Detectable only through the echo it sends through the room.

Though weaponless, Nick Valentine readies himself. Come what may.

And still he could not have prepared for the face that pops into the window, peering around the gore.

“Nicky,” Piper chides with a relieved grin, “we gotta stop meeting like this.”

“Piper?” He manages to keep his composure though the revelation could have bowled him over. Piper lead the charge into a vault through what must have been dozens of mobsters, and survived? She’s a decent shot, but running and gunning isn’t typically her style. And last he knew, she was on an extended investigation in Southie. He gives an astounded chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m always happy to see your face, Ms. Wright, but never more than in this moment.” There’s a flash of movement behind her, a single person rushing past.

“And you look like hell,” Piper replies with a brief glance spared toward the terminal barring his exit. “Geez, Nick, what’d they do to you?” At this she looks genuinely disturbed, eyes lingering on oil stains and fresh damage to his jaw. Not even the worst of it, since she can’t see the torn pant leg. One of his best pairs, of course.

He waves away the concern with a tap of his cigarette, dispensing flakes of ash to tumble through the air before returning it to its perch between his lips. “I’ll be fine, as long as you get me the hell out of here. Boredom is the mind-killer, Piper, and the amenities here are somewhat lacking.”

Before she can reply there’s a faint beep from the terminal, cracked in record time, and a muffled, indistinct voice. Piper’s visage disappears from the window, and he follows suit.

Nick stands a few feet back as the door hisses open, but his reporter friend isn’t the one it unveils.

The woman standing in the doorway, light pouring around her into the dim office, seems more a vision than something of this grim reality. An ancient kind of beauty, something that peers out of a magazine, something from so long ago that it might as well have been from a different world altogether.

Strangely familiar. The kind of beauty that has gone long extinct.

It’s not even the measure of her looks, necessarily. It’s the particular quality, from the neatness of her brows to her unblemished skin all the way down to the way she’s tied off her button down above the waist of her jeans, making a hundredfold hand-me-down look like the height of fashion. A faded red is even detectable staining her lips.

The only things anchoring her in this world are the grime on her clothes, the threadbare patches, the submachine gun cradled in the crook of a lightly bandaged arm that also bears a near-pristine Pip-Boy. The way a few runaway brown curls have escaped her ponytail to cling to the sheen on her neck. And then the blood flecking her shirt. Some of these don’t seem to suit her, but actually a few kind of add to her charm.

And when she in turn first sees him, those blue eyes narrow inquisitively, as if discerning something.

That specific look sparks something buried deep, a fish nibbling at the surface of a murky, neglected pond. Nick starts to shuffle through the filing cabinet that is his memory, searching.

Whatever she was looking for, she finds it fast. Disbelief relaxes her eyes and she gives a half-laugh, mouth slanted in awe. Shouldn’t those lips of hers be painted a dusty rose?

“Detective Valentine,” she greets, like she knows him. Her voice, low but soft and suited for late-night radio, is definitely colored with recognition.

Recognition…something about that voice…

A hand curls to prop itself on a protruding hip, and those nails should be jewel-toned, and longer, and not chipped.

A sense of unreality instantly descends over him. Or it would if not, he suspects, for the fact that his synapses are synthetic. It hasn’t escaped his notice these past decades that he owes his sustained sanity to his mechanical body.

“Holy Hell,” Nick says eloquently, and the cigarette drops right back out of his mouth to scatter sparks on the floor, forgotten because he has remembered. The sleek skirt and heels, a courteous smile but decisive questions. The daily impeccable cascade of side-parted waves. The bands of brown around her pupils, islands nestled in the blue.

All of a sudden, he’s not the only specter of the 21st century.

“Montgomery,” is the name that finds its way to his mouth, a lightbulb beginning to flicker on behind his optics, the years flipping all the way back to the earliest files in the cabinet. What was her na—? “Natalia,” he says in revelation, sure this time. “The hit-and-run in front of Castello’s.” A shake of his head. “How the hell are you alive?” And—he doesn’t voice this thought—still in the condition you’re in?

“Whoa,” Piper answers in her stead, looking between them in bafflement, “whoa, whoa, hold on. You know each other? You didn’t say you knew each other.”

The woman opens her mouth, hesitates. “What you had said, I—I just didn’t think it could possibly…”

“Well, well,” chimes in another familiar voice from down the walkway, albeit this one with the tonal quality of sandpaper in a box of rocks. “200 years and the gals still chase after ya. And I thought I had game.”

It effectively broke the spell over the impromptu reunion and Nick follows that voice outside to meet the rest of the crazy crew they’d gathered. And in terms of mugs he wasn’t expecting to see today, on a scale of Piper Wright to Natalia Montgomery the glazed eyes and beef-jerky complexion of one John Hancock ranks somewhere right under halfway. The ghoul stands at the railing, frock coat, tricorn, and all, a double-barrel resting against his shoulder in a deceptively casual manner. The pale lenses of his eyes occasionally rove the floors below, keeping a sharp look out despite all appearances.

“Ah, Mr. Mayor,” Nick says at the sight. Not often you see him outside of his domain, but this perilous endeavor made a hell of a lot more sense now. He knew Hancock to be more than slightly insane on his best days. “Well, I guess now there’s no use asking who popped our friend Dino, here.” His optics stray to the body between them, the pooling blood just now slowing to a crawl. Shame about the suit.

“What can I say,” Hancock replies with a vicious nonchalance, suddenly producing a 10mm from his coat and spinning it once around his trigger finger. “I don’t take kindly to people threatening friends of mine.” He smiles. “I’m considering us even now.”

Nick eyes him with some skepticism as he steps to the body of Dino to see if he couldn’t secure a weapon of his own. His revolver is surely a lost cause by now, stashed somewhere in the depths of the vault. “You would.”

The ghoul flips the pistol once more, offering the grip towards the old-but-newcomer, and Montgomery takes it with a degree of uncertainty. “Thanks for the loan, doll.”

There’s a handgun in the waistband at Dino’s back and Nick slips it free. An aging Mauser in remarkable condition, with its slim protruding barrel and boxy magazine. A similar enough profile that it should fit the shoulder holster beneath his coat. He pulls back the hammer and checks the magazine. 9mm is rather rare in the Commonwealth, but with the firepower surrounding him, it’ll do for now. Gun like this shouldn’t go to waste, in any case. It must have cost a fortune. Or a life.

