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10millionyearsdungeon · 4 years ago

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Reminiscence - Second Tempo

A/N: So! Second Tempo is a continuation of the First Tempo posted here. Just like the last, it’s part of the Haikyuu! HQ Server Collab; check out the rest of the work on the flaming smut pile. ===================================================

“Oi, it’s Ukai. Leave a message.” “Oh, Keishin…” Your body writhed against your fingers, phone pressed against your ear as another gasping moan ripped through you. The pads of your fingertips glided over your sensitive nub effortlessly as you grinned into the phone balanced between your shoulder and your ear. The game of cat and mouse had been going on for well over six months between yourself and Keishin; the ceaseless war of attrition had the teams and your students wondering who would break first. An international volleyball conference had you and the Karasuno girls’ team pulled away from Miyagi, from the handsome coach with those sharp, leering eyes.

“I know you’re away for training camp with the team…But I need you, Keishin.” Lust coated every syllable, each word dripping with desire as your fingers teased over your nipples and dripping folds. Another lascivious moan echoed into the receiver as you slipped a single dainty finger into your twitching hole. “I can’t seem to keep my hands off of myself…god, I wish it was your fingers slipping inside this tight, needy hole…” Sprawled out on your hotel room bed fresh from a shower, your wet hair plastered itself against your neck as you continued to rock into your own hand.

He invaded your thoughts; like intrusive kudzu he wrapped himself around your senses even halfway across the world. Did he know how you had ruined two pairs of panties at the last voicemail he sent you before the girls’ last match that day? Did he realize how desperate you were to be home? Could he hear it in your voice?

“Keishin,” you whined out, fingertip just brushing your g-spot. With a soft growl, you snatched your phone from your ear and put the device on speaker so you could angle yourself to reach deeper. With your body able to contort a little easier, the phone rested next to your flushing face against the pillowcase. Your body jolted into waves of pleasure as your legs tensed into your stroking. “Fuck, I can’t wait to come home, oh fuck, oh fuck, Keishin…”

The familiar stars dotted your vision as you bucked into your hand, clit rubbing fitfully into the meat of your delicate palm. You could almost see the flash of bleached-blond hair, the tanned skin stretched across those long, toned forearms. Painfully arching your wrist to drive your curling fingers into that familiar, soft spot you clenched tightly around your thin digits. You couldn’t fight the orgasm that threatened to overtake you quicker than anticipated. “Oh, fuck, Kei…Keishin!” Your words were gasping, breathless sounds, the same sounds he took pride in drawing out of you.

“It should be your cock I’m cumming on. Why isn’t it your cock, Keishin? Fuck, I…” Another cry left you trembling as you came around your fingers. The ecstacy you felt solo was a pale shade of what you had grown used to with the snarky coach. You whimpered into the phone and shifted the sheets around you, arms hopelessly searching for him in the stark white abyss of your hollow afterglow.

“I can’t wait to see you, Keishin…Until then,” you closed and hung up the phone. A small grin bloomed over your features as you came down from your brief high. The back and forth of phone tag and stolen video chats for the past week made you long for the thug-faced twenty-something coach fiercer than you could imagine. For the moment, the extra pillows in your bed would have to suffice as a sub-par substitute before you could nuzzle into the warmth and inhale the smoke and sweat from his skin again.

It was a long day of drills and penalties for the Karasuno Boys’ Volleyball Club at the joint training camp with Fukurodani and Nekoma. The boys continued to run themselves full tort against the other two teams, trying to refine and rebuild their skills on the court. Keishin found himself getting frustrated with the lack of progress the team was making, even considering the upperclassmen were bordering on complacency. Daichi assured him they were trying their best and maybe it was time for their coach to take a break.

He ambled from the gym with a lazy kind of grace and fumbled for his cigarettes and phone from his pockets. His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the voicemail notification he saw across the screen. The tiniest of cocky grins stretched his mouth into a crooked curve as his thumb hovered over the play button. “Damn, must’ve just missed her,” he sighed, pressing play and holding the phone to his ear. The second your moan, your deliciously sinful voice graced his ears his face heated up and his ears flushed a deep red. Your voice went straight to the growing tent in his sweats, an ache he would be sure you repay you for in kind when you returned. The wailing fit on the other end was audible to passers by as the flustered coach turned the volume down with thick, numb thumbs. A dark-haired Fukurodani student passed by, green eyes narrowed at the coach’s flustered appearance and wordlessly made his way into the gym, no doubt to start another four-on-four match with the boys of Karasuno. At the end of your message, Keishin leaned into the brick of the gym and finally lit his cigarette. He took a long drag, longer than he would have normally if it wasn’t for your scintillating voicemail. Once his heart slowed, his thumbs furiously typed out a reply. K- You could have warned me, little girl. Y- And ruin the surprise? You liked it. :)

K- Time and place. Y- Is that all you have to say? :( This different timezone stuff is the worst, Keishin.

K- That’s something we can agree on. It’s just another day, right? Y- I’ll be home the day after tomorrow. Closing ceremonies run until tomorrow afternoon, but flight leaves a day after. K- Text me next time, little girl. And tell the girls to kick ass during their last exhibition match. Y- Does it make you mad that my team’s doing better than yours, Mr. Big Bad Daddy Crow? >:D

K- Just wait, little girl. You haven’t earned your wings yet. We’ll see how much fight you have in you with my hand around that pretty neck of yours and your lips wrapped around my cock.

He chuckled darkly at the thought of your ruined face, chest heaving, gasping for oxygen as he held your lips against the hilt of his cock. He knew you well enough to know that your face would be about thirty shades redder than his was listening to your siren song after reading his message. God, you were never more beautiful to him than when you were sobbing out for release, begging for him to make you his. Fewer things kept him warmer at night when his wide palm wrapped around his cock than thoughts of you with that lewd, haunting passion playing in your eyes. When you didn’t reply, he shook his blond head and snuffed out his smoldering cigarette filter against the wall. Of course you’d have your fingers stuffing your cunt; it couldn’t compare to his touch. He adjusted his headband deftly and pocketed his phone again, only glancing down at his cock, half-mast for a moment before another distraction pulled him away from his thoughts. Two days were going to feel like an eternity. At least he had your voice in his pocket.

You yawned as your girls took the court in their last match against the American team. The manager eyed you suspiciously as you blearily watched the game unfold. “Long night, Coach?” You nodded and hummed, rubbing your eyes. The boy stood a whole head taller than you, appraising your drowsy visage. “Must be hard being away from home.” “Mmmhm. It’s easy to miss home from so far away.” “I’m sure Coach Ukai feels the same way, Y/n.” “Toshi!” Your tone was scandalized in your chiding as the younger boy stifled a chuckle. “We should be focusing on the girls. How do you think they’ll do today?” He smiled, pride swelling as he watched his team warm up. “It’s been a long week.” “They’re tired, but they’ll push through. We’ve taken the W with less in the tank before.” It was your turn to feel proud of your girls. It was true– their rise to the top, for the acknowledgement that came with the invite to a tourney on the international stage was huge, even if it was just an exhibition tourney. There was something about the game that kept you grounded despite the tumultuous turns of your life. It brought you back to those long-thought forgotten memories, brought you closer to your high-school crush. Part of you was glad you took on coaching the counterpoint to the boys’ club; it brought meaning to your career to that point. “Michimiya! Remember, it’s supposed to be fun!” you called out to your team captain, Toshi nodding in agreement solemnly from the sidelines. Aihara, your ace nodded and gave a quick thumbs up before the ball went into play. Before the other team had a chance to receive the serve, your attention was pulled from the court to the vibrating phone in your tracksuit pocket. You had half a mind to silence it, leave it ignored and let it go to voicemail. Your attention should have been on your team, your girls, but… You pulled the phone from your pocket and bit your lip at the sight of his name reading across the screen. You excused yourself from the sidelines and made your way to the hallway leading to the locker room, bringing the device to your ear. “You were gonna keep me waiting, little girl? That’s no way to earn your wings,” his voice rasped out between hurried pants. “Oh, fuck…” Heat crept up your neck from your neat, white tracksuit jacket. Suddenly, everything was too hot. You worried your lip between your teeth and fought back a whimper as Keishin growled in your ear. You did some quick maths in your dazed state and gasped into your phone. “You should be asleep, Keishin! It’s nearly two in the morning…” “Couldn’t sleep, not when I had to get you back, naughty little girl. Did it feel good cumming on those fingers without me? Did it satisfy you knowing you were cumming without my permission? Was it worth it?” “I…” “Answer me, little girl,” he continued to groan, the sound of skin gliding across skin caressing your eardrums between his moans. You could practically feel his smug expression over the phone. The sinful breath on your ear had you wishing you could be there to watch, to touch him and run your fingers through his hair as he worked his cock in that large hand he loved to wrap around your blushing throat. “I’m waiting,” he teased. “It can’t compare,” you whispered, striding with hurried steps into the locker room. His voice frayed at the edges and had you practically dripping down your thighs under your track pants. The power his voice had over your body was undeniable. “I couldn’t help myself. I…” “Aw, poor little bird. At least you’re honest.” You tried to swallow around the lump in your throat at the nickname, but struggled. Mouth dry and thighs coated in your slick, you struggled to find your way back to reason, to the here and now. Half a world away, you sunk to the locker room bench and let out a shuddering sigh at the sound of the other coach’s debauched moans. He was close, that much you could tell. How long had he been stroking that thick cock? Was he imagining your lips cradling his glans, your saliva dripping down his balls? Could he see you dragging his head along your lips and your eyes peering up at him through a fringe of dark lashes? How many times did he listen to your voicemail before he thought to call you and dish out a dose of your own medicine? “Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me like I need you, little girl.” “I…I want you,” you whimpered, balancing your phone between your shoulder and your ear. You fumbled with your track pants and slid them hastily to your knees, your practiced fingers rubbing yourself through your soaked cotton panties. “Oh, Keishin, I need you.” You bit back a soft moan, still tender from your activities from the night prior. “That’s it, little bird. Don’t stifle yourself. Let me hear you. Where did that gorgeous voice go?” “I…Keishin, I’m at the tournament,” you gasped, that sensitive nub twitching with arousal under your busy fingertips. He let out a surprised grunt and you swore you could feel him double over on himself. “Fuck…fuck, Y/n, I never took you to be such an exhibitionist. My little bird’s getting brave on me, huh?” The sound of the door to the locker room opening made you freeze for a second before shuffling your pants back up your thighs. “Coach? Coach, are you okay? The other team’s called a time-out. Did you want to do a swap?” Toshi’s earnest voice echoed in the otherwise empty room as you struggled to get the words out without sounding like you were another second away from moaning like a porn star for the man on the other side of your call. “Answer him, little bird. Don’t stop touching that clit for me. Let’s see you earn those wings…” “Ah…yeah, have Watabe swap in. I…I need a minute. Must have been something I ate this morning.” Keishin grinned on the other end, still stroking himself languidly as he listened to you lie through your teeth to your team manager. When you heard him retreat back into the gym, you let out a shuddering sigh, your legs trembling around your hand. “Such a good little bird. I’m close. You gonna come with me?” You nodded as if he could see you, still focused on the sounds coming from your phone. His breath hitched as he choked on his moans, movement stilling on his end of the phone call. You gasped in tandem, fingertips slipping inside your waiting heat. He must have known you were close based on your breathing alone. He let you continue until he howled out his release, leaving you breathless at how completely beautiful he could sound coming undone at the thought of you. “Please, please, Keishin,” you huffed out, sweat trickled down your neck as you ground yourself into your fingers, stretching against your slick, velveteen walls. “Stop.” “But-” “I said stop, Y/n.” “But…but Keishin…” “Naughty little girls don’t get to cum when they’re bad. Mm, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck, Y/n,” he teased again before hanging up. You sat in silence, frustrated and slick with your own fluids. Aggravated, you pulled your pants up the rest of the way and stripped off your jacket. Approaching the sink, you patted cool water against your burning skin and stared yourself down in the mirror. So it was another challenge he wanted? You had him eating crow out of your beautifully manicured hands before and you could do it again. Your team wouldn’t be the only ones getting a win. A plan came together, neatly, quickly despite the lingering haze of lust. Spite and frustration cut through your need like a white hot razor, and all you could fixate on was the thrill of victory both on and off the court. “Setters aren’t the only big brains on the court,” you mused to yourself as you reappeared on the court, hands buried deeply into your pockets. Toshi cast a sidelong glance in your direction, subtly taking in the hard set of your jaw and the color rising in your cheeks as you stared down the opposing team’s coach from across the gym. You grit your teeth, eyes dark with determination. If he wasn’t mistaken, he almost thought you were taking this game more seriously than just a simple exhibition match. Regardless of the reason, the team manager found himself grateful he wasn’t the object of your ire. “Hit it ‘til it breaks, Sasaki!!” Your yell rattled the team manager as it echoed through the gym over the roar of the crowd. The puddle in your panties only fueled your frustration the longer you dwelled on Keishin’s denial. You wanted to breathe smoke, to destroy something beautiful just to prove you could. “Stupid, big-brain setter,” you growled under your breath as your team took another point from the Americans. “Coach, why do I get the feeling you aren’t talking about the other team?” “C’mon, girls, you’re better conditioned than that!! Go for the kill!!” “Yeah, you’re definitely not talking about the other team.” The conference couldn’t be done soon enough, and the next two days were going to feel like the longest of their lives. ~ Few things in life brought Keishin Ukai more solace than quiet mornings over a cup of coffee. The only thing that could have made it better was your groggy face smiling sleepily across the table at him. Sunlight bled through the kitchen blinds, staining everything in garish gold and yellow in the pale light. Hair loose, he carded his long fingers through his bedhead with casual grace and absently scrolled through his phone as the coffee continued to brew. It would be just a few hours before you would be home; he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t excited for your return. In the safety of his home, he could let some of that boyish glee bleed out as he searched through your old photos. As if he could forget your face, the sway of those devastating hips, or the way you’d catch your lower lip between your teeth when you were flustered. As much as he owned you, the power you held over him and his emotions was undeniable. From the moment you stepped foot on his court he was your willing captive. He set his phone aside to pour himself his first of what would be many cups of coffee. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the heady aroma, dark and bitter before it hit his tongue. Relaxing in his seat a little more, he sighed through his nose. The chiming of a text alert pulled him from his brief reprieve. Y- Good morning, Daddy Crow :D! We’ll be home in a few hours. I can’t wait to see you. Keishin chuckled into his steaming mug and took a long sip. Wryly amused and even a little annoyed by your pet name for him, he typed out his reply unhurried. K- We’ll see how tired you are when you get back. Ten hours and change is a long time to spend in the air.

Y- Don’t remind me. No idea what I’m going to do to stay occupied.

K- I can think of a few distractions.

He waited, watching the ellipsis flicker over the text banner for your reply, his heart rate picking up in anticipation. What fresh hell awaited him when you finally hit send? Vaguely he had an idea of how badly you wanted to get back at him for leaving you hanging during his last call, but you were too sweet, far too forgiving to want revenge. Y- I’m sure you can. What do you have lined up for today?

