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redvexillum · 24 days ago

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A/N: Yep. Another Mandatory Overtime AU because my brain is incapable of coming up with a one shot, and again, the need to write this as a long fic is strong. Also, Kit, you better not be spreading weird untrue factoids about me >:U (I'm still away, this is past Vexi talking)

SUMMARY: You never imagined Vox would choose you, so when he surprised you by saying he’d spend both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with you, it left you speechless. Determined to make this a day to remember, you set aside any lingering doubts and focused on what truly mattered—the chance to share special moments with him. This Christmas would be different, a fresh start filled with joy, laughter, and unforgettable memories.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, mandatory overtime au, soft!vox, p in v, fluffy wuffy, jealous!vox, established relationship, sort of expanding on the lore of my series but do not need to read to enjoy this as a standalone piece

To Vox, power, fame, and wealth were mere trifles, luxuries that had long since lost their lustre. In Hell’s cutthroat world, he had scaled the heights, achieving a level of dominance where nothing material could elude him. Gifts were meaningless; a snap of his fingers could conjure any treasure, and the thrill of receiving had withered decades ago.

But you were different.

When he spotted you at the mall, his first instinct was to saunter over, his grin cocky and electric, ready to bask in your reaction. Yet, he stopped himself, his sharp eyes darting around the bustling public space. He couldn’t risk it.

To the world, Vox was still bound to Val—an image of a perfect, high-powered couple, their union as much about strategy as it was status. To be seen with you would fracture that carefully curated façade.

And so, he lingered in the shadows, torn between reason and an irrational surge of jealousy as he watched you browse a store. His gaze narrowed when he realized what you were inspecting: men’s watches.

A crackling spark escaped the side of his head, his irritation manifesting in a literal flash. It was small, but he felt it—a glitch in his carefully composed exterior. You were shopping for him, weren’t you? Not him, Vox, but for someone else. Someone who could be there when he couldn’t, who didn’t have to navigate the web of lies and appearances that tethered him to Val.

He clenched his fists, his sleek fingers curling against his palms. He hated how selfish he was, hated how much he demanded from you. You gave him so much—your time, your affection, your understanding—despite the precarious position he left you in.

And he?

He played his part with Val, smiling and posturing for cameras, aware that every stolen moment with you was another step closer to losing you.

He tried to rationalize it, repeating the words like a mantra in his head. You deserve more. You deserve someone who can give you what I can't. If you’ve found that, I should be happy for you.

But he wasn’t.

His vision blurred for a moment as he pulled up the mall’s pathetic excuse for security systems. Hacking into the camera feed was laughably easy; the hardest part was tamping down the frantic pace of his thoughts as he accessed the live footage of the store. Sitting on a bench, feigning indifference, he tapped into the audio feed, the tinny sound filtering into his ears.

“Oh, a special gift for someone perhaps?” the shopkeeper asked cheerfully, her hands deftly choosing a ribbon to wrap the watch in pristine packaging.

Vox’s pulse thrummed in his ears, the faint hum of static buzzing around him as he leaned forward. Who was it for? A friend? A lover? The thought churned uneasily in his gut, his calm exterior threatening to shatter as he waited for your reply.

Vox’s breath hitched, a rare falter in his perfectly curated demeanour. His crimson eyes widened as he recognized the watch on the counter—a limited edition masterpiece he’d admired for months. Though he typically donned his own brand, the Vwatch, this particular piece had captivated him: a sleek chrome finish encircling the face, golden hands tipped with tiny sapphire jewels, and a deep, almost-black leather strap that exuded sophistication.

You had once remarked how well it would complement his suits, your words lingering in his mind like a whisper of validation.

He had planned to buy it himself—eventually—but always pushed it aside, his focus consumed by grander schemes. Yet now, the sight of you purchasing it sent a nauseating churn through his stomach.

Could it be for someone else?

The thought clawed at him. Memories of Christmas spent where he would choose every other year to be with you and the next with Val. One particular moment surfaced unbidden, sharp as the static hum in his circuits. She had left him alone in her office on Christmas Eve. After that, he’d noticed the change between you two afterwards—your smiles a little softer, a little sadder, and your touch hesitant, as though holding back from a line you feared crossing.

“Something like that,” your voice floated through the audio feed, soft and melodic, setting his circuits alight. “I hope he likes it.”

Your cheeks flushed faintly as you smiled, radiant and genuine, and the sight pierced him in a way no weapon ever could.

Vox’s fingers curled into tight fists, pressing against his thighs, tension rippling through his frame. The unspoken truth of his situation—his entanglement with Valentino—hung between you like a spectre neither of you dared confront. It was the cruel cost of power, a strategic alliance that kept him tethered to a man he no longer needed but couldn’t yet discard.

Still, he clung to the hope that you would wait. That you would see through his machinations to the truth beneath: that he wanted you, only you. But hope was a fragile thing.

No woman could be expected to wait for scraps of affection, not when someone else—a simpler, hapless man—could offer you what he couldn’t: endless time, holidays spent together, and love unburdened by lies.

“Do you want to write a message to go with your gift, sweetie?” the shopkeeper asked, her tone saccharine.

You nodded eagerly, your bright smile lighting up the screen. Vox felt the breath he’d been holding escape in a shudder. Even now, even like this, you were utterly stunning.