Nick looks to the grisly corpse below him. Well. Two lives, now.

Lastly, he checks the man’s pockets for extra ammunition and comes up with three clips in one and in the other, a familiar rectangular silhouette. “Ah,” he says as he pulls out the cigarettes and gives the pack a shake. More than just a few. Dino was holding out on him, the rascal. “No wonder. Cheers, pal,” he adds in farewell before finally standing to rejoin his rescue party.

With most of their greetings over with an uneasy quiet had settled over the group, each holding their weapon ready with varying degrees of confidence. The only expression visibly flagging was that of his former acquaintance, the ex-lawyer. This is new to her; the shooting, the blood, the death. He’s seen a similar look on more than one Vault Dweller, not to mention a certain wearable computer. Really, it was as if their last acquaintance couldn’t have been all that long ago.

Mysteries abound.

Nick looks to the other two in turn. That accounts for two pistols and a shotgun. “So, where’s the fourth member of this little get-together?”

Montgomery looks to him in momentary surprise and begins to motion over the railing with a tilt of her head, her lips parting before:

Tap-tap. A metallic knocking. From below.

“Heads up,” Hancock mutters, and everyone drops to a crouch in concert.

In the ensuing silence voices could be heard below and behind them, further away than the alerting sound, in a hall that leads to the living quarters and, naturally, the way out.

There’s a duet of clicking safety switches alongside him and they all aim towards the bottom floor and wait. With a setup like this Nick can begin to see how at least some of the mobsters didn’t stand a chance. His optics rove for any hint of the mysterious fourth individual, hoping they’re nowhere in the line of fire.

A door hisses open.

“Dino! Quit razzing that detective and go grab Simon, you’re late for the game.”

A pause.

Again, louder. “Hey! Wake up sunshine; move your ass! You two ain’t clearin’ us out this time!”

A longer pause, a shuffle. In the corner of Nick’s vision, Hancock adjusts his grip, eager but calm.

“The hell…?”

A second voice. “Well, where the fuck is he?”

And then several pairs of shoes against concrete, unhurried. At least three people.

Nick’s finger brushes the trigger. One trilby appears out from under the walkway below them, then another, tilting up—he begins to squeeze—

A boom, and blood blooms out in a fan-shaped array below them. Cries of impact and surprise.

Thump. One body.

Boom.

Two bodies.

One staggers backwards, further into room and into view, bumping into a table. “Oh sh—”

Nick pulls the trigger.

Thump. Three bodies.

They wait. The sound of a shotgun cracking open, shells slipped inside, and snapped back shut. “We’re clear. Better get moving.”

And golly, he knows that one too.

A handsome face of dark brown skin and close cropped hair pokes out from under the walkway and peers up at them as Hawthorne emerges from the corner where he’d hid. “Hey there, Nick. Glad you’re in one piece.”

“Hawthorne,” he greets with a slight tip of his hat as he stands again, “Good to see you.” With each new face, he understands more and more how they could have made it this far. Hawthorne is a talented gun-for-hire, has a steady head on his shoulders, and is always willing to help friends. A good man.

His expertise, Piper’s instincts, and Hancock’s brutal will to do whatever’s necessary make for quite a cocktail. Time will tell what Montgomery brings to the table, he supposes.

“All this for little old me?” Nick muses once they’d reconvened on the bottom floor. “Hope I’m not the one footing the bill.”

“Couldn’t abide by our favorite detective being in need,” Hawthorne grins at him. “My gran would be real upset, after what you’d done for Freckles.”

Nick pats him on the shoulder in greeting and gratitude while Hancock and Piper search the fallen, dispensing (or pocketing) ammo and caps. “We certainly can’t have that. How is Eustace?”

“Still waiting on that afternoon tea.”

“Ah,” Nick says regretfully. “I keep meaning to stop by. The work piles up.”

The man nods sagely. “Cheating husband, priceless missing artifact, getting kidnapped and held prisoner for weeks. I know how it is.”

Nick chuckles. “Oh, I’m afraid I walked right into this one. They didn’t used to be so bad,” he says with a glance back to the bodies before he pokes his head into the hall ahead, pistol at the ready. Quiet and still as the grave. “But what changes a man more than time? And misguided affection, I guess,” he continues, mostly to himself. And grief. He looks back to his friends. “Speaking of, any sign of the man himself?”

Hawthorne gives a grim shake of the head. “Not yet.”

“Still can’t believe the great Nick Valentine got taken out by Skinny Malone of all people,” Hancock approaches with jangling pockets. “This guy is smalltime. Couldn’t find his own ass with both hands.”

“Turns out trust may be the most dangerous possession of all,” Nick surmises. He glances between the others. “We all set?”

Weapons are once again readied and they advance. Nick witnesses the group’s careful gameplan in real-time, how they compensate for Montgomery’s inexperience with Piper shifting in front and her retreating behind, and Hancock and Hawthorne taking point for both of them with the scatterguns.

They find themselves in the lavatory, two groups of showers and toilets on either side of the long hall, and each room is quickly declared clear.

Nick positions himself by the door at the end and nods to the others. Hawthorne takes the other side, raises three fingers, then two, and then one. Nick hits the button and braces.

The door doesn’t move. Doesn’t even make a sound.

“Hell,” he mutters, inspecting the panel. One obstacle after another. “They can’t even maintain such an exceptional hideout? …This’ll take me a minute.” At least it’s not a tumbler lock. With the current company present, he could do without the comments from Piper about his phalange being hinge-deep in a keyhole.

“So,” she starts anyway, looking between Nick and over her shoulder at their new friend. He nearly gives her a warning look, but a different topic has her attention, for once. “About you two knowing each other.”

Halfway back down the hall, Montgomery is testing a water fountain and looking in surprise at her Pip-Boy when it fails to give any cautionary tck-tck-tcks.

“A passing acquaintance in the courtroom,” is Nick’s answer as he inspects two wires, prepares to strip them. It was so long ago. A different life entirely.