K- Not a thing. Just waiting on you. It wasn’t like you to not take his bait; he could practically feel the ice from your reply. Was it the distance? You were only gone for a week, but was it enough time for your relationship to cool? “Shit,” he muttered, rolling a cigarette between his fingers as he reread your reply another six times. “Guess she is mad…” He mused and fussed over your text before lighting the paper tip and taking a careless drag. The blue-gray haze hung around his kitchen like a comforting veil. He waited another moment before he saw you typing another response. He tore his gaze away from the device to ash his cigarette in an empty beer bottle he had sitting on the kitchen table; when he returned to it, the sight that met him had him melting in his chair. Your delicate frame was seated on a sea of white, the barest hint of emerald lace curling in elegant patterns along the swell of your ass. Hair pulled to one side in effortless waves of jet, your bare back was on full display, tantalizing him with the gentle curve of your spine and adorable dimples framing your tailbone. Your face in profile, he could see the faint rose dusting your cheeks and nose, the dreamy sparkle playing in your eyes as you held your breasts away from view. He knew that far-away gaze all too well– it played behind your eyes when you would look at him, when you would think about his strong hands exploring your body. His eyes lingered on the definition of your thighs, all the while longing he could feel them squeezing his head as you trembled into his waiting mouth. It wasn’t the lewdest photo he’d ever seen, but it hit differently when it was you. His mouth went dry and he felt himself get lost in every detail, as if he could memorize every scar, every freckle if he stared long enough. Y- Enjoy your distraction, Keishin.

When did you find the time to take photos? Was that the only one? Questions raced through his mind as he lingered on the picture, fingertip tracing along the swell of your hips. God, he was such a sucker for those wide hips and built thighs. He might have admired your drive and ability to keep up and run drills with your team, but he really wanted to see just how far he could push you until you broke.

“It’s just ten more hours. I can hold out for ten hours.” ~ Six months together and it took a week apart for him to salivate over the smell of your perfume. All the distance, despite the frequent calls and text messages, only intensified his undeniable thirst. You were his meet-cute, the high school crush who got away. There would always be that part of him that wondered how he got so lucky crossing your path not once but twice in his lifetime. If he were a betting man, he’d probably put more stock in fate or soulmates after meeting you, but it wasn’t his style to be so sentimental. Travel always took a lot out of you. Keishin caught you yawning on your way from the baggage claim, only aware enough to know where to step without tripping. Grinning like a fiend, he took his moment and pulled you into an empty lounge. Startled, you swung your first and jerked out of his hold, only stopping your thrashing when you caught the bemused twenty-something rubbing his stubbled jaw. “Fucking hell, is that anyway to say hello, little girl?” “Oh my god, Keishin!” Your hands flew to his face and he could have died a happy man on the spot. “I’m so sorry! You can’t just do that!” Your chest tightened at the rumbling chuckle that reverberated under your fingertips. “Keishin,” you sighed, holding his stubbled face in your thin hands. Studying the sharp planes of his face, your eyes practically sparkled with delight. He was here, real under your palms flashing that same cocksure grin that had you flustered since you first stepped up to challenge him on the court. “You gonna keep staring at me or what, little bird? C’mon, let’s ge-!” Rising to your toes, you pulled him to your lips and left him struggling to catch his breath, your perfume lingering after you withdrew and bounced away, tugging him along from the airport lobby. Head swimming, he followed, allowing you to lead him around until you remembered who drove and the simple fact that you had no idea where the car was. It was easy to forget you were an accomplished adult when you let your excitement take the wheel, but it brought Keishin closer to what might have been before you disappeared when you were still children. He never got the chance to watch you play back then, a regret he tucked away with the first night you murmured his name in your sleep. His single-minded ambition kept him from really seizing the chance to get to know you as a person instead of an idea back then. Packed away in his well-loved sedan, you couldn’t help but fidget in the passenger seat, anxiously bouncing your foot below the dash. Unfazed, he reached over and placed a hand on your knee, halting the bouncing movement with a stern glance. Color bloomed in your cheeks at the gesture, body relaxing just enough under the warmth of his palm. Braver still, he slowly ran his fingertips along the line of your thigh, stopping just below the clothed apex of your leg. Keishin never took his eyes off the road, but he knew just where to brush to make your blood sing. He followed your movements, subtly tracking your reactions to his innocent caressing.

“Don’t get shy on me now, little bird.”

The bait was set, almost painfully obvious as you continued to squirm into his waiting palm. “I’m not shy. I’m..”

“You’re what? Use your words,” he smirked, dragging his knuckles against your sex. The motion was so casual you might have applauded him for his audacity if it hadn’t been a week since you felt him touch you. Muddled between your jet lag and the growing haze of lust ensnaring your senses, you fumbled over your words and whimpered something about thinking about how much you missed him. “That’s what I thought.” Whether it was the nonchalance or the gentle pressure he exerted on your core, you felt yourself slip closer into that familiar euphoric headspace. It was almost embarrassing how wrapped around his finger he had you; it wouldn’t be long before he’d have you wrapped around him literally as well.

You wanted to scream, to gnash your teeth and beat something to a bloody pulp. At least you could take out your frustrations on the court. The girls took the day to strength train in the school’s weight room, leaving you to your own devices in the second gym. You could see his almost-apologetic face, the slight upturn of his lips when he sent you to work with a chaste peck on your hair.

“I just couldn’t bear to wake you…”

“Tch, likely story. Stupid, big-brain setter!” You hissed through your teeth and imagined it was his disembodied head you were spiking over the net with a satisfying crack. Your attentive team manager threw another ball and watched as you continued to fume.

“Are you trying to pop a ball, sensei?"

"Less talk, more throw, Toshi.” He shook his head and tossed another ball, only for you to bounce it off the floor twice to center yourself before your inevitable spike. Unsatisfied, you shook your ponytail and jogged to the opposite end of the gym to practice your jump serve. Toshi watched on, hanging his head as you sent another ball flying in his direction. “Jesus Christ, Himewari!” he screeched, ducking out of the way. You huffed in irritation, barely registering the clattering of gym doors opening. The ball rested daintily in your hand, your eyes narrowed with the smooth rubber leaving your palm before the inevitable punch. Keishin knew better than to leave the safety of the annex when you were serving, but he could watch you soar forever. Leaned against the cool wall, his headband gently digging into his scalp with his blond head resting into the drywall, he couldn’t help the crinkle of his eyes when your hand finally connected with the abused ball. Sweat glistened like diamond dust on your skin, the crop top you wore doing nothing to temper his wandering gaze. As you hung in the air, he hummed to himself, remembering Shimizu’s words when he first saw you serve. “You really do have wings, little bird…” When you landed and reached for another ball he made his presence known, his footsteps falling faintly over your light panting. This was how he liked you best, dark hair mussed and sweat dripping down the valley of your breasts. It was almost a shame, he thought to himself, that he wasn’t the one making you such a mess. He stopped just a few feet behind you only to catch the tail end of your cursing his name for leaving you high and dry on your return. As if sensing the change in the atmosphere, like catching the faint scent of ozone on the wind before a squall, Toshi took his leave and escaped into the weight room, leaving you alone with the other coach. Caught mid-approach, Keishin wrapped his arms around your smaller frame and buried his nose into your ponytail. You froze at the sudden intrusion of your personal space and the ball fell from your waiting palm, its fall echoing through the empty gym. “Thought I’d find you here,” he purred. Hackles raised, you pushed away from him and made a dash for your club jacket. Keishin used his height and longer legs to his advantage and followed close behind. If it was a chase you wanted, he’d give it to you. He let you sprint to the locker room, hand resting on the handle before he turned you by the shoulders and caged you against the wall between his arms. Looming over you, he smirked and licked his lips at the deepening flush creeping down your neck and across your collarbones. He smelled like tobacco and neroli, his cologne making your head spin. The smoke lingering on his breath had your thoughts racing– you were in high school again, fantasizing about being trapped in those arms with those sharp eyes drinking your timid expression so patiently. “What’s the matter, little girl?” he started smugly. His pupils dilated, leaning his head in to bear down on you further. “Can’t rise to the challenge? Where’d all that fight go?” Keishin licked his teeth and breathed into your ear. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you,” he teased, running his nose along your hairline. Your breath hitched; how did he always know how to make you feel so small? The thought incited more anger, more fuel to the fire burning in your belly as you jerked your ear away from his hot breath. “No, you don’t get to do that. I’m not going to let you win that easily, Keishin.” Your voice was low, almost dangerous. The animosity was one-sided, and the other coach snickered at your new-found boldness. “I don’t think you get it, little bird,” he growled, wrapping a firm hand around your thin neck. “I’ve already won.” Swallowing hard, you worried your lower lip between your teeth, his favorite tell, and stared him in the eye. The predatory gleam made you weak in the knees– he knew it. He could feel you falter under his capable palm as he gave your neck a gentle squeeze. Keishin loved seeing you like this– wrestling between reason and your desires, pinned beneath him with that fire burning behind your eyes as if to remind him that you only permitted his control because you knew how completely yours he really was. The nip of his teeth on your earlobe sent you reeling, swooning into his stubbled cheek. “Please,” you whispered. “Not here.” “No? You sure?” As if to capitalize on your wavering resolve, he raised a knee to rest just between your thighs, a silent dare to test him and see just how far he’d make you go. Instinctively, you ground your pelvis against his knee and shuddered at the delicious pressure on your core. He grinned against your cheek. “Because I think this is exactly where you want it.” Hips rocking, your anger slowly melted away as he continued to tease you, still pinning you to the door by the throat. “I think you like the idea of almost getting caught, little bird.” Your whimpers doused kerosine on the slow burning embers he stoked with his teasing. “Keishin,” you gasped, his free hand trailing down your sticky body to pull your hip hard into his waiting erection, grip hard enough you were sure you’d have bruises by the time he was done. “We don’t-” “Guess I’ll just have to cum inside you then.” Your thighs squeezed around his knee, cunt fluttering at the thought of your combined spend trickling down your thighs on the walk home. His grin was sinful, eyes sharp and hungry as you melted into his knee. He could feel your slick soaking through your shorts, the sensation earning a groan you just barely made out. “Mark you as my little crow inside and out,” he purred, long fingers feathering along the waistband of your shorts. “Yeah, I think you like that idea.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” You caught his gaze through your dark lashes, leaning into his hand and waiting hips as if to lay your own bait. Your own hands caught in his hair and pulled his headband down. How you loved running your fingers through those blond waves; you rolled your hips and gave his hair an experimental tug, earning a low groan in return. He surged forward and captured your lips, a fight for dominance to the end. Tongue tracing hungrily along the curl of your lips, he softened his hold on your neck and pulled you closer. Hand on your nape, he let out a hiss when you bit him, a flash of blood lingering on your lip in return with a satisfied grin. “Oh, cocky now?” Keishin gave your shorts a shove over your generous hips. Anxiety and excitement bubbled in your chest as you squirmed against him. He was still hard muscle and sinew despite years away from the court, more than enough to handle you at your worst. “Let’s see you be cocky now, little bird.” His fingers glided along your sopping cunt, earning a sharp moan at the sudden brush along your neglected clit. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fuck,” he breathed, too enraptured by your responsive body. “Keishin, please,” you whimpered, clutching his shoulders as his deft fingers continued to tap and rub slow, agonizing circles around your glistening clit. “Please, please fill me…” “How quickly your resolve falls apart, my little crow,” he purred into your hair, fingers now sliding into your drooling pussy. You bit back another moan, head arching back into the door as Keishin scissored his fingers against your already fluttering walls. “You’re fucking drenched.” “Please, please…I need you. I need to feel you, Keishin.” Legs trembling, you rocked into his hand, keening at the pressure his hardened fingertips exerted on your g-spot. Even accidentally, he had a way of luring out the most beautifully debauched moans from you. He continued to work you open, trying to make up for a week without laying claim to you in the span of minutes. Keishin growled low, feeling himself get lost in your whining, in the warm squeeze of your welcoming cunt around his fingers, in how completely devoted he was to hearing you moan his name like that one more time. You heard the zip after you felt the lonesome ache of loss, only to be filled again to the hilt with a gasping cry. Keishin grit his teeth and leaned into your writhing frame, bracing himself against the door as you squeezed his cock from head to hilt like a velvet vice. “W-wrap your leg around my hip,” he ordered shakily, peering at you through a curtain of soft gold. You did as instructed and felt him wrap his arm around your back, pulling you closer as he rocked into your heat with a moan of his own. “So fucking tight, Y/n…” Stars faded throughout your vision and left you feeling dazed. “So good,” he moaned, resting his forehead against yours to glance down where your bodies connected. You balanced on your toes, meeting his thrusts with your own. “Keishin,” you cried in return, arching your back off the locker room door as your first climax claimed you. Keishin grit his teeth and fucked you through the first of many, angling his hips to drive his cock deeper still, earning a harsh shriek. “Keishin, don’t stop!” “Wasn’t planning on it,” he groaned, bottoming out with a stutter. “It’s like you were made for me.” You let out another cry, clinging to the coach as tears pricked your eyes. He rutted against your cervix with a pained grin, knowing the longer he pressured against that button the sooner you’d be begging to be filled and defiled. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he sighed, slowing as your walls clenched around his cock with the advent of another orgasm. You trembled helplessly against him, body practically weightless in his arms as he continued to prolong your pleasure if only to draw out his own. When you came down, you brushed your nose along his and gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. Toes curling in your trainers at the devastating sight in front of you, you gave another keening cry and buried your face into his shoulder. “Y’know, for someone so worried about being caught you sure are loud.” He grinned into your hair and hammered his hips into yours, earning another loud wail in protest and in pleasure. Your nails caught the tanned skin of his back, a vicious trail of red left in their wake as he brought you to another peak. “That’s three…” You bucked against him, fitfully chasing again after that same high only his cock could bring you. His name a prayer on your lips, he allowed you to take because you gave him so much in return. Every moan, every gush of your juices around his cock he took and devoured, knowing you wouldn’t be afraid to earn his end in return. “I can feel you twitching, Keishin. You’re close, Daddy Crow.” His hips stuttered as you whispered the pet name into his ear, holding you tightly as he bottomed out in your spasming cunt. “Hard not to when you’re fucking milking me.” He’d never admit it, but he would stay buried inside you forever if you’d let him. Only the unsynchronized whisper of your breathing and the slick slap of skin on skin surrounded the two of you in the empty gym. Entangled with the other coach in the darkened hallway, you found his lips to muffle another moan when your attention was pulled away from your bliss by the slamming of the gym doors.

"Coach Himewari! We’re getting ready to go!” It was Michimiya your team captain. Her footfalls echoed softly, rubber tapping against the laminated wood. She paused for a moment when you didn’t answer. Keishin grinning sadistically against your lips, he held your hips flush against his, grinding his cock into that spot that frayed the edges of your vision and made your quiver around his girth. “Hm, I guess she already left…” the team captain mused before shuffling closer to the locker room door, only to quickly turn away at the opening of the door.

