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thedropsofblood · 1 year ago

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Taming a wild rabbit.

T/W: dubcon/noncon, gunplay, drugging, not yet proofread.

Remake to: A mole was found

(Fic layout inspired by @miyuuuki ^^)

The sky is clear today, thanks to that, Blake was able to buy some desserts. He was in a good mood after his work, even when the corner of his shirt was stained by a small drop of blood. He bought a few slices of top quality cake from many different flavors, paying with his credit card as if what he bought wasn't extravagant.

He quickly heads home after that, opening the door and greeted by a wide hug from you, your arms wrapped around his torso, the leash of your collar dangels as you move. After recovering from his shock a few short moments after, he hugs you back and you said with a wide smile.

"Welcome back, Blake!"

Blake looks at the collar on your neck before leaning in, saying in your ear, his lips curving into a smirk

"I'm home."

"I don't think it's weird..."

"Don't be stupid, who is it?"

Said the two men, both wearing a suit but one in his mid-twenties while the other look to be at least 60 with white hair and a beer belly. You lean against the wall nearby as the two men talked about your next mission, your arms crossed while trying to come up with any new strategy.

You have officially started your job as a spy about a year ago, at first it seemed like a dream job where you get to be sleathy and wear suits 24/7 but in reality, it's nothing different than a gamble to try to gain even the equivalent of a grain of rice amount of information.

It's nothing different than throwing your entire life anyway for "the greater good" to have a slim chance of actually winning or accomplishing something. You would probably be better off actually gambling with the chances that you have. At least you get paid well for every job you take.

Meanwhile, the two men in suits were still negotiating. The younger man was your agent, you wouldn't usually talk to him unless you need his assisstant, while the older one was your client. The moment your agent opened the suitcase to check the amount of money the client provided you, the older man started saying.

"And you know...There's been rumours going aroun-"

The man couldn't finished his sentence before he gets cuts off by another man in suit, the man's face is covered by a black fedora. He walks into the room casually as he asks "What rumours?". The simple question caused the client to panic almost immediately and turns back with a fearful expression, a bang went off in the horror of your eyes and your agent was shot in the forehead, eliminating him instantly. You grab your weapon and point your gun at the mysterious man as he holds the client hostage by a gun at the older man's cheek.

You yelled at him to not shoot, gaining a simple reply and a smirk from the mysterious guy.

"Do you know me?"

You mutter your reply, your tone is filled with cautiousness, a cold sweat runs down your forehead.

"Blake..."

The man simply looks down at you with an annoyed glance.

"You're only here because I escaped, and my boss is furious."

Suddenly your client started screaming and yelling at the fedora-wearing man, to shut up and let him go. Which you admit, was a terrible choice of action.

"Shut up."

The fedora hat wearing man clicked his tongue, pressing the nuzzle against the client's back and fire.

The man doesn't seem to spare you even after killing both your agent and your client, he aims his gun at you at the exact moment you aimed yours at him. You thought this was gonna be a stand off, just for your gun to be greeted with a bullet, the man missed the shot but at least he managed to knock the gun out of your hand.

He exploits the moment of your shock to push you against the wall, each hand holding your wrists back and looking down at you. You could hear him say very faintly, almost like a whisper.

"You have a cute face"

The words don't move you however, you resist the urge to call him a pervert since in this situation when you're facing a guy with a gun, it's best to not provoke any aggressive chain of behaviour.

"Where's your boss' HQ? Tell me and I'll let you go"

The man said. Did this guy seriously think you'll sell out your entire company just so you could survive? Even if you survive, the company would probably find a way to bite you back even harder. In conclusion, this man can suck your dick and go find the information himself.

You replied with just that, "Like I'll tell you, glasses. Go to hell."

However, that seemed to be the wrong answer as the man doesn't say anything at first, he looks at you with the definition of a blank expression before it turns into a frown. With minimal effort, he knee kicked you in your stomach and held you up by your arm, that kick alone was enough to knock you out. If you were a normal person, you would've coughed out blood from that.

"Stupid boy. I wished I could have killed you."

You woke up in a strange place, the first thing that hit your eyes was the dark coloured wall and ceiling. You sit up and try to rub your eyes, realising that you have now been handcuffed. You look around to see where you are, your head filled with questions but no definite answers. The only clue you had was a few tabs of pills on the table nearby and the black fedora hat that the man was wearing before.

The clues didn't help in finding an escape route but it at least let you understand the current situation a little better.

Your line of thought is quickly cut off by the sound of the shower ending, following the sound of the bathroom door opening. From your surprise (are you really surprised though?), Blake walks out from the bathroom, topless while wearing some black pants, a white towel hanging over his shoulder and one of the identical pill tabs in his hand.

He glances at you, saying with a smiling expression.

"Oh, you're awake? Sooner than expected. Is it because I'm getting weaker or you're getting stronger?"

He doesn't even seem to acknowledge your internal panic as he didn't look at you after saying his sentence, his hand popping a pill from the tab before tossing it in his mouth.

Your reaction speed didn't prepare you for the sudden kiss he placed on you, he used his tongue to force open your mouth and push the pill over to you, forcing you to swallow it by forcibly deepening the kiss in by pushing the back of your head in.

Out of self defense, you bit his tongue harshly, hard enough for it to bleed but it wasn't enough to cut Blake's tongue off permanently. As expected, he pushed you down on the bed right after what you did, but he didn't seem upset. He licks his lips, seemingly savoring the irony taste of his blood and saying again, his voice makes you want to punch him square in the face despite it being the same tone as before.

"You could bite back... How adorable, my little rabbit thinks it can scare me. Just a small warning cutie, your struggle turns me on, so stay still and be a good boy, alright?"

You try to cough out the pill he made you swallow, but it seemed to be too late as your mind suddenly went blank, your vision going blurry as if you've knocked down 20 bottles of wine. Tears are already forming in the corner of your eyes, the effect of the pull caused your body to become all weak and shaking. You mutter a question about the pull through gritted teeth, getting a reply from Blake while he holds both of your wrists up.

"Oh don't worry, I didn't poison you. Ever heard of aphrodisiac, my darling?"

Of course, it is that damn thing, makes sense why the tab pills have 'A' marked on it. You let out a deep sigh, sending Blake a glare out of spite. While you weren't paying much attention, he had already started playing with your chest with his mouth, a single lick was enough to harden your nipple.

You were about to cuss at him, but the moment you opened your mouth, Blake pushed his lips against yours again. Your body was already greatly weakened by the pill, so all you could do was frown and let out a few noises to try to get Blake to quit it.

This situation is way more romantic than imagined, you expected him to be rough and thrust inside in one go without any foreplay, at least you won't have to go through anymore pain.

You were turned on your stomach by Blake after the kiss. Your body got goosebumps upon feeling some kind of cold liquid on your crack, a few drops even getting inside you, gaining a small uncontrolled whine from your mouth. Blake kept quiet, his eyes stayed on your hole and you could hear the sound of a zipper.

Blake thrusts two fingers inside you and leans forward to place a kiss on your nape, nibbling on your neck. The two fingers slide in and out of you, the action is surprisingly gentle for a guy like Blake. When he felt you were ready, he gripped both of your shoulders and held you up, aligning your hold with his length. You plead for him to stop, but it seemed to turn him on more as he pushes you down until his tip is inside you. Then he moved his hands over to your hips, slamming you down deep on his dick, causing you to choke on your saliva for a second.

He bites on your shoulder and buries his face in your neck, leaving back marks of all sizes while also giving you a few seconds to adjust to his size. Until your breath has stabilized, he moves you up and down by gripping your hips at a fairly gentle pace at first. His breath also fastened, continuing to bite your neck to muffle his groans and occasional moan. Both of your bodies are hot and sweaty, harmonizing together despite technically being enemies.

Finally, he pushes you down on his dick, filling you up with semen and letting out a satisfied grunt. He breathes heavily, brushing his damped hair back before he pushes you down on the bed again and caresses your cheek with his hand, saying with a cocky smile and letting out a chuckle at the end.

"Not yet, darling. You don't get to leave me until I'm fully satisfied."

Blake kept his words and kept you with him, both of you fucked like bunnies in heat for the weekends and fucked daily when Blake needs to go to work. He made sure to 'train' you 24/7 in any way possible, using sex toys to please you when he's not with you and abusing aphrodisiac.

A small flame from a lighter lights up the dark alley, Blake leans his back against the wall and huffs out the smoke from his cigarette before glancing at the blond haired man nearby. Both of them are in suits, but in contrast to Blake, the blond haired man seemed much more serious as he approached Blake and said with a frown.

"Where did you take him?"

The question caused Blake to slightly lower his head, the black fedora covering his eyes. Then Blake replies vaguely, his lips curving up to a smile.

"Well... I turned a stubborn brat into an adorable kitten."

"You..."

Blake said before shooting the blond haired man on his arm, glaring at the man.

"He's mine now."

Blake leans down to kiss you on the lips, which you return the kiss with delight, your arms wrapping over his shoulder. He pulls you into the bedroom and ignores the bag of dessert he had dropped.

He grips your hair and pulls your head in his crotch, pushing his dick deeper into your throat with one hand while removing his tie with the other. He glances down at you, his eyes darkened for a short moment.

When he had pushed you down onto the bed, he seemed to be in a rush to relieve his stress since he buries his head in your shoulder the moment you laid your back on the bed, one of his hands playing with your nipple. He muttered about how harsh his day was at work.

When he is distracted, your eyes sharpen with bloodlust. Your hand grips the razor that was hidden behind the pillow and aligns it over Blake's neck. No matter how hard Blake tries, you can never forget what he had done, even then your higher up won't even care since he works for the enemy.

Before you could take action, Blake pointed a gun at your chin and continued to kiss your neck. It started to dawn on you that he expected your retaliation, the timing of the blond hair guy-your colleague and your sudden obedience was too suspicious to pass over. He hums, his other hand continues to play with your body.

"What do you think you're doing? I was genuinely turned on, darling. I saw one of your damn colleagues around this area, the one with blond hair..."

Your eyes widened, the only colleague you have with blond hair is Luka, your highschool best friend. You were about to speak up but he turned you on your stomach and held the gun in front of you, saying with a sickly sweet tone. You recognise the gun as the one he used to kill your client before.

"I was planning on killing you with this, but I missed the shot, I believe that's the best decision I could've made. Now, lick it, darling. If you don't wish for your dear friend to disappear forever."

Having no other choices, you obeyed the order and sucked the barrel of the gun, your body slightly shaking from fear of the trigger pulling any moment. He watched in satisfaction as his other hand moved to play with your underbody, preparing you for nightmare.

After what felt like an eternity, he thrust himself inside of you, but leaving you no time to adjust this time as he focuses on pounding into you like a machine. He holds both of your wrists back to pull you deeper into his cock, ignoring any pleas and any noises you make, even when you are overstimulated and sobbing on the pillow.

When you're on the verge of passing out, he has finally finished but he doesn't seem so tired, just pure satisfaction. He puts his glasses on and before your vision goes dark, you hear the clicking sound of a collar on your neck as well as feeling a kiss on your forehead.

#idk what tags to add #orginal post #vel fic #oc x male reader #bottom!male!reader #bottom male reader #male reader #mlm nsft #mafia au #original character #gun play #x male reader #male reader smut #male reader insert

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aziraphales-library · 5 months ago

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Hi there!! Love this account so much you have literally no idea 😭

Ive been looking for 1941 part 3 fics if that makes sense? I, for the life of me, cannot find any, do you happen to know some good ones?

Hello! Here are some fics set after the 1941 church bombing and magic show...

Part of the Act by jovipop (G)

An angel and a demon swap hats and share a dance after an eventful evening in 1941.

A Favour by SuspiciousCharacter1895 (G)

“Angel.” Crowley was standing, as if summoned by Aziraphale’s wandering thoughts, on his doorstep. He was dressed just like the other night, complete with the fedora which made him look so dashing. Aziraphale blinked that unanticipated thought away and recovered his composure. “How very lovely to see you! Please come in.” Aziraphale stepped aside with a broad smile and gestured for Crowley to enter. “I have a bottle of something I think you'll rather enjoy.” He always did, just in case. “Ah - thanks, but not tonight. I’m sort of, well I suppose you could say I’m here on business.” Two weeks after the incident with the church bombing and the magic show, Aziraphale can't get Crowley out of his mind. When the demon shows up asking for a favor, Aziraphale may be inclined to help this time. If only he could think of the right thing to say.

If we dare by MetalMiez (G)

It had been a wild ride after the church bombing and the magic show. But even after Crowley left the bookshop late that night, Aziraphale couldn't stay in there on his own for long. After wandering through the destroyed city, he happens to meet Crowley at the ruined church once again. But an unfortunate turn of events forces them together once more.

what turns up in the dark by shoebox_addict (T)

“I can’t have them taking you away. After all, who knows who they’d send as your replacement?” “Right. Probably not a fan of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.” “No, indeed.”

Near by Caedmon (G)

After the bullet catch, back at the bookshop, the angel and demon look at the photo that Furfur took and discuss being near to each other - both historically and in the future.

Break Me Like a Promise by demonsandpieohmy (E)

After a fateful night in 1941, things between Aziraphale and Crowley are changed forever. Crowley has a solution, but it comes at a high price. -- “Angel, you have to know—” Aziraphale didn’t mean to cut him off. Didn’t mean to interrupt what surely would have been some stilted declaration, words that would rend his heart in two. But that same survival instinct that had saved him earlier was telling him that what he needed, what he absolutely had to have in order to keep on living, was to be as close as possible to the demon across from him.

(catch you) every time you fall by rainbowumbrella (M)

“There’s nowhere to go!” Crowley whispers loudly, forcing irritation into his tone to hide the panic. It’ll be fine, he tells himself, he’ll think of something. Somehow, it’ll be fine, it has to be fine. He’s already escaped Hell’s clutches today, why not Heaven’s as well? “Just - run into the backroom, quick as you can!” insists Aziraphale. Crowley rolls his eyes. “Right, because Gabriel will never find me in there!” *** Aziraphale and Crowley’s dinner in 1941 is rudely interrupted when the Archangel Gabriel is sent to Earth to follow up on the destruction of a church a certain demon caused earlier that day.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #post church scene #mod d

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pascallatte · 2 years ago

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Angel?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Actress!reader

Summary: GQ Germany with PEDRO PASCAL aka him fawning over Y/n over a single this or that.

Date: September 2020

Warnings: none

A/N: I love love love this interview, his voice, his hair, the vibes, HIS SMILE!!! Everything, alsoooooooo probably the last one for 2020 for now next one may be a throwback or we’ll move on to ’21 (most probably). SO everyone, happy reading and tell me what you think!! Love lots x

“Hi, I’m Pedro Pascal I’m here at GQ Germany Cover shoot.” Pedro’s seen sitting in a chair in the set of GQ Germany for this month’s issue. The team decided to get him in to join a quick get-to-know-him-better game, an upgraded version of This or That.

Swimming trunks vs beach shorts

Sucking in a breath when the staff shows him two pictures, ”I would have to go with shorts, because of what I could pull off at my age. Despite the continuous disagreement from someone.” He smiles.

Sweater vs hoodie

“Hmm I love a sweater though but I really love a hoodie.” Biting his lip, Pedro asks.

“Can any of these be ties?… Really?!”

“Oh, it has to be absolute. Hmm, this is something me and my girlfriend often debate on, ‘cause she steals most of my tops which makes me buy more but then when I do buy hoodies she tells me to buy sweaters. But since this is my interview hmm…Well alright, hoodie it is. Either way, we take turns using it.” With a very satisfied tone, he explains his side looking at a camera with a small fond smile.

Oberyn Martell vs Din Djarin

Shocked by what he’s been shown, Pedro can only laugh as he responds, “Wow, that is a really hard decision to make.”

“Umm, the armour didn’t work so well for me at the end of Game of Thrones, but it looked amazing,” taking in a breath as the gears in his head takes in the pros and cons of each suit and character.

“That being said the armour in The Mandalorian looks very very good and I'm still alive. So I guess I would have to- you know I can’t I just can’t I cannot betray Oberyn and choose The Mandalorian. But umm let’s just leave it at that being an impossible decision.”

Smart vs traditional watch

“Traditional watch, people who use smart watches are people who can’t tell or read the time. And by people I mean…” Pedro turns to look at the camera and gives it or soon the viewers a knowing look, in hopes that they know what he meant by that.

Fedora vs baseball cap

“Those are my hats!…Oh wow”

“Well clearly since you have a picture of a fedora that belongs to me and a baseball hat that belongs to me… I favour both” he elaborates while raising his hands in a somewhat joking accusatory way to the staff who has asked him to pick one between his favourites. To him, it’s like asking him to pick between things or people he adores.

“I cannot and you cannot make me decide between a fedora and a baseball cap. I love them both equally”

Facial hair or clean shaven

“What? Are you making me choose between clean-shaven or facial hair?”

“They’re currently showing me two pictures of myself.” He stops for a moment, making his sort of thinking face as he thinks back to 10 or so years ago.

“One that is maybe… 10 years ago, where clean-shaven may have worked.

"Umm, I'm gonna have to go with the very strange patchy facial hair that I am capable of growing on my face.”

Contacts vs glasses

Answering immediately, “Glasses.. what a ridiculous question.” He shakes his head as if telling them the obvious as well as the light tone of his voice.

“Glasses, sticking my own fingers into my eyes? I have yet to cross that threshold.”He continues to shake his head as he explains why he’d chosen it.

Y/n’s sheer 2018 met gala dress or her 2019 white oscars dress

Pedro’s entire face lit up as soon as the staff showed him the choices. “Ohh bot- this is a hard one…I love both of them, and it looks incredible on her,” he emphasizes, adorably staring at the pictures.

Sitting still while continuing to admire his love, “Ahhh would you look at that..."

"She’s beautiful don’t you agree?” Pedro straight away smiles as soon as the staff behind the camera agrees with him.