“Oh?”

“I… was a defense attorney,” the other woman says at length as she swiftly shrugs off the pack on her back, a military-issue brown canvas rucksack in shockingly good condition. There’s a name embroidered on the flap, one N. ANDREWS.

“And you were both on the same case…?” Piper asks, needling for details. She does love to hear about how justice used to function. When it actually did.

“Well, this one wasn’t typically my beat,” he says simply, and Montgomery smiles as she digs out a canteen and two stocky brown liquor bottles.

“He was the witness, actually,” she elaborates. She dumps out one bottle of not-quite-clear liquid and starts refilling them with the most precious commodity of all in their new age.

“Guy ran his Corvega into a man in front of a sandwich shop and took off,” Nick explains. “Broke a leg and fractured two of the unfortunate victim’s ribs, if I recall. Only reason Nick was involved was good timing and a weakness for mortadella on focaccia.”

The professional façade on Hawthorne’s face cracks as the man looks at him perplexed and asks, “I’m sorry, whattadilla on fuck-a-what?” and Piper gives a snort in laughter.

Montgomery’s eyes linger on Nick in silent question, probably at the usage of the third person. But it will be awhile before he digs into that particular bag of cats.

“So, what happened?” Piper looks back at the former attorney. “You defended the guy?”

She sighs, and Nick has to give a chuckle at the memory of the trial. He speaks up again when she doesn’t, apparently reticent about that particular client. Or maybe speaking of that other life at all is simply too painful. Perhaps the wound, too fresh?

“Well, the one they dragged in was practically a kid, barely twenty-one. Matching description, but all Nick had seen was a white guy, brown hair, skinny physique. Red Corvega, polished to a shine, no license plates. Fresh off a lot. And this kid—Johnny was the name?”

“It was.” She leans against the wall watching him, slight smile and far-off gaze warring for dominion on her features.

“So Johnny had a decent alibi, a less-than-decent father, and a shiny red Corvega with nary a dent or even a scratch.” He pauses in his work, lost in his own thoughts. “Even I wondered if it was the right guy. Then three days into the trial—after a couple delays—young Johnny finally takes the stand. Only, Ms. Montgomery here requests that the court allow him to testify in the narrative. The judge grants her request, she sits right back down, and Johnny is told to continue his testimony without questioning. And the kid was none the wiser that his attorney just signaled to the court that he was lying through his teeth.” He can’t help but laugh again, shaking his head. “I hadn’t seen someone crucify themselves through perjury so thoroughly. Well—he hadn’t. Nick hadn’t.”

“Huh,” Piper says in amazement, and Montgomery picks up the thread.

“He turned out to be a real ass,” she muses. “Sought out a pro bono defense to try and prevent dear old dad from finding out.” The ponytail swings side to side as she shakes her head, mystified. “Sure did pay to have his car fixed up real quick, though.”

Hancock gives a faint derisive scoff, “Sounds too complicated. Guy like that? Thinking he’s better than everyone else? Can’t imagine having to stick up for scum like him.”

“He wasn’t exactly the type I was in it for,” she admits, giving a light shrug.

“Ah, you did good,” Nick tells her, and snaps the panel shut to bring himself back to the present, so he can stop being two different people in two different timelines. Most folks involved then are dead. That particular brand of justice doesn’t matter to very many people now. And fewer every day. Damn, he finds himself thinking again, optics flicking to the earnest face of the brunette down the hall, recognizing someone drowning in grief almost as if he were looking in a mirror. Who dragged you into this mess? And: is it any better than dying to nuclear fire? “Think I got it working again. Get ready.”

“He-ey,” Hancock says appreciatively when the door actually opens and nothing jumps out to kill them. “Nothing better than a multitalented dick.”

Even Piper rolls her eyes at the double entendre, although she’d laugh at it coming from anyone else. In fact, Nick is pretty positive he’s heard her say something very similar. It’s almost a miracle they’re not friends.

They form up and move forward.

What follows is a nightmare maze of thin hallways and branching living quarters everywhere Nick looks, a guy with a gun in any shadow; many, many stairs, over which his left knee has severe complaint—and one aforementioned poker game they do interrupt, which John proceeds to pick clean, whistling.

But they do well for themselves, faring even better with the addition of Nick and his new 9mm. Montgomery tucks herself behind crates and corners and pillars and lays covering fire with her borrowed SMG while the others pick their targets off, one by one. There’s certainly plenty of .45 to spare.

But still no sign of the head honcho. When they get upstairs to the depot, there’s no one at all until they open the door to the vault entrance.

And who else could be standing there at the very end of it all but Malone, blocking the way through the vault door. His expression alone could kill, not to mention the armed entourage of three men and his new flame.

Nick holds his hand up, specifically to stay Hancock and his twitchy trigger finger. There’s still a chance, whether Skinny really deserves one or not. Darla does. Her parents do.

The tactical calculus is apparent on the mob boss’ face. They could all certainly be wasted in seconds, easily—but then there’s the old history between them, and the fact of a certain mayor of Goodneighbor. A rival of Malone’s, to be sure, but one with far more influence and power than he, especially with a vault of dead henchmen.

Not to mention the fact that Malone isn’t exactly fond of shooting women. History has proven that to be a fact.

“How could you do this to me, Nicky?” Skinny is imploring him, equal parts anger and betrayal. “Busting in to my digs? Shooting up all my guys?”

“Me? I just spent two weeks in a damn lockbox, Skinny,” Nick says, affronted. “You did that. I came here looking for your two-timing dame, and when things got violent you stood by and watched. None of this would have even happened if she wrote home more often.” He eyes the dame in question, equipped with a metal bat he’d rather not get reacquainted with. Even as the one with the least blood on her hands, she might be the genuine problem here. A real agitator, that one.

Darla just hisses at her paramour, electing to ignore him. “I told you we should have just killed him. All that sentimental crap you gave me about the old times, look what happened!”

“Darla,” Malone says in warning, “I’m handling this. Skinny’s always got things under control.”

At this moment that couldn’t be further from the truth. Nick has to make him see that. “Skinny, you’d better take a good long look at who all just came knocking. And that was just for my sorry hide. Who do you think is gonna come looking for them?”