“Come on, Yui! Let’s just go! Toshi can catch us up later.” Grateful for Aihara pulling her friend’s focus, you bit down on your lip to keep quiet. Keishin redoubled his efforts, dragging his teeth along the hollow of your neck. Even muffled your moans were music to his degenerate ears. You stiffened against him with the sinking of his teeth into your neck, a stifled cry and final squeeze signaling your end. Keishin wasn’t too far behind, growling into your salt-slicked skin. The heavy doors clattered shut as he moaned out his release, the heat building in your core as he spasmed into your waiting womb.

“Fuck me, Keishin…” you breathed, half chuckling half panting. He held against you, comfortable in your combined heat as he peppered soothing kisses along your neck and into your hairline. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you like almost getting caught.”

He hissed, slowly withdrawing from your core and watched as his cum slowly started trickling from your pulsating hole down your sturdy thighs. He tucked himself back into his jeans and watched you languish against the wall for a moment, playful grin lighting his face. Deftly he collected the escaping seed and shoved it back into your abused cunt, earning a pained whimper before he pulled your panties and shorts back up to keep the rest from spilling. “Don’t waste it, little crow.” He wiggled his fingers along your lips and you greedily sucked them clean with wide, innocent eyes. Your combined taste coated your tongue, sweet and bitter all at once. “That’s my good girl,” he crooned, planting a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.

Your anger evaporated, you slumped against him, head resting comfortably into his chest. “I’m ready for a nap, daddy crow…” you whined. Blond hair slicked with swear, he carded those long fingers through and hoisted you up onto his shoulder, carrying you out of the gym with your mess ruining your panties and shorts.

“Oh no you don’t. As soon as we get home you’re making up for every voicemail and tantrum, Y/n.” It was going to be a long night.

#keishin ukai x reader #haikyuu hq #keishin ukai smut #tw: phonesex #tw: phone sex #tw: public sex #tw: publicsex #big daddy crow's getting some lovin'

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cryinginthebackseat · 4 years ago

Text

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part i

AO3 part ii

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 4.009

Summary: Russell Adler should have known better that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees.

Warnings: just swearings, sexual tension, blood, mentions of past abuse and brainwashing. adler being that manipulative asswipe like usual.

Author’s note: i don't know what i'm doing. one moment, i was watching the walkthrough of the new call of duty game, found myself curious, acutely curious by that guy with the scars and shades on- a younger, shadier (no pun intended) Robert Redford in Spy Game and oh my... fast forward to 2 weeks later, here we are.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A house somewhere on foreign soil,

Where ageless lovers call,

Is this your goal, your final needs,

Where dogs and vultures eat,

Committed still I turn to go.

I put my trust in you.

A Means To An End - Joy Division (1980)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It's mystifying how little she talks. Or when she does, it's always in fragments. Like a crossword puzzle in your local newspaper, but several letters are missing. He initially thought maybe MK-Ultra fucked her head or worse, if it hasn't worked at all, but the more he watches her, the more he realizes it's just the way she is. And it's ironic because he named her Bell. He expected her to chime like a goddamn goldfinch yet here they are.

But he won't be fazed. Russell Adler is a man who's stopped at nothing in getting what he wanted before, he sure as hell won't stop now for a close-mouthed science project.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We've got a job to do, Bell."

It intrigues him, every time, the way the words trigger something deep within her psyche, the way her eyes change, her body stands a little straighter, like a machine ready to function at his disposal. It reminds Adler of one of those cartoons he watched when he was a kid about wizards and magic words, except there are no musical dance numbers playing in the background or a talking cricket perching on his shoulder. This is his power over her, over the USSR, over Perseus. That monstrous filth. It really does take a beast to tame another.

Although he surmises calling Bell one would be superfluous.

She barely looks like one, but Adler knows too well than to underestimate her. Just because Bell hasn’t shown her set of claws, that doesn’t mean she’s harmless, delicate, like a miniature China Doll in his breast pocket.

Bell never offered him her reply before, but now, now, she nods, head almost bows, obedient pretty thing, and says:

“Yes, Adler.”

So it goes.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It takes West Berlin for Adler to realize she’s left-handed.

She wears her watch on her right hand, smokes with that same said hand only when she’s writing or moving her pieces for an impromptu late-night game of chess against Lazar. And she always wears her gloves all the time- leather, black, lined with silk and pretty, small buttons on the cuffs, covering those striking red nails underneath. Whether it is for the theatrics or an old habit of hers, he can't really tell.

He doesn’t know why he begins to take notice of these mundane details about Bell, but rationalizes because he’s never been in the same room with this version of her, post-brainwash Bell, for more than 10 minutes. And for all intents and purposes, there’s still a lot of question marks surrounding her character; who is she? Where did she come from? What is her connection to Perseus?

Are they in a possession of a walking, breathing bomb about to destroy them all or the West’s only salvation?

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler hears Bell from his table, typing busy on the computer- barely blinking- all soaked up in that caffeine-infused energy at 1 am. She's always like that, he learns, when it comes to working, always with that steel determination, pulling out all the stops as long as it gets the job done- that Soviet discipline at it's finest.

Reminds him a little of himself when he's young.

Adler walks up to her.

“You done for the night?” A shake of her head is her only response. He sighs. “You should go home, Bell.”

“You go. I’ll lock up behind you,” Bell replies, low and monotone; that youthful stubborn.

If she was any other person, he would probably commend her for such fierce willpower, but she is Bell, the walking conundrum, his ace in the hole. Call him paranoid, but the idea of her having the safehouse for herself does nothing but raises every alarm in his head.

“No, we’re going home,” he says instead, tone brooking no argument and she frowns at the screen, her fingers stop moving then looks up at him with those goddamn empty eyes. "Come on, it's late anyway."

She doesn't say anything. Adler wishes he could read her mind- or crack that lovely skull on the back of her head, dissect her brain, learn its secrets and answers.

Adler has his gun with him. It wouldn’t take long. A quick, true shot to the heart to keep the brain intact. He’d have Hudson contact one of his people inside BND and he'd deliver the brain himself if he has to. They could do it. He heard they’ve been studying inmates' brains for decades now, anyway.

Before he has a chance to entertain the idea further, though, Bell nods once and rises up from her seat.

Bell walks past him. Her scent, like honeysuckle on ice, hits him like an uppercut in the face. Adler inhales, as if against his will.

He thinks he could get drunk on it.

“Hop in. I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” he says once they’re outside, regretting the decision the moment the words left his lips, but he knows he can’t just leave her on her own at this late hour.

The irony isn’t lost on him, though, considering he just thought about unspooling her brain a few minutes ago.

Bell complies without a protest. Getting inside the passenger seat, wordless still, fingers toying with the radio. An angry, krautrock music comes blaring all over his car. Adler winces, but at least the riot is loud enough to muffle the one's brewing in his head.

"How's your memory these days?"

Bell shrugs. "Nihil novi sub sole." There's nothing new under the sun.

Good, he muses. The least she knows about herself the better.

Though that doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet.

"Listen, from now on, I want you to keep me informed if there's any new progress about your memory or if you've developed any new symptoms. I want to know everything." He steals a sidelong glance at her, making sure she is listening (she always does, but Adler needs an excuse)

(An excuse for what?)

"Alright, Bell?"

"Of course," replies the woman in question.

"Good." Adler shifts his attention back to the road. "Good." Taking a long drag, he considers trying to appeal to her sentimental side. It's not something you'd improvise last minute- at least not with someone you brainwashed to believe you are her mentor/confidant for the past decade, but he's itching to know where he stands with her.

"You know, I'm just tryin' to look out for you, kid."

Her lips twitch but the rest of her visage remains impassive and faraway, more like a flick knife than a woman. The correlation is uncanny.

That's when she inches closer. The space between them bridged. He freezes. Hyper-aware of just how dangerous this is, but can’t bring himself to pull back, to look the other way. Not when her hand reaches out to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, eyes still glued to his, and curls her lips around the filter. One heavy pull, and then she rolls down the window and tosses it out on the side of the road.

"Thought I'd reciprocate the sentiment."

And with that, she leans back in her seat before Adler could even process what has just transpired.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” Adler greeted her, about a month ago.

Park had insisted that he had to be there for her when she woke up (naturally, Adler had balked at the idea, but at the English woman’s fact-of-the-matter explanation, also because it had somewhat dawned on him last minute the logic behind her machinations- “both of you are supposed to have known each other for years now. If she doesn't see you by her side, she’s going to wonder why”- thus, here he was)

“How are you feeling?”

Bell blinked owlishly and stared at the older man with those bottomless, cat-like eyes that had haunted him since January.

Her gaze eventually softened as recognition flickered across her face.

“Like someone just hit me in the chest with a bulldozer,” she said hoarsely. “Where are we?”

“St. Dismas’ hospital, Pittsburgh.” Adler got up and fetched her a glass of water from the table. “Although not a bulldozer, but bullets did. That, and you hit your head really hard on your way down. Thought we’d lost you there, Bell.”

Bell drank in silence. She’s still watching him, thinking. This was the first time he realized that he couldn’t exactly read her expression and somehow that threw him off.

“What happened?” she asked, one hand mid-air, like she was deciding which to touch first, hesitating and abandoned the idea.

“You don’t remember?” She shook her head. Adler pretended to look remotely distressed about it. “The doctors warned me about this. It must have been because of the fall- heck, I could even still hear that sickening crunch from here.” He dragged his chair closer towards her bed.

“We were in Amsterdam. Remember Fohler?” she shook her head again. “Well, we’d been tracking this son of a bitch for months, but we were chasing him in Amsterdam. He was running away and climbed up some scaffolding. You were about to go up after him,” he recited the fabricated story he, Park and Hudson had crafted. “He shot you and you fell and hit your head against the pavement.”

Bell looked away first, silent. Her hand gingerly touched the back of her head and winced, albeit only slightly.

Adler was almost impressed, if not, disarmed by how calm and composed her reaction was to all of this. But then again, after having had witnessed first-hand how the woman barely flinched under any kind of interrogation technique they threw at her- a personality built for wrestling tigers- he really shouldn’t be surprised.

“Bell, what is the last thing you remember?”

Bell frowned. “Not much. I remember ‘Nam, but-”

“Vietnam? Kid, that was thirteen years ago.” Adler watched the way her throat bopped, like she was swallowing her own blood and the color drained from her face, just like the first time he’d seen her, and proceeded to drop the bomb:

“Bell, the year is 1981.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Bell dear, would you mind taking a look at this?"

Park's voice sails from across the room. She says it like it's a compound word: Bell-dear. Like the two words belong together. Bell-dear. 2 syllables, 1 word, 9 characters and that just might be the weirdest thing he hears this year and he heard many things.

"Bell dear?" Adler asks much later, his gravel-and-smoke voice reduced to a whisper, when she delivers a document to his table.

Park shrugs as if that explains everything. "What? I like her."

He's tempted to say you really can't put a term of endearment and someone you brainwashed into submission in the same sentence, but what else is new?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They wind up in a bar. It’s called Die Stube and the place’s brimmed with artists and all sorts of leather-clad, Bowie-esque dramatic, chromatic blue eyelids young people chattering over a dirty cloud of smoke.

The two of them colonize a lone booth in the back. It’s dark and the quietest. She orders a beer and he, a scotch and they drink in silence. There are moments where her head would twist to the side, as subtle as a needle and survey the phantasmagorical scene before them, like studying something from a petri dish.

While he’s watching her.

Only to tear his gaze away to the nearest object he can find.

It lands on his watch.

"It’s almost ten. Hudson's contact should be here soon," he announces, if anything to distract himself. She nods mutely in reply, as always, and runs a finger around the rim of her glass.

"The place ain't much of your scene?"

She shrugs, like it's self-evident. "I didn't know this was a scene, though."

"Well, that’s West Berlin for you. A worry-free playground for the hedonists, hipsters and proto-electro NDW enthusiasts with drugs on tap," Adler says, sipping his drink in practiced nonchalance. "Always makes my head spin."

"I guess I remember it differently," Bell replies, tinged with something akin to begrudging.

That warrants his full attention. "What do you remember?”

Bell shrugs again and lights a cigarette instead, menthol, one of those long, skinny cigarettes they only market for women; biding her time, making him wait. She lets the smoke flares from her nostrils so her eyes are veiled.

"It’s hard to explain, but I suppose it’s grittier?” she gesticulates, searching for the right word like she’s skim reading the entire Oxford dictionary in her head. “Bizarrely, infinitely grittier and dimmer? Like being in an underground tunnel and there's not much to see."

Interesting. Maybe she’s recalling one of her ops for Perseus or her mind is confusing her with the world on the other side of the wall.

“Maybe you’re remembering one of our clandestine ops here. It was a few years after Vietnam,” Adler supplies, passing over the tale like bait.

She falls for it, hook, line and sinker.

“Ah, I guess that also explains my fluency in German.”

“I taught you that.” It’s only logical, he decides, that she learned from him. She’s supposed to be his protégé after all.

An elegant brow quirk. "You did?"

"Yeah, though you were already fluent in Latin, Russian, Vietnamese and Portuguese when we first met anyway. You have quite a natural ear, kid.”

She gives him a look. He really can’t categorize it, but it makes it a whole lot harder to fight against her stare.

“What else did you teach me?”

If they were anyone else, the lines could have a potential to entice, to seduce, that winsome, catty-eyelashes coquette, but they aren't anyone else and Bell does not voice it like that. Yet the implication behind the question stirs something in the pit of Adler’s stomach anyway, that tight knot of confusion as it is buried with something else and he finds himself, once again, uncharacteristically speechless.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That particular question of her stays, even hours later, unbidden. Interspersed with her scent and face.

His emotions are a minefield whenever she’s near now. It evokes that newfound rush of terror within him, like walking on a tightrope or being thrown into the pit to face hundreds of hungry lions, bare hands. It makes Adler questions his every decision, and he can’t have that in his line of work.

Adler lights his sixth cigarette, contemplating everything, nothing. Anything to distract him from her. It's 4 am and he’s exhausted, but his mind won’t stop whirring. This isn’t like him at all- like he's lost somewhere in a Dali-style labyrinth that is his head and he wonders if this is a byproduct of his fear or fascination or confusion for the young woman.

He fears it is all of them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(They're only 10 minutes away from East Berlin when he senses it, something akin to burning on his peripheral vision, pulling him like weight.

Bell is staring at him from across the seat.

He cocks his head slightly to the side.

Adler catches the quick, telling quirk of her lips, like she's about to smile but lights a cigarette instead.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Did you hear that?”

Krauss has just crossed the wall and their soles are slippery from the rain. She's panting. Her breath is white like a fog. Adler muses it must be from the running, until his iris trails down to where her hand is clutching his jacket sleeve, the leather creasing like a modulation signal.