“The first one makes her look like this mermaid or angel- you know like a fallen angel, just for me, and the other is very- something she would dress herself in with how simple yet elegant it looks. So I would have to go with her Oscars look.”

A voice off cam tells him something that had caught his attention, making his expression turn into shock and amusement, “It’s a wedding dress?! Really?! She wore a wedding dress to the Oscars… hmm” slowly ruffling his hair he sits back after getting a closer look at the picture.

Leather or bomber jacket

“Wow, leather jacket. I have and I think I always will love a leather jacket.” Explaining this with a small smirk that had him explaining his thoughts right after.

“Y/n has bought us a matching pair of these incredible vintage leather jackets and-so basically it’s something that I will never ever lose my interest in.”

Coffee or tea

Nodding his head, he looks straight to the camera, “Coffee. Coffee all the way.”

Raising his hands up similar to a surrendering position to defend himself, he chuckles before continuing, “It’s not that I don’t like tea but then again coffee is what keeps me up and going other than y/n… who is by the way is also a coffee addict.”

Clasping his hands together, he finalizes, “Coffee, 100%”

"Thank you for watching and click here to subscribe to GQ Germany!"

the dress for reference:

A/n: so I wrongly timed the post of this one, instead of it being posted yesterday at noon it was set to 12 am today haha, never gonna do that again. Anyways if you're reading this thank you and have a nice day ahead of you!!!

Taglist: @benonlinear @t-stark35 @heyitsme-2 @elleeeee21 @holmesstrange @tagakalat @flyestvenustrap @oldermenaremyreligion @cherryred444 @hobiismyhopeu @ilovehotdadsandshit @djarinsstuff @guacala @avengersheart @pukka-latte @lilvampirina @mmkkzz

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x actress!reader #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fic

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gullemec · 2 months ago

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Whiskey on Ice

Golden Cage - Chapter Four

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You and Hughie navigate the chaos of the New York City subway system. Butcher is an emotionally constipated menace. You discover just how deep the corruption in Vought and CytoGenix goes.

Warnings: Butcher is kind of mean :(, language, mentions of human experimentation, alcohol use, drunkenness, flirting, kissing, mild stalking (not of reader)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 6.2k

A/N: thank you to everyone who has liked/commented/reblogged or just generally shown love for this fic - this is why i decided to make the jump and share it and you've all made it so worth it <3

Once underground, you tug Hughie sharply into an alcove, pressing your backs against the cool, grimy tiles as the pounding footsteps of CytoGenix security fade into the crowded cacophony of the station.

The hum of the subway drowns out your ragged breathing, but you manage to whisper sharply in his ear.

“Don't say a word. Follow me,” you speak in a hushed tone, pleading with Hughie not to argue with you right now. He nods and you release your grip on him, the two of you stepping cautiously back into the fray, weaving through the dense tide of commuters.

The New York City's transit Lost and Found is a veritable thrift shop, looking something like a mix of thrift shop, dry cleaners, and curiosity cabinet. Shelves heave under forgotten books and umbrellas, mismatched racks bristling with everything from sequined dresses to vintage ski jackets. How someone could have possibly lost a pair of skis on the subway is lost on you, but if you had to bet, it was probably a good story.

You bring Hughie there now, ringing the service bell obnoxiously. A bored woman with a chipped manicure appears from the back room, already mid-rehearsed spiel. “Lost and Found is by appointment only. Fill out this—”

You cut her off, slapping five crisp Benjamins onto the counter. “Give us fifteen minutes back there, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she eyes the cash warily before snatching it up and sliding it into her pocket. “You get ten. And don’t touch the jewelry,” she says flatly, jerking a thumb toward the racks.

Hughie gapes at you, incredulous. “What the hell was that?”

You smirk, pulling your wallet from your bag and flipping it open to reveal an obscene stack of bills. “This is pocket change to my father,” you say dryly. “If you ever wonder why I still associate with him, well, this is why.”

Hughie shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re like a Bond villain’s kid. This is insane.”

“Welcome to my world,” you quip, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the racks.

The two of you make quick work of the clothing, sifting through the chaos with purpose. You settle on a vintage floral dress, throwing an oversized leather jacket and round sunglasses into the mix, leaning into an Elaine Benes aesthetic. For Hughie, you pull an absurd nylon tracksuit in neon colors, pairing it with a fedora you find hanging from a forgotten rack.

Hughie holds up the hat, incredulous. “You want me to wear this? I look like a reject from Miami Vice.”

“You’ll blend in. No one will take a second look at you, this is New York.”

He groans but doesn’t argue, slipping into the suit while you throw on your new ensemble. Minutes later, you’re back in the bustling station, walking with purpose as you zigzag through the labyrinth of subway lines.

You board train after train, switching directions, hopping off randomly, and doubling back until you’re certain you’ve shaken any potential tails. The constant movement leaves your legs aching and your head spinning, but when you finally emerge from the station nearest the laundromat, it’s nearly nightfall, and you’re laughing like kids who’ve just pulled off a prank.

“Did you see that guy with the rat?” Hughie wheezes, tears streaming down his face. “He was feeding it chips! Like, actual chips!”

“It was the most New York thing I’ve ever seen,” you gasp, clutching your sides as laughter overtakes you.

You're so lost in the twin haze of an adrenaline hangover and the utter disbelief of having actually been successful in your getaway that you barely notice Butcher barreling toward you.

“Where the bloody hell have you two been?!” he snaps, his voice echoing off the brick walls.

Hughie stops in his tracks, stunned. “Uh, dude, what’s going on?”

“What’s goin’ on?” Butcher snarls, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve been sat here for hours, twiddlin’ me thumbs, thinkin’ maybe you’d been grabbed by Vought’s lot or worse. Your bloody mics don’t work underground, so I couldn’t hear a fuckin’ thing. Had me…” He hesitates, rubbing a hand over his face. “Had me thinkin’ you’d screwed the pooch and got us all bloody caught.”

You sober instantly, the humor of the moment evaporating. Butcher’s frustration rolls off him in waves, and you find yourself bristling under the weight of his glare.

“I bumped into a lab cart,” you admit, your voice firm but even. “We got noticed. Running was the only option. I wouldn’t have done it if I thought there was another way.”

Hughie steps in beside you, his voice rising with indignation. “She saved our asses, okay? Homelander showed up, Butcher. He shot his fucking laser eyes at us. We’d be fried if it wasn’t for her.”

Butcher’s head jerks up at that. “Homelander?!” His voice is sharp enough to cut. “Fucking hell.” He takes a step back, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

For a moment, he’s silent, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Then he looks at you, his gaze hard and unforgiving. “No more missions for you two. You hear me? You’re benched.”

“Butcher, we—”

“No more,” he growls, cutting you off. “And for the love of God, get changed. You look like extras from a bad ‘90s sitcom.”

With that, he turns on his heel and stalks back toward the laundromat, leaving you and Hughie standing in stunned silence.

“Was that him… worrying about us?” Hughie asks finally, glancing at you.

“Maybe?” you say with a small, humorless laugh. “If that’s Butcher’s version of worrying.”

The two of you exchange a look, then burst into quiet laughter again, the tension easing as you turn and head toward the laundromat.

~~~

When you and Hughie arrive at the laundromat, you feel like you've just survived a war zone. You're exhausted, confused, and honestly a little shaken by what you witnessed earlier. You also reek of sweat, dust, and old coffee stains, courtesy of your new wardrobes.

As soon as you step through the door, the crew notices. Annie, Kimiko, Frenchie, and MM are crowded around the screens, their faces etched with anxiety, eyes darting to the door as it opens. The moment they spot you, it's like the tension in the room snaps. Everyone stands up, looking like they're ready to either hug you or jump into action. Annie is the first to move, pulling Hughie into a tight, frantic hug, before turning to you with the same urgency.

“Oh my god, I was so worried,” Annie breathes, inspecting you like you're a wounded animal. “What happened? You guys look... like you’ve been through hell.”

“And why do you look like you both just walked off the set of Seinfeld?” MM asks, unable to stifle a laugh.

You fill the Boys in on your semi-successful mission; the shocking revelation that CytoGenix is just as corrupt as Vought, your near-miss with Homelander, and your daring subway getaway.

The rest of the team listens intently, but it's Kimiko who reacts the most visibly. She starts signing rapidly to Frenchie, who catches it and interprets, voice low, but urgent. “This is dangerous, very dangerous.”

Annie’s face darkens, her jaw tightening with determination. “A Supe army was bad enough, but now they want mind-controlled Supes? That’s... that’s beyond even Vought. We can’t let this happen.”

Before anyone can say anything else, Butcher bursts through the door, his presence sucking the air out of the room. He doesn’t even acknowledge the group, his eyes going straight to the screens, like nothing else matters.

“Where the hell have you been?” MM demands, his voice laced with irritation.

Butcher doesn’t look up, but his tone is sharp as he replies, “What do you think? Keeping these two morons out of the fryer, making sure they didn’t get turned into some lab rat like the poor octopus bastard back at the lab.” He shoots you a glance, that same dismissive look he's had for the past few days.

You wince at his remark, hurt and confused. He’s angry, but at who, exactly? You? Did he really think you should’ve been faster, smarter, done something differently? Did he think you should have just jumped in the van, alerting the encroaching henchmen to his presence and endangering him, too? You can feel your stomach churn with frustration, not just at him but at yourself. It’s ridiculous how much you care about his approval, even now. After everything, why do you still want him to see you as more than just a screw-up?

Regardless, you fucked up in his eyes. So much for the semblance of friendship you thought you might have forged with him.

Beside you, Annie grimaces, her nose wrinkling. “Jesus, you guys reek,” she says, stepping away, her hand lightly pressing against her nose. “You need a shower. You smell like sweat and forty-year-old dust.”

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. You do smell awful, but right now, it feels like a small mercy to focus on something trivial, like your personal hygiene. Annie, ever the caretaker, offers to wash your clothes while you shower, so you don’t have to walk back to your apartment in this disgusting outfit, risking raising any alarm bells from your doorman.

You squeeze yourself into the tiny basement shower, feeling the kind of relief that only comes from hot water rinsing off the grime of a long day. As the water cascades down your body, you check out, letting your mind wander far away from you. What the hell has your life become? What will become of you? Why do you cling to William Butcher's every whim and mood swing?

You wish, desperately, that you could talk to your mother. You wish she were still here, with her calm, comforting presence. She always knew what to say when your life seemed like a mess. If only you could ask her for advice now, but instead, you're here. Alone. Floating in the wreckage of your own life.

By the time you step out of the shower, you're feeling somewhat human again, even if only for a moment. You throw on the towel, your hair dripping wet, and head for the dryer to grab your clothes. Butcher, still sitting on the couch, looks over to you.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice muffled, but not so much that you miss the tone.

You glance over your shoulder, and there he is, perched on the couch, his eyes briefly flicking to your bare shoulders and legs before snapping away. It’s nothing explicit, but you can feel the weight of it. You’re not sure why, but the moment feels like a thousand unspoken things, all wrapped up in that brief look.

You quickly dress and sit down with Frenchie and Kimiko, accepting the meal they’ve offered. You’re starving, but you eat slowly, the tension still knotting in your chest. The others slowly begin to leave, heading off to their respective apartments, leaving you alone with Butcher in the basement once more.

Butcher hasn’t looked up from his laptop since you sat down, and you find yourself studying his profile, trying to figure him out. Why does he do this? Why does he keep pushing you away, pretending like none of this matters?

Eventually, you take a deep breath, trying to gather your courage. “H-have you heard anything? Was our cover completely blown?” You ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

Butcher finally looks at you, his expression unreadable, but his answer is surprisingly reassuring. “No. There’s talk of an incident at the lab, but no names. Your pops thinks it was just a competitor trying to fuck with him.”

You exhale, tension leaving your body in a slow, reluctant release. You don’t have to worry about CytoGenix security tracking you down, or your apartment being compromised.

Still, there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to face the empty loneliness of your apartment, the feeling that you’re just a ghost passing through your own life. You want to stay, to linger in this space with Butcher, to tear down the walls between you, to talk, to understand.

But as you start to settle in, Butcher speaks again, his voice colder than before. “When are you going home?”

You blink, the question hanging in the air, sharp and final. You try to smile, but it feels thin. “You don’t want company again tonight?”

His eyes flicker toward you, a glimmer of something unreadable crossing his face. “No. Just… Go home. Rest. Relax. Whatever it is you do in that big empty place of yours.”

It stings more than you expected. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and you know he knew it would hurt. You stare at him for a beat, trying to hold his gaze, but his eyes never meet yours. He won’t crack. And you’re not sure you can, either. You turn away, your throat tight with something unsaid, and walk out of the room.

The moment you step into your empty apartment, the first tear finally escapes. You let it fall, and it's quickly accompanied by another, and then another. The floodgates open, and you allow yourself to feel everything you’ve been trying to keep buried.

And so you do what you do best in this big, empty place of yours: cry.

~~~

When you were a little girl, your mother warned you never to wish time away.

Every second is precious, she told you, her voice soft but firm, the kind of truth that settles deep in your chest. And with her, it had been true. Time felt abundant and rich in her presence, a boundless well of laughter, love, and warmth. You never knew the true value a moment held until you realized you would never experience another with her in it, never understood the weight of her words until she was gone. It disturbed you how much you would be willing to give for just one more minute wrapped in her arms, smelling her hair, feeling the hum of her laughter as it grew in her chest. You’d never appreciated the fleeting, intangible nature of time until it had slipped through your fingers, leaving you clutching at air.

But now, time feels different. It’s no longer precious; it’s oppressive. Each second that ticks by on the office clock is a tiny torment, a weight pressing down on your chest, building the unease that’s taken root in your gut. The hours stretch out endlessly, like wading through molasses, every moment heavy and slow. You take on menial tasks, volunteer for mindless errands, anything to drown out the monotonous tick of the minute hand and keep your thoughts from spiraling.

Right now, that looks like driving a stack of legal documents to your father’s lawyer’s office across town. Something about getting them notarized, a task he could have delegated to any number of assistants but chose, for whatever reason, to assign to you. Maybe it’s his way of keeping you in his orbit, or maybe he just likes watching you jump through hoops. Either way, you’d accepted the task without hesitation. Being busy, even with something so tedious, feels better than being left alone with your thoughts.

It’s ironic, really. Here you are, running errands for the man you’re trying to undermine. He has no idea that his dutiful daughter has become a quasi-double agent. And while you’re unsure of how long you can keep up this charade, you know it doesn’t hurt to stay on his good side.

Speaking of your espionage, you’re not sure where you currently stand with the Boys. Despite the messy fallout from your last mission, you refuse to accept it as a failure. You’d gotten what you went in for—valuable intel that could guide your next steps—and ensured that neither you nor Hughie got hurt. Still, Butcher had seemed shaken that day, his cocky bravado overtaken by something darker. And now, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s avoiding you.

It’s strange, isn’t it? Feeling like you’re the one chasing them. After all, didn’t they kidnap you?

In the two weeks since your less-than-graceful getaway, you’ve been going through the motions at CytoGenix. Meeting after meeting, safety walkthrough after safety walkthrough, all of it an endless cycle of corporate theater. You sit through presentations filled with buzzwords and glossy slides, all while knowing that none of it is real. The golden image your father has built is nothing more than a facade, carefully crafted to dazzle investors and appease the public. Beneath the surface, you know there are darker truths lurking.

Your phone has become both a lifeline and a torment. You check it obsessively, waiting for some kind of contact—a call, a text, a sign from them. An unlisted number, a coded message, something. But the silence stretches on.

Each night, you return to your apartment, where the emptiness feels palpable. Some nights, you share the solitude with a bottle of red wine, but the nights always end the same: you, curled up in bed, sobbing quietly into the darkness. You can’t even pinpoint why, exactly. It’s everything—the questions, the doubts, the overwhelming weight of not knowing.

What role did Vought play in your mother’s death? How deeply is your father implicated? What the hell are you getting yourself into?

The questions claw at you, relentless, refusing to let you rest.

Now, you’re stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the sun beating down through the windshield, and the world feels unbearably stagnant. The air conditioner hums, but it does nothing to soothe the rising heat in your chest.

As you inch forward, watching brake lights flash and turn signals blink in hypnotic rhythm, a thought takes shape in your mind. A decision.

Enough waiting. Enough silence.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel, and you exhale sharply, determination settling over you like armor.

~~~

You arrive at the laundromat exactly as you did last time, a heavy basket of laundry perched upon your hip. You throw your items—a haphazard mix of spare work clothes and random loungewear you'd been putting off cleaning, into the washing machine and then you take up residence on one of the torturously uncomfortable hard plastic chairs.

You're halfway through reading the Harlequin Romance novel you found discarded in the waiting area when you hear movement from behind the front desk. An exasperated MM appears, shooting you a look that says a lot of things, but mostly ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

You ditch your copy of The Spanish Groom and flounce over to him, seeing yourself down the basement stairs. MM stops you mid-step.

“Don’t you dare,” MM warns, holding up a hand as you reach for the door leading to the basement.

“What? I’m just going to—”

“Nope. Not happening.”

You fold your arms, tilting your head at him. “I don’t like being kept in the dark. Especially considering how I was dragged into this circus.”

MM sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen, I think you’re outta your depth here. You seem like a good kid. You should walk away now while you still can.”

That lands like a slap.

Maybe it’s the week you’d just endured of your father’s lectures about your inadequacies. Maybe it’s the hollow ache you’ve felt since this mess began, a twisted sense of purpose finally filling the void. Or maybe it’s the sheer absurdity of spending 45 minutes reading bad smut surrounded by the drone of washing machines. Either way, your patience snaps.

You face MM fully now, eyes ablaze and unflinching.

“MM, I'm going to promise you something right now, and that is the fact that you have no fucking idea who I am or what reasons I have to be here. I know you might look at me and see some spoiled rich kid but I don't care. I'm here because I need to find out what happened to my mom, just like how Butcher needed to find out what happened to Becca. Now, please, I need to go downstairs.”

MM’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Butcher told you about Becca?”

You don’t get the chance to answer. A commotion erupts from below, drawing both your attention.

“Stay here,” MM says, already moving toward the stairs.

“Not a chance.” You push past him, your feet pounding on the steps as you race toward the noise.

The basement is alive with tension. Butcher sits on the worn couch, the rest of the group gathered around him, listening intently. Through the speakers, your father’s unmistakable voice drones on.

“Again, so sorry about that, Ashley. It won’t happen again. I’m beefing up CytoGenix security as we speak.”

Ashley Barrett’s voice cuts back, sharp as a blade. “Let’s hope so, Stanley. Now, do you have any good news for me today?”

“Cut right to the chase, why don't ya?” Your dad chuckles. “I can confirm we're ready to move on to Phase II of V2 testing. We've got twenty participants up at a facility by the Canadian border ready to receive their doses.”

“Excellent,” Ashley purrs. “And collateral?”

Your father interrupts her. “All subjects will be destroyed after the trial has ended. No collateral. They think they're getting paid two grand to participate in a weight loss trial.”

The blood drains from your face. Your grip tightens on the stair rail as the reality of his words sinks in.