The gangster’s eyes waver from him to his companions. To Hancock.

“My people would burn this place to the fucking ground,” the ghoul at Nick’s side says matter-of-factly. Then he opens his mouth again, and the vicious smile is audible. “Not that any of you are gonna keep me from walking out of here.”

Nick grits his semblance of teeth. The mayor’s input will be not exactly helpful, if Darla’s tightened grip is anything to go by.

On his other side, Montgomery lowers her gun in a show of faith, splays her empty hand in more an entreaty than a surrender. She speaks not to Skinny, but to the woman beside him. “Darla,” she beseeches, “your parents just want you back home.”

“That’s a load of bull,” the gun moll spits back, focus narrowing to a single point at the words. “My dad doesn’t give a damn. He was waitin’ for me to go.”

Nick has plenty to say on the subject, but he and Darla already got off on the wrong foot, to say the least. And he figures Piper and company must have done their homework and gotten their information from dear Ellie—so he keeps his mouth shut and Montgomery continues.

“If that were really true, do you think they would hire a detective to find you? They’re worried sick. They don’t want you to throw your life away. For this.” She brandishes her empty hand at the group’s earlier handiwork; a man with buckshot filling his chest. “It’s never too late to go home.”

That strikes a chord. Darla stops short, her shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I…”

“Hey!” Skinny Malone barks at Montgomery. “I’m in charge here. You got something to say, you say it to me. Unlike all of you, she’s right where she belongs.”

Nick sighs, digging in deeper. It was over. The boss just hadn’t realized it yet. “This is the road you walked, Skinny,” he says. “And it only has one destination. You really think this is how Lilly June would want things to be?”

Burning eyes turn to him. “Don’t you give me that. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You got no idea. None.”

But the name had gotten Darla’s attention, as it was meant to. In fact, it had drawn a couple of glances. “Lilly? Who the hell is Lilly?”

“No, it’s not—it wasn’t like that,” he says in a near-panic. And maybe it’s cruel, to twist the knife like this. But that didn’t make it any less true.

“Oh yeah? Then what was it like, Skinny?”

“Darla,” he pleads, “we can talk about this later.” Behind them, even his henchmen had relaxed their postures, tossing looks to one another.

And Darla just shakes her head. “God. My ma was right. You gangster types are all talk. Puffed-up windbags.”

“Wha—?”

But her grip on the bat was already loosening, and it drops to the floor with a sharp ring. “I’m outta here. We’re done, Skinny. It’s over.”

“Wait! Darla, where are you…” His own gun hangs limp at his side, and his protestations fade when his supposed sweetheart doesn’t even look back as she walks away. Finally, he turns back to Nick. “I can’t believe you would do this,” he says again. “First my crew, then you cost me my girl.”

“It’s for the best, Sal,” Nick says calmly, using a name not spoken in years. “You’re no good for each other. I thought you’d recognize the signs, after all this time.”

“Out,” he replies, thoroughly demoralized. “Get out. I never want to see your face again.”

Nick starts to walk. Past his old rival-turned-familiar face, and past the henchmen who look none too impressed after that display. They might not be sticking around, either. “So long, Skinny.”

The others follow quietly, and no one stops them from leaving.

Hawthorne lets out his breath when they’re across the dig site, part relief and part awe. “Nicely done. I’d always heard about you talking folks down off the ledge. Glad I got to see it for myself.”

Nick nods, optics straying to Montgomery, quiet and thoughtful. She didn’t do bad, herself. He always was impressed by her way with words.

“Who is Lilly June, Nick?” Piper asks quietly as he leads the group toward a service entrance, nervous glances cast over her shoulder.

“Lillian June Malone,” he reflects, hand automatically straying to the pack of cigarettes in his pocket at the memory, for his second smoke of the night. For once, Hancock doesn’t complain about him wasting it. “Salvatore ‘Skinny’ Malone’s little girl. She would have been fourteen, now.”

“His daughter?” parrot both Hawthorne and Piper, aghast.

He flicks his lighter, each strike the memory of little shoes on quarry blocks, jumping from one to the next to the next, until…

“Aw, geez,” Piper mutters under her breath, adjusting her cap and pulling it down tight. “Don’t go making me feel bad for the guy.”

“He’s made nothing but bad decisions ever since,” he says, looking up at the ladder leading topside before he starts to climb. “One after the other.”

There’s a pause, and then Montgomery’s low voice joins the conversation for the first time in several minutes. “There’s a lot of things someone might be driven to do, after a loss like that.”

From his perch at the top of the ladder, finagling with the exit hatch, he can only barely hear Piper’s low exhalation, and he looks to see Montgomery with an arm wrapped around herself. She looks lost. The sight sets his clockwork ticking with the implications.

It’s a dark, cloudy sky above when they’re finally standing in the street, but Nick is thrilled to see it all the same. If he closes his eyes, the fresh breeze feels almost like it used to.

Dawn is just a handful of hours away. Home, even closer.

“I, ah, wanted to say,” he finally starts, turning to the others, “thank you all for coming. Truly. I was sure I’d be stuck in that office until the world ended all over again.”

“Ah, quit it,” Piper chides with a gentle knock against his shoulder. “No need to thank us. I wasn’t about to leave a friend down there. You know I don’t have many of those to spare.”

“Diamond City folk should take care of their own,” Hawthorne says. “It’d be a better place for it. And you’re the one who showed them that, Nick.”

“Aaaand that’s my cue,” Hancock says, stepping away in the direction of Goodneighbor. He lifts the front of his hat with a finger, revealing more of the American flag tied like a bandana around the remaining strips of his scraggly and stained blond hair. “See you around, Nick. Welcome back.”

“Hancock,” Montgomery is the one to call before he can turn away. “Thank you for the help.”

He nods at her. “Remember our deal and we’ll be square, sister.”

And that’s certainly interesting. Nick isn’t sure it necessarily bodes well.

As the ghoul walks away, a distinct feeling strikes the aging synth. A feeling that John may have looked at how things turned out for Malone, and seen opportunity for himself and his people.

And next time, Malone won’t be so lucky.

Nick tips his hat down and turns away. Someone should make better use of the vault anyway.