“What is it?” Adler asks, hushed. There are no Stasis here, but even one can't be too careful.

“The TV.” She’s gaping at the broken TV next to them. Adler looks at the said object, frowning, then back to her. “Y-you didn’t hear it?”

"Heard what? Bell, the thing's dead."

Bell withdraws from him. Stepping back until her back meets the walls, her eyes seeing and unseeing, like a lens finding focus in the dark, then she closes them, as if trying to regulate her breathing. Adler has never seen her scared shitless of anything before. The sight confuses as it intrigues him.

"Bell, what's going on?" Adler steps closer, but he dares not to touch her.

She shakes her head, dismissive. In just a span of seconds, Bell dons that mask she likes to wear again; deadpan and frustratingly distant. A spike of annoyance drives through him. Just when he thinks he can get through her, there she goes again, retreating behind her palisades.

"Nothing." Bell turns away abruptly and she’s walking again."Let's just go. The others are waiting for us."

He doesn't pry about whatever she heard on the TV- Adler knows better than to beat a dead horse, thank you very much- not even after they save her from Volkov's clutches, after she bashes his head against the steel door and reeks his blood all the way home, it seems superficial at the time.

Until two days later.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The day starts, as it mostly does for the team, with a briefing.

Fifteen minutes in and something like a gasp pulls his attention to her.

That’s when he notices it; her hands are shaking, coffee spilling out of the mug over her hand. A shatter follows. Her mug smashes to smithereens at her feet. She’s swaying, near collapse, like a house of cards about to fall, a hand on her nose.

Adler catches her before she tumbles to the floor.

“Bell!” His arm around her waist tightens, trying to keep her steady. Lazar rushes to their side in a flash and helps him move her to a nearby chair.

"Jesus Christ," he curses, more to himself than to her as he watches blood, a bead of angry red, trickling down her nose. "Sims, get me a washcloth from the bathroom."

He kneels before her once Sims returns with a damp cloth. Nicotine-stained gloved fingers tentatively grasp her chin, holding her still.

“Kid, you alright?” Adler asks, worry bleeds into his voice without him realizing it. He firmly presses the cloth under her nose, his other thumb touches the pulse at her throat- it's almost sickly affectionate. “Bell, talk to me."

Bell looks at him, discombobulated, like he's a figment of her imagination, then blinks. Again and again until she heaves a deep breath.

"I-" she hisses. One hand flies up to her head. "Fuck. My head.”

Adler’s eyes immediately search for Park’s. A knowing look passes over her face and he knows without saying that she's thinking the same thing, like they're attached to the same brain-wire:

MK-Ultra.

There’s a fraction of pause, then Lazar asks, "Should we give her something?”

Before Park can voice her answer, Bell beats her to it. "I already took an anticonvulsant this morning. It should have helped.”

“Wait, this has happened before?” Adler asks.

Bell looks away, a hesitating look shadowing her face. He fears the worst.

“Bell…” he tries again, a slight warning to his tone.

She sighs loudly, as if mentally preparing herself before walking into a storm.

“Yes. Two days ago."

His mind instantly refers to East Berlin, the TV. Trying to connect the dots in his head. It seems far fetched, but now he wonders if she saw something that triggers this. Although he's never read about this on other subjects before, the correlation is just impossible to ignore.

Fuck. He heaves a breath, willing himself to calm down, to think. They can't afford complications at times like these. Not when there's so much at stake right now.

Adler snaps his attention back to Bell when she tries to scramble awkwardly to her feet, swatting his hand away. The hand on her neck immediately reaches for her waist again and pushes her back down onto the chair. His grip's tight enough to leave marks on her skin, but he doesn't care.

"Bell, for fuck's sake, stay still or so help me," he says, exasperated, not letting go of her waist.

"I feel better now." Stubborn little shit.

He is tempted to scream at her face and grab both of her shoulders and shake. “The hell you’re not. Stop fighting it. You’ll only make things worse.”

Her face sours, if only for a millisecond before it morphs into guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Adler watches her for a long moment. It’s only now that he realizes that he’s still holding her waist and the cloth on her face.

He backs away from her like he’s been burnt.

“You should have told me. I thought I made it clear the other night to keep me informed regarding this,” he scolds.

“I’m sorry,” she utters again and she looks so pliable like this, a blank canvas perfumed with obedience and lethal mind. It makes him almost feel sorry for what he has in plan for her once the shit show is over.

“Look, just go back to the hotel and take a day off.” Her mouth cracks open. He raises a silencing hand. “That’s an order, Bell.” But she merely scowls, looking more like jagged ice than a person. Hudson may have just met his match, after all.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“That’s not how it looks to me.”

“It is. It’s my body and I know what I’m feeling, and I’m telling you, I. Feel. Fine.”

His jaw clenches. “Are you disobeying a direct order, agent?”

Bell doesn’t answer, but her whole face remains challenging and hard. Undeterred.

Adler holds his breath. He feels the whole room collectively does the same. It’s like staring down the barrel of a gun and there’s an awful sort of danger to be found in that.

Just when he thinks an imaginary bullet would dig itself into his skin, however, Bell utters, “Of course not.”

And so the woman resumes to her normal, docile self at a drop of a hat. Even when Park steps in and whisks her out of her seat, drives her back to her hotel with Lazar on shotgun.

It doesn’t assuage his worry, though. He’s still restless throughout the day, like a roaring ocean inside a bell jar. She’s never done this before, openly rebels against him. Now, the situation is just bad. Not casually bad or almost-got-shot bad, this is the-entire-Europe-could-turn-into-a-nuclear-wasteland bad, an-armageddon-waiting-to-happen bad.

What if this is the beginning of her old self trying to scratch her way out of the surface? Adler’s blood goes cold at the thought. He is going to have to keep a close eye on this development.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

West Berlin - 1 am, local time.

“How is she?”

“Stable. I’ve administered another dose of Propranolol before I left the hotel. She should be fit as a fiddle in the morning.”

“Tell me, what do you think happened to her?”

“My theory? Traumatic brain injury. A cumulative product of torture, trauma-based mind control and chronic stress. I've read reports about cases like these before in MI6. None of them is still alive to recount the tale, unfortunately."

Adler grips the phone.

“How long do you think we have?”

“Theoretically, 2-3 weeks tops.”

“But?”

He hears Park sighs on the other line. “But then again, none of the subjects I’ve encountered before were like her. So, I suppose it’s still a little too premature to determine at this point."

Adler kneads his temple, feeling the start of that familiar Bell-induced headache forms in his head. Can things just be fucking simple for once?

“We don’t have that much time anyway, Park. And if Hudson gets a wind of this, he’ll want her gone by morning. I can’t let that happen. Not…” he pauses. “Not when we are this close.”

"What are we going to do about her, then?"

Adler sighs.

"Raise the dosages of her drugs,” he says. “And keep an extra eye on her. I think we may be heading into uncharted waters now.”

Tagging: @mvalentine cause you said to tag you with everything i write so 👁👄👁

#russell adler #russell adler x bell #cod bell #cod #call of duty #call of duty black ops #call of duty cold war #cod cold war #alex mason #frank woods #helen park #lawrence sims #jason hudson #lazar azoulay

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paperanddice · 4 years ago

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Ghosts often gain powers related to their method of death, and each kind is slightly unique. The bridge haunt is a ghost that died falling from a bridge in some way, whether accidental or murder. Whatever the specific circumstance of the death was, the person is trapped with some kind of unfinished feelings and seeks to replicate its manner of death. Some ghosts believe that replicating the death perfectly will allow them to pass on, while others simply wish to inflict pain on the living out of rage at their own death. Whatever drives them, truly manifested ghosts are a dangerous threat, and even those who don't seem to understand their undead condition will lash out at the living without provocation.

The haunt cloaks itself and its bridge in illusions that shape the encounter to appear how the haunt likes. A rickety and broken bridge may look whole, while a perfectly sturdy one may appear to have holes in it to encourage those crossing to stick to the edge where the haunt can more easily push them off. As soon as a creature is vulnerable, the haunt attacks, lashing out to try and send a creature falling to its death.

Permanently destroying a ghost is always a challenge, as the emotions that hold it to the world aren't removed simply by dispersing the ectoplasm that makes up its form. Given a few days the ghost will inevitably return, forcing the next traveller to contend with it again. Instead, the source of the ghost's fury must be directly fixed, either by destroying the bridge or finding the wish that holds the ghost to the world and fulfilling it. Most bridge haunts wish for something important to be brought to where they sought to travel, usually reuniting the person's body or treasure to a living family member.

Originally from the 3.5 Monster Manual V. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as a spot on the Paper and Dice Discord server, consider backing me there!

5th Edition

A creature forcefully pushed off of a bridge by the haunt must attempt a DC 15 Dexterity saving throw to catch onto the edge. Otherwise, it is thrown down and lands somewhere below painfully. The terrain below the haunt's bridge is rarely safe, often being fast moving water or simply a very far fall, and any character thrown off has a good chance of being removed from the fight entirely without smart thinking or magical assistance.

Bridge Haunt Medium undead, any evil Armor Class 17 Hit Points 71 (13d8 + 13) Speed 30 ft., fly 30 ft. (hover) Str 4 (-3) Dex 16 (+3) Con 12 (+1) Int 10 (+0) Wis 13 (+1) Cha 19 (+4) Damage Immunities necrotic, poison Damage Resistances acid, cold, fire, lightning, thunder, bludgeoning, piercing and slashing damage from nonmagical attacks Damage Vulnerabilities force, radiant Condition Immunities exhaustion, grappled, paralyzed, petrified, poisoned, prone, restrained Senses darkvision 60 ft. passive Perception 11 Languages any languages it knew in life Challenge 5 (1800 XP) Bridge Dependent. The bridge haunt is mystically bound to the bridge it died at. As an action, the haunt can magically merge with the bridge it is bound to. While merged, the bridge haunt cannot be detected by nonmagical means and can't be harmed or targeted by any spell or effect. The haunt can see and hear normally while merged, but can't take any actions except to exit the bridge from any point as a bonus action. When the bridge haunt is destroyed, it restores itself and returns to the bridge it haunts in 1d4 days. If the bridge haunt is somehow forced more than 1,000 feet from its bridge, or if the bridge it is bound to is destroyed, it is permanently destroyed. The bridge haunt also has a personal quest that can allow it to pass on, usually taking a piece of its corporeal remains of its former body, or a possession important to it in life, and delivering that item to the place where the creature was going before it died. Unnatural Aura. The AC of the bridge haunt includes its Charisma bonus. Innate Spellcasting. The bridge haunt's spellcasting ability is Charisma (spell save DC 15). The bridge haunt can innately cast the following spells, requiring no material components: 3/day each: suggestion (as a 4th level spell) 1/day each: mirage arcana Actions Multiattack. The bridge haunt makes two push attacks. After it makes both attacks, a creature hit by the bridge haunt must make a DC 14 Strength saving throw or be pushed 20 feet directly away from the bridge haunt. If a creature is hit by both attacks, it has disadvantage on the saving throw. Push. Melee Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 13 (3d6+3) force damage.

13th Age

The bridge haunt is a mixture of terrain element and creature, and is partly only significant if the area below the bridge is threatening enough to make falling a serious issue. No 10 foot drop into a slow stream, we're talking violent rushing river or deep ravine. A fall removes a character from the fight without a proper spell, magic item, or possibly an Icon benefit to save them. It isn't instant death however, simply draining some recoveries and separating the character from the group, and they might be found after assuming they succeed on their death saves.

Bridge Haunt Triple-strength 4th level spoiler [undead] Initiative: +9 Vulnerability: Holy Shove +8 vs. PD (2 attacks) - 18 damage Natural Roll Above the Target’s Strength: The target pops free of the bridge haunt and loses its next move action. Dual Hit: If both shove attacks hit during the same turn, the bridge haunt can make a violent hurtle attack during its next turn as a standard action. [Special Trigger] Violent Hurtle +10 vs. PD (up to 2 engaged enemies) - 25 damage and the target pops free of the bridge haunt and loses its next move action Natural Roll Above the Target’s Strength: The target is thrown over the edge of the bridge, and is helpless as it clings to the side. The target or another nearby character can attempt a DC 20 skill check to end the effect, but each failed check deals 2d6 damage to the helpless target. A character that can fly or has any special climbing abilities automatically succeeds on this check. If the helpless creature is reduced to 0 hp, it falls and loses 2 recoveries as it strikes the ground below, likely getting entirely removed from the fight and having to rely on making its death saves without help. C: Come to Me +8 vs. MD (1d3 nearby or far away enemies) - The target is hampered (save ends), and must attempt to engage the bridge haunt on its next turn Limited Use: 2/battle, as a quick action (once per round). Bridge Bound: The bridge haunt is bound to a specific bridge, and cannot leave it. When the bridge haunt drops to 0 hit points, it disappears but does not die. It reforms on its bridge after a number of days equal to its level. If the bridge is destroyed, the bridge haunt is also destroyed. The bridge haunt may also be destroyed by performing a personal quest for it, usually requiring finding a piece of the creature’s corpse or an important item to it and bringing it to the spot the creature was going before it met its death. Flight. Ghostly: The bridge haunt has resist damage 14+ to all damage except force damage. Living Visage: The bridge haunt cloaks itself and its bridge with illusions to trick creatures into approaching it. The bridge haunt looks like a living creature, and the bridge takes on whatever appearance the haunt wishes it to. A creature must make a DC 25 skill check to see through this illusion. This effect vanishes as soon as the bridge haunt starts flying or attacking. Meld With Bridge: The bridge haunt can merge with its bridge as an action, removing itself from the battlefield until it chooses to spend a move action to exit from any spot along the bridge. AC 18 PD 14 MD 18 HP 120

#D&D #DnD #Dungeons and Dragons #5th edition #13th Age #homebrew #my homebrew #monster #undead #long post

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aty-altiria · 4 years ago

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No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?

On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue

Word count: 2367

Universe: One Piece, Harry Potter

Pairings: Fem!Harry/Portgas D. Ace

Rating: T

Themes: Imprisonment, Soulmate Au - first words, results of torture

Summary: For years, Ace had debated the meaning of that particular sentence. That sentence had been the one etched into the skin of his forearm at birth, and though he didn't know it, had caused his mother to burst out laughing when she'd first held him.

@whumptober2020

Soft footsteps, possibly cloth shoes. The noise was different from what Ace was used to with the guards, causing him to open his eyes. Ace could make out little in the darkness of Impel Down even with his eyes adjusted, there was little to be seen unless the guards were present. The guards didn't think pirates deserved such simple things as 'light,' which was another blatant sign of how the government saw its people. Regardless, the darkness meant Ace was all the more curious because he could hear footsteps in the hallway, but the lights were still off.