~~~

Despite your abrupt entrance and Butcher's absolute refusal to make eye contact with you, you assimilate back into the group seamlessly. No one flinches when you start taking notes, marking down anything they say that you think might be important.

There will be a transport van delivering the experimental vials from CytoGenix to the test facility.

This van will be leaving CytoGenix headquarters at six in the morning, five days from today.

This van will only have two people inside of it. No security convoy necessary (read: your father is pinching pennies here).

The room erupts into excuses as everyone backs out of the mission. Annie and Hughie have unavoidable commitments, Kimiko gives Frenchie a look that clearly says not a chance, and MM mutters something about spending the weekend with Janine.

None of them want to say it, but the truth is that this mission scares the hell out of them, and after your close encounter with Homelander’s lethal gaze, you can't really blame them.

That leaves you and Butcher.

Before he can refuse, you stand, drawing everyone's attention. “I guess it'll be me and Butcher, then. We'll follow the van from the city toward the border and intercept them at some point.”

The group exchanges uneasy glances, but MM speaks first. “Are you sure? This could get… messy.”

You exhale, forcing down your nerves. “I’m sure. Look, I know I came off harsh earlier, but I need you to understand that I know exactly what I’m getting into. I’m not here by accident.”

The silence is heavy, broken only when Butcher leans back and claps his hands together. “Alright. It’s settled, then.”

Your head snaps toward him, stunned. You expected a fight, a dismissal, some offhand remark about babysitting you. But instead, he just… agrees?

This wasn't on your bingo card.

“It won’t be pretty,” Butcher continues, his voice low and gruff. His eyes flicker to yours but don’t linger. “We’ll have to run ‘em off the road. No witnesses. You get what that means?”

You swallow hard, nodding.

Realistically, you knew this was an inevitability. How were you going to steal and destroy the V2 samples without hurting, killing someone? Impossible. Still, it hurts to hear.

Butcher’s lips curl into something resembling a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good. We leave Monday morning. Follow ‘em at a distance ‘til we’ve got the right spot. No fuck-ups, no second chances.”

His words hang heavy in the air. The weight of what you’re agreeing to presses down on you, but you force yourself to nod again.

“Understood.”

It has to be done. Everything has a price.

~~~

After you and Butcher volunteer yourselves for the mission, the tension in the room slowly ebbs away. You all slip into comfortable rhythms: Kimiko and Frenchie cooking a meal for the group with a hot plate and microwave, and Annie fussing over everyone with blankets and sweaters. It feels good. You've missed this.

Over shared food and stories, the group lightens, but one by one, they make their excuses. Hugs, murmured see you soons, and the soft creak of the stairs signal their departures.

Once again, you and Butcher are the only men left standing.

Except, this time, you know how to take a cue.

On the heels of Annie and Hughie's exit, you pull your cardigan around your body, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. You turn to look at Butcher, in his usual spot on the couch. You steel yourself against the temptation to overstay.

“Alright, I guess I'll see you Monday, then?” You offer, casual.

Butcher doesn’t look up right away. Instead, he waves his hand. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the couch cushion beside him.

Embarrassment be damned, you don't hesitate. The bottle of Merlot sitting on your counter at home can wait.

You curl up on the couch opposite him, pulling the familiar scratchy blanket over your shoulders. He chuckles at the sight.

“Gettin’ cozy, are we?” He teases. There’s a playful warmth in this voice, but you don’t trust yourself to respond. You want to laugh, want to pull the tension free like a thread and unravel yourself for the man sitting next to you. But you cut the urge off, choosing instead to maintain a cool facade. Another part of you wants to interrogate him as to why exactly he took such great offense to your deviation from the plan on the day of the lab tour. Choosing neither, you do your best to appear aloof.

You spend the next few hours watching dots on the screen zigzag around, making note of locations and time stamps and conversations, none of which you're convinced are relevant. Still, anything is better than enduring awkward silence with Butcher.

Sometime in between when your father's Mercedes pulls up to a gentlemen's club (Butcher's words, not yours), and Monica's Rolls Royce docks at her apartment building, Butcher leaves the room. When he returns, he's brandishing a quart of whiskey.

“To a successful mission,” he suggests, waving the amber bottle in front of you.

It takes almost no effort on his part to convince you to take a shot with him, and it takes even less effort on your part to get him to agree to three more after that.

The lines between propriety and indulgence blur rapidly.

Soon the two of you are giddy, a glow radiating from your shared kinetic energy. The conversation flows effortlessly, the alcohol in your system shooing out any sense of doubt or lack of confidence in yourself. You laugh a little too loud, share a little too much. You would say or do just about anything to keep Butcher laughing like this, eyes finally meeting yours in warmth.

“You should have seen this guy, Butcher, he had a handful of Pringles and this rat was eating straight out of it!”

Butcher roars, throwing back another shot and offering one to you, which you take without hesitation. You're veering dangerously close to the sun here.

Finally, your last dam breaks, and you lose sight of your last fuck. The alcohol has effectively obliterated any pretense here. You lean in.

“You're all over the place, you know that?” You ask Butcher.

He squints down at you, confused but curious. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, one second I feel like we're good, friends even, and the next I think you hate me. You're unpredictable.” You lean back against the couch, blowing a lock of hair off your face. “Do you? Hate me, I mean.”

Your heart thuds as the silence stretches between you. The liquid courage is coursing through your veins now, you can tell, and you're thankful for the momentary reprieve from your constant state of deep anxious awareness.

Butcher finally meets your stare, really looking, gazing up at you through thick lashes. He grins shyly, and you can't help but notice how beautiful he is.

“I don’t hate you,” he says finally, voice low. “Not even close.”

You’re startled by the tenderness in his tone. Instinctively, your hand brushes his arm, grounding you.

“I'm sorry, really, about the other day,” he continues. “I was—I was out of line. You didn’t deserve that.”

You feel a bud of warmth bloom within you, pleasantly surprised at the ease with which he offers this apology. Instinctively, you reach forward, grasping a hand around his arm.

“It's okay. I'm sorry, too, about not keeping you in the loop that day. I didn't meant to scare you like that, I thought—”

He interrupts you with a hand on your knee, his thumb grazing your inner thigh. Your body reacts without your permission, thighs spreading ever so slightly, leaning your body forward.

“‘S’alright.” Is all he says, his voice rough and soft all at once. His eyes are fixed on your lips, tongue darting out to lick his own.

Suddenly the air in the room shifts, heavy and magnetic. The lamplight glow casts Butcher's face in a golden sheen. Everything inside of you is pulling toward him, and nothing about him is pulling away.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” he almost whispers. His eyes darken, inviting you in.

You exhale shakily, pouting. “Butcher, I—”

“Call me Billy, hm?”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on his. If you had anything you were planning on saying, it’s long gone now. All you can see or think about or understand in this moment is his proximity to you and the way he’s looking at you.

He just grins, pulling toward you, invading your space.

He rushes forward, connecting your lips. He's gentle at first, but only for a moment. Then he's deepening the kiss, twisting a hand in your hair, the other greedily grabbing your waist. He inhales deeply, pulling away to catch his breath for just a second before going back in for more.

Your body is alight, reacting to his touch instantly. You run your hands over his chest, pulling up to brush through his beard. You moan, a mumble from deep in your chest, shifting your weight forward to press your body to his.

For several breathless, glorious seconds, your mouths and bodies meld together.

Then he pulls away, stumbling to his feet and running a hand through his beard. His lips are flushed, his chest heaving.

You stare at each other, eyes wide in shock and desire.

You just kissed Butcher. And you cannot even pretend that you don't want to keep doing that, immediately and for a very, very long time.

“I… I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” he says, voice hoarse.

No. No no no no no. Don't apologize. Why are you apologizing?

“No.” Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. “Don’t—don’t apologize.”

He shakes his head, pacing. “I didn't mean anything by it. It—it doesn’t mean anything, alright? It's… not like that.”

The words slam into you like a cold wind. You force a laugh, choking down the lump in your throat.

Quickly, like it doesn't pain you deep in your soul to do it, you internally shove down your disappointment. You force your mouth into a casual smile, adjusting your shirt and hair.

“No, yeah, of course,” you lie, the words tumbling out too fast. You avert your eyes, shame and embarrassment flooding your body. Do not cry right now. “It's not like that. It's… it's cool.”

Stop saying cool, you sound like Lizzie McGuire.

You exchange uncomfortable pleasantries for several long, painful seconds, Butcher promising that he'll reach out to you about the next mission, you assuring him you won't barge in like this again, as you flit about the room collecting your things. The room feels suffocating now.

At the door, you glance back, hoping for a change of heart, a sign. But he just stands there, hands on his hips, drowning in his own guilt.

Then you're gone, head swimming, leaving that heavenly, fleeting moment suspended in the air behind you.

You will wish for this moment back many, many more times.

~~~

It's Saturday, and you're doing what any typical twenty-something does on a weekend: participating in a stakeout.

The car smells faintly of stale coffee and fast food wrappers. The leather seats creak as you shift in your seat, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill of the late afternoon. Outside, through the glass windows of the swanky restaurant, your father sits at a table surrounded by Monica, Ashley, and a few other Vought executives. Their movements are exaggerated and easy to follow, each laugh and gesture magnified through the pristine glass. You grip a pair of binoculars in your lap, though you haven't raised them in a while.

Annie sits beside you in the driver’s seat, the pale orange glow of the streetlights outside highlighting the faint freckles on her face. She chews absently on her lip as she watches the group inside, her blonde hair tucked messily into the hood of her sweatshirt. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it feels weighted, like it’s waiting for something to break it.

“They’re really going for the whole power lunch aesthetic,” Annie remarks dryly, nodding toward the group. “Your dad looks… smug.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “He always does when he’s in the room with people he thinks he can manipulate.”

“Family trait?” Annie teases, her smile small but genuine.

You shake your head. “Don’t lump me in with him.”

“You’re nothing like him,” Annie says quickly. “It's actually kind of hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that he's your dad.”

A small, appreciative silence falls before Annie glances at you. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

“I don’t know.” You glance back at the table, your father’s easy smile making your stomach twist. “Bullshitting. Lying. Complaining about his failure of a daughter. It’s what he does best.”

Annie frowns and glances back at the group. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he think you’re a failure?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “You don’t know my father.”

Annie hums thoughtfully, though her gaze lingers on the group. Then, after a pause, she says, “I don’t think you’re a failure. Actually, I think you’re pretty cool.”

You smile at her, unsure how to respond. It’s been a long time since you received a compliment like this. It’s been a long time since you had a friend.

You hesitate, fingers tapping absently against the binoculars. “Thanks, I think you’re pretty cool too,” you finally say. “If you don’t mind me asking… how exactly did you end up here? With the Boys, I mean.”

Annie lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, you know. Typical small-town girl moves to the big city to become a hero. Only to find out all the heroes are…” She gestures vaguely toward the restaurant. “Corporate nightmares.”

“Sounds familiar,” you say, voice laced with irony.

Annie smiles but sobers quickly. “I thought joining the Seven would mean… I don’t know, hope. Real change. But it was just… lies, all of it. Meeting Hughie changed that. He showed me the truth. And then I met the Boys.”

“And here you are,” you finish for her.

“Here I am,” Annie echoes, studying her carefully. “Can I ask you something now?”

You nod.

“What do you think of Butcher?”

You freeze, the memory of the basement flooding back. Butcher’s hand brushing against yours, the electric charge in the air before the kiss. The way your body ached when he extricated himself from you. Your face heats up. “It’s… complicated,” you mutter, looking away.

Annie narrows her eyes, an amused grin tugging at her lips. “He likes you.”

“What?” Your head whips toward her. “No. What are you talking about?”

Annie raises her eyebrows, clearly unconvinced. “Oh, come on. He’s, like… different when you’re around. Less growling, more… I don’t know, soft?”

“He’s not different,” you say quickly, your voice defensive. “That’s just… that’s just how he is.”

Annie snorts. “Sure, if by ‘how he is’ you mean he barely snaps at you and actually listens when you talk.”

“That’s not—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “There’s nothing going on.”

Annie studies her for a moment, her grin widening as she leans back in her seat. “Okay. If you say so.”

“I do say so,” you insist, though your voice lacks conviction.

Annie laughs, soft and genuine, shaking her head. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s good. Whatever’s going on—or not going on,” she adds with a smirk. “He needs someone to keep him grounded… and to put him in his place.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze shifting back to the restaurant. You don't want to admit how much those words mean to you, especially not when they’ve barely scratched the surface of what happened in that basement. Instead, you mutter, “Let’s just focus on the stakeout.”

Annie smirks but lets it drop. “Whatever you say, boss.”

You lapse back into silence, the tension between you replaced by a quiet understanding. Outside, your father throws his head back in laughter, oblivious to the eyes watching him from the car.

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darlingshane · 2 years ago

Text

everlasting spell

Pairing: Joe Teague x F!Reader

Summary: And here you lay in the bed, a masterpiece that exists only for his viewing. If he was an artist, he’d pick up a canvas, a brush, and paint to depict this moment exactly of you peacefully sleeping, of your body completely relaxed. It’d beat all those paintings you’ve shown him. He’d hang it right above his bed, so he could look at you every night before succumbing to slumber.

Content/Warnings: 18+, Explicit, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Smoking Weed, Alcohol Mention, 1950s, Mention of Era Typical Values, Marriage talk, Free spirited reader.

Word Count: 4k

A/N: This is an unexpected second part to – under your spell. They can be read separately. Though, I love that first one, and you should read it anyway if you feel like to.

— You can read below or at AO3.

The office feels like an oven today. The oscillation of the ceiling fan is becoming more of a bother than a help. You stop for a moment, close your eyes, lean on the desk, and let the mild air cool your face as you wipe the sweat dripping at the back of your neck. You listen to the busy sounds of the restaurant above getting ready for dinner. It smells awfully good, too. The kitchen is over your little reception area and the scent of food cooking carries through the building.

There's only one hour left of work. Then, you're free to go home and rid yourself of the suffocating office attire, have some dinner and enjoy one or two cool glasses of wine before you pass out in bed like every night.

As you let out a sigh and go back to your task, you hear the steps descending the staircase before the door opens. Your head snaps to the side to find Joe Teague entering the hot dungeon that people call an office. Clad in a grey suit and hat, he tips the brim of his fedora in your direction before removing it.

“Do you have an appointment, Detective Teague?” you question with a certain playful tone but try to keep it professional.

It's not unusual for him to come in unannounced, but it's the first time he's come into your workplace since you started your… affair. That's what you chose to call all those nights he’s slept in your bed. All those furtive midnight calls, all the kisses, all the times he’s been inside you.

“Never needed one. Is Lon in there?” His head tilts toward your boss' door that reads 'Lon Cochran' in golden letters over frosted glass. “Just need a couple of minutes of his time if he’s available.”

“I'll let him know you're here,” as you walk up to the door, you wink at Joe, and knock softly on the glass before cracking the door open. Poking your head in there, you inform Cochran that Joe Teague is here to talk to him.

“He'll see you now.”

“Thanks, Darling,” he palms your bottom with his ridiculously big hand as he walks past you.

“Joseph!” you mouth at him before he disappears behind the door.

You smile to yourself and go back to your task, flipping through a pile of files; pulling up the ones on the list of cases that Lon inquired of you to organize and put away in a couple of boxes.

Joe is in there for no more than five minutes before coming out of the office along with your boss.

“Show Teague Mr. Frederick's file. I gotta go. I got a lead on Woodcomb,” Lon glances at you, holding his briefcase in one hand, a hat in his other. “Ask Nico to walk you to your car when you're done here.”

“Sure, have a good evening, Mr. Cochran,” you nod formally at your boss.

“You too, doll,” then he pegs Joe with a nod. “Good luck with Frederick's, Teague. Let me know how that pans out.”

“I will.”

You wait until your boss has left to hand over the requested file to Joe. You show it in his direction and as he reaches to take it from your hand, you snatch it away playfully before handing it over.

He sits in one of the chairs across your desk and opens the folder while you resume your assignment.

“Who's Nico and why does he have to walk you to your car?” He lifts an eyebrow while inspecting the case file.

“Why? Are you jealous?”

“Just curious.”

“Nico works in the restaurant,” you explain, vaguely pointing at the ceiling. “There's a mugger in the area prying on women. Lon’s just been looking out for me.”

“Was it reported?”

“Yeah, I believe so.”

“Hmm, I'll look into that.” He then pulls out two pictures from the folder, holding them up to you, “did you take these?”

“Uh-huh. What are you looking for?”

“I'm trying to identify someone he met.”

“He's a social butterfly, this fella.” You point at Frederick. “He's met with a lot of people. Anyone in particular that you're looking for?”

“A lawyer,” his brow creases, surveying every photo.