Montgomery catches his attention then, as she detaches the drum magazine on her scavenged SMG and he watches her unceremoniously dump the gun in the mud, stashing the ammo. Whether the look of distaste he caught in her eyes was more at the firearm or what she had to do with it… perhaps time would tell.

One final look is aimed at the retreating form of Goodneighbor’s macabre mayor before they start their own way back to Diamond City, and Nick falls into step beside his good friend. “Piper, if I’d known I was the one getting in the way of you two working together, I would have gone to ground ages ago.”

As predicted, she gives an exaggerated groan. “Don’t start. Every other word out of his mouth just bumps him further up my list. If it was just the two of us we would have killed each other before we even got in the door.”

“Every other word, huh?” Nick ponders. “Well, it’s an improvement.” He can spy the edge of a smile on Montgomery’s face, behind the evident exhaustion now that the adrenaline of fight-or-flight was ebbing. John’s charms had clearly worked on her at least a little bit.

“I may not agree with all the guy’s methods, but he didn’t seem that bad, really,” Hawthorne was saying. “At least, not nearly as bad as I expected. Not as bad as the stories.”

“No, not you too,” Piper mourns.

The gunhand gives a shrug. “Sometimes, you need a guy like that on side. Like when dealing with an army of gangsters out for blood,” he offers, and she grumbles in turn.

They continue on in this manner for a time, and Nick hangs back a few steps to walk alongside Natalia Montgomery, mystery woman of the hour. She offers a slight smile, looking more haggard by the minute.

“I, ah, got the impression there was a particular reason you came to find me,” he says quietly, “And I’m betting the story is a long one.”

Her gaze suddenly averts to look up into the midnight sky and she blinks hard. Even in the subdued moonlight, he can see how her eyes start to shine in mere seconds.

He bets she’s been barely hanging on by a thread for a while now. Ahead of them, he spies Piper glance back for a few moments, a knit of worry to her brow. Gal got attached quick.

Finally, Natalia takes in a long, slow breath, lets it out. “Yeah. It is.”

“Bit of a walk back to Fenway,” he reasons. “How about you tell me about it on the way, if you’re up to it. That way when we get back, you can get some sleep and I’ll get to work. And then we can tackle it fresh-faced in the morning.”

A twitch at the edge of her mouth. “No vacation for Detective Valentine, huh?”

“Not when I’m needed. And I don’t sleep. One of the rare perks of this rig,” he says, motioning to himself with a skeletal hand. Besides, he’s certainly had enough idle time lately.

Another deep, steadying sigh as her arms wrap around herself, a look cast up and down the street. After a few moments she speaks, and her voice wavers like the water of the Charles. “Yeah. Okay.”

And she begins.

Nick crushes his cigarette underfoot, dispersing the last wisps of smoke into night air. He tucks his hands into his pockets, looks up at the roiling clouds threatening an early September rain.

And he listens closely to the whole, sad story.

[stormingfrost]

Wonders of the Invisible World 

Tags: Body horror, major character death, Implied/Referenced child abuse, original characters, pitch/sandy

summary: 

Through hundreds of years of strange things happening all over the world, finally someone sees. The Bennett family is now at the forefront of every children's tale - except, now, they learn that these tales are not only real, but much, much darker than they first thought.

For @rotg-halloween day six: Dystopia  

Read it on AO3

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 /13

chapter six: Dystopia 

under cut

Her feet slammed on the dirt, each footstep seemingly jostling her entire body until her legs were nothing but pain. Katherine paused, leaning against a tree and panting.

“Why’d you stop?” The voice in her head asked. “We are almost there.” 

“Be,” she gasped in between breaths. “Quiet. We don’t need to see them now. Just… in a bit.” 

She felt the voice silence, but that never meant it was over. Silence meant angry pouting. 

“Emily, I need a break.”  

Her vision grew blurry and dark.

The trees were rattling when she came to. She was on the floor. Katherine rolled her eyes. 

“We won’t get anywhere if you throw these temper tantrums.” 

“Stop speaking to me like I am a child. I’m older than you.” 

“Then act like it. It’s not the end of the world if we don’t get there immediately.” 

She sat up, staring at a frozen pond. 

He was supposed to be in there. He wasn’t. She wondered how true Death felt. 

The boy, that frozen corpse, was the one thing keeping everything stable. If the boy managed to break the ice and stumble to the ruins of his own home, then that was a sign. 

And then, he just never returned to the pond. Everyone understood him to be dead.

There were five humans directly in this mess. Emily didn’t care about helping them, after all, humans are why she lost her own body. But she was bound to Katherine, and Katherine cared.  

If Katherine didn’t solve why they were able to give the boy his peace, all hell would break loose. If she didn’t find them first, something else will. 

Her joints ached. She looked down at her hand, watching it as it turned soft, small, and young. And then rough, wrinkled, and aged. It morphed, along with the rest of her body. 

She closed her eyes. 

She could control it, once. Being able to turn any age she pleased was a gift at first. Enjoying youth while being able to reap the benefits that adulthood brought. 

But now, she was out of control. 

She didn’t know why, even after spending hours hunched over every book in her collection, even after every spell, she was not able to stay in control. 

She rested her hand, now a young adult hand, on the ice. 

“Nightlight?” She whispered. 

The wind didn’t answer her call. The boy didn’t gargle at her, some part of him recognized the name. 

It was a repetition she didn’t enjoy. Her Nightlight, her once shining love, was stuck in the body of a completely unrelated corpse. She didn’t know how much of the corpse’s memories were her Nightlight’s. Most of the memories were the boy’s. Every year, she’d find him crying at the ruins of his former home, and every year, she’d try to relive his misery. 

If not an obligation to her love, then it was to soothe the misery of the dead. 

She didn’t know if Nightlight was buried with the boy or not. 

“He’s not here,” Emily said. “Find the family. Five humans. We need to know how they were able to kill one of us.” 

“They didn’t kill him,” Katherine reminded, “The boy was already dead. Just received peace.” 

“Very well,” Emily drawled, mocking Katherine. “We need to know how they were able to… give him peace.” 

Katherine stood up, brushing snow off her pants. 