Ace scanned the halls outside his cell, looked past the bar for any sign of moments. Ace narrowed his eyes, wishing not for the first time he could pull at his flames. Without the sea-stone, he could have lit up the entire level - and escape, don't forget escape - to reveal who was watching him soundless in the dark. If it was anyone at all. He strained his ears, listening for the sound of shoes on stone, and something shifted to the left of his cell door. Ace shot his eyes that way and found himself staring into a pair of glowing green eyes near the floor. They were like a cat in the way they were slit and were the only thing visible in the darkness. Then, the eyes blinked one slowly and vanished. There was a sound Ace couldn't place, almost like the shift of a sail, like fabric.

A moment later, the area around his cell door burst into light. It was bright enough that Ace flinched back and slammed his eyes closed against it. He winced as it shot a severe pang in his head. Before eventually, he forced his eyes open and met green once more… but they were different. They were no longer slitted, and they were no longer sitting at the height of a small house-cat. Instead, they were in the face of a young woman holding a stick with a lit-up tip.

Ace watched the woman tilt her head and scan him. Her eyes danced up and down, taking in the shackles across his body, the bruises littering his body, and the guards' blatant signs of abuse. Then… she smiled. It was a little blood-thirsty, a little fond, and a promised violence for someone that Ace was suddenly sure wasn't him. He assumed so mostly because her outfit and her presence told him she wasn't, in fact, a guard. Meanwhile, she was in Impel, somehow, illegally. Therefore, she was a potential ally.

And then she spoke.

"Guess I'll have to break that pretty face of yours out of prison."

Ace's wasn't ashamed to admit his heart jumped. No jumped was tame, Ace's heart nearly launched out of his chest. Instinctively at those words, Ace found himself leaning forward; the chains at his wrists, stomach, neck, and ankles pulled. They clanked together and stretched, stopping him long before he could get even remotely close to her, and it caused him to growl at the chains even as he stared. Ace stared because she'd actually said it. This unknown woman within Impel Down had actually said it… sure, Ace had been hoping ever since he'd been captured. Still, he hadn't actually imagined it would happen. Ace had been half-convinced by the second week within Impel down that it would be a guard set to say those words and destroy all his hopes. But… she wasn't. She'd actually come.

So many years, Ace had debated the meaning of those words, of that particular sentence. That sentence had been the ones etched into the skin of his forearm at birth. Though he didn't know it, the ones caused his mother to burst out laughing when she'd first held him. The same words caused Garp to be just a little more worried during Ace's childhood and also caused his insistence of Ace becoming a Marine to become stronger. Those words also caused Luffy and Sabo to endlessly worry over Ace because surely that meant once he started his pirate career that he'd only end up in prison?

After all, why else was his soulmate breaking him out of prison?

'Maybe she's a Marine, and you corrupt her?' Was Sabo's not so helpful thought.

'Sabo is probably laughing himself silly in the afterlife about then.' Ace thought as his soulmates form shifted, and she lifted the stick higher in the air. She flicked it then, and Ace watched three small blue lights, similar to Marco's flame colour, spawn into being and float into the cell with him. They were dimmer than the light on the stick, and Ace was thankful for it when his soulmate suddenly extinguished that particular light. She then pointed it at his cell door and whispered something.

The door opened, and Ace watched her glance his way. Then at his lips with a particular expression- oh. Ace hadn't said anything in return. He hadn't said her words yet. She had no idea he was her soulmate- but what in the gods' name did he say? He could actually choose… this never happened. No one got to choose. The words just showed up… they were predestined, Ace would always say what he'd say here. The words he'd speak had been etched onto her arm from birth, and the pressure was intense.

What had he said? Or will say? Or should say?

Ace internally groaned and blurted the first thing to come to mind. "I'm Portgas D. Ace… your soulmate."

Oh.

She shot him an amused look at Ace would have face-planted if he could have. Those had to be the most straightforward words anyone had ever gotten in the history of the world. He'd blatantly told her his full name; she would have had that from birth, an awareness of who he was for her entire life.

Well, at least he could say it was better than someone of the heavily insulting things the other Whitebeard Pirates had gotten.

"Holly Lily Potter-" She stopped beside him and tapped the stick to his shackles. Each one fell open, and Ace felt his flames rush back in as she did it. "-Black-Peverell-Gaunt-Weasley… resident of Earth, a much different planet from your own, and one Portgas D. Ace's soulmate." Holly then leaned back and offered Ace a hand, which he eagerly took. She pulled him onto his feet and said: "surprisingly, there aren't many people with that particular name, even after travelling between worlds to find you."

Worlds? What did she mean by that?

Ace kept his hand in hers when he watched her nose wrinkle suddenly and nearly tried to wrench it back in apology. Instead, his cheeks heated slightly despite it being something he couldn't help. The same Marines that didn't give them light certainly didn't provide them with a bathroom, shower, or substantial meals either. Ace was relatively sure he was rank. "Sorry, I... I'm probably... It's been a while since I could shower," Ace stuttered out nervously. He recalled Makino's every lesson on how to treat a woman. Everything he'd learned about them had been from Makino. However, the woman had snuck them in since Ace had only truly been interested in thanking Shanks for saving Luffy.

"It's fine," Holly assured him as her eyes burned holes in the chains holding him. They were filthy now and coated in dried blood from his wounds; many had been pulled entirely too tight and had chaffed something fierce when he shifted. There was a reason Ace had brutal marks on his wrists and ankles now. Not to mention the shackle around his middle had kept him from breathing when he'd fallen asleep in the incorrect position, meaning doing anything but sitting perfectly upright. "But some of those look infected…" she eyed the reddened skin on the wrist closest to her, ironically giving her a good look at the words she'd etched across his skin.

It caused her to blush, and Ace found himself tightening his grip on her hand. The subtle smile there transformed her entire visage, and that blush did funny things to his heart. Gods, he'd only just met her, and he was already gone.

"I can heal them," Holly offered as she smothered the blush, "after we escape, though? The Marines likely already know we're here… maybe?"

"There are no alarms, you've been subtle… hold on, we?" Had she come alone? From the wording, Ace assumed not.

"My brothers." Holly explained with a fond smile, "they're searching the level for you, teamwork since this place is huge." They still hadn't let go of each other's hand, Ace didn't want to either. He was enjoying the feel of her skin, even if it was just a hand. Though he really wanted a bit more contact… it would have to wait until he had bathed, but…

He wanted to taste her.

Ace had been imprisoned for weeks, tortured for weeks, left in the dark without his flames for weeks. And now his soulmate was here. His other half, the one everyone looked for, longed for. The one who'd accept him, his blood, and his heritage without fail. The one who'd just freed him before his family could die in order to save him.

And, Ace wanted to taste her.

But it could wait.

"Hey, Holly! Did you find him yet?!"

Holly jerked a bit as a voice called from down the hallway. Shooting a sheepish look his way, she called: "He's over here!"

"The right one!"

"About time too, how many worlds has it been Forge?"

"Oh, dozens."

Two voices, nearly the same, but Ace could definitely make out two. He was proven correct, as a set of perfectly identical twins appeared from the right side of his cell. They looked alike in every way; their similarities went down to their very spirit as he sensed them with his haki. The only difference Ace could really find was the one on the left was a bit… quieter in energy than the other. But that was it. Ace knew twins could be similar, he'd even met several sets, but this was ridiculous.

The two settled their eyes on him, and Ace noted something wild in their eyes. In the same way Holly's eyes seemed like a cat the first time he'd seen them; these two had a bit of a forest in them. "You're him then, Ace?"

"Not bad looking, eh, Holly? He's attractive, innit he?"

The other nodded along as Ace tried to follow their bouncing conversation, "Holly's been looking for her soul mate for years,"

"Our home country has some nonsense laws, and they tried to marry her off,"

"So the family packed up, all of us-" "which is a large amount, we have a big family, don't we Greg?" "-and we left that word,"

"We figured her soul mate had to be around somewhere, helpful that we had his name. So we travelled across different worlds."

"Been to a few, Asgard was nice,"

Holly shot him a look from the side; she looked long used to this act, and since she was his soulmate and these two were his family, he went with it. Ace was sure he'd get the pattern eventually. Haki certainly was already helping him.

"Elemental countries was cool, lots of ninja's,"

"I don't recommend any planet during the apocalypse though; zombies are not fun,"

"Then, we reached this one."

"See we've got this spell to test if someone with the name of Portgas D. Ace exists, developed by our own Holly." Ace looked to Holly again, who nodded with a shrug. As she did, she mouthed that she'd explain a bit better and in more detail later, especially the parts going right over Ace's head.

"But we didn't need it, since we got a paper announcing his execution,"

"We started off to 'Impel Down' right away,"

"No way we're letting our little sister's soul mate die, or anyone with his name."

"Not after all that!"

"She deserves love!"

Holly heaved a put upon sigh as Ace felt his emotions do something funny again. She'd… she'd been looking for him for a while, more than he initially assumed. Then, Holly had also been lucky enough to have his name through… worlds? Had she really passed through worlds? Was that even possible? They were certainly acting like it was.

"Worlds?" he asked, utterly forgetting they should probably be escaping.

"Ah," it was Holly's turn to blush now, "maybe let's escape first before I explain… because this will be a long conversation. Starting with… do you believe in… magic? Because that's sort of crucial… for our future."

Ace blinked once, twice, then gestured to the chains left behind. "I've been to an island where rain falls upward, so… sure?"

"Oh, good." The expression on her face was entirely mischievous and Ace… honestly felt a bit excited to see it; he couldn't wait to devour her- and then the twins to interrupt again. Ace was not the only one to shoot them a dark look for it.

"Hey Holly, if we're going to be pirates now. Can I have a hat?"

"Oh, yes! I need a tricorn with a big feather!"

"And a parrot!"

"And an eye-patch!"

Holly reached for Ace's hand, "okay, that's enough now. Ace, picture… home, I guess, wherever that is for you, as clearly as possible. And… brace yourself, most people throw up the first time."

What?

Ace opened his mouth to ask, and- the world twisted away.

#whumptober2020 #Harry Potter #OP fanfic #Rescue #no.5 #fem!harry potter #Portgas D. Ace #Fem Harry Potter/Portgas D. Ace #Impel Down #Impel Down fixit #fred and george

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antiquechampagne · 4 years ago

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Antique Champagne - CH 49 - Aftermath

The corners of Hancock’s mouth pinched painfully on the rough rag wedged in between his teeth. His mind calculated and churned at a furious rate. He wished could reach the pair of Mentats stashed in the brim of his hat. In the courtyard below, he could see the crowd, full of worried faces, many of them sporting fresh cuts and bruises. He took note that a ring of guards surrounded the throng. Nearly all of them were unfamiliar, and not a ghoul stood among them. Apparently, Fahr had been on a hiring kick and stacking the guards with her own agents.

Fahrenheit positioned him roughly in front of a pair of wooden boxes; a crude set of stairs leading over the railing. A noose lay already tied, ready for a neck to squeeze.

On Hancock’s right, Marowski stepped forward to address the crowd.

“Residents of Goodneighbor! Glad to see everyone could make it to my little shindig here welcoming me as your new mayor.” He spread his arms wide. “As we begin, I want to thank my second in command, my ace-in-the-hole as it were… Fahrenheit for her hard work. Without her, none of this would have been possible…”

As Marowski blathered on, Hancock’s stomach churned. Fahr stood straight as a board to his left, her smug face proud scanning the square. The population of Goodneighbor cowered below her gaze, the giant minigun she held clenched tight in her grip completing the threatening visage.

Hancock caught Magnolia turning to bury her tear streaked face in Ham’s chest. The bouncer wrapped an arm around her protectively and whispered something to her.

The ex-mayor tried to formulate some kind of plan. Maybe he could shove one of them over the railing while… while what? He would be full of bullets the moment he made a move.

Only the cawing of a gaggle of crows on the opposite roof disrupted Marowski’s speech. “Goodneighbor will not be subject to a drug-addled zombie’s whims any more. Today, a proper mayor will take his place!” He paused. If this usurper thought he would get a round of applause, it was apparent it was going to be a long wait. Annoyed, he made a quick motion to Fahr, who took one hand off her gun to pick up the waiting noose.

Even though he knew it was a futile act, Hancock grunted and growled as the rope came down around his head.

Before she could tighten the knot around his neck, the sound of footsteps caught them both by surprise. Looking over his shoulder, Hancock saw one of the guards that had jumped him in the hallway walk through the door without a word and stop next to Marowski.

“What, Ted? I’m bus—” Marowski was cut off by a burst of point blank gunfire, blood spraying as his midsection was ripped open. The crowd emitted a handful of screams and gasps.

Fahrenheit roared as she dropped the noose and grabbed for her gun, the sluggish machine whirling to life as she pulled the trigger. The guard did not react. He just stood there unflinching as the first few rounds flew wildly around him, clipping his dirty suit in several places.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Hancock dropped into a quick crouch before popping up, violently checking his ex-bodyguard. Fahrenheit staggered backward, the awkward weight of her firearm tipping her over the railing and sending her plummeting to the street with a meaty thud. Using his shoulder, Hancock quickly rolled the rope gag and shimmied off his noose.

His mouth finally free, he screamed to the crowd “Of the people! For the People!” Breaking the crowd out of their shock, they cheered, turning on the outnumbered guards. Hancock left the sounds of the ensuing fight behind him as he rushed back inside, past the seemingly comatose guard who still stood, gun at his waist, staring where Marowski had been standing.

“Holy shit, Payne! I don’t know what you…” his words faltered. The sight of Payne’s lifeless body slumped in a pool of blood stopped him in his tracks. “Oh fuck.”

Hancock sprinted over to the dresser where his weapons were hastily stashed. Clumsily, he grabbed his knife and quickly sliced through his bonds. The sounds of heated fighting prompted him to hastily shove the heavy dresser against the door, securing the room from any unwanted interruptions.

On his knees next to her, Hancock check for signs of life. He wasn’t sure what worried him more, the fact that thin watery blood dripped from her ears and nose or that he couldn’t detect her breathing. A glimmer of hope sparked when he brought his hand close to her face and Payne’s mouth faintly quivered. Looking down at his blood sprinkled palm, Hancock got an idea.

“Hold on, Payne!” he whispered as he ran back to the balcony. The befuddled guard still stood rooted to the spot where he had killed his boss. Hancock grabbed him by the back of his collar, dragging him into the room. “Consider this your letter of resignation.”

“What?” the man sleepily muttered, looking around confused. Pushing him down to his knees in front of Payne, Hancock plunged his knife into the prone guard’s neck. In one swift movement, he removed the knife and shoved him forward, forced the geyser of blood messily into Payne’s barely open mouth.

The guard seemed to awaken from his stupor, but it was too late. Hancock held him in place.

“For the love of God, please work!” The ghoul wasn’t a praying man, but he would try anything at this point. He let out a tiny sigh of relief when he finally saw Payne’s throat manage to weakly start to swallow. Soon, the guard fell quiet.

Loud knocking on the wooden door startled the mayor.

“John!” came a familiar voice from the other side, “John? You in there?”