“Dark gelled hair, fancy suit, nice tie, shiny shoes? Not your average court appointed lawyer?” you ask, remembering Mr. Frederick visited an attorney a few months ago, whose name you can't recall.

“That's the one.”

You go around the desk and go through the stack of pictures to find the one Joe is looking for. “Who's he, anyway?”

“A liar.”

“Aren't they all?” You remark with sarcasm, propping your ass on the edge of the desk, bending over to unbuckle the straps of your heels and take them off now that Lon is gone. “There’s a reason why it rhymes with lawyer.”

“That they are, sweetheart,” he agrees, and resumes going through the rest of the file while you keep sorting the stack of folders left on your desk.

As you walk around barefoot, your eyes occasionally glance in his direction. It's been a while since you’ve seen him with that many clothes on him.

You don’t have the most traditional relationship with the Detective. Joe keeps asking your hand in marriage, and you keep stubbornly refusing it, so he has to keep coming back to earn you.

Though, you're not intentionally playing a game here, it's entertaining to see him so smitten with you. Men usually move on after a while with you. They know you’re not that kind of woman to settle down with, and as soon as they realize you’re just a cheap lay, they move on quickly.

Marriage is not something in your cards. At least not yet. You're no stranger to how men lose interest the same way the second there’s a ring around their lover's finger, and you’re not ready to take that step without knowing you'll always be all for him. And given Joe’s history with his previous sweetheart, you're not looking forward to becoming the second woman to carry his name.

Joe Teague is a flirt, which makes it hard to tell sometimes whether his intentions are true or not. All you do is get high and fuck like animals. There's not much space in between to figure out the rest. It’s a dangerous thing to be involved with, albeit a fun one. It works for now. You don’t expect more from your dear Joe. This is the perfect arrangement for both, no matter what he says.

You love your independence in a world where you're being pushed to commit to a man for good to be the perfect housewife and mother. That's the American Dream. But it's not your dream. You love your freedom to come and go and partake in those activities that have filled your life with wonder and joy.

Lost in your thoughts, it takes you a moment to realize that Joe has risen from the chair, and now his arms are curling around your waist from behind. As one hand rests on your abdomen, the other slides down your thigh, over your skirt to hike the hem higher up.

“Not here, Joe.” You swat his hand away, as his nose draws the curve of your neck.

“I thought this is what you liked. Taking risks?”

“Not at work, Darling,” you turn your face and hold his chin to give him a quick kiss. “Maybe later. I have to finish this. I thought you had work to do, too.”

“I’m done with the file. Now you have all my attention,” he purrs, attempting to slip his hand under your skirt once more, and failing as you bring it to a stop altogether.

“Sh, sh, sh. Behave, Joseph,” you free yourself from his embrace, and point a firm finger at him.

He loses the knot of his tie and stays here until closing time to walk you up to the car, cause he’d prefer to see you safe and sound himself than trust somebody else with your safety.

When you reach your vehicle, he presses your back against the door, and finally you let him capture your lips as if he hadn’t seen you in ten years. It’s been nine days since you last had him, and his lips come up strong and demanding, urging you to kiss him just as passionately.

“Are you coming over tonight?” you mumble when he runs out of air, glancing at your lipstick smeared around his mouth, and reaching to wipe it with your thumb.

“I dunno… I think it's going to be a long night. You'll probably be asleep by then.”

“I don't mind,” you hold his jaw, pressing a small kiss on the bow of his lip. “Come over. Wake me up. I miss you, Sweet Joe.”

Joe scoffs and looks to the side for a beat. “You say you miss me, and then refuse every time I ask to move in together. God forbid if I ever mention wanting to marry you.”

“Just because I don’t want you to make an honest woman out of me doesn’t mean that I don’t miss you,” you point out, amused. “You wouldn’t enjoy being married to me anyway.”

“No? Why is that?”

“Cause, I’m a free spirit. And I’m accustomed to a certain lifestyle that wouldn’t be acceptable for a married woman in the suburbs. I have my vices, and needs. I like traveling, and going out whenever I want… and…”

“You’re afraid I’m going to try to change that part of you?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t you?”

“Sweetheart… Those are the things that made me fall in love with you in the first place. I’d never try to change what makes you… you.”

“You say that now, but I’ve seen it again and again in other women tying the knot, and suddenly they become something else entirely. I love you, Joe, but I can’t do that. I like what we have now, I don’t wanna change that. I hope you can accept it.”

A soft frown flashes under the brim of his hat. “I like what we have, too, but is it that bad that I want more of you?”

“No, it’s not bad. I’m not saying I won’t ever change my mind. I Just need to make sure that you mean it. If you do, you’ll wait till I’m ready. Which could be five days, 10 months, or 20 years. I don’t know. Are you sure you want that?”

“For you? I have all the time in the world, Sweetheart.”

He better mean it, you think, before kissing him goodbye.

A few hours past midnight, Joe uses the key you gave him to invite himself into your apartment. He hangs his coat and fedora in the rack before taking off his shoulder holster. He does it ever so carefully to not startle you with some strange noise. Though he’s going to wake you anyway, he prefers to be the one to do it with his hands, with his lips, with his desire.

Joe steps out of his shoes, and loses the tie that he drapes over the back of a chair along with his white dress shirt. He then pads to the kitchen and drinks a glass of water from the sink before splashing some water on his face to freshen up a little. Drops slide down his neck, wetting the hem of his white tank top. He decides to take a quick shower to brush off the day. He's spent hours sitting in a car on a stakeout, smoking cigarettes, and the last thing he wants is to bring that to your bed. It needs to be afresh, as if it was the first time. He wants to give you what you deserve. All this effort might not make a difference to your final decision, maybe it will, but little details matter to him.

After his shower, he wraps one of your towels around his waist and finally comes into your room.

When he crosses the beaded curtain, the colors from the neon sign over the window outside outline the semi covered curves of your body in a thin veil of vibrant red and blue hues. He switches on the night lamp to fully capture your naked form, partially covered with a sheet that barely covers your bottom half, leaving nothing to the imagination. Out like a light, you’re settled on your back, the rose tattoo on your hip poking over the hem of the fabric, and Great Mother Isis guarding your stomach beneath her wings. One of your hands rests close to your face on the pillow, as the other spreads over your belly. Your breasts comfortably on display, gently rising with your breathing. There’s an empty glass of wine on your nightstand with just a couple of drops at the bottom. Next to it, there is half reefer with red lipstick stains on the white paper.

Staring at you, mesmerized at how you look like one of those paintings you showed him of women exposing their bodies with not a care in the world. He recalls one in particular. The angle shocked him at first. It was called The Origin of the World, L’Origine du Monde, it rolled out of your lips in French like honey. It portrayed the bare torso and thighs of a woman. She’s sort of sensually contorted, soft curves, legs open, where the main focus is her sex, accentuated by the black hair around the mound and slightly parted lips.

He remembers your fingers slowly drawing those lines in the open book over your lap.

“Don’t you wanna touch her?” You asked. “She’s inviting you to.”

“I'd rather touch you,” he replied, having his hand drawing the real lines of your body after that.

Now, Joe Teague is no prude. He’s seen his fair share, but when it comes to art he can’t help but sometimes blush at the thought of someone in the past painting those lines so perfectly, so accurately, so beautifully. That’s what art is, you said to him. It provokes. Whether you hate it or you love it. There’s freedom in that. In a society where decency, morals and Religion is supposed to be the compass, art breaks and ignores those rules. It follows the artist’s muse wherever it takes him.

And here you lay in the bed, a masterpiece that exists only for his viewing. If he was an artist, he’d pick up a canvas, a brush, and paint to depict this moment exactly of you peacefully sleeping, of your body completely relaxed. It’d beat all those paintings you’ve shown him. He’d hang it right above his bed, so he could look at you every night before succumbing to slumber.

Part of him doesn’t want to disturb you, but there’s that everlasting spell that you cast upon him, compelling every part of his body to consume you entirely. It’s been too long since he’s had you like this. Okay, it’s been only a few days, but it truly feels like years. He misses you like crazy and can't stand staring at you without holding you in his arms for one more second.

With the towel still secured around his waist, he climbs into bed, the springs complain at his weight as he lays by your side. He gently cups your face, brushing his fingers along your jaw to pull you out of your dreams softly. He whispers your name in your ear, peppers your face with kisses as you regain consciousness.

“Wake up, sweetheart. I miss you,” he pleads, his voice sounding tired and needy.

“Hmm,” blinded by the dim light, you barely open your eyes, and burrow your head in his chest instead.

You can't believe Joe's here. It feels like you're still dreaming and this is just a figment of your imagination.

He hugs you closer as his fingers run down your spine and lets you adjust for a minute as you come out of that limbo between dreams and reality.

“You've showered,” you realize, capturing the familiar soap scent spread across his skin, and tilt your head back to look at his eyes.

“Uh-hm,” the corners of his lips curve up, as his hand moves to frame your chin.

“I've really missed you,” you echo those same words from earlier that feel heavier at this hour in your stomach.

“I'm here now,” his forehead touches yours.

“Kiss me,” you demand, just as needy as the dark lust his eyes bear. His fingers tighten on your cheeks, prying your mouth open to make room for his tongue. He claims those desperate words out of your lips, drinking in kiss after kiss as if your mouth belonged to him. His tongue runs wilder than ever – dominating, insatiable, ravenous for more. Your moan in his mouth makes his core ache as his hand releases your face and trails down your body, pushing the sheet aside, searching for that sweet spot between your legs. His fingers rub back and forth along your mound and all the way down to your opening. It doesn't take him long to make you wet, and vice versa. His erection stains behind the towel, and you reach with your hands to peel it off him. Your legs lace together as you find a good position to rub his swollen erection between your lips, letting your arousal wrap around him.

Joe swiftly moves to be on top of you, pushing your thighs wide open as far as they can reach before guiding his length between the tenderness of your entrance. The slick and tight pressure of your pussy welcomes that delicious stretch that comes from him filling that aching depth. He presses his whole body against you like the heaviest blanket. Joe gets lost in your kiss while his hips move painfully slow, as if he wanted to draw this forever. As the temperature rises, you claw your nails on his back, leaving red marks on the fabric of his skin. His thrust comes gradually faster, sharper, to the beat of your own heart that grows easily excited as he mumbles how much he loves you and how good you feel.

When he’s close to coming, one of his hands clutches to your ass so hard you can tell he’s leaving marks too, it only aids that raising pleasure that coils in your abdomen like a snake on fire. It pokes from inside, begging to be released from that burning agony.

“Oh, Joe… I’m almost… ” you pant heavily against his neck, his sweat polling around your lips, as you go breathless. “Don’t stop… please, don't stop…”

He grunts wildly above your ear, his back arching harder under your palms, as he makes his life mission to pacify that shared fire growing between the friction of his body against yours.

Tirelessly, he pushes into you over and over. Your body begins to shudder as you reach that high edge, and fall over. Your walls flutter around him as you let out a choked cry. His cock twitches a beat after, gifting you the seed that comes from his own orgasm. It sticks to your walls, warm and heavy. You press your palms to his ass, so he doesn't slip out of you. As overwhelming as it feels, you don't want him to move an inch away from you. Your entrance still contracts around him for a few more seconds as his strength comes out of his mouth between heavy breaths over your neck. His body goes limp on top of you, while his length keeps some of its hardness for a while, as you both descend from the high.

“Oh, God, I've missed this,” you say once your voice comes back. “Promise me you'll come more often.”

Joe lifts his head tiredly, his expression utterly relaxed as he captures your stare, “promise me that you'll marry me and nobody else. Then you can have me whenever you want, sweetheart.”

“You're like a broken record, Dear.”

“Say it,” his tongue flicks along the corner of his lopsided lips.

You think for a moment and still riding that mindless swirl of pleasure you can't help but surrender to his perseverance, “I promise, I'll only marry you, Joe Teague.”

His lips curve up higher, as his thumb touches your temple. “That's all I needed to hear.”

You stick out your head closer, placing a chaste kiss on his lips. If that's what it takes to have him like this every day, so be it. You're damned anyway, you think. Married or not.

He carefully slips out of you once he's completely limp and rolls to the other side of the bed, pulling the sheet over his top half. You reach for the glass on your nightstand to have a swallow of wine, but it's empty, so you grab the half joint instead and light it up. As you take a long drag, you lower your head to Joe's stomach, looking away from him, and then lift your hand for him to take it.

You pass it back and forth twice, and while he takes another hit, your hand slides under the hem of the sheet to play with his cock. Your fingers curling around his soft skin earns you the sweet rumble of a grunt and a few curses buried in his throat. You pump him slowly, getting him to grow firmer in your hand. When he’s hard as a rock, you lean over and wrap your lips around that big, flared head that tastes of you and him on the plane of your tongue.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” his head lolls to the side, taken by the pleasure your mouth offers, he puts the cigarette down and focuses on your head bobbing lower over his lap.

Your eyes flutter as you take him deeper between your teeth, letting him touch the back of your throat. Joe’s hand moves to hold the back of your head. His fingers tangle with your hair as you suck a little harder, swallowing his arousal. You keep a tight grip at the base, pushing a little harder against his balls, while you quickly drive him to insanity with the tip of your tongue swirling around the tip for a moment. Then, you feel his palm growing anxious, pushing your head to go down faster, as his other hand almost rips apart the edge of the mattress that clutches to it for dear life. You let him urge you. You know it makes him feel powerful, and part of you likes it when he takes charge. Obeying his wishes stirs your own arousal, and you ease that ache between your legs by pressing your thighs together.

His cock throbs between your lips, you feel those veins popping as you take him closer to cloud nine. He’s breathless, and groans like an animal at the same time. You suck him with burning passion, reveling in his arousal, until your tongue is fully coated in his seed. You swallow it. Gladly. It’s not the first time you’ve done it, and won’t be the last.

He pulls you up to his side, pressing your body flush against his as he looks at you with that unbridled devotion he can’t let go of. Riding high, he grabs your face, and claims your mouth one more time, unashamed of tasting himself on your lips.

“I’ve never met someone like you,” he mumbles for the umpteenth time, – meaning, he’s never had the pleasure to have someone’s lips eating his cock like you do.

“So you've said,” you grin, palming his broad chest.

“Bears repeating,” his thumb tugs your lower lip, glancing at the way it’s lovely plumped. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

“Language, Joseph,” you quip, he chuckles. “You shouldn’t talk like that to your future wife.”

“Future wives don’t do what you just did with their mouths, either.”

“Hmm, I’m special.”

“That you are, sweetheart,” he purrs and seals your mouth once more, promising long-lasting love and many nights like this to come.

#joe teague x reader #joe teague #mob city #jon bernthal #jon bernthal fanfiction #jon bernthal smut #fanfiction #smut #darlingwrites

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m00nj3w3l · 7 months ago

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No one asked, but I thought it was funny so here's my friend's assumptions and comments about the DMMD men from yesterday's morning:

(Aoba)

Me:"Ok here we go. Ultimate Gayboy. Blue hair and pronouns. What are your thoughts."

Her:"Aside from being Ultimate Gayboy he looks like he speaks in a stupidly high pitched tone and all *clicks tongue and goes aaaaahhhhh*. Softboy who probably uses children's perfume."

Me:"NOOOOO SHWTYSFGSHGGG"

(Noiz)

Me:"Ok he's a fan favourite AND I think he'd be your type since he's malnutrioned, a loser, and obviously autistic."

Her:"........He looks like he came out of 2020's Dream era. Fucking Minecraft Youtubers type of shit. He acts like an asshole, probably bullies you, then goes home and watches My Little Pony."

Me:"FUCK LMAOOOO"

Her:"AM I WRONG?? LOOK AT HIM!!!"

Me:"NONO YOU'RE SO RIGHT ACTUALLY"

(Koujaku)

Me:"Ahhh my favourite repressed bisexual let's go."

Her:"Good Lord he's there for the fanservice. Straight up. Fucking edgy man with the dark backstory; LOOK AT THE FUCKING SCARS COME ONNNN, THE DARK FRINGEEEE; is cold and distant and all that."

Me:"LMAO you're like. Right abt the backstory but he's a softie. Like the softest of the bunch. He was my fist fav cus he's so down bad for Aoba and utterly pathetic HAHA"

Her:"Ok I like him a bit more now."

(Clear)

Her:"What the fuck is that why does he have a mask."

Me:"Do you want to see him without it?"

Her:"Yeah please he looks like Einstein with that thing on."

Me: *swipes* "Here"

Her:"....Put the mask back on please."

Me:"HUH???"

Her:"He scares me!!! His eyes look vampiric. That green little scarf is a crime against humanity. Is he wearing women's clothing why are the buttons on his shirt and the one on his coat on opposite sides."

Me"I didn't like him either at first then he became a fav so trust me."

Her:"You're not gonna change my opinion."

Me:"I bawled like a baby at the end of his route."

Her:"I'm so scared."

(Mink)

Her:"Ok this man has a daughter full stop cus there's NO WAY a dude that looks as threatening as this wears a colorful bracelet like that if not for his kid. Beats people up then goes home to his daughter and plays tea party with her drinking from those toy cups (there's no tea in them just water), and getting his nails painted by her, and if you tell him anything about that he'll cry."

Me:"God how I wish it was like that man."

(Sei)

Her:"....That's a dude?"

Me:"Yeah."

Her:"Ok he's a trans guy for sure. The black straps poking out from his shirt are from his binder. The gloves with the skull hands are offensive and I can tell this game's old even just from those, and I HATE the layered choker."

Me:"What??? I love his outfit!!!"

Her:"It's not bad, it's just that either there's a mess going on behind his neck, or he made that choker out of a belt and is now suffocating."

Me:"I find the fucking Fedora hat more offensive if I'm being honest"

Her:"Fair enough."

(Ren) (I refused to tell her about the dog thing.)

Her:"(About his human Rhyme form) What the fuck? Is he a Pokémon? What is that?"

Me:"Wait hold on lemme show you his other look (the one in Sei's body)"

Her: *long, exagerrated sigh* "....Smash."