“There’s a fork in the path.” She held out her hand, seeing two lines of stories guiding her in completely opposite directions. 

“Just pick one.” 

Katherine shrugged, choosing one of the stories and following it. 

This story was one of anger. Hurt. Maybe the anger and hurt could make a human able to see them. Be able to stop the cycle through violence. 

The boy was shot and buried, after all. 

She had only a vague description of the family. Three adults, and two children. One boy and one girl. Their stories were all twisted together, so she separated the adults from the children. Katherine chose the young girl’s story, which at this point in her life, solely consisted of two adults and her brother. 

It was less complicated and, therefore, easier to follow. The fork was not something she anticipated, but she supposed it made sense. After all, they had seen them multiple times. Everyone wanted a peek. 

They must’ve split up to try and confuse them. It worked because she was getting further away from the pond and nearer to the other side of town. 

She stopped in front of a building. A frown grew on her face. 

“A prison?” Emily said, her tone sounding about as confused as Katherine felt. “Did they hide in a prison?” 

“Perhaps. Only one way to find out.” 

She held onto the story, following the line like it was Ariadne's thread. 

She walked past every guard, every security measure, and every door. The story stopped in a cell. 

A man sat in a cell, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling. Katherine watched him. 

“What do you know?” She whispered. 

She couldn’t see his story. She frowned. 

“You can’t read him?” Emily asked.

“Not at all.” 

It only happened a few times before. Sometimes it was a deliberate choice, cutting the thread of the story off and hiding from her. Sometimes they just didn’t have one. 

The child’s story included this man. He was important, but Katherine didn’t know how. 

“Talk to him.” 

Katherine sighed, slipping into the cell. At least he was alone. 

She closed her eyes, pulling from stories to make herself visible to the man. 

The man jumped, looking at her with alarm. 

“Hello,” she said. “I’m here to ask you questions.” 

“I didn’t do it,” the man said immediately. 

“I didn’t say you did anything.” 

The man looked her over. 

“Well, little lady, what do you want?” 

“Answers.” 

“I don’t like him,” Emily said. 

The man stood up, a little bit closer to Katherine. 

“I’ll give you all the answers you want, but, if you do me a favor.” 

“I hate him,” Emily insisted. “Let me have control. I will drown him in a tsunami and-“ 

Katherine ignored Emily. 

“What kind of favor?” She asked. The man sighed, running a hand down his face. 

“I was accused,” the man explained. “Wrongfully. I didn’t do anything to deserve to be here. They all hate me. She took away my kids by lying to everyone.” 

“Let me kill him,” Emily whispered. 

“Answer this first-“ 

“No,” the man said. “I won’t until you get me out of here. Please. You have no idea what it’s like. Everyone thinks I’m this monster. Please!” 

“Kill him,” Emily chanted.

Katherine sighed. 

“I’ll just go.” 

She slipped through the bars. The man screamed, yelling after her. 

“Please! You don’t know what it’s like!” 

She paused, turning back. The other people here were watching the man, whispering about how he was going crazy.

“I don’t know,” Katherine murmured, walking back to the cell. The man reached for her. 

“You’re in here. The story that led me here was full of anger and pain. That would be you.” 

“Pain, yes!” The man pleaded. “It’s so painful to be locked up… I didn’t do anything.” 

The person in the cell next to them scoffed. 

“You remind me of someone I knew once,” Katherine said. “Desperate. You’re useless like this. I have other options.” 

“No! Please! I need to see my son! Don’t you have mercy for parents missing their children?” 

Katherine turned on her heel, facing the man. Everything clicked into place with his words. 

“I can read you now. You lied to me. How dare you pretend that you didn’t hurt him? How dare you.” 

“He dies!” Emily cheered. 

The man stopped his weeping. He slammed a hand on the bars. 

“Let me have control,” Emily said. “I will take care of him.” 

Katherine shrugged. 

“Alright.” 

She closed her eyes. Darkness welcomed her. 

She woke up in a field, the prison distant on the horizon. The man was conscious, odd. Emily must’ve lost control easier than before. She normally finished the job. 

“Emily?” Katherine asked. 

There wasn’t a response. She frowned.

“No,” the man begged. 

Katherine wasn’t violent. She had no sympathy or pity for this man. Katherine examined him. 

A broken leg. Bruises. The vines around them dug into his arms, holding him in place. She glanced up to the distant prison. Flashlights beamed through the fog. 

“I won’t kill you,” Katherine said, kneeling to face the man. “They are going to find you and put you back. Don’t worry, you got dealt with a much better hand than others.” She turned away. 

“Emily?” She tried. 

Nothing. 

She glanced back at the man. Leaving him for the guards to find was her best choice. She wasn’t a murderer, so she wasn’t going to finish what Emily started. She also didn’t want to be near the man like that ever again. He was going to be found and brought back. They’d say he escaped but fell into a thorny bush. 

She needed to figure out why Emily was silent. It wasn’t normally so quiet in her own head.

The family could wait, the consequences be damned. She needed to know if Emily was okay. She couldn’t lose two friends. She couldn’t lose another person again. 

[generic-whumperz]

Character Voice Tag

I got three of these, so I’m just making a separate post for all of them, thanks @3-2-whump & @whumped-by-glitter for the tags! 🫶

Here’s a ✨variety✨ (and I think this is the first sneak peak of Vinny?!)

CW: Wyatt being a dick; & Vinny ain’t much better

Line: “I don’t know”

The Aid: Let me get back to you on that. // Hm, not sure about that. // I will check and report back at once.

Benny: Iono… *shrugs* // Well I’ll be, I’m fixin’ to find out myself! // Thought you knew? // Beats me!

Wyatt: Who gives a shit? // Fuck na. // *scowls*

Vinny: Fuck if I know. // Bitch, what I look like? Google? // *just looks aggressively confused*

Line: “I think I just made it worse”

The Aid: Oops. // Big yikes. // *just grimaces* // I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!