Hancock pulled the dresser away from the door. “Daisy, I’m here.” In the distance he heard a deafening THRUM. Sounded like K.L.E.O. had joined the fray. Poking his head out, he saw a Daisy, grimly clutching an assault rifle, Ham and a few other watchmen making up the rear.

“Ham,” Hancock glanced back at Payne one last time before closing the door behind him. “Make sure no one goes in there, especially if they are human. I mean it.”

Ham, ever a man of few words, merely nodded and stepped into position. Even with a wickedly swollen black eye, he was sure even Ham’s patented stare down would anyone sniffing around packing.

As they headed down the stairs, Hancock turned to Daisy. Before he could even ask, she began reporting on the situation outside the Old State House.

“Most of those rat bastards turned tail and ran as soon as they saw we weren’t going to take their shit anymore. A few have holed up in nooks and crannies in the back alleys.”

Hancock nodded in approval. “Injuries?”

“So far, just Dale and V. They took a few unlucky rounds to the head. There are a few bruises and broken bones, mostly from the crack down before you came back. I’m sure there will be more as we clear the streets of this filth.”

“Find Amari. I need her.”

Daisy nodded and headed off.

Hancock turned into the street, heading to the square.

Under the Third Rail’s neon sign lay what was left of Fahrenheit, laying on her side. It was obvious that she didn’t suffer, hitting the ground headfirst. With the toe of his boot, he rolled her over. Whatever structural integrity that was left in her skull failed, spilling the remainder of the contents of her brainpan across the cobblestones. On the edge of vomiting, Hancock forced himself to look. He wanted to remember this feeling, to erase the years of friendship and comradery that threatened to overwhelm his vision with tears. Something among the mass of grisly gelatinous goo glinted in the light. Reaching down, Hancock pulled something silvery and smooth from the gore. An absolute red seething anger filled his body. Before he could process the cacophony of emotions that surged through him, he heard the march of multiple footsteps behind him. Pulling a rag from a pocket when he heard them, he wrapped the foreign metallic object and shoved it in his coat.

Daisy came back, leading a group of three prisoners, battered but alive. They marched with their hands above their heads, and angry mob at their heels.

“Line’em up.” The mayor ordered coldly.

Without a word, they filed in front of him. He didn’t even say a word before blasting the first turncoat’s brains across the bare brick wall. The second one followed seconds later. Hancock lowered his shotgun, cracking it open to reload it. The third took the moments respite to spit in the ghoul’s face.

“You fucking mutated freak! You belong—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.

Turning around, Hancock motioned for Daisy. “Where’s Amari?”

“She’s busy patching people up over by the hotel.”

Annoyed, Hancock quickly stomped off.

Clair Hutchins, the hotel’s elderly front desk attendant, stood overlooking the scene smoking a cigarette. As he passed, she dropped it, grinding it out with her heel in the dirt.

“I knew that asshat would do something stupid someday and get himself killed.” Her gravely voice uncharacteristically full of regret. “Didn’t know he would try something this fucked up.”

“Don’t think anyone did.” Hancock gave her arm a quick pat. “But, in better news, looks like you’re getting a promotion.”

“Fuck that. I’m too old for this shit.”

Walking up to the doctor, he waited for her to finish a handful of stitches on a resident’s brow.

“Amari, follow me. Grab some blood bags.”

She rose to her feet, her thin lips downturned with concern. “Payne?” It was more of a statement than a question.

Hancock nodded as a burning knot rose in this throat. Turning, he hurried back to the State House steps, the doctor close behind. When they reached the second floor he turned around.

“It’s… it’s bad. Let me go in first. I’ll tell you if it is safe.”

“Safe?”

He had shut the door before Dr. Amari had even finished the question. Payne still lay in the same position he had left her, the guard growing cold on the floor next to her. Pushing the body out of the way, he found her breathing. It was weak and labored, but perceptible… better than when he had to leave her. He slipped a syringe out of a pocket.

He whispered in her hear, unsure if she could hear him. “I’m just going to give you a little Med-X so Dr. Amari can get a good look at you, okay? I gotta make sure it’s safe.”

He quickly realized trying to find a vein was a losing battle. In the end he just jabbed it into her thigh. He allowed himself to frown.

“Stay with me, okay?” He wanted to say more but both time and tears were his enemy. He left her side for only a moment to bring the doctor in.

Dr. Amari started to examine Payne without saying a word. She examined her numerous injuries, checked her pulse, breathing and reflexes. She pried open her eyes and shone a light into them.

She returned to Hancock, looking grim. “Payne… she’s nearly bled out from the numerous gunshot wounds…”

“She’s bounced back from worse, trust me Doctor. Just give her some blood.”

“No, John. Let me finish. I don’t know what caused it, but my guess is that fluid running from her nose and ears… that’s cerebral spinal fluid. She has no pupillary light reflex.” Amari sighed. “Even without scanning her, I can tell her brain has most likely sustained massive amounts of damage. Payne has most likely developed hydrocephalus. This damage… she is not going to recover from these injuries.”

Hancock tried to follow along, but his mind hiccupped and struggled to absorb the information. He knew what Amari was getting at, it all made logical sense, but he could not accept it. Would not accept it.

“No doc, you’ve got it wrong. She’ll be fine.” He picked up a blood bag. “She just needs some more blood.”

Amari’s normal cool and calculating demeanor softened. “I don’t think you understand. Even if Payne were to somehow survive, she’s most likely only going to live in a prolonged vegetative state.” She put a hand gently on his “I’m sorry, John.”

“No!” Hancock flinched away. “You aren’t listening. She was worse than this before I slit that poor shit’s throat. She drank it! DRANK IT! She just needs more!”

“That was just a lingering reflex, probably still intact before her brain swelled. Nobody is going to—”

“She’s not nobody! What the fuck do you know? All you know how to do is fix human bodies! She’s not human! She’s…” he faltered, red faced, fists clenched. “Fuck you. I’ll do it myself.”

Hancock dropped to the floor, ripped open the bag’s short tube, feeding it in her mouth.

“John, please. I know it’s hard to…” Amari stopped. Hancock ignored her, focused completely on keeping the blood flowing into Payne’s weakly parted mouth. “She’s drinking?” Amari grabbed Payne’s wrist, skillfully monitoring the pace and strength of her heartbeat.

“I told you! She just needs more.”

Payne coughed and sputtered. Hancock swore.

“You need to prop her up more, to prevent aspiration.” Amari shook her head. “It could be just an autonomic response to a stimulus.” To Hancock, it sounded like there was some room to argue in her statement.

“Get her to your lab and see what your precious machines tell you.”

#antique champagne #ao3 #fan fiction #fanfic #fan fic #payne #hancock #fahrenheit #goodneighbor #amari

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saycheesekid · 2 years ago

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COMMISSIONED FROM - @jesterkard

#visage - luck be a lady #visage - ace in the hole #visage - ace visconti #visage - minerva d'angelo #》 Y'ALL IM CRYING IN THE C L U B AT THESE!!!!!!!#》 MINERVA X ACE AKA BI ICONS AKA HIMBO AND SUPER MODEL AKA CANON IN MY HEAD RN #》 The beauty is these were sent to me a day BEFORE Minervas birthday.

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fabllama02 · 5 years ago

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That Superhero AU

Dagur the Deranged dives into Jackson’s path during the hazy dusk of a weekday. Jackson’s been patrolling for hours now; he suited up straight after school, webbing his backpack full of civvies and calculus homework to the underside of an apartment building’s AC unit before taking to the sky. He’s chasing a couple of thugs who’s held up a local 7/11 when Dagur makes a grab for him.

Jackson flips safely out of the way. Dagur cackles, and chases after him, mouth full of wet, pointed teeth.

“Get a hobby, you maniac!” Jackson calls over his shoulder. Dagur forces him to duck and roll to the left. Those thugs and their bundles of cash must be long gone by now.

“You’re my hobby,” Dagur says.

“Yeah?” Jackson yells back. “You want me to come with you to the craft store? Help you pick out some wool, some watercolors; maybe we could pick up a model airplane to build together-”

Dagur snags his arm. He’s intimidatingly larger than Jackson. His hand wraps entirely around Jack’s bone thin wrist, almost obscuring his entire hand beneath that meaty fist.

“Uh oh,” Jackson says, right before Dagur throws him through the air and into the side of a building. Cement cracks under the force. “Ow.”

Dagur chases it with a punch. Jackson back-flips out of the way, crouching low on the pavement. The street is bustling with people rushing home from work, all of them skittering backward with fright.

“Come on, Dagster, can’t we talk this out like the rational people we aren’t?” Jack offers.

Dagur rises back up on his feet and- yup, oh yeah, he is definitely stupidly taller than Jack. He’d be getting a complex if he wasn’t too busy dodging deadly, swiping hits and ignoring the screeching whine of his spider-sense.

Dagur bares his teeth. It’s not a smile. “I don’t want to talk, little Angel. I want to see what your insides look like.”

“Thank but my insides prefer to be on the inside-”

Dagur grabs Jackson again, nails digging into the soft skin of his throat, and bodily throws him. Jackson doesn’t just crack the side of a building; this time, with a hitch in his breath and a scream of his spider-sense, Jackson goes careening through the storefront window, glass shattering and customers inside shrieking, and then straight through the solid far wall. Jackson’s been thrown through walls before. It never stops being so painful, so disorienting, like a boulder has been smashes over his head.

“Ugh,” Jackson says. He lies in the nest of fractures cement and shards of glass and wonders if numb, tingling limbs is a blessing or a very, very bad sign. Probably the latter. “Ughhhhhh.”

“My boss is going to kill me!” The middle-aged manager in a polo shirt stands behind the broken wall. The glare he wears is anything but sympathetic. Geez, a guy can’t even get thrown through a window and a wall without upsetting someone in this city.

“My super-villains are going to kill me,” Jackson snipes back.

“Look what you’ve done,” hisses an older customer, tiny, glinting glass shards in her hair. She’s not hurt, though, thank god. “I just bough this shirt! Are you going to pay for it?”

Jackson hauls himself out of the Jack Frost shaped hole, stumbling over shaking feet. “When the deranged guy comes back, I’ll probably be paying for something. With my blood.” The manager and the customers go back to cursing him out. The sharp, accusatory bite to their words sounds vaguely venomous. “Are none of you concerned about the guy that was just chucked through a solid wall? And has a giant, murderous super-villain on his tail? No?”

“I should sue you for-” says the manager. He’s several inches taller than Jack and uses his height to bare down on him, arms crossed.

“Why is it that everyone who hates me is tall?” Jackson wonders. “You, Dagur’s ugly butt. And people wonder why short people all have tempers and complexes-”

“I like your height,” Dagur says, clambering into the broken electronics store. Looks like Jackson’s lunch break is over, then.

The manager and the other customers shriek and rush for the exits. The deranged man ignores them, all his attention focused keenly on Jack- hooray for him!- as he shifts, grins, continues, “You’re conveniently small. So easy to throw. To manipulate.”

“Well, hey,” Jackson says, “at least one of us appreciates my height.”

Dagur snatches Jackson’s hand; he’s too off kilter from being ditched through a store to dodge or shake him off but Dagur doesn’t throw him again. His fist tightens, and Jackson’s spider-sense drags a warning up his spine, and then he snaps Jackson’s fingers backward.

Jackson howls and throws himself backward. Dagur is too strong- Jackson dangles from his grip, four fingers of his left hand broken crookedly, panting against his mask.

“See?” Dagur remarks as Jack gasps through the pain. “So fragile and small.”

“Go jump into the Hudson,” Jackson says.

Dagur leans in, shark-like teeth brushing against the vulnerable, hidden curve of Jackson’s ear. “I’m going to kill you next week,” Dagur promises. It’s low, not a whisper, but a quiet exchange passed only between them. “You’re going to come to come, and I’m going to pull you apart until you’re gasping, and bleeding, and dead.”

“I would never go to you,“ Jackson spits. Dagur readjusts his hold on Jackson’s hand, and yanks again. His glove twists, and his skin burns- his wrists isn’t sprained, but it’s a near thing, accompanied by stinging, heated pain.

“You will,” Dagur says like the condescending asshole that he is. He drops Jackson, and the teenager skitters away from his hold.

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, then I guess I’ll just have to come to you. Do you think the news channel would be horrified by a man being ripped open on a public street, or do you think, in lieu of an obituary, they’ll publish an article blaming you for dirtying public property?” That smile- it’s going to crawl it’s way through Jack’s nightmares like the haunting, damning thing he knows it for. “I doubt anyone would even mourn.”

Jackson’s breath is hitched, his wrecked hand cradled to his heaving chest. Dagur laughs once more, a victorious sound, before taking off into the darkening city, leaving Jackson to the approaching sound of police sirens, the judging eyes of surrounding civilians, and a growing, cancerous dread.

The injury in his hands had vanished quickly, but Dagur’s promise stayed with Jackson. He tried to ignore it, but there was something unsettling about Dagur, more so than any bullies, or criminals, or even super-villains that Jackson faced before. The deranged man is a different breed of villain. He rattles Jackson; it doesn’t matter how hard Jackson tries to ignore it, the man always manages to crawl under his skin.

But, over a week later, when Jackson flips past Oswald Tower and his spider-sense blares to life, Jackson doesn’t think about Dagur. His senses direct him downward, into a hatched window on the lower floor. His hearing picks up begging, someone crying, and then a choked off scream- and Jackson’s running before he thinks about where he is.

Jackson just wants to help. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

It’s uncomfortable to search out a crime like this. His spider-sense naturally urges Jackson’s body away from danger. To rush against it like this, sprinting further into the winding hallways, having it build louder and louder in his head, makes him uneasy. It’s like the world’s worst game of hotter/colder. Jackson’s colors slowly melts into his surroundings; making him invisible.

It’s late, and Jackson thinks nothing of the hallways being almost entirely abandoned, only a few interns shrieking at the sudden sight of him crawling along their ceiling like something out of a horror movie. He shushes them and points towards the nearest exit that isn’t blocked. They nodded in thanks before rushing past him and he turns invisible once more.

His spider-sense takes him to a closed set of doors. Jackson crawls in the room through the vents. He found two men inside. One is knelt as though in prayer, drenched in blood and shaking visibly. The other- impeccably dressed, all sharp angles and too seeing eyes- smiles before looking up. At his direction. His grin only grows, his head cocks, and when he takes one testing step forward, Jackson’s spider-sense flinches up his neck like a panicked animal and his invisibility falls off.

“Always a surprise,” the man remarks. “Always exceeding my expectations of man’s ability for blind, foolhardy heroism.” The man’s visage flickers before it completely falls and reveals-

“Dagur.” Jackson says through gritted teeth.

“Permafrost!” The man on the ground tries to reach for Jackson. “Help-”

“Oh, shut up.” Dagur bends down and slams the man’s bleeding head into the floor. Jackson’s spider-sense is a haunting, distracting thing, urging him to run.