Me: *hysterical laughing fit ensuses*

(Vitri)

Her:"(About Virus) What the hell is that hair please tell me it's tied up and not styled like that for real."

Me:"Huh..."

Her:"Anyway he's a snobby cunt who probably went to private school thanks to daddy's money and brags about it. Probably calls people slurs."

Me:"JAHYSFGSDFJHHHDHG. Ok here's his friend. No, they aren't twins. (Shows Trip)"

Her:"......Ok, he scares me, and that outfit is ugly as fuck. These two look like they go to a tailor to get their outfits done personally just to show how rich and posh they are."

(Mizuki)

Her:"He's cute, but he looks like he'd be a member of BTS in 2015-2016. Look at him and tell me you don't hear the 'FIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAYYYAREEEEEEE OOOOEEEEEOOOOO' playing."

Me:"LMAOOOO YEAH..."

Her:"Anyway. He acts all tough, talks a lot of shit but probably gets his ass handed to him on a daily basis then cries about it. A bit of a loser."

Me:"YEAH ACTUALLY HE'S THE FIRST ONE TO GET INVOLVED IN SHIT ACTUALLY SO"

Her:"SEE???"

#i plan on making her play the game once she comes over lmao #i always involve her in my fixations and she has just accepted it #(dw i'll tell her about all the warnings and shit but anyway she's a bit of a freak too so she should be fine)#but still #later on we played swords with sticks we found in the park as if we were 5y.os and at some point she went #'if I scratch you on the face i'd make you look like the fanservice dude' LMAOOOOOOOOOOO #moon likes to rambletm #dramatical murder #queued

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am-i-interrupting · 10 months ago

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Favors Between Fiends | OATSH

If you like what I’m doing consider tipping me for priority requests & access to characters I don’t usually write for such as Charlie, Valentino, Carmilla, and more.

Summary: How Vox met Valentino. Background for future stories.

“Am I going to get told why I was just swiped off the street by a bunch of strangers and taken to a dark secluded room or am I just going to have to guess?”

The demon sitting atop the single table in the room instead of one of the two chairs was a new comer to Hell.

He was tall, taller than most. He had the antenna and wings of a moth. He seemed to have a penchant for zebra print based on his fedora and his coat of maybe it was his wings. Vaguely Vox recalled that his wife’s assistant, Starlight, was a moth demon as well and often hid her wings in the form of clothing. Either way, it didn’t matter. The point was the man was easy to spot.

Being easy to spot was a good thing in this case, at least for Vox’s purposes. The man was easy to recognize and easier to get information on. It did make subtle transportation of him a bit more complicated but still, he managed.

“Because I have plenty of guesses, guapo,” the man purred as he leaned over the table.

Vox kicked the door shut and didn’t react to the blatant flirtation.

He had no want to. He wasn’t stupid. The man was charismatic but Vox was loyal. Obsessive to some but he’d describe himself as loyal. Loyalty is what brought him here, not lust like so many came crawling to this man to.

“Valentino,” Vox said, the name rolling off his tongue in a pleasant way (in a different afterlife, a way he could get used to but not this one), “I’ve brought you here for a meeting.”

The moth chuckled. “Oh-ho-ho, please, do tell me more.”

Vox batted away Valentino’s reaching hand and placed his own on the back of his chair. He elected to stand behind it instead of sit.

“It’s been brought to my attention that you’re the man people have begun to flock to when they want something,” Vox said, “something of a particular interest.”

“Don’t you know it. Tell me, what is it that the big Overlord Vox wants from me, hm? Is the bitch getting boring?”

Vox reacted before he could even think.

He grabbed Valentino’s hand in an electric grasp and yanked him down. Valentino yelped as he fell off the table and was thrown into one of the chairs. It only made his fall onto the floor that much worse. He groaned as his head hit the floor.

“What the fuck?!” he yelled as three hands went to push himself up and the final went to his head, his hat having fallen off it.

Vox kicked the man. Then he pressed his foot above his heart. He allowed his weight to shift to the foot holding the man down.

“Do not ever insult my wife again,” Vox said in a low, glitching tone.

Red ran down his lip from where his teeth had nipped the inside of his mouth as he had scowled and bared his teeth.

“¡Muy bien! ¡Muy bien!” Valentino pleaded as his hands went flat against the floor in surrender.

Vox let his foot up and brought his hands out from behind his back to dust the together.

“See,” Vox said with a wide grin and gesture, “that wasn’t so hard!”

“Yeah, not anymore,” Valentino muttered.

Vox grabbed the chair that had toppled and slammed it into the ground. The air around filled with a screeching sound as he turned it towards Valentino and gestured.

Valentino scoffed. He got himself off the ground and slumped into the seat. Vox pushed the chair up as close to the table as he could get and smiled when he heard the breath leave Valentino’s lungs.

He walked around the table and pulled his own chair out, not a sound to be heard from it. He slid into it with practiced grace and ease. He placed his hands on either arm rest.

“Now, why I summoned you here,” Vox said. “I’m certain you have questions. I do as well and with luck, we’ll fine we both have answers.”

Valentino raised an unamused eyebrow. “And what questions do you have for me to answer?”

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Vox said. “First things first, I require your silence but I understand that’s not something you’re known for so allow me to propose a deal. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’ll get something for the strenuous effort it takes to keep one’s mouth closed.”

Vox pulled out a piece of paper and slid it towards Valentino. He picked it up and held it close to his face.

Vox continued on, “In exchange for your silence, you get a single cash in favor.”

“Just one?!” Valentino asked as he slammed the contract onto the table. “I’d agree to not talk about whatever questions you have— seriously, what is it? Do you have erectile dysfunction? They make pills for that, you know?— and I get a single favor?”

“You’re new,” Vox said, “so let me educate you on how things work around here. The weak get ignored. They get trampled in and crushed but they get ignored. You already have whispers floating around about you but you have no idea how to make them say things that will benefit you. Whispers that have already gotten back to overlords. Specifically, two overlords who have very strong morals and don’t hesitate to squash any bug that pesters.

“Fortunately for you, I have connections to those people. I can drive them off you scent and you can go back to being ignored or if you’re so insistent that you must fly towards the light, I can stop you from getting burned. No one else in all of Hell has that power except for me. It wouldn’t be a light, small favor. It would be saving your afterlife.”

Vox held out his hand, “Do we have a deal?”

A single begrudged, “yes,” would unknowingly start a forty plus year long relationship. One that Vox never really wanted but ended up having nonetheless.

A true deal for souls would be made when Valentino cashed in his favor. Vox regretted the way things would go but the outcome is something he wouldn’t trade much for.

If you like what I’m doing consider commissioning me for canon/canon stories AND personalized canon/reader stories.

#vox x reader #hazbin vox x reader #one author two show hosts

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mirror-archives · 8 months ago

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HELLAO MERLIN YOUR ASKBLOG IS VERY COOL AND EPIC :D

The environment feels so dreamlike and I really like Hatterler's design AND THE FLASHBACK I KEEP THINKING ABOUT THAT- Oughhhh I could go on about all the little details and how they set the tone so so well

THE FACT THAT HE JUST GOT SNATCHED RIGHT THEN ADN THERE AND HIS FAMILY PROBABLY JUST THINKS HE'S STILL OUT THERE SOMEWHERE

Omg and Melvin and the wagon were still outside....... AND THE FEDORA WAS IN THE HOUSE- Oh I have so many questions about what happened after he got whisked away

These little bits of evidence that the man was here, but gone as soon as he came. As if that house swallowed him whole....... Do you think Melvin's wondering where he went?

AAAAUGH

Pardon the rambling I'm just very excited about all of this and I think you're doing an amazing job :D

AAAA!!! THANK YOU!!!! I've actually been going over some of your tags for Hatter and I get so excited to see your thoughts!

And yeah, the Labyrinth is supposed to have this sort of dream-like quality to it, and I am so, so glad that I can pull it off!

To answer some curiosities, (since Hatter's blog is gonna be mainly just his POV) Griselda stepped on the hat on her way out and showed it off to the mom. The two of them shared a laugh about it before hanging it up. They just kind of assumed that Once-ler forgot it and didn't think twice.

Except Isabella swears that she saw her son wearing that old thing before he left...ah well, he got it at an old thrift store in town so maybe he just found a pair. The guy honestly has quite the collection of hats at home already. (His brothers bullied him for having a big forehead growing up, so he would always wear hats to cover it.)

Melvin on the other hand, that mule knew something was off. He ran off after about three days when he realized he wasn't being fed.

On another note, I'm currently working on updating the old reaction pics I had, so hopefully I'll be able to change them all out with my current art style over the next day or so.

#ask me things

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savage-rhi · 2 years ago

Text

Mending Shadows // Chapter 4

Summary:

Y/N was a simple Scavenger of Lucis, until meeting a deadly blow at the hands of an infected creature. At the crossroads of death, they are found by Niflheim’s cryptic Chancellor with his own agenda. Now bonded to Ardyn Izunia, and tossed into the world of Niflheim, Y/N struggles to cope with their new life as an Imperial Icon all the while battling their feelings toward their fate and that of Ardyn’s.

Click here to read on AO3

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open to a wall of metal and flickering light. The soft echo of their gasp bounced throughout the Niflheim airship as Y/N processed that they were alive. Their mind felt like a blank slate until their breath slowly began to return, then a flood of memories came rushing back into their skull. First came the goblin attack, being shipped off to the MedZin Company, their hollow corpse of their dreams, and ambitions, and then a pair of dangerous yet alluring golden eyes staring right into the recesses of their spirit.

“Alas, the dead come forth.”

Y/N jolted up and weakly scrambled backward from the cot they had been sleeping on. Their back rested against the cold metallic wall while their chest heaved, and their terrified eyes slowly began to make out the features of a familiar face.

“Oh dear,” Ardyn raised his brows. He stepped away from the shadows of the inner ship. As he drew near, he smiled warmly and chuckled. “It was not my intention to scare the daylight out of you. Not when you’ve endured oh so much!”

“W-who are you?” Y/N ignored the dishonesty in the man’s tone, going straight to the first thing that popped into their mind.

Ardyn made a face, disappointed and somewhat irate. “Surely you can’t be serious? Not when you saw me command magitek soldiers!”

Y/N shook their head, eyeing his intimidating form and watched Ardyn puzzle over the fact he wasn’t recognizable before he sighed.

“I suppose Lucian propaganda keeps much of the players of the war hidden these days.” Ardyn rubbed the back of his neck.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where are my manners?” Ardyn ignored the blunt question and laughed while getting a load of the confused look that plagued Y/N’s face. He cleared his throat, took off his black fedora and placed it over his chest, and performed a cordial half-bow.

“Ardyn Izunia. Niflheim’s Imperial Chancellor, at your service my dear!” He returned to his normal posture and placed his hat back on top of his unkempt hair.

“What?” Y/N was flabbergasted. It didn’t help that the pain from their bullet wound began to strike, causing them to wince.

“I must implore you to take it easy,” Ardyn gestured with his hands for emphasis, trying as to not encourage them to move about. “Even with the best the empire has to offer at this time, I can only ensure so much when it comes to your health. You’ve lost a lot of blood on the way here.”

Y/N didn’t say a word to him. Their gaze traveled elsewhere, taking in the intricate details of the ship's interior. From afar, Y/N could make out a medium-sized flag with the imperial crest. Two dragons facing each other, one gold and one black. Their tails somewhat intertwining down the middle. Red, white, and gold danced in the background of the fabric, further making the draconic entities pop out. To the left were signs that had sigils written out in the imperial text. Y/N guessed one of them said exit, but it was hard to be certain. Whatever doubts Y/N had about this man being in league with the empire, fell on the wayside.

“Izunia,” Y/N muttered to themself, closing their eyes. A vague memory of Y/N’s time at a pit stop began to surface, recalling an update about the war over the radio. They could smell the fries the head chef was making. Y/N imagined the salty texture hitting their tongue, and how good it would feel to get some comfort food while the reporter went off.

…A recent bombing near the western shores of Galahd has displaced many Lucians. Representatives of the empire claim it was an accident while transporting goods from across the seas. Over three hundred deaths have been reported thus far. King Regis had this to say about the recent calamity. “…I have gathered a team of strong men and women to investigate the situation firsthand. Imperial envoys have been contacted to leave the main ports until our team reports back. I cannot guarantee their safety given the strife the war has caused within the region. I encourage the Lucian people of Galahd to seek sanctuary eastward while Lucian patrols prepare to offer aid.” While King Regis refused to meet with empire representatives at this time, in a rare engagement, Niflheim’s Imperial Chancellor decided to make a statement regarding the tragedy. “…On behalf of Niflheim, I humbly give my condolences to those who have perished in this tragic event. Such a waste of precious lives. Although our great empire has been at war with Lucis, we still hold in our hearts a soft spot for those who have been caught in the crossfires of war.” Chancellor Izunia further added, “…While it’s understandable that King Regis cannot guarantee the safety of my esteemed peers, I would like to demonstrate the empire’s compassion as a token of peaceful ceasefire in Galahd. On my own gil, rations of clothes and food will be given freely to Lucian citizens near imperial checkpoints who have been displaced. On my word, they are to be given safe passage to the king's designated refugee zones. I ask for nothing in return other than implore the king to find in his heart sincerity for my own country's kin. It would be most dreadful to let emotions sway the best of us during a time of crisis.”

Y/N quietly contemplated the words that stemmed from Niflheim’s Chancellor. The richness of his voice hid the quiet contempt that was scattered throughout his charismatic speech. It seemed the chef from afar was thinking the same thing, for Y/N made eye contact with him and watched as he huffed. “Generous, but there’s always a catch with imperials.” Y/N smirked and gave a nod. “I don’t think imperials are the only ones limited to that kind of thinking.” “Ah,” The chef furrowed his brows while he put a fresh batch of potatoes into the fryer. “You’re one of them imperial sympathizers?” “Absolutely not,” Y/N shook their head and took a seat at the front of the bar. They sighed, and ran a hand through their hair, not minding the debris on their palms from a recent scavenging expedition. “I’m tired of hearing about people killing each other for whatever greater good they preach of. Goes for Niflheim and our own kingdom.” “Something we can agree on.” The chef gave a nod, then gestured his head to the radio and caught Y/N’s attention. “Do you think he was being sincere about helping them folk?” “The Chancellor?” “Hmm.” “I think so,” Y/N nodded. “I don’t think he was lying about being peaceful. Although it’s clear he’s got a grudge. The whole thing reeks of someone wanting to score public points while throwing the king under a bus. If it were me, I would’ve withheld the jabs. If he stuck to the compassion piece, he might’ve had a chance of winning over more Lucians if that’s his angle.” The chef smiled big, raising his brows in disbelief. “What?” Y/N chortled. “I know you’re a scavenger, clear as day given how worn your clothes are. What are you doing out in the dirt when you could’ve settled for being a politician?” “For probably the same reason why you’re a chef.” The chef let out a sincere hearty bellow at Y/N’s sarcastic counter-strike. “You’d be a damned good one alright. You got the smarts and the fuck all personality.” The chef grinned, taking out the fries from the fryer and began seasoning them. “I’m actually quite friendly, you just caught me on a bad day.” Y/N smiled. “I rest my case,” The chef shrugged then eyed Y/N with a sassy look. “If you want the fries, it’ll be 100 gil for the future Lucian envoy.” “Jerk.” Y/N laughed.

The memory left Y/N when they opened their eyes and were staring right at the man they had heard on the radio months prior. Ardyn was now sitting on a chair in front of the cot, watching them intently. The smile had never left his face. It was hard to read what he was thinking, much less comprehend how dire the situation was that Y/N found themself in. The pain of the scourge and their wound took precedence over the fact they were in custody of someone, who by all accounts, was a criminal in the ongoing war between Niflheim and Lucis.

“What do you want from me?” Y/N murmured weakly.

Ardyn raised his brows in surprise, and canted his head. “Why, I merely wish to help you! I take you are not used to such pleasantries?”

Y/N shook their head, recalling the words of the chef. “There’s always a catch.”

“Wise words indeed from someone so perceptive.” Ardyn sighed after he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. The manner was akin to a child who had been caught red-handed sneaking somewhere he shouldn’t. Alas, his intrigue began to grow and he examined Y/N carefully.

“Those other people,” Y/N swallowed. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

“Oh yes,” Ardyn coolly stated. His demeanor took a turn as he appeared genuinely morose. “Unfortunately, not even my own charity can rescue those infected from the scourge. Not in the later stages, anyhow. You’re quite fortunate I happened to be lurking about on business.”

Y/N wasn’t sure if they heard that last part correctly. There was no cure for such a curse. With what little knowledge Y/N had of the empire, they knew the imperials struggled with the starscourge just as bad as Lucis.

“How come you--” Y/N’s upper body lurched forward. Their hand immediately covered their mouth as a series of harsh coughs began to erupt. Warm black fluid gushed through Y/N’s fingertips, and a foul sweet smell began to permeate. A wave of constricting pain ensnared Y/N’s nerves and they whimpered while trying to contain the scourge seeping out of them.

“Oh dear,” Ardyn made a face. He scooted closer to Y/N and grabbed a hold of the hand that was covering their mouth. When they attempted to keep it in place, Ardyn’s grip tightened and he yanked the limb back, causing Y/N to cry out.

“Take it from me, it’s best to let this pass,” Ardyn stated firmly. He used his free hand to grab a silver tray nearby the medical desk next to the cot and placed it under Y/N’s chin. His face scrunched when Y/N violently began to spew the scourge out into the dishware. His nose flared while he had a brief memory of himself going through a similar ordeal. "Lucky for us both it seems I caught you at the final throes before stage three. That's it. Don't fight it. Another day or two and you would've been sharing the ground with your brethren."

Y/N gasped out loud when they felt a final push of sludge exit from their lips and into the tray. Their chest heaved as if they had been at the bottom of the ocean and rose to the surface too quickly for breath. The taste on Y/N’s tongue was horrid, reminding them of a time when they had eaten an overripe fruit. The fermented texture nearly made them gag again while they watched Ardyn put the tray down.