Benny: Ah shit, ain’t that just great! *sarcastic*// Whatchu mean? It was like that when I found it! // *beats the odds and magically ghetto-rigs the shit out of it and fixes it then does a woot-woot + jig about it*

Wyatt: SCRAPPY (Aid’s nickname)! Come fix this shit! // *huffs & rolls eyes* Whatever, I’ll buy a new one. This was a piece of shit anyway. // What the hell, I told that worthless little fuck to fix this a week ago! *rages*

Vinny: God mother-fucken damn it! // Nah. That’s bullshit. // Wasn’t me, I didn’t even touch the shit! *throws hands up feigning innocence after he most definitely touched that shit*

Line: “Go away!”

The Aid: I need some me time… // Leave me alone! // I need to take a breather.

Benny: You best back the fuck up ‘fore I act the fuck up if you got a lick of scene rattling up in that empty dome! // Gimme a goddamn sec, will you? // Quit breathin’ down my neck!

Wyatt: (To The Aid) Get outta my fucken sight you little shrimp-dick shit for brains fuckass! // Piss off, numb-nuts! *flips them off* // *just clocks them in the face & breaks their nose*

Vinny: *in the most New Jersey accent imaginable* Get outta here! // What are ya, a hemorrhoid? Get off my ass! *aggressively shoos them away* // *just pulls a gun* Yeah, that’s what I thought, keep walkin’ pal!

No pressure (& open!) tag: @whumpyourdamnpears @flowersarefreetherapy @clairelsonao3 @dresden-syndrome @whumpty-dumpty-doo @rainydaywhump

Your line is (choose your greeting): “Hello” // “Good bye”

[awlumii]

savior amidst snowstorms.

# — pairing: snow prince!albedo x gn!reader

# — characters: snow prince!albedo, gender neutral reader

# — summary: moments before it all ends, a figure comes to your rescue.

# — warnings: mentions of blood, death, near-death experience (reader)

# — tags: first meetings, implied violence, unspecified injuries, introduction to au piece, angst (??), reader is in LOTS of pain and wishes for death but no MCD

# — notes: SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGSSSS I FINALLY WROTE SOMETHING I LIKE ABOUT SNOW PRINCE!ALBEDO AAAAA I CAN'T WAIT TO WRITE MORE! reblogs and reactions are greatly appreciated, and i hope you enjoy this (and are curious about it, too!)

wanna join the tag list?

✧ — ❄️ + 🌼 — ✧

i'm going to die here.

that is all you can think as you watch the lawachurl shamble towards you. you did all you could. you put up one hell of a fight; originally you were faced with at least ten hilichurls, all of which you managed to defeat. you didn't escape from that confrontation unscathed, but they were dead, and you were still breathing. unfortunately all the commotion lured the attention of a lawachurl in the distance, and now you were staring down the cause of your inevitable demise. the hilichurls you faced earlier left you cut up and bruised, so you're in no state to take this thing on.

like hell i'd be able to anyway, you think as it lumbers closer. even in the cold, you can smell the stench of raw death wafting off of this hulking creature. how many adventurers has it feasted on? how many unfortunate souls have fallen to this thing? whatever the number is, you know in your heart that you're about to add onto it. a sharp sting of pain shoots up your leg as you try to step back and gain some distance from it. a hilichurl arrow pierced your thigh deeply, the point of which is still firmly lodged in there. only now, when the adrenaline has started to make way for fear, do you feel the acute agony of it all. all of your injuries seem to weigh on you now, the time when you need it the least.

boom. the snow-covered ground seems to rattle under your feet as the lawachurl comes closer. about ten paces away now. it's a miracle the thing hasn't lunged at you, else you'd have made a fine dinner by now.

boom. nine paces. it's almost tame in its demeanor. in its eyes, you see nothing but a predatory hunger. blood from your wounds hits the fresh snow with a soft plip-! and though you can't see its nostrils, you're prety sure they must've flared at the smell.

boom. boom. seven paces. dragonspine is about to become your icy grave. what did you even come here for, anyway? what could have possibly been so important that you'd put your life on the line like this? was it some silly commission? some old adventurer's tale? what does it even matter? nothing matters in the face of death.

boom. boom. five paces. this is it. you let your grip on your sword slacken and you hear the metal collide with the snowy floor. what use is it to you at this point, anyway? the lawachurl reaches out. you let your eyes slip shut and brace for a painful death.

but it never comes.

you count each breath you take expecting the next one to be your last. after the fifth one though, you hesitate to take a sixth as you're curious as to why you're still breathing. by now, the lawachurl should have you in its frosty grip, crushing your ribs. why are you still alive?

you open one eye and are surprised to see the lawachurl not even facing you. its back is to you and it's down on one knee with its head lowered. even with such a hazy mind, you recognize that posture. it's one of servitude, of submission. another surge of fear grips you by the throat. is there something that even a beast like this would bow its head to? what could possibly possess more strength than this creature on this icy hellscape? you hobble to the side to get a glimpse of the new arrival.

there's... nothing there. great. not only are there abominations on this mountain, but it would appear that it's haunted, too. you have half a mind to scream. how much longer will the universe dangle death in front of you? you don't like being teased, much less with your own safety. a frigid gust of wind nearly knocks you over, forcing your eyes shut. the blood that leaks from your head seems to crystallize, making it hard for you to open your eyes. you manage to pry one of them open to peer out into the distance; surely, you're imagining things. the mountain is many things, but haunted couldn't possibly be one of them... right?

the way forward is almost misty, the gusty snow obscuring the view of what's ahead. but through it all, you make out a figure of something. a silhouette of a person walking your way.

a person? that can't be right. a cryo lawachurl wouldn't be bowing to a human. you squint and try to focus, a part of you hoping that the figure turns out to be that of another, potentially more horrifying, monster. yet the silhouette remains the same. it's clearer now that it's closer. it's that of a man — his stride seems smooth, his body seemingly unbothered by the chaotic snow whirling around him. he appears untouched by the elements, almost.

you gulp. maybe you shouldn't rule out a haunting just yet.

you can't run, so you're forced to watch as the man comes closer and closer still. when he breaks through the mist, you take notice of how ethereal he looks amidst the snowstorm. his hair is a pale blond and reflects what little sunlight comes through the clouds. it reaches just below his shoulders and is almost neatly pulled into a braided half ponytail. his skin is pale and his eyes are a sharp teal that cut through the whiteness of your surroundings. his white coat bears navy blue and gold embellishments and his hands are gloved. he extends one to the monster and you see his lips move, though you can't hear his words over the whirlwind of snow. only when the hulking beast beside you moves do you realize what he said.