“Get away from him,” Jackson says.

The deranged man looks down at the slumped, unmoving man. “Whatever you say, little Angel,” he says, taking a pointed step away, towards Jackson. “He’s just a scientist that out grew his usefulness, anyway.”

“I’m more heroic each time; you’re more vague and creepy each time. We’re a match made in heaven.” Jackson doesn’t leave. He knows Dagur would only take it out on the helpless man on the floor. From the glint of teeth, Jackson guesses Dagur is well aware of the responsibility Jackson has to the unconscious man, too.

“I didn’t even have to enact the second part of my plan. You came straight to me, sought me out through the twisting burrows of my Tower. A dog returning to his master.”

“That’s not very nice,” Jackson says through the building fear. “And after all the effort I made to come visit you…”

The deranged man wearing Oswald’s skin smiles. The click of the reinforced door behind him and the spray of gas shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does. The villain straps a gas mask over his smile.

Jackson rushes Dagur. He doesn’t make it to the man before chocking on his breath and collapsing into a pile of weak, useless limbs. Jackson passes out there, goes lax in the bowels of Oswald Tower, spread out at Dagur’s feet.

Jackson comes to with a weight against his throat and heavy limbs. His legs feel like they’ve been dipped in tar, a sticky, moving wetness on his legs and arms. His spider-sense is still with him, screaming incoherently at the base of Jackson’s skull. It gives a rough indicator for just how screwed exactly Jackson is.

He tugs against the wet slime. It shifts, pins him down. He tries again, but the thing doesn’t move and his palm is clenched firmly closed inside it so he can’t frost his way out of this either. It’s like being held down by chains made of molasses.

“Sssssstay,” the Venom-like thing gurgles. His spider-sense shudders down his spine at the sound. Of course, this is why his senses had freaked out; not only was someone in trouble, but a symbiote is involved. They always set Jackson’s spider-sense off, too loud, almost painfully so.

And whatever Dagur’s planning must have been a factor, too. Maybe his spider-sense wasn’t hightlighting the pain the scientist was suffering. Maybe it had sniffed out Dagur’s plan and lit up like a Christmas tree in fright.

“You walked into this one, Jack,” Jackson croaks around the dryness in his throat (how long was he out?). “You idiot.”

“With an IQ so high, you’d think you’d see a trap before you walked blindly into it.” Jackson’s head tips against the tiles to see Dagur, stood above the lain out teenager, looming like a skyscraper over pedestrians. “Hello, Jackson.”

Jackson freezes. Splutters, “I’m- I’m not-”

Dagur holds up his red mask. Jackson realizes, stomach dropping, that his face is bare.

“I’ve known for a while, Jackson,” Dagur says. “A long while.”

“You weren’t good for this city. You’re good for me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jackson says around his panic, “you’re not very good for me. I want to take this relationship back to the shop and get a full refund. The receipt is still in my other tights-”

“Your incessant babbling isn’t as sharp when you’re this panicked. And here I thought you’d be slinging clever puns until the sun burnt out.” Dagur crouches down next to Jackson’s pinned form, grin as slippery as the symbiote holding Jackson in place. He thumbs at a square piece of metal held in one hand. “Maybe I can make you shut up for once. Let’s see, shall we?”

Jackson opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the weight around his throat tightens, buts off his air and his words, before it pulses electric shocks down his nerves. This is different from the familiar sting of the police’s tazer shots aimed at him- this burns. It scorches. Jackson doesn’t have enough air to scream.

Jackson feels floaty. Distant. When he come back to himself, his chest is heaving. Fingers card through his sweat damp hair.

“You shouldn’t wear that mask,” Dagur admonishes. “It’s too nice, seeing your face. Do you have any idea what you look like when I do this?” He presses at the remote and Jackson is lost beneath another wave of encompassing, red hot pain.

“Bet- bet I still don’t look as ugly as you,” Jackson pants when the sensation ebbs. Dagur’s right- his jokes aren’t as good.

Dagur ignores that. “I’ll tell you; you’re pale. Your eyes roll back in your head, leaving only bloodshot white, and your mouth slips open.” The fingers drift from his hair to trace Jackson’s cracked lips, pressing in. Jackson tastes his fingers on his tongue. He tries to bite him, but Dagur retracts his hand too quickly. “Your whole body convulses…”

“If that hand drifts any lower, Dagur, I really will bite it off.”

Dagur laughs and plucks his hand from Jackson’s clavicle. “You’re lovely, like this.”

“Gross,” Jackson says. “You’re so, so-”

Dagur presses down on the remote. Jackson throws his head back with all his strength. His cranium bangs loudly against the hard floor. But he barely notices the tingling pain or the blood pooling there. He won’t notice the concussion until later.

It continues like that. Dagur leans in, brushes his fingertips over Jackson’s panting, sweating face, looming over the wreck of a teenager and grinning like he wants to devour him whole. The remote is twisted, the collar tightens in warning and then-

Jackson tries fighting, but he feels like he’s underwater. The symbiote holds him down. So, too, does the shocking, sporadic pain and the piercing weight of Dagur’s eyes.

“I made you this way,” Dagur whispers as Jackson gasps for air, shaking violently under the billionaire’s hand. “I made you what you are. I own the spider serum, I own you; my collar belongs around your throat.” The symbiote gurgles. It moves, crawls like a seaworm, like it’s fidgeting. Dagur laughs at the sight, “Your brother is jealous of my affection, Jack, you should be grateful.”

It’s not Dagur’s sugary words that make the half-formed symbiote anxious. It’s the collar. Each flick o Dagur’s thumb on the trigger makes the symbiote skitter along Jackson. He didn’t pick it up in the beginning, too blinded by the waves of pain that swept over him, but after a while, after even Dagur has grown impatient with this method of torture, Jackson is numb enough to recognize the symbiote’s fear. It stays away from where his nerves are the thickest- his feet, his fingertips, the inner curve of his thighs (places that, unfortunately, Dagur is not afraid of touching).

Jackson remembers; Venom had been frightened of pulsing waves of sound, like Church bells. Electricity- this one doesn’t like electricity.

Jackson upper body surges like he’s going to attack Dagur, and the villain reacts instinctively, thumbs slamming down on the collar’s remote trigger. It tightens in warning, leaving him breathless, and Jackson twists on his side. Rather than going lax, surrendering to the inevitable rush of pain, he curls and presses his lips to the writhing, black mass pinning down his arms. When the bundles of nerves beneath his skin flood with electricity, the symbiote screams with Jackson.

It’s just enough. The symbiote flinches off of him and Jack rolls, shuddering with the aftershocks, and punches the shock off of Dagur’s face. As the two monsters recover, Jackson skitters across the lab floor. His free hand reaches up and freezes the collar before crushing it. The bulky metal cracks and energy crackles inside the ice but didn’t fully reach Jackson. It hurts, burns like spitting oil, but it’s nothing like before.

Dagur roars behind his teeth, one hand pressed against his broken nose, spurting blood against his fingers. Jackson smiles victoriously, feeling a little feral.

Take that, Dagster. Jack, 1. Dagur…probably more than 1, come to think of it-

The symbiote is still squirming, but makes no move towards Jackson, skittering away from it’s master’s hands.

I kissed the symbiote, Jack thinks, staring at it. I kissed Venom’s less developed cousin.

And Dagur, Dagur- his eyes are dark and wild. He runs at Jackson and he sees a flash of metal, a loud warning from his spider-sense, before the much taller man barrels into him.

They tumble to the ground, Jackson beneath Dagur. He’s burnt out and exhausted, his collar still spitting toned-down shocks of electricity through his fried nerves at random intervals. Dagur’s teeth are red. His blood drips from his nose and wets Jackson’s maskless face.

He hasn’t don his villain’s suit yet, but he’s still the very picture of Jackson’s nightmares.

Dagur’s elbow digs into Jackson’s chest. It hurts. It pins him. Jackson makes a grab for it, but his spider-sense screams, and Dagur shoves a knife between Jackson’s ribs.

“There it is,” Dagur pants, his blood splashing onto Jackson’s wet cheeks. Some of it gets into the teenager’s open, screaming mouth. It doesn’t taste coppery; all Jackson can taste is pain. “That open, lovely expression. I don’t even need this.” He fiddles with the collar, but snatches his hand back when it splutters and chocks both him and Jackson.

Jackson grapples with Dagur, knife still embedded in his side. Dagur blocks easily enough. Jackson’s strong, but clumsy with pain. The deranged man is still not wearing his gears, but coherent and running on the high of victory.

Dagur grabs his hand and twists. Jackson feels something crack, and Dagur drinks in Jackson’s scrunched expression and breathy cry of pain.

“This wasn’t the type of father-son bonding I was picturing,” Jackson says through his teeth, because he has to, because the other opinion is to scream or cry, giving Dagur what he wants. “I thought- I thought we were going to go fishing, maybe watch some baseball, play catch out the front-”

Dagur punches him across the face, fist closed. Jackson knows how to take a punch.

“You need to watch more American family films, dude, because this? This is not how adults interact with teenagers. There’s a severe lack of baseball mitts and nicknames like ‘sport’ and ‘sonny’-” Dagur hits him again, harder. His lip splits open, and Jack swallows a mouthful of blood and spit. He slants a glare up at his villain. “You’re kind of an asshole, I ever tell you that, Dag-fart? Ha- oh my god, Dag-fart the Deranged, that’s my new name for-!”

Broad hands wrap around Jackson’s neck, ignoring the metal collar and squeezing. Jackson squirms against the chokehold, he tugs at Dagur’s hands and promptly spread frosts along his forearms but strangely enough, he didn’t budge. Even as skin seems to darken in blue at the beginning of a frostbite, Dagur’s sharp-nailed fingers dig into the soft column of his throat. He splutters up at Dagur’s face- purpled in rage, eyes wild, grin as manic as ever- and tries to form words.

“I prefer you quiet,” Dagur tells him. His grip tightens. Jackson’s fingers scramble at the tiles, at Dagur’s hands, desperate for air. “Ah, I think I like this face even more than the last one. You’re so beautiful, desperate. Dying under my hands…”

Dag-fart, Jackson thinks through the airless haze. Dag-fart.

Dagur relaxes his grip enough for Jackson to take in rattling, shallow gasps. His lungs burn. Dagur’s hands go soft, his spread fingers rubbing circles along Jackson’s shaking throat. This deceptive gentleness is sickening.

Their faces are inches apart. Less than. They’re breathing in each other’s air, and Dagur can feel the violent trembling of Jackson’s body, can feel how warm the blood beginning to seep from his stab wound is. That, after everything that has happened today, is what pushes Jackson over the edge.

His legs snap out and he kicks Dagur off of him with all the strength of a bucking, enraged horse. The billionaire’s ribs crack with the force. Jackson yanks the knife out. He resists the urge to curl around the injury or spend any more precious seconds tearing at the collar that keeps spitting electricity. With adrenaline thrumming through his blood, he clambers up and makes for the door. Dagur is still curled on the floor on the other side of the room. The symbiote lays still, as harmless as spilled out, spoiled milk.

Jackson hastily activates his invisibility and limps out of the door and down the long, dark corridors as fast as he can with a bleeding side and a malfunctioning collar.

Dagur isn’t down for long; Jackson can hear the man’s chocked off shouts of rage through the walls. He limps faster, puffing little breathy gasps with each jarring step.

His torso feels soaked through with the blood even as he iced his bleeding side. Wall crawling may be faster and give him the rare higher ground on his too-tall enemy, but it’d paint a path to Jackson. Dagur would just have to follow the dripping, bloodied handprints along the wall to find him.

No. Walk-limping would have to do.

“JACKSON!” He hears the shout muffled through the wall. Dag-fart sounds pained. Good.

Jackson’s been hurt as Jack Frost before. Concussions, jarred fingers and sprained ankles, bullet wounds to the thigh, even a stab wound or two. But there’s something different about this- something that’s visceral and real. Too raw, too much. This, limping through evacuated, empty halls, nerves burnt out and a head wound beginning to make itself known, a concussion pressing nauseous into his throat and blurring the edges of his vision, frostbite beginning to take place on his badly bleeding side, the echo of Dagur’s manic voice ringing through the walls-

It’s too much. Jackson clenches his mouth shut, teeth trapping any noise he might make, and breathes raggedly through his nose. He won’t succumb to the jagged whimpers he can feel in his throat, won’t cry, won’t let panic attack pressing against his ribs take him down.

He has to get out of here.

Dagur is a distinct point; Jackson can just hear his rough pants and the slick-slide sound of his button down and slacks against the villain gears he wears as Dagur the Deranged. Jackson just has to… stay out of his grasp. And find help.

An adult, his mother would say often, driven by worry that her tiny, fresh in his teens, son would think he had to deal with anything awful by himself. She knew he was too selfless. Too stupid to draw attention to his problems. You tell an adult if something bad happens, okay? Promise me, Jackson.

Jackson, tiny and trusting and sick of these too familiar lectures, had nodded his promise. Had sworn it.

Jackson hates the idea that he’s not enough as he is. He hates being told he’s too weak or not capable or should be protected cause he’s 15 years old and still impatiently waiting for a growth spurt. He’s a superhero. His fists are small, but they pack a mighty punch.

But even stupid, stubborn Jackson has to admit that he’s in a bad position here. Fingers clenched tight to his iced stab wound, Jackson relents; his mother was right.

Jackson needs an adult.

He finds the phone in an empty lab a few levels down. Dagur had taken him to the basement levels, floors hidden beneath the concrete ground of the city, buried in the soil. The man assumed that, after escaping, Jackson would’ve limped up. Tried to find his way out into the sunlight.

But Jackson’s seen enough animal documentaries. He knows about the feral, sharp toothed predators that wounded their prey and then stalk it down, waiting for it to slow, to eventually succumb to their injuries, before capturing and devouring it. He’s not going to crawl and get inches from safety, only to have Dagur snatch him back up.

So Jackson winds his way down to even lower levels. It buys him time.

The scientists usually manning these labs must have been told to abandon them in a hurry. Bags are still left at workstations. There’s no one here to stop him from rifling through their belongings until he finds a phone without a passcode to crack.

With shaking, wet fingers, Jackson dials the closest hero. The one that had- after snapping at him for going out, young and untrained- reluctantly handed over a phone number. Not a name, not an address; a phone number. For emergencies.

It’s one of the few numbers Jackson has memorized, outside of his mother, and his little sister, and a few other dozen friends, and-

“This is Matt Murdock’s phone!”

“Um,” Jackson says. The voice doesn’t sound like Daredevil; it’s too chirpy. “I’m looking for Daredevil…?”

The man on the other end of the line sighs. “Of course you are.”

“Is this the wrong number? Are you, like, his secretary?”

“Sometimes I feel like it.” Jackson has no idea what that means. “How did you get this number?”

“Daredevil gave it to me. We’re…we’re colleagues.”

“Winkwink, nudgenudge colleagues?”