“Stage three?” Y/N gulped. “How do you know so much about the starscourge?”

“You can say I am a personal expert on the subject,” Ardyn mused. He got up from the chair and went to a small cabinet and sink. His hands combed through the shelves after opening the door.

“Your head is likely filled with a plethora of questions I can imagine. Unfortunately, my patience can only withstand so much courtesy. We don’t have much time before your body begins to seize. Ah, there’s the little devil!”

“What the hell do you mean by--gah!” As soon as Y/N felt a minutia of strength begin to return to them, it felt like an instantaneous sunburn had swallowed their body, and the heat against Y/N’s flesh continued to rise. Out of instinct, they started flailing around the cot trying in vain to press their tender flesh to the cool walls of the ship.

“This medicine will buy us some time for negotiation. Beyond that, I fear you’re done for. Unless of course, I have your compliance.”

Ardyn casually walked up to Y/N and grabbed a hold of their face tightly. He glared when Y/N attempted to slap him back.

Ardyn’s hand adjusted, forcing Y/N to open their mouth. He wasted no time shoving three green tablets down Y/N’s throat, tilting their head back so that they’d swallow. After he heard an audible gulp, Ardyn let go of Y/N and crossed his arms while peering down at them. He watched Y/N cough for several seconds, then decided now was good of a time as any to forward his proposal.

“Where to begin…” Ardyn teased with a smile. He met Y/N’s eyes, watching terror and then calm start to worm its way through their body. Their erratic breathing moments ago became gentle as did the burning sensation upon their flesh.

“W-what did you give me?” Y/N coughed, reaching for their throat to rub at a tender point where Ardyn had pressed too hard.

“A suppressant. It won’t cure the scourge, but will help you remain cognitive while we have a little chat.”

Y/N trembled. Besides the draft that filtered through the imperial airship, they felt a cold fear start to take root despite the aid Ardyn had offered thus far. With the aggression of his gestures, Y/N understood they were still very much in a hot seat. Anxiety pooled in Y/N’s chest, wondering what exactly the imperial Chancellor would want with the likes of a scourge-infected Lucian.

“What do you know about MedZin?”

Y/N was taken back. “M-MedZin?”

Ardyn nodded. “I know I have asked you this before, but I need a thorough answer, unlike the one you gave before losing consciousness.”

Whatever was in the medicine Ardyn forced them to take was certainly having an effect. Y/N wasn’t sure if they liked how numb their limbs were beginning to feel, however. They lied back down on the cot and closed their eyes, before speaking up.

“They are looking for a cure, for the starscourge,” Y/N winced. “If you’re infected, and caught by the glaive or guard, they send you away to them. They’re privately funded by the king, and not many know about it except those who had to send away loved ones. That’s all I know. I swear.”

“Do you happen to know which outpost you and the others were being sent to?”

“Outpost 98,” Y/N murmured. “It’s where the infected go to be tested before they--”

“Perish.”

“Yeah,” Y/N swallowed. Ardyn sounded so calm when he said the word that Y/N tensed. “At least that’s what I heard in passing. Everything’s a blur. I can’t think.”

“I’m surprised you’re this coherent given everything that has happened.” Ardyn chuckled. He paused for a time, watching the scourge veins on Y/N’s arms rise and fall. He didn’t bother to hide his fixation. When Y/N caught on, he smiled at the alarmed look they wore.

“I require your assistance for a mission on behalf of Niflheim. Do try to pay attention for I’ll only say my piece once. The clock is ticking as we speak.” Ardyn began. His honey eyes locked with Y/N’s worn features as he sighed.

“MedZin, the company upon which you were to be discarded, has stolen valuable intellectual property from the empire. I was sent forth to retrieve it back. Given the private nature of the company, I’m having trouble finding the outpost I need to infiltrate. 98 is the one I seek.”

“And you need me to get in…” Y/N whispered to themself.

“Precisely,” Ardyn purred with a grin. “As you can imagine, with our two countries at war, I can’t easily waltz my way inside.

Negotiating with your precious king is out of the question given the current stalemate. If MedZin were to unleash the sensitive information I’m after, I fear the war will come to a catastrophic end for both parties. It’s that serious I’m afraid.”

The damned war… Y/N thought to themself. It was hard to tell if Ardyn was telling the truth or not. His features were honest in Y/N’s eyes, but the cunning of his tone with the few enunciations here and there had them questioning the validity of his statement. Y/N knew they were in no position to question him. Not when he held all the cards in his hand. Not when Y/N knew he could easily turn around and hurt them just as easily as he helped.

“What’s your plan?” Y/N hoarsely croaked.

Ardyn’s eyes lit up while he smirked. “I intend to bring you to MedZin’s doorstep as a bargaining chip. At least that’s how I wish to present you. That’ll give me access to the facility. Once inside, I’ll need your help looking for where MedZin stores its research.”

Y/N felt an uncomfortable tremor throb in their shoulders. They weren’t sure if it was from the way Ardyn spoke of them like an item, or if it was due to the scourge rising back to power due to the suppressant weaning off. Either way, they felt unsettled by it all.

“What happens when I’m done helping you?” The question had been in the back of Y/N’s mind the entire time Ardyn spoke. “What will happen to me?”

“You may have anything that you want from yours truly,” Ardyn gestured at himself with pride. “Riches, land, it be not extravagant nor chaste. We will go our separate ways after the dust settles and I’ve paid out my dues on your behalf. The extension upon your life I will be gifting unto you is more than enough, but alas I am feeling rather generous.”

“Extension?”

“Why yes,” Ardyn’s voice lowered. His golden eyes glanced over Y/N as if they had something peculiar on their face. “I’d say you’d roughly have a few months to enjoy living before the scourge engulfs your body and soul, should you choose to accept my proposition.”

Between their head pounding and pain pulsing through their bones, Ardyn wasn’t making a lick of sense to Y/N. There was no way anything he said was true. The guard made it clear the night Y/N killed those innocents, that there was no cure for the scourge. There was no miracle pill to make it completely go away. Ardyn himself said they only had a few days before ending up like the other infected. So why all the contradictions if not to mess with their mind? That’s the only way Y/N could justify it. He was playing tricks.

“N-no.”

“Beg pardon?” Ardyn raised a brow.

“No, I won’t help you.” Y/N weakly shook their head.

The face Ardyn made was like that of a patronizing parent; disappointed that their kin couldn’t see for themself what was ahead of them. There was also an uneasy anger in his eyes that was brewing with each passing second he allowed Y/N’s declaration to resonate.

“Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want it because I don’t want to live.” Y/N’s voice tremored. The corner of their eyes began to water. “Y-you don’t have to be so cruel as to trick me that I’ll have more time. If you need help, just ask but don’t lie to me.”

The irritation that graced Ardyn’s features dwindled down as he listened. When it dawned on him that his initial assumptions of Y/N’s rejection were false, he couldn’t help but darkly chuckle. He tilted his head up, glancing at the ceiling of the airship, and closed his eyes.

“Oh my naïve friend,” Ardyn’s voice teased with a dark rumble. He lowered his head, and opened, revealing a pair of wide gold and black eyes. Scourge marks instantly began to travel along his flesh, blood receding to make room for the darkness that dwelled under his skin. A purple miasma-like aura began to leech from his body, imbuing Ardyn with heavy energy that Y/N could feel calling out to them.

“I’ve been nothing but honest with you.” Ardyn finished, his voice no longer rich but low and daemonic.

Y/Ns heart pounded a million miles in their chest. The sound was so powerful, they could feel their pulse in their ears drumming away; canceling out everything but what was staring them down. There was also a faint but distant screeching in the back of Y/N’s skull. The entity that came from the miasma at the caves wanted to flee; to get away from this higher life form within its family tree.

“W-what are you?” Y/N’s voice quaked. They fought desperately against the intense fight-or-flight response that surged through them.

The horror and familiarity in Y/N’s eyes had Ardyn entranced. He lowered the upper half of his body to theirs, hands on either side of Y/N's head on the cot while his daemonic eyes stared right through them. He slowly parted his mouth, revealing teeth that were slightly sharper than normal.

“I am Eos's best-kept secret,” Ardyn whispered. “I am Adagium and I am eternal. Such is my curse and blessing. Believe me when I say the scourge that resonates within your body will destroy you in due time, and I can halt the process; make it less painful.”

Y/N shut their eyes tight, gasping when Ardyn’s left hand cupped their cheek. His palm felt so warm to the touch that it stung, thumb carding gently over a trail of black veins pulsating along Y/N’s jawline.

“The darkness within you is a lower lifeform in the collective,” Ardyn began. “The scourge works like a hive, and you can say that I am the queen bee. If you consent to consume my essence, the scourge in my body will override what dwells in you. I will share with you my power, and that power will keep you afloat. In return, you’ll lend me your strength to take down Medzin. On my word as Chancellor, you will be well taken care of until the scourge naturally kills you after my influence wanes. Doesn’t that sound marvelous?”

Y/N felt his voice worming its way into their mind. A horrible sensation began to fester along their muscle and nerves. Y/N had never been through a meat grinder before, but they imagined it would be as awful as this. Despite how terrified they felt, their body yearned for relief more than anything.

“Can you grant me death?” Y/N faintly muttered, finding it difficult to speak.

Ardyn’s daemonic features slightly softened, taken aback. “Death?”

Y/N nodded against the cot weakly. Even in the void of his eyes, Y/N could see he was swimming away with thoughts.

“I told you before, I want to die. If you promise to kill me after I help you, I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“There must be some ulterior motive on your part,” Ardyn said in disbelief. He peered deeply at Y/N’s eyes, trying to find deception in their gaze. “No one is that idiotic.”

“I have nothing to lose,” Y/N winced. “Just don’t make me kill anyone, please.”

There it is… Ardyn thought to himself. The melancholy in Y/N’s final remark painted a grisly picture in his head. He knew they had killed before. He could see it in the way Y/N shuddered. The circumstances had him curious, but time was of the essence. Ardyn needed to leave Lucis within a certain frame, and Y/N didn’t have much longer.

“Very well,” Ardyn murmured. “I will hold you to your vow, Y/N.”

Carefully, Ardyn removed himself from the cot. He traveled over to his long coat that was hanging up, and took out a dagger from one of the inner pockets. Bringing the tip of the blade to the flesh of his wrist, Ardyn cut deeply. He grimaced with a grunt and felt a warm trail of blood fall from the wound. A black sludge began to leak soon after.

With an outstretched arm, Ardyn walked over to Y/N and presented his wrist above their lips. Droplets of his blood began to fall on their face, and Y/N’s head jerked to avoid it.

“Open your mouth,” Ardyn coaxed. “It’ll be fast, I assure you.”

Y/N wasn’t sure what they were expecting when Ardyn mentioned they would consume his essence. They felt gross, but desperation was a wondrous power. Another throb of pain deep inside their body was enough to get Y/N to part their lips. Ardyn’s hand lowered further, and then they felt it. His blood and darkness dribbling down their tongue and throat, tasting bitter and metallic. Then it hit them; an explosion of a million faces.

Y/N’s eyes constricted, and their pupils fully dilated. They choked on their gasps, enduring an onslaught of visions. Lucis, Niflheim, Tenebrae, and Accordo all came and went in the blink of an eye. Snapshots of experiences danced in and out of Y/N’s peripheral. They could no longer see Ardyn nor taste the earthy texture of his blood. Time had no beginning nor end, everything that had come to be was everywhere all at once.

The flashbacks came to a halt when Y/N saw themself sitting under a tree. The smell of wheat combed the air, and upon their shoulder, there was a weight.

Y/N looked down to see a radiant patch of blonde hair and felt the warmth of a giggle. A woman in white looked upward to meet Y/N’s gaze and smiled brightly. Y/N had no idea who she was, but this woman emitted an aura of kindness that they desperately wanted to cling to.

Before Y/N could stroke the woman’s hair, they suddenly were pulled back into a void. There was no glimmer of light in this darkness, only a sensation of dread and power. The power. It was like a drug, and Y/N started to swim further out to sea in it against their own will. The being known as Y/N might as well had not existed, for they were a part of a collective of screeching souls. That was the last thing Y/N could remember before they fell unconscious.

“Here’s your stop!”

The intrusive exclamation caused Y/N to jolt awake. The memory was gone, and all that was left was the present and a feeling of weakness.

“What?” Y/N asked tiredly, not comprehending what the driver said to begin with.

“We’ve arrived at Galdin Quay. This is the place you wanted to get off at, right?”

“Yeah,” Y/N nodded and adjusted their body against the seat of the car. Their arms stretched before a yawn left them. “Sorry if I snored at all.”

“No biggie. You looked tired as hell, anyway, you best be leaving now.”

“Right,” Y/N nodded again. Even though the man who gave them a ride was generous for doing so, they knew it was best to never overstay a welcome. After paying up a few hundred gil for the trouble, Y/N got out of the passenger side of the vehicle and shut the door. The man sped off not long after, and Y/N watched as the tires churned up sand and dust clouds.

As the heavy debris began to wade, Y/N took in a deep breath. Galdin Quay and all its splendor greeted them through the fog of dirt. The beach was teeming with life: there were travelers from Lucis to Accordo, flocking to the resort, fishermen trying their luck at becoming legends, and Hunters mingling with Scavengers on the docks swapping tales of adventure. Children ran through the surf, and campers from across vast regions were set up near the cove. There was no doubt they’d be dealing with the giant crabs that loved to emerge from the sea of Cygillan when it became cool. Y/N felt a temptation to venture down and warn folks, but their sadness drowned whatever altruism tried to rise.

There was so much spirit at Galdin Quay, that Y/N had to remind themself this wasn’t a reunion. No. This was their first step toward saying goodbye. With a heavy heart, Y/N forced themself to begin their final walk.

Less than a half hour, Y/N found themself in front of their apartment with a spare key. The waves along the cove rolled in, creating a whooshing noise that normally would’ve soothed Y/N had circumstances been different. With a sigh, they shuddered while unlocking the entrance and stepped inside.

Y/N flicked on a light near the door, and they were greeted by a life frozen in time. An old blanket was balled up on the couch. A stale bag of potato chips lay on the table in front of the TV. Shoes caked with dirt from previous expeditions were tossed here and there. A small lamp toward the kitchenette flickered on and off, Y/N having forgotten to get a new bulb in town. There was the old cuckoo clock that came with the rental when Y/N moved in, but the chocobo didn’t come out of its nook when the hands struck twelve. It was amazing, how everything was as Y/N left it before traveling to Leide. The small space didn’t lose its charm because its owner perished.

There was a weird feeling that dwelled within Y/N as their brows furrowed when looking at the calendar nearby. The previous month remained present. Had it truly been that long since this nightmare began? They didn’t allow themself to think about it for too long, out of fear they’d lose the strength to pack.

Two hours flew by, and the apartment slowly began to revert into a blank canvas; prepared for a new owner to give the skeleton flesh once more. It perplexed Y/N how much of their life could fit into so many boxes. The insignificance of it all compounded with each material possession being a measurement of a life lived had Y/N contemplating just how unfinished their story was. They never aspired to be anyone of major significance, and that was fine by them. A life of peace and enjoying Eos for what it was, was enough for one person. Y/N would be lying to themself though if they didn’t feel a twinge of anger at their being for not working harder.

Maybe if they stayed in Insomnia and continued to work their two jobs it would’ve paid off. Maybe if they hadn’t been so nonchalant or indecisive with their job as a Scavenger, they would’ve had enough gil to move out of their shack at Galdin Quay. Maybe they would’ve had their dream house and land in Duscae. Maybe they would’ve found a better career. Maybe they could’ve aspired for education. Maybe, just maybe, they never would’ve encountered that damn goblin, and maybe the corpses of the people they slain wouldn’t be in their mind at all hours. Maybe they shouldn’t have gone after that turbocharger. Maybe they should’ve brought someone with them to the caves. Maybe they would’ve heard the goblin…

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

The what-ifs plagued Y/N’s mind to the point where they screamed, and threw a glass vase against the wall. The crashing sound was fragile as were their sobs. Their life would be over soon, and Y/N had nothing to show for it. Maybe though…maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Y/N wiped away at their eyes after sobbing for a while, remembering a conversation they had with fellow Scavengers years ago. The subject was about the meaning of life. As cliché as it was, there were some interesting insights that Y/N took to heart that evening. One of which was a camper's philosophy of “leaving the ground better than when you found it” or making sure no trace of your trespasses remained on Eos. The thought brought comfort to their emotional wounds, giving Y/N the energy to pack the last of their belongings and leave a note to the landlord with directions.

“Until next time,” Y/N murmured as if the small apartment could hear their plea as they finished the last of their will. They departed without looking back.

After taking a brisk walk along the cove to clear their head, Y/N now contended with the most important task of their trip: breaking the news to loved ones, and they were finding out real quick how there was no right way to tell someone they were sick and dying. It didn’t matter how many times Y/N rehearsed it, for nothing would suffice each and every hypothetical outcome.

Over the years of being a Scavenger, Y/N had gained many friends and allies. People who didn’t mind that Y/N constantly had to travel for work, or would be out of the Quay for weeks at a time. Once home, Y/N would be greeted as if they had never left. For the life of a Scavenger, Y/N felt blessed in this regard. Not many in the field could say they had such a strong social network. Being a Hunter was lonely, but there were always guilds; packs that would take in the lone wolves when the work became a burden. That couldn’t be said for Lucian Scavengers. Not many clients longed for artifacts of the past or discarded goods. The community was small, and mostly filled with old timers who couldn’t cut it at regular jobs. What Scavengers lacked in being social, they more than made up for it in trust, and Y/N once upon a time prided themself on being someone loyal to a fault when it came to their work. It reminded them yet again of the better choices they could’ve made with their life, career-wise. Yet the thought of never being able to explore Eos on their terms stung like a hornet's kiss; it burned with an ache that would never truly fade.