"arise."

you yelp and, for the first time in minutes, your body moves. you crash into the snow beneath you unceremoniously and with a loud groan. everything hurts. you're truly defeated. the man's lips move once more and the lawachurl approaches him with a bowed head. to your horror, it looks as though he's speaking to it — even worse is that it appears to understand him. if he were to give the order, that thing would tear you limb from limb. you don't know if you should waste your last breath begging for your life, or if you should just go back to accepting your demise with open arms.

neither of those choices are correct, apparently, because when the lawachurl faces you once more, gone is the intense bloodlust you'd felt moments earlier. it approaches you again, this time seeming calm. the man behind it comes closer, allowing you to see it better. maybe you're delirious with pain, but you notice that he's extremely attractive. there's a certain elegance to his features, his cold, calculating stare making you want to bow your own head in submission.

yeah. definitely delirium. you're losing your mind.

"if you're going to kill me," you say, your throat lined with needles, "then please, don't let me suffer. make it quick. i'm in enough pain as is."

those teal eyes regard you closely. there isn't a lick of emotion on his face. "do you need assistance?" he asks. his voice, too, is devoid of emotion.

you blink your one eye slowly and notice dark spots in your vision. it won't be long before you lose consciousness. and hopefully, your life, too. look at you; so badly damaged that you're wishing for death. the man before you doesn't move an inch as he awaits your response. you spit blood onto the icy ground away from you. "just... kill me." you rasp. "please."

"i do not wish to see you dead." his crystalline lashes seem to flutter. if you didn't know any better, you'd think him an angel. it's a shame there's no wings protruding from his back. "i wish to aid you. will you allow me to do so?"

you stagger. "please." you beg. "just..." the dark spots grow suddenly, consuming your world. you plummet into darkness before you can finish your sentence and collapse into the snow, never to see the sun again.

...or so you'd think.

you awake with a start, your body screaming at you with every frantic breath you take. you pat yourself down despite the aching of your wounds. all of your flesh is relatively intact — did you seriously survive that encounter? what the hell was all of that? the hilichurls, the monster, the weird angel-man—

wait a minute.

once more, you pat yourself down. you feel bandages in various places, each one meticulously wrapped around your appendages. you look down at your legs and find them buried beneath luxurious cream-colored silk sheets. come to think of it, the mattress supporting your weight feels like it's curving to meet your body — where the hell are you?!

you do a quick sweep of the room and an unknown emotion makes itself present. you're not sure whether to feel awe, fear, or curiosity. the room is fit for royalty: its floor-to-ceiling windows are crystal clear, allowing for a perfect view of the snowy mountain outside, the floors are marbled and polished, the furniture seems antiquated, yet grand all the same, the silvers and golds either woven through the cushions or embedded in the harder surfaces. this place, imposing and majestic as it might be, seems frozen in time — no one has touched this place in ages, yet it seems well-cared for. your head feels ready to explode. who in the archons' name would—?

"you've awoken."

you're not proud of the shriek that rips past your lips at the sound of the voice. (you're even less proud of the fact that you can hear it echoing off of the walls. was it really that quiet in here?) you turn to see the man from outside standing in your doorway, his features less illuminated, yet still regal in the dim lighting.

"i'm not going to harm you." his face remains as passive as ever. "please, don't shout."

"wh-why wouldn't i?" you retort. you break into a fit of hacking coughs. how did you not feel this ill a second ago? adrenaline sure works in strange ways. only now do you feel how flushed and clammy your skin is, how the banging in your head rivals that of a swordsmith forging a weapon, how painful it is just to take a breath. you ease yourself back into a lying position. you can't defend yourself like this. "you were communicating—" you pause to cough again— "with that monster outside! you could have killed me."

the man is at your side in the blink of an eye. an icy hand rests on your forehead and you feel a near instant relief. your eyes slip shut against your will. "you're running a high grade fever," he points out. "but i do not understand why you think me to be a threat when i saved your life. is gratitude lost on people in modern times?"

though spoken so evenly, such a biting response doesn't fit your image of this guy. who does he think he is? "you should have let me die." your voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. "let me die in peace." you partially mean it. the brief moments of clarity are nothing in comparison to the agony you're in. hell, you may as well be dead already. perhaps this is just what was waiting for you after you crossed over.

the man moves and you hear some shuffling. "i... don't want you to." he's whispering. it's almost like he's speaking to himself. "allow me to help you. please."

you can't make heads or tails of anything anymore. "water," you plead. your body is truly on its last legs. you're begging, though if you were of clear mind, you wouldn't reasonably ask this man for a thing; survival instincts have kicked in, and you're only trying to use what's been given to you. "give me water, please."

instead of the cold water you expected, you feel your head being propped up and hot water (tea?) slides down your throat instead. it's infinitely better than the ice water you had imagined — the relief is instant, and the spikes in your throat seem to clear almost immediately. before you can ask for more, some more is already being offered at your lips, and you drink eagerly, like a dying man in a desert. once you've had your fill, you're being eased back down, your body feeling just a touch better than before. words of gratitude don't make it out of you, so you settle for a sigh. you feel your consciousness slipping once more. dimly, you think there must have been a sedative in that drink. must be medicinal, you think, seeing as your throat doesn't hurt much anymore.

"the medicine will act faster if you rest." the man's voice seems so far away. "when you wake, please allow me the honor of knowing your name."

with the last of your energy, you breathe your own name in a whisper. you can almost hear the smile in the man's voice as you tread back into darkness.

"my name is albedo," he says. "it'll be my pleasure to greet you when you're fully conscious. get some sleep, now."

like you need to be told twice. almost on command, you fall into a deep, restful, dreamless sleep.

✦ oh my god. OH MY GOD??? SNOW PRINCE!ALBEDO INTRODUCTION??? WHEN'S THE FIC ZUZU???

✦ i actually am VERY proud of this. it's not the intro that i've been dreaming about for... what, a year? but i like the setup. i can't wait to build this au again.