Jackson stares blankly at the lab wall. He’s starting to feel floaty again. Out of body. Like nothing, not even a phone in his hands, not even the warm voice in his ear, is quite real. “I’m a superhero, I’m not sleeping with him or anything. That’s gross.”

“No, no, I got that-” Something shifts in the background. The man murmurs gently, urging someone back to sleep. When he returns, he asks, hushed, “What do you want? Daredevil isn’t available tonight.”

“He needs to be available,” Jackson says through his haze, heart thumping like a frightened animal. His collar shocks him every ten minutes or so, sending out a weak, painful pulse of electricity that makes him jump and lose his train of thought. “I-I need his help. I’m in tr-”

“Foggy?” Someone in the background says, words badly slurred. “Who’s on the phone?”

“No one, buddy!” says this Foggy, this man who acts as Daredevil’s secretary, this man who’s keeping help from Jackson. “Go back to sleep, you’re still too injured. It’s just a prank call.”

“Is that him?” Jackson begs. “I need to- I need-”

“I’m sorry, kid, but running around in spandex can wait. You’re going to have to be patient for a few nights.”

“Wait-” Jackson begins, but Foggy has already hung up. Jackson tries to call again, but the phone rings out. Foggy must’ve turned it off. Figures.

“Okay, Jackson,” Jackson tells himself around the chattering of his teeth (either blood loss or fear, the jury is still out). His lungs feel tight, like they’re stuffed full of cotton wool and there’s no room for his sharp, shallow inhales. “Don’t panic. So Daredevil hired an asshole secretary who won’t take your calls, you’ve faced stuff like this before. Who else do you know? Who else?”

There’s a group. A group, in their gleaming building with their famous name, who Jackson’s been snapchatting and texting, who’s number his scrambled, fried brain remembers.

He lowers himself to the ground, one hand around his bleeding middle, the other dialing quickly. E. Aster Bunnymund answers with a gruff, “Hello?”

“Bunny? It’s-it’s Jack Frost,” Jackson whispers. His mouth is wet and dripping; there’s too much salvia in his mouth like he’s about to throw up.

Bunny laughs on the other end of the line. “Frosty? Is this another prank call? Because, I tell ya, I ain’t gonna fall for it a second time around-”

“Bunny,” Jackson says, “listen, I need the Four’s help with something. Now.”

“Come on, Frostbite. You don’t call, you don’t write- I feel neglected-”

“Bunny!”Jackson’s voice pitches too high, gone crackling with panic. On the other end, Bunny audibly winces. “Sorry. Sorry. I just… I really need your help. Please.”

“Sorry, Jack, but the Four and I are off-world. We’re actually on our way out ta deal with another spacial anomaly thingy. Ye just caught us; we’re going to fly out of the range of Earth’s satellites soon.”

“Talk about a long distance call,” Jackson says idly, almost distantly, as though his heart isn’t trying to fight it’s way past his ribcage. The too wet feeling in his mouth worsens. Maybe he really will throw up, this time. Would that attract Dagur? A loud, retching sign of weakness- blood in the water, calling out to the hungry, hungry sharks.

“Good thing ya didn’t call on yer cell,” Bunny agrees. He laughs again. Jackson doesn’t laugh with him. “It’d be phone bill out of this world.”

“Do you know a phone number that will get me into contact with the other Guardians?” Bunny hums, doubtful, and Jackson begs, “Does North know? Does he have Ombric’s phone number? Someone else, even- any unknown vigilante currently living in this city?”

“No and no to da last two, I think.” Bunny leaves the call briefly. Jackson can hear him talking to the others briefly. There’s a click over the line and the telltale crackle as Jackson is put on speaker phone.

“Jack Frost!” North greets joviantly. “What’s the problem? Is it something we can advise you on? If it’s a strategic battle I could walk you through-”

”No, no.” Jackson chokes on the words, around the congested, panicked feeling building in his chest. “I need actual physical help. I need the cavalry, North.”

“We’re pretty far from being able to help, Frostbite.” Bunny’s voice is light, on the edge of a joke. It makes Jackson feel like crying.

“Do you know how I can contact the other Guardians? Or a- a superhero helpline, maybe?”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but my superhero contacts are all saved in the Workshop servers on Earth. There’s nothing I can give you-” North says.

“Nothing?” Jackson asks. Beneath his mask, tears drip down his nose. He didn’t cry when Dagur loomed over him and made him shake and whispered awful, awful promises, but this? Knowing how well and truly alone he is? It’s choking. A hysterical, knife-edged sob crawls it’s way out of Jackson’s throat without his consent.

“Frosty?!” Bunny’s voice is back. Jackson bites at his bottom lip, and curls up tighter around his knees, and presses the phone closer, like he can climb into the screen if he tries hard enough. “Are you- are you crying?”

“Jack, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” That’s Toothiana. Her voice is hard with worry.

“Blyat,” North says, panicked. Jackson is growing numb and distant and cloudy, the way he does when a panic attack is really brewing, thick and heavy, in his chest. “Is he-”

“I’m on my own, then,” Jackson cuts North off. His words are shaky and strained; concussions are awful things, especially when coupled with blood loss. Jackson swallows thickly. “It’s- alright. It’s alright.”

“Frosty!” Bunny says. “Snowflake, wait a second-”

Jackson hangs up.

The phone rings almost immediately. He silences it by denying the call, but it rings again moments later. It doesn’t even occur to Jackson to turn the thing off. He picks it up and crushes it between shaking fingers. It doesn’t ring after that, scattered as it is in warped, useless parts.

“It’s going to be alright,” Jackson says, just once more, and gets to his feet.

Jackson realizes, belatedly, that he should have used that phone to call his mother and little sister. He really may not make it out of this, not if Dagur catches him. A phone call to apologize and say goodbye would have been nice. Then again, the sound of both of their voices may have made him break down for real, and Jackson can’t afford that right now.

The pain is distracting, but the accompanying immovability is what makes Jackson grit his teeth. His whole body feels stiff. He can’t limp away from this. He can’t jump from a window and flips his way to freedom.

The collar goes off again. Jackson freezes the damn thing again and ignores it. He doesn’t have the time or coherency to pull the thing apart.

The blood running thick and slippery over his shaking fingers is alarming. Like a red flag, it shouts Jackson’s own stupidity back at him. He shouldn’t have gotten caught. He should have fought harder. Been faster. Shouldn’t have even gotten out of bed that morning-

Dagur is back.

A door opens and shuts a few hallways over. Dagur’s wearing an expensive grey suit, but beneath it, hidden from prying eyes, is the synthetic gears of his villain outfit. The same way Jackson’s suit is usually tucked away beneath hoodies and t-shirts.

Daredevil’s secretary may have denied him, but Jackson’s still grateful for the hours the older man had spent helping Jackson hone his advanced senses. He can hear the slick-slide of the deranged man’s suit against slacks as loud as a warning bell.

Daredevil may not know it, but he just saved Jackson’s life. Even if it may not matter, in the end.

Jackson immediately activates his invisibility again and wedges himself into a maintenance closet, and holds his breath, and silently begs Dagur doesn’t find him.

He doesn’t- the slick-slide of fabric passes Jackson’s hiding place and disappears further down the corridor. Jackson hasn’t stopped to hide yet, so Dagur has no reason to check all the rooms. He knows that will change the longer he evades the older man. Soon, Dagur’s going to stumble over him, and Jackson’s going to be in no condition to run or fight him off.

But, for now, Jackson shuffles further against the wall, curls into an impossibly small ball, and , with hands smothering his loud breaths, lets his looming panic attack finally crash over him.

The slick-side sound returns. Jackson is exhausted in the aftermath of a panic attack, the vinyl beneath him a sticky red, showing off his blood loss. There’s no air vents in the closet, no hidden nooks for him to disappear into. When Dagur inevitably finds him, he’ll-

“I don’t care how many laws it breaks, scan the corridor. Find whatever experiment Dagur is doing down here.” The voice isn’t Dagur. It’s warmer, a part of him thinks. It doesn’t send shivers down Jackson’s spine. “Who cares about lead lined walls? What are you, Superman? Oh, come on, Fishlegs, you’ve trained better than that-”

An intruder, Jackson thinks. Dagur’s enemy. An ally, in a nearby corridor, starting to wander away from Jackson and his hiding place.

Jackson clambers to his feet and stumbles into the hallway before he can stop himself. His spider-sense has been active since he first burst into the building, and it’s still simmering on low. A reminder that something is coming, that danger looms on Jackson’s horizon. But it doesn’t raise it’s warnings when Jackson started towards the voice,

“Wait!” Jackson blurts. The slick-slide sound fades out. For the first time today, Jackson desperately wants it to come closer.

Jackson hobbles after the voice. The stiffness in his legs is worse after sitting still for so long. His torso flares with old, inhibiting pain with every hurried step. His head lolls, too heavy. Jackson’s fighting through mud, not air, limping after the one person who might actually be able to help him.

The ache in his legs finally, finally gets to him; Jackson stumbles and falls. Shaking tremors work up his body, so violent Jackson has to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. He can’t stand. He should at least be able to sit. The cream wall behind him is smeared with red handprints, where his messy hands struggled to keep him upright.

“Wait. That’s- that’s not right.” The voice, that deep nasally voice- Jackson chokes on the hot lump in his throat. “There shouldn’t be any heat signatures. All the workers were evacuated from this part of the building, and it’s too small and bright to be a fully grown-”

The slick-slide of fabric. Fat, brisk steps. The faint whir of a machine working overtime. A tall young man rounds the corner and freezes, eyes blown wide. He flinches violently back at the sight of bloodied spandex and folded limbs.

“Help,” Jackson slurs. He thought the shaking would abate if he found another ally, but it doesn’t. It worsens. He’s too overstimulated. The shock is like a dam, blocking any relief and putting hot, prickling tears in his eyes.

The man sprints the few meters between him and Jackson. The slick-slide sound is so loud- why does this stranger sound like Dagur? The intruder’s suit is somewhat bulky yet light. Maybe- maybe it’s another kind of undersuit? Something he wears under there like an armor? Or maybe-

“Hey,” The man says, and he sounds panicked. “Hey, can you hear me?” Jackson hums, yes. He tries to nod his head, but it flops, rolls to the side, and doesn’t co-operate. “What happened?”

“Dagur. Turns out, he was right.” An arm snakes around Jackson’s neck, and the taller man tugs him closer. Jackson’s wet, ruined face presses against the man’s suit jacket. “No- no- I’m too dirty-”

“I don’t care,” The man says. The taller man is vehement, oddly so. He presses gentle fingers over the bulky collar, with it’s warped pieces sitting snug against the base of Jackson’s throat, finger-shaped bruises blooming on skin beneath it. “Oh, my gods…”

Jackson’s ruined fingers latch onto the man’s shirt. He doesn’t feel safe yet, but the guy is warm. He’s not hurting him. He’s an anchor to Jackson, who’s been floating and lost all day.

“Did you come for me?” Jackson chokes. Maybe the Big Four had managed to call someone under the Guardians before being out of the Earth’s satellites. He didn’t think anyone was coming. He didn’t think he was allowed this kind of help.

The guy hesitates for a long moment. “No,” He admits, and Jackson swallows, “I’ve been suspicious of Dagur for a long time. I knew he was up to something, and I’d been in his servers, so when I got the report that he had his basement levels evacuated without reason, I snuck in.”

“Sorry. No big conspiracy. ‘s just me.” Jackson’s fingers slip from the man’s button up. He feels less like he’s going to hyperventilate again, less stressed, just this heavy, empty kind of tiredness. “I’m a pretty sucky Christmas present, I know. You wasted your time for nothing.”

The man doesn’t let Jackson go, though. He holds on, even as Jackson’s thoughts haze over, body going loose. “Stay with me,” The guy whispers against his bloody forehead. “I’m going to get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do.”

Concussions really do suck. Or maybe it’s the extended exposure to electric shocks; that cant be good for the human body. Or maybe it’s the knife wound, or blood loss, or good old fashioned shock that’s sending Jackson in and out of awareness, everything blurry and distant. He tries to grab hold of his surroundings and pull himself into coherency, but his body won’t co-operate. For the first time in a while, his spider-sense is quiet. His body takes that as a sign to shut off.

Jackson barely registers that he’s being carried. He barely hears the sound of a vehicle door opening before he’s slid onto leather seats.

Someone sucks in a sharp gasp. “Gods, what happened to him? Is that a collar?!”

Jackson’s head lolls. He squints up at a blonde young woman, peering over the front seat at him. “Dag-fart,” he informs her, seriously.

The man’s surprised bark of laughter is nice. The other woman smiles, but the edges are wrong; she’s too sad for it to be real. “Heroes are really all the same, huh?” she says.

“Yup,” The guy says with delight. “Dag-fart. Oh, that is too good. Remind me to change his name to that in absolutely everything.”

“I’m surprised Dagur let you leave, Hiccup-”

“He didn’t, Astrid. I had Fishlegs map us a path back up to you so that we avoided the snake. I’m not sure he would have let me leave with him, and I couldn’t risk fighting Dagur. Jack Frost needs help too badly.”

“How long did he have him?” Astrid asks. She doesn’t sound very happy, Jackson notes.

“I don’t know,” Hiccup says with a choked tone Jackson’s soupy, useless mind can’t quite understand. “I didn’t even know he was missing. He didn’t even call for help-”

“I did,” Jackson says. He’s half-guessing that they’re talking about him, but he needs them to know that he’s not this useless. He can tie his own shoes, fight his own baddies, and knows when to call for reinforcements when necessary. Even if he doesn’t have any reinforcements available to him just yet. The concept of real, dependable allies- outside the sudden, accidental appearance of this stranger, who’s assistance is born from moral responsibility rather than anything more tangible, like friendship- is still foreign. An unlockable feature Jackson hasn’t gotten to yet.

“Daredevil’s secretary is bad at his job,” Jackson slurs up at the man.

“Yeah, you’re definitely concussed there, Frost. Take it easy.”

Jackson squirms in his seat. “Thought I was- was going to die,” he admits, and then frowns. “Don’t let Dag-fart get my comic books, ‘kay?”

“Your comic books are safe,” Hiccup reassures. To the blonde young woman, he says, “Fly us home.”

“Got it,” says the woman, accompanied by the soft thrum of a powerful engine as they rocket away from Oswald Tower and the monster stalking it’s halls.

Hiccup lets Jackson go limp against him. His stab wound drips onto expensive leather, and he’s wetting the guy’s fancy suit, and he’s probably a bony, uncomfortable weight on the guy, their relationship not close enough for this easy contact, but the guy doesn’t push him off, just gathers him closer. And when fingers card through Jackson’s damp hair, he leans into the touch, relaxes, and doesn’t think about the monster hidden beneath Dagur’s skin.

#jackson overland #jack frost #Hijack #hiccup haddock #superhero!au #yep #as u guessed it #it's mostly copied and pasted #i swear i just wanna share my vision and happiness #hoad's drabbles #hoad's fics

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