From afar on the docks leading to the port, Y/N saw several familiar faces light up upon seeing them from afar. Hands shot into the sky, and hollers of joy bounced along the beach. Only the waves crashing into the earth silenced the cheers.

With a morose smile, Y/N stuck their right arm up and waved back. For a moment, they forgot about Ardyn and their death. The gift of the present coiled around their heart, soothing their ills, until they winced.

Y/N looked down at their palm. The scourge and its black web pulsated under their skin. Whatever peace they had faded, and their eyes peered back up. Though Ardyn proclaimed they couldn’t infect others now, it didn’t tamper down the petrifying thought.

The beaming smiles and enthusiastic calls grew louder, and as their friends came rushing toward them, Y/N wondered if their relationships could withstand the tyranny of the scourge robbing them of the community they worked hard to build and love.

#mending shadows #ardyn x reader #ardyn x you #ardyn lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #ffxv ardyn #ffxv fanfic #ffxv

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chrisgraves09 · 11 months ago

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The Return to Freddy’s Rewritten: Chapter 3

>Chapter 3: The Diner's a Paradise! Right?

It is nearing the end of the 1960s with there being a children's entertainment diner opened on October 3rd of 1968 called Goldie's ParaDiner. It was managed by a kind and welcoming individual named Mr. Fredbear who is in charge of the place's income and maintenance.

The location is a place where kids and grown-ups alike will be able to be entertained by an animatronic bear and bunny on stage. It is also home to a special type of animatronic group that is specially designed where it could double as both an animatronic and costume called springlocks suits. The two springlock animatronics are named Fredbear and Spring Bonnie, with Mr. Fredbear passing his name to the yellow bear himself of course.

Having quit their job at Fazbear INC, both Gron and Vincent decided to work at the diner, not having to worry about discovering any abused employees and worshipping robots anymore. Gron works as an performing entertainer known as "The Green Jester", wearing a green and yellow outfit, white gloves, a jester hat and shoes, and a grey bowtie. Gron didn't mind this at all for this is what he was known as before getting married to his loving wife Lynda.

Vincent also worked as an entertainer, but he also manages behind the counter, collecting the money for every customer that comes into the restaurant. He also recorded training tapes for any new employees applying to work at Goldie's ParaDiner too, always making sure to recommend newcomers to listen to each one of his tapes and remember them carefully.

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On November 5th, Mr. Fredbear was expecting a very important shipment to come in before the diner closes for the night. Once it arrived and was carried to Backstage, he opened the large package and was very confused by what's inside. What he had ordered did come, being two cheaply made costumes of Fredbear and Spring Bonnie. But there were two animatronics that Mr. Fredbear did not recognize. They seem to be like the normal springlock suits that were already shipped not too long ago, however looking at both of their blueprints, their endoskeletons are drastically different to what he was used to with the springlocks. Then, Vincent walked into the room just as Mr. Fredbear turned his head towards him.

"Oh! Hey, Vincent," Mr. Fredbear spoke with a slight smile before turning back to the blueprints with a troubled expression. Seeing how puzzled the man was, Vincent walked over and joined him, looking over the blueprints.

"What is it you're noticing?" Vincent asked Mr. Fredbear, his concern reflected in his voice as he stood beside him.

"Well..." Mr. Fredbear began, his voice taking on a more puzzled tone as he tried to explain what he was seeing. "It seems these two animatronics are different than the two springlocks we have... the design differences and the way their inner mechanisms and endoskeletons are set up are all very... weird."

Vincent takes a look at both the blueprints and the two animatronics in front of him. One was designed as a humanoid wearing yellow clothing and a black fedora while the other is designed to be a yellow cat holding what looks to be a staff.

"Strange," Vincent commented with a confused expression. "Uh, hey. Where are you ordering these animatronics at by the way, if you don't mind me asking?" Mr. Fredbear's tone takes on a puzzling tone as he looks for the trademark or logo of the company he bought the animatronics from.

"Oh, um... They came from Fazbear INC, I believe?" He then pointed to the company's logo on the bottom right of the blueprint to which Vincent looked at it and slowly frowned, now understanding where the springlocks had come from as his expression darkened.

"So... his company is still in business after 1963," Vincent said darkly, looking at the two yellow animatronics. Mr. Fredbear turned to Vincent with a puzzled look, not understanding what he's talking about.

"Who's he?" he asked. "The man who produces these robots," Vincent responded grimly, pointing at the blueprints of the animatronics. Mr. Fredbear looked at the Fazbear INC logo and saw who Vincent was talking about.

"Oh, you mean... him?" He said, his expression becoming darker and more concerned as well. Vincent nodded solemnly at his words.

"We thought we did what we could to get his company out of business. But I guess that wasn't enough," his tone grew dark before facing Mr. Fredbear. "Why are you ordering animatronics from that horrid company? Were you under some contract that you can't back out of?"

Mr. Fredbear simply sighed with a regretful tone. "Yes, unfortunately. Because I had already placed my orders to the company, I'm under a contract with Fazbear INC that I'm unable to back out of, I'm afraid," he said, "the only way for me to end the partnership with the company is if both parties agree to end the deal." Vincent could only let out a small groan, understanding Mr. Fredbear's predicament.

"And knowing what he plans to do with his company, he isn't surely planning to end the partnership," he said in a quiet, yet pissed tone. Mr. Fredbear looked out to space and sighed again, expressing his helplessness in the situation.

"Well, the good part about this is that he isn't actively trying to hunt you and Gron down," he said, trailing off with a concerned tone, "... but it doesn't seem to matter now at this point." Vincent just remained pissed, but solemnly nodded to his words.

"So what do we do with these two? We can't have anyone wearing them in case they malfunction upon putting them on," he asked. Mr. Fredbear looked up at Vincent with a slight smile, signifying he does know what to do before going over to carry the humanoid animatronic. "Take the cat animatronic and follow me," he said, walking out of the Backstage and into the cool silent dining room.

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

After a few minutes, the two yellow animatronics are thrown into an underground basement just below the diner by Mr. Fredbear and Vincent. While Mr. Fredbear returned upstairs, Vincent stayed behind for a moment, examining the cat and human animatronics before following Mr. Fredbear up the stairs and locking the basement door behind him.

"When you begin recording new springlock suit tapes in the morning, please mention to never pick the ones that have recently been shipped," he instructed Vincent carefully, "we don't want anyone wearing as a unrecognisable character and spray blood on the customers if they even take one step, alright?" Vincent silently nodded before the pair exited out of the diner, getting ready to lock up.

"Have a good night, Mr. Fredbear," Vincent called out before walking off. Mr. Fredbear waved back as he locked the front door up, heading home in the cool evening.

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On December 23rd, two days before Christmas, Gron decided to take his wife and kids to Goldie's ParaDiner for an early family Christmas trip. It was a cold and snowy day, but he was determined to make it special for his family. His kids including Charles, Brody, and Jackson were particularly excited about going there and enjoying themselves.

"Go ahead and take the kids to the car, I gotta get something before we go," Gron told Lynda as he turned off the fireplace. Lynda nodded in agreement, taking the kids to the car first before waiting for Gron. He grabbed his lucky fedora off the couch, adjusted his tie, and left the living room. Locking the front door, he walked into the car and started up the engine.

"Ready for a fun time at Goldie's?" Gron asked happily to his three kids before buckling his seatbelt. Charles, Brody, and Jackson all nodded with a bright smile as Gron began to drive the car to Goldie's ParaDiner.

As he was driving the car towards the diner, he didn't notice a light blue car driving right passed them and struck a semi-truck, making it go out of control and causing the rope holding the oil tanks to loosen, making two of them roll off the flatbed and starting rolling towards the family's car.

"Gron, look out!" Lynda yelled his name as Gron looked up just in time to see the two oil tanks rolling towards them at an extremely high speed. He quickly turned the wheel, just nearly missing the rolling tanks and crashing off road. The impact was severe with the car having a massive dent and everyone inside nearing death.

The light blue car then parked just on the side of the road and out stepped from the vehicle is a man wearing a red trench coat, blue shirt, brown hair, and a sinister grin on his face. He walked to the family's car and surveyed the damage done to them. He turned his head towards Gron who was barely moving and smiled a cold smirk.

"Maybe after this event, you will learn to never fuck with me and my business ever again. If you survive that is..." He whispered before walking back to his car and driving off. Gron couldn't tell who the person was outside and can't make out what they were saying before being slowly knocked unconscious.

The semi-truck driver then stepped outside and surveyed the damage caused by the crash, immediately contacting emergency services by dialling 911. The ambulance soon arrived bringing the injured family to the emergency room for treatment.

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The ambulance arrived at the hospital and rushed the family inside, bringing them into the emergency room where they were quickly handed to the doctors inside. When the doctors entered the room, they were surprised to see the family in such horrible conditions, especially Gron being particularly hurt in the accident.

As all the doctors and nurses came in, an unknown doctor from outside stepped into the room and ordered them to go take care of another patient, saying he'll take over the procedure of the family. The "doctor" walked up to Gron's unconscious body, looked at him closely for a long time, and spoke in a cold and emotionless tone.

"You should have never joined the Fazbear INC. family in the first place." He then walked over to Lynda's life support, staring back at Gron as he hovered his hand over the heartbeat monitor's cord. Just as he was about to rip it out, he stopped and listened for any noise, hearing the doorknob as someone approached their room.

Opening the door was Vincent, rushing in after hearing the news. He took one look at Gron and his family, his expression becoming serious as he noticed the severity of everyone's conditions. His eyes shifted towards the "doctor" who was still hovering his hand over Lynda's life support. Vincent then approached the "doctor" as his eyes narrowed.

"The hell are you doing, doctor?" he said, getting to his face. The "doctor" immediately realised who Vincent was upon entry and took his hand off of the life support cord with uncanny haste, quickly exiting out of the room just before the other doctors and nurses arrived back into the room. Vincent looked over at the doctors who had entered the room.

One of the doctors approached Vincent and spoke in a low yet calm tone: "We'll take care of them from here, sir. Don't worry." Vincent silently nodded as he walked out of the emergency room, looking back as the doctors and nurses attended to Gron and his injured family. As he walks down the hallway, he couldn't stop thinking about the mysterious doctor and what they were doing, attempting to end Lynda's life.

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

Once Vincent left the hospital and walked out to the parking lot, he saw the "doctor" once again, removing his doctor outfit. He had a malevolent look on his face, as if he had something unpleasant to say. He walked up to Vincent and said sternly: "You've almost ruined my boss's business, and now you and Gron are going to pay for it."

Vincent snapped back angrily, glaring at him: "Your so-called boss is torturing and enslaving innocent people that are working under his company." The "doctor" remained vigilant as he stared back at Vincent.

"That's a pretty bold accusation," he said coldly, "but I can assure you that Fazbear INC does not torture nor enslave anyone." Vincent's anger grew and his eyes narrowed.

"Were you NOT trying to pull the plug on Gron's wife who, mind you, is innocent?" he asked, unable to hold his anger any longer.

"No. I was not attempting to pull the plug on Gron's wife," he said, his tone remaining cold and monotone as he turned around and walked to his car with a sly grin forming on his face. Vincent just seeth in rage and was just about to tell the "doctor" off for his actions until he drove off from the parking lot, not hearing more of Vincent's rant. Vincent was left standing there fuming with anger, unable to vent his frustrations. Needing to relax for a while, he walked to his car and drove back home in a huff.

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

A few days later, Gron finally awoke from his unconscious state and finds himself and his family in the emergency room, surrounded by medical equipment. He sat up from his hospital bed, his eyes focusing on Vincent, who was sitting in a chair right beside him.

"Vincent...? What.. happened?" he barely spoke out, his voice getting hoarse from the accident, making him unable to speak out. Vincent looked up at the sound of Gron's voice and slightly smiled towards his face.

"You were in a terrible accident, that's what happened," he gently said, "But you're alright now, and everyone else is, too." Gron looked over to see a doctor currently seeing his youngest son, Jackson, checking to see if he's doing alright.

"How is my son, doctor..?" he asked, doing his best to focus on what the doctor has to say. The doctor looked at Gron confidently and reassured him with a kind smile as he spoke about Jackson.

"Your son is fine, Mr. Takaliken, no need to worry. He just has a few minor bruises and scratches, but nothing more than that."

Gron's concern for Jackson slightly eased, as he felt relief hearing that his youngest son is alright. "And my wife Lynda... is she?" Gron spoke hoarsely again, fearing for the worst.

The doctor remained silent for a moment before responding with a serious tone. "Unfortunately, your wife has suffered severe injuries around her back," he said in a calm tone, "and we are still running some tests. She's currently in critical condition." Gron wasn't surprised by the news of Lynda's condition, but is still left anxious and helpless.

"She'll be okay, right?" he asked again. The doctor gave Gron a slight smile and a reassuring look, hoping to ease his worries.

"Mr. Takaliken, I understand your concerns, but we're doing everything we can to make sure that she and your kids are okay," he replied in an understanding tone. As Gron watches the doctor go over to check on Brody, Gron turns to Vincent with worrying eyes.

"She'll be alright, Gron," Vincent reassured him, "her life support is plugged in, showing that she's still breathing." Gron smiled weakly, looking over to Lynda as Vincent's expression grew more serious.

"That's what I want to warn you about, Gron," he gravely said as his tone grew dark, "Lynda almost got the plug pulled away by someone working under Fazbear INC." Gron upon hearing the mere mention of that infamous company made his skin grow goosebumps, making his paranoia and fear start to kick in.

"You mean... he's still hunting us?" he asked, his hoarse voice starting to become more urgent. Vincent was silent as he nodded, which added to Gron's tension and fear.

"And not only that, but his company is still in business even after we quit that day," he added darkly, "And the animatronics that Mr. Fredbear ordered for the diner? They came straight from Fazbear INC." Gron's tension and anxiety only continued to grow as Vincent elaborated on Fazbear INC s recent doings.

Almost getting killed after sabotaging Fazbear INC s machine, getting into a brutal car crash, and almost losing his wife to one of Fazbear INC s men. He's built up so much paranoia and fear as the events pile up that his voice begins to crack and his eyes start to water a little. Vincent's face grew tender with concern, seeing Gron beginning to break down. He walked over to his friend's hospital bed and put his hand on his shoulder in a reassuring gesture for comfort.

"You want me to get you a drink before I get going?" he asked, trying to comfort Gron. Gron looked up at Vincent with a single tear streaming down his face and nodded silently.

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It's now December 28th, 3 days after Christmas, and Gron was finally able to stand up and walk around on his own again. However, Lynda would still need to be in the hospital for more treatment. As Gron and his kids were about to leave the hospital room, he turned to his wife.

"Are you gonna be alright here, dear?" Gron asked his wife, still feeling anxious about leaving her alone in the hospital.

"Of course, honey," Lynda replied, giving Gron a weak smile with reassurance, "I just need a little more time before I'm fully better." Gron smiled back before giving her a kiss on her forehead. Jackson walked up to his mother's hospital bed and quickly hugged her.

"I'll miss you, mommy," he said softly, his voice almost close to tearing up. Lynda immediately hugged her son back, her smile remaining weak from her injuries. Brody and Charles also joined in and hugged their mother too, trying to fight back the tears. Gron was close to crying before wiping a tear from his face.

"Alright boys, let's go. Our taxi is waiting for us," he said, making sure to stay strong even though he's still shaken from the whole accident and everything that happened afterwards. The three kids all joined Gron and followed him out of the hospital room, leaving Lynda alone. Lynda felt a twinge of sadness as they went out of sight, but knew that her health came first.

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As Gron and his kids left the hospital and got into the taxi, Gron knew that he should give his kids their Christmas presents since it has already passed. His heart began to warm at the thought of them finally being able to open their presents, especially after what they went through.

"Hey kids, how about once we go back home, we start opening your presents?" he suggested, his tone hopeful and energetic as he looked back at his sons.

Brody, Charles, and Jackson looked at one another before immediately nodding their head in eager excitement. The atmosphere in the taxi was lively as they anticipated the moment when they could finally open their presents.

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Gron and his three kids are finally back home with the warmth of the fireplace starting to warm the house up and their cold skin. Jackson, being the youngest of his siblings, was the first one to open his present to see a toy train inside.

"Woah, a train!" he exclaimed excitedly as he began to play with the toy train on the floor, his youthful energy showing through with every excited movement.

"Must be one of Santa's presents," Charles said, his tone filled with joyful wonder as he watches Jackson play with his present. Brody simply smiled, feeling a tad bit sore from the incident, but just feeling happy to finally open their presents.

"Ok, Brody, you're next to open your present," Gron spoke with encouragement in his still hoarse voice. Brody went over to the tree to find his present and opened it to find a black fedora with a red stripe on it. His eyes lit up with excitement as he put it on and danced around with it.

"Wow, that hat really fits your style, Brody," Charles compliments him warmly. Brody nodded eagerly without saying a word as he adjusted his scarf around his neck. It's now Charles's turn to open his present but when he couldn't find his present under the tree.

"Hey dad, where's my present?" Charles asked confusingly. Gron chuckled as he went behind the couch and grabbed a rather medium sized present from out of there, giving it to Charles. He soon opens it up and looks inside to find... a wooden doll.

"Woahhh! A wooden man! Cool!!" Charles exclaimed in joyful energy as Brody and Jackson came over to look at it curiously. Gron sat back down on the couch after giving Charles his present, watching his kids play with their presents they got along with their other toys, He was filled with joy in his heart, seeming to have forgotten all about their accident.

Deep down, he still thinks about what Vincent told him about their old boss and his awful company, having to live with the fact that he's still managing his horrid company and shipping off animatronics to the place he works at. He tries to hide his pain and feelings of frustration, knowing that his children shouldn't be exposed to their father in such a depressive state, both mentally and physically.

For now, he decides to enjoy his Christmas evening with his three kids before tucking them to bed.

End of Chapter 3

#five nights at freddy's #fnaf fangame #the return to freddy's #trtf

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enchanted-lightning-aes · 2 years ago

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Those Searing Surroundings

A/N: a story of how two pals decide to explore through a new environment and realize they might need guidance. Word Count: 726 T.W/C.W: None

***

Over the sun scintillating within the sky streaked by shades of orange and yellow, clouds have cleared from above.

A wind weaved by and blew some fabrics in the air. Billowing edges of two people's scarves as they trekked across the small hill. A bundle of tumble weed rolled down, getting swooshed into the air.

Flicking a glance at a barren tree, Ourahi tilted her head. Her companion, Bertille, kept rushing past her. They slowed down in their tracks, crouching slightly while panting.

"Phew, this is quite unlike what I imagined," Bertille croaked. "I should be parched but I'm bustling with vigor! Huzzah!"

"It's just been an hour, we didn't see much yet," Ourahi pointed out, snorting.

"Hey, I'm not disappointed!" Bertille adjusted their bucket hat, squinting above. "I get it, can't get ahead of myself and all that."

Ourahi dusted her shirt, nodding. "Yep. You ought to take it all in before evaluating your opinion."

At a spontaneous decision, Ourahi and Bertille decided to take a flight to Cairo. They wanted to have a change in their surroundings, somewhat sick of their city lifestyle.

Bertille's head whipped around as they examine their surroundings with binoculars.

She let out a quick breath at the sweltering temperature surrounding them. She wiped her clammy forehead and grabbed a bottle of water, opening it. Taking a long sip.

"This place like's the sand ocean," they remarked.

"C'mon, for real?" Ourahi asked, sounding incredulous. "You aren't even high and you say such things?"

As Bertille dropped to their knees, they patted the sandy ground in enthusiasm. Just running their palms over it and they jumped back up, wiping it off.

"Yikes, it feels too hot."

"What did you think would happen if you touched it?"

"Not much aside from how it's all sandy and whoa!"

"Check that out!"

Ourahi gasped as a figure approached them on camelback. Just drawing to a halt.

Bertille tipped their fedora as the person mounted down, scrutinizing them.

"Oy! Are you travellers lost or somethin'?" a woman asked.

"No, no!" Ourahi waved her hands. "My friend and I are just exploring! Isn't that right, Bertille?"

"Just lookin' around," Bertille replied. "I'm hoping I'll get to see the sights this place got."

The woman snorted. "You'll see not much except desert for miles and miles. Do you have supplies? Because deserts are notorious for having extreme heat."

"Of course! We got bundles of water bottles and stash of good!" Bertille turned their backpack around, petting it's heavy load. "For about a week or so!"

"My name's Ourahi," she said, hitching a thumb at herself. Then at— "This is Bertille as I mentioned. And you are?"

"I'm Hafsah," the woman explained with a half-smile. "Pleasant to meet you."

Despite her stomach churning, she waved at her.

"Thank you for the introduction." Ourahi tried smiling. "I suppose we're a bit overwhelmed since it's our first visit to these types of places."

Hafsah raised her brows. "Well, if you need guidance, I can offer."

"That'd be great!" Ourahi blinked at a sudden eagerness in her tone then cleared her throat. "I mean. . . Sure, we'd be more than pleased."

"So, are there ponds or something out here?" Bertille asked. "From what I've known, there'd be such. Or I could be wrong."

At that, Ourahi lightly smacked their elbow and they winced. Hafsah mounted her camel once more, looking down at them. They started moving, matching with her brisk yet leisurely pace.

". . . did you do your research from movies and T.V shows set in the desert?" Hafsah sounded skeptical.

"Sorta." Bertille coughed.

"The movies aren't accurate in terms of depicting deserts," Hafsah said, rolling her eyes. "There are cities but they aren't shown."

"Oh, I-I'm sorry." Bertille tsked. "I know it was wrong but yes."

"Alright then I'll show you how it actually is. There's more to it but deserts can be unique and distinctive. In Western Egypt, there's a black desert and crystal mountain. It has some rocks similar to a volcano's shape. However, it's more smoother than expected."

"Whoa, that sounds cool."

With a nod, Ourahi did a noncommittal hum. They were gonna be in a trip, for sure.

As they arrived to a road signage, Hafsah pointed at an onward route.

Hafsah let out a dry laugh. "Ah, you'll discover more about the desert than what you've presumed."

***

#writeblr #creative writing #flash fiction friday #fff210 #enchant: original works #original writing

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gemkun · 11 months ago

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@tavustlik said : there are no signs of clear entry as to how he managed to enter not only the great veritas ratio's residence, but sullied the sanctity of his bathroom with such an awfully gaudy addition. everything is left unbothered, furniture arranged in the same boring manner as it always was. in truth, there were only two bits of evidence left behind that would help the doctor in his investigation : the near - overpowering scent of a just - applied drenching of expensive perfume a particular gambler always adorned himself with, a smell that will certainly linger for the next coming days . . . but that isn't the worst of it. oh no. his prank for this horrendously amusing day aimed right for something the good doctor enjoyed most. an obvious change, once one pushes the ajar bathroom door open and realizes the unthinkable crime that had occurred. ratio's precious bath time rubber duck had been kidnapped, and in its place the culprit deployed a new one . . . adorned in a meticulously redesigned caricature of a certain stoneheart's fedora, sunglasses, and fur trimmings. it even has the peacock feather pin affixed upon the hat, and the meteorite earring painted upon the side of its head. one squeeze, and the poor thing somehow manages to squeak in a tone that comes disturbingly close to how aventurine himself would've made the noise. enjoy your new bath buddy.

⸻ a misdeed has occurred here.

even with his senses temporarily tuned out by the plaster concealing his disposition , it is plainly obvious that someone has come where he should not have. the ornaments , spanning his abode have been untouched , certainly , but there is an addition that sticks out like a sore thumb. namely , the waft of a distinctly , pungent odour.

which is fiendishly deliberate — a calling card so to say. and veritas is keenly aware of this fact.

propping his design off , he sets aside the alabaster , and irks at the heightened reception he experiences with the scent that envelops his entire estate. damned gambler. what has he chanced upon in his uninvited visit ?

but that is an awaiting discovery for later , since the worn doctor must retire to his single piece of solace. though , as he approaches the closed door ( had it not been slightly ajar before his departure ) , there is another inkling , urging him to remain alert.

. . .

what is that monstrosity.

his eyes are a magnet , vision drawn to the stark difference that lays waste in his otherwise pristine bathroom. if looks were incendiary , the impostor sitting by the lip of his tub would be in flames. but alas , his irises simply ignite , glinting with intense luminosity.

fingers find purchase , pressing firm whorls to the spitting image of the peacock — esque criminal , undoubtedly waltzing about this very second. and the sound that produces , is one that almost elicits a faint cry from the scholar. an uncharacteristic reaction , no doubt , but one that is demanded with this act of vandalism.

❝ oh , archimedes . . . where has he taken you ? ❞ laments , a torn academic. forlorn from the loss of his accompanying enjoyer of purifying waters.

this simply won’t do. no. he must retrieve his loyal companion. how else will he bathe and achieve ataraxy ? clutching the primary evidence , he absconds from his chambers.

to confront the perpetrator and liberate the held hostage.

#* ✦ 𝐈𝐈. ❮ asks ❯ ⸻ ❝#* ✦ 𝐕𝐈. ❮ muses ❯ ⸻ ❝ 「 veritas ratio 」#* ✦ tavustlik #* ✦ tavustlik | aventurine #not his rubber duck #his dear archimedes #give him back damned gambler #this is one prank too far !

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theriverspath · 1 year ago

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Crowley shows up at the bookshop for lunch with Aziraphale still dressed in the disguise he used on his last assignment. The intriguing change in clothing and accent, along with a mysterious violin case, forces Aziraphale to remind himself that he shouldn't be feeling these sorts of urges toward a demon. Then, Crowley plays an old love song and Aziraphale loses his inner battle.

Two-shot. Eventually explicit in the upcoming chapter 2.

“Oh, I am sorry that we didn’t have what you were looking for today. It really is such a shame.” A. Z. Fell, as the name of the bookshop identified him, ushered a young woman towards the exit. He’d been open for business this morning, and was unpleasantly surprised by the amount of foot traffic that had wandered in. As the noon hour approached, though, he was determined to close. He was running out of excuses to prevent the actual sale of any books. More importantly, he was expecting a certain demon for lunch today.

“But, I think I see…” The woman pointed to a shelf just over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Yes, quite a shame. Perhaps Waterstones would carry something by that particular author? I should check there if I were you.” The angel reached past the would-be customer and placed a hand on the shop’s door. He intended to open it in order to eject her out onto the street. Before he could turn the handle, it swung outward without his help.

“Ma’am.”

Aziraphale froze, his hand resting on the empty spot in space where the handle had been. Crowley stood on the pavement, holding the door open for the confused woman. His free hand was lifted to pinch the brim of a hat, as if he were going to doff it in deference to her presence. However, this was not the suave felt fedora of decades past. Aziraphale felt his mouth fall open in shock as he registered the ratty, black cap. The fabric was faded from the sun, and the single extended bill in the front featured frayed patches along the edge. Aziraphale struggled to identify the style. Wasn’t it what the Americans wore as part of a uniform for their sport? What did they call it? Based-ball?

Below the hat, Crowley wore sunglasses unlike Aziraphale had ever seen on him. The lenses were a red, reflective material. They were shaped like elongated, curved rectangles with rounded corners. The top edges slotted into a single line of black plastic that wrapped around his face from one ear to the next. They perched on his sun-touched nose above a polite, if not somewhat mischievous, smile. Crowley waited patiently while the woman looked from the shocked shopkeeper to the grinning man, decided that she’d had enough weirdness for the day, and simply walked away. Crowley looked pleased with himself, released the hat brim, and turned to enter the bookstore. He stopped short at Aziraphale’s still outstretched hand.

“You gonna invite me in, angel? Or would you rather I stand here with the door open, lettin’ in flies?” The tone of his voice was amused, maybe even dusted with affection. But, Aziraphale’s brain scrambled to catch up with what he was seeing - and hearing. Gone was Crowley’s usual cadence. Instead, his voice was softer and slower. The angel tried to come up with a descriptor for the drawn-out vowels and dropped consonants that peppered through Crowley’s request to enter the bookshop. Ah, yes. The word finally surfaced in Aziraphale’s mind: drawl .

Aziraphale quickly lowered his hand and, embarrassed at being caught staring, stepped back from the doorway. Crowley brushed past him with a courteous nod and walked through to the dimly lit interior of the book shop. When he passed, heat radiated off his body. It felt like Crowley had stepped out of a sauna. There was an unusual scent, too. Pine, perhaps? And damp earth, like a forest just after a summer rain. Then, as the demon moved into the interior, the angel got a better look at the rest of his uncharacteristic outfit.

Crowley was wearing a shirt, but just barely. He had tucked a black cotton tee into the waistband of dark denim trousers. That wasn’t so unusual. But, this particular shirt had its sleeves cut away to reveal Crowley’s lean upper arms. And, for about three-quarters of the remaining length of the garment, several inches of fabric had been removed on either side of the seams that were supposed to hold the shirt together. It did eventually rejoin itself just above the demon’s belt. Before that point, though, Aziraphale had a clear view of the sides of Crowley’s torso. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice how the demon’s muscles moved as he sauntered his way across the bookshop.

Aziraphale also couldn’t help but notice a warm flush start to radiate up from his own collar at the view. He felt his face scrunch up in frustration at the reaction. The angel had seen much more of the demon in the past. Roman baths, for instance, left little to the imagination. Why was his corporation reacting this way now?

A violin case was slung over Crowley’s left shoulder by a woven black and red strap. The demon’s left hand was raised to that shoulder and his thumb tucked under the strap to keep it in place. When he reached the counter that held Aziraphale’s cash register, though, he made a shrugging motion to lift the strap. He lowered the case to the ground and leaned it against the hip-high piece of furniture. The slight bend forward caused the not-quite-a-shirt to fall open towards the front. The previous view of side torso broadened to include a shadowed glimpse of Crowley's abs and chest. Aziraphale briefly caught sight of a nipple, and the flush started to creep down from the collar, as well as up.

Aziraphale suddenly needed to be looking anywhere other than Crowley’s bare skin, so his eyes followed the movement of the case to the floor. They stopped at Crowley’s feet. His normal urban-chic, all black boots were replaced with something else. Peeking out from underneath the legs of his jeans were the pointed tips of a different style of boot. These featured a textured pattern of white, gray, and black snakeskin scales. The soles were dark leather, and the blocky heels a bit taller than what Crowley normally wore. And they had, to Aziraphale’s horror, left little clumps of vibrant orange-red mud wherever Crowley stepped. That broke whatever spell Crowley’s scandalously altered shirt held over the angel. He clicked his tongue in disappointment over the mess.

“Crowley, what on earth are you wearing? And why are you tracking dirt all over the shop?” Crowley straightened from setting down the case and turned to face Aziraphale. He tucked both of his thumbs into his belt, framing an oversized silver buckle in the shape of a snake’s head. Aziraphale noticed that the eyes flashed red, as if they were inset with rubies.

“I was finishin’ up a Temptation down in Georgia when I realized I was gonna be late for lunch. I had to take a shortcut through the office to get back in time, and it was just easier to stay in my work clothes. Less likely to get snagged for another assignment if’n I looked like I were still on the clock, ya know?” Aziraphale’s brow crinkled in confusion at the explanation.

“Georgia? Well, I guess local fashions have changed since I was in that area of Europe. And, I certainly don’t remember…” He waved vaguely at the dusty tracks. It was Crowley’s turn to show his confusion before giving a laugh of realization.

“Naw, not that Georgia. Georgia the state. As in the united ones ‘cross the pond?” Aziraphale racked his brain to think of anything he might know about the place.

“You mean the penal colony? That sounds quite dangerous." Aziraphale's eyes widened, as if he'd had an alarming thought. He walked toward Crowley in small, quick steps. The front door closed itself, unnoticed by the angel. "Did you run into any ruffians?” Crowley smiled his amusement at the question.

“It’s been a while since the monarchy shipped debtors off to the New World, but that’s the place. And, nope. No ruffians. It was a solo assignment, mostly. Real traditional-like, too. A one-on-one challenge at the crossroads under a full moon.” Crowley waved his hands in a spooky motion to indicate the mood. Aziraphale refused to believe that the flip-flop he felt in his belly was jealousy. So what if Crowley had been meeting some human alone under the stars. It was purely for work. Right?

“That’s where the red clay came from.” Crowley continued, apparently unaware of Aziraphale’s inner dialogue. “Out in the county, they don’t pave the roads. I forgot that it sticks to shoes like peanut butter to the roof of a dog’s mouth.” He snapped his fingers and the mud disappeared. “There. Better?” The entry rug was no longer stained, and Crowley seemed to be waiting for a response. So, Aziraphale gestured to the black case.

“I didn’t know you played the violin.”

“I ain’t never told you about that?” Aziraphale mentally worked his way through the archaic contraction and double negative while Crowley continued. “Hell’s been using the violin for Temptations since … well, shoot. Since long before Paganini.” The angel rolled his eyes at the mention of the nineteenth century musician.

“I should have known those rumors were about you. I suppose you were in the process of creating another demonically-influenced virtuoso?” To his surprise, Crowley shook his head.

“Some upstart fiddler’s been goin’ around braggin’ about ‘bein’ the best there’s ever been.”Head Office got wind of his pride. Since I done such a bang-up job on ol’ Nicky,'' Crowley grumbled at Aziraphale’s look of disbelief. He corrected himself. “Since I reported doin’ a good job with Niccolò, they sent me to tempt this new Bubba. I showed up with a fiddle made of pure gold, and got him to bet that he could outplay me. He wins, he gets the fiddle. I win, Hell gets his soul.” Crowley half-shrugged. “Standard procedure. That’s why I’m in this get-up.” He glanced down at his outfit and plucked at his shirt. “I had to dress like a local. Sound like one, too. There’d’ve been no way he’d agree to any sort-a deal with some highfalutin city slicker.”

Aziraphale thought he should feel disapproval at the whole idea. Instead, all he could think about was the image of Crowley standing on a rural dirt road, his fair skin aglow with moonlight. He wondered what the music sounded like in the quiet of the night. He wondered if the human appreciated how fluid and graceful Crowley’s movements must have been as he drew his bow across the strings of the golden instrument. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to hear Crowley play the violin. In the bookshop. Right now.

“Well, it appears as if Hell now has his soul. He must not have been as skilled as he thought.” Aziraphale gestured at the unopened case, still propped against the counter. “Perhaps you ought to play a sample of your winning piece?” He watched Crowley’s eyebrows rise above his glasses in surprise. “You know, for um, research? So that I might warn future violinists about what they’ll encounter if they engage in similar unwise braggadocio?” An amused huff and a half-smile told Aziraphale that Crowley didn’t believe his excuse.

“Oh, the case? It’s empty. Turns out, the young buck really did have the talent. Even when I summoned the Erics as backup, I couldn’t do better. So I gave him the fiddle, fair and square. I just kept the case so’s folks who spotted me downstairs would think I was still on the job.” The disappointment Aziraphale felt must have shown on his face. Crowley’s amused expression faded. Instead, he seemed to hold a brief inner battle over what he was about to say next.

“Look, I cain’t just give away my best Temptation tunes to an agent of Heaven. If,” Crowley pointed to the floor, “found out I’d be in a heap o’ trouble.”

“Yes. Of course, I quite understa-” Aziraphale didn’t get a chance to finish. When Crowley lifted the hand he’d just used to point, he snapped his fingers. Aziraphale heard the quiet resonance of a miracle, and the case shifted as if its weight had just changed. Crowley retrieved it and set it on top of the books scattered across the surface of the counter. He flipped open the latches and lifted the lid. Resting in a bed of red velvet was a violin of rich, brown wood. A strung bow was also secured within.

“I’ll play you a little somethin’ I picked up the last time I was in that part of the world, though.

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