He should cut the feed. He knew it was invasive, a violation of trust that he could never justify. But his hand trembled as he zoomed the camera, needing—aching—to see what you wrote.

His heart seized when your delicate, looping handwriting came into focus:

For a moment, his world stopped. The static hum in his circuits faded to nothing, replaced by the warmth blooming in his chest. It was for him. You had thought of him, even after everything.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Vox felt human.

Vox’s heart stuttered, then raced, the static hum in his circuits drowned out by the pounding in his chest. His crimson eyes devoured the words on the card, reading them over and over as if they might change, as if he might wake from some impossible dream.

Merry Christmas, Vox. Love, Your Sunshine.

He barely registered the way your delicate fingers folded the card and nestled it into the white tissue paper sprouting elegantly from the gift bag. You hugged it close to your chest, cradling it like something precious, before stepping out of the store.

From his bench, he watched, transfixed. Your face glowed with a joy that seemed to light up the dreary mall. Each step you took was a little lighter, as if the act of gifting brought you as much happiness as it would bring him.

And that realization hit him like a jolt of electricity.

Suddenly, every extravagant gift he’d ever planned to lavish upon you felt hollow, insufficient. The jewels, the designer clothes, the world-class experiences—none of it could compare to the simple, heartfelt gesture you’d made. You knew he didn’t need anything, least of all a watch he could have purchased without a second thought. Yet, you’d chosen to give him something anyway, something meaningful.

It wasn’t the object itself that overwhelmed him; it was you. Your thoughtfulness, your care, the time and energy you’d poured into something just for him.

His head bowed, hands clenched tightly against his knees as he tried to steady the storm of emotions within him. When had he last felt like this? Anticipation, excitement—a childlike giddiness that left him breathless. The last time he had looked forward to receiving a gift seemed like lifetimes ago, buried beneath decades of power plays and hollow exchanges.

But this was different.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in his thoughts. He couldn’t tear his mind away from the memory of your smile, the way your fingers had traced the edges of the bag as if sealing your affection within it.

Then, the soft beep of his penthouse’s security system jolted him upright. His eyes snapped open, and his chest tightened with anticipation. That sound could only mean one thing: you’d arrived.

Vox stood abruptly, smoothing the lines of his suit as he began to walk quickly until it became a light jog, unable to contain the electric energy buzzing beneath his skin. For once, it wasn’t nerves from a deal or tension from a scheme. It was something far more vulnerable, far more precious.

You were here, and in your hands was the gift that had left him, an Overlord, feeling utterly, beautifully human.

When you stepped into Vox’s penthouse, the warmth and sparkle of the space immediately enveloped you. Your gaze wandered over the extravagant decorations, and a soft giggle escaped your lips as you realized he’d transformed his usually sleek, modern lair into a festive wonderland—for you.

Your eyes were drawn to the centrepiece of his effort: a towering white Christmas tree, its branches adorned with glittering ornaments crafted from rare Hellgems. Their multifaceted surfaces refracted the golden glow of the room, casting shimmering patterns onto the walls. Typical Vox—nothing but the most extravagant display would suffice.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, a fond smile playing on your lips. The tinsel glinted like flakes of molten gold, and the lights wrapped around the living room bathed everything in a soft, romantic hue. It was breathtaking, almost dreamlike.

As you wandered closer to the tree, your gaze fell to the pile of gifts nestled beneath it. Each box was immaculately wrapped, ribbons curling like tendrils of flame, and every single one bore your name.

Your heart fluttered, but you also couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh. This man and his over-the-top antics…

Shaking your head, you crouched down to slide your own modest gift under the tree. It wasn’t much compared to his lavish displays, and you couldn’t help the flicker of doubt that crept into your mind. Would he even like it? Would he wear it, or would it sit in some forgotten drawer while he promoted his Vwatch brand instead?

Still, you had chosen this gift carefully. The watch was sleek, understated—a perfect contrast to his usual bold style. You’d even had it engraved on the back, a tiny, intimate detail just for him: the date you first met. In Hell, where time stretched endlessly and moments blurred into the infinite, you wanted to immortalize a memory that mattered.

The soft click of the door pulled you from your thoughts. You turned, the warm golden light catching Vox’s figure as he entered the room. He looked striking as ever, his sharp silhouette somehow both commanding and inviting.

“Vox!” you greeted warmly, but your words caught in your throat as his expression stopped you short. His crimson eyes were locked on you, burning with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

Before you could say another word, he crossed the room with purpose, his movements fluid yet charged with urgency. His hands cupped your face, and then his lips crashed against yours.

A surprised gasp escaped you, muffled by his fervent kiss. His tongue teased at your lips, seeking entrance, before slipping inside, slow and deliberate, tasting, claiming.

“Mmph—!” you started to protest, but his claws were already working with deft precision, undoing the buttons of your pants. His touch was frantic yet careful, as though he couldn’t bear the barrier between you a second longer.

“Vox, wait—” you managed to whisper between kisses, but his shirt was already sliding off his shoulders, revealing the sharp planes of his chest. His hands moved to yours, tugging at your clothes with equal urgency, his lips returning to yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

You couldn’t help the wry smile that curled your lips as you surrendered to the moment, equal parts amused and overwhelmed by his sudden intensity. Whatever had sparked this frenzy in him, it was clear—he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon.

“Well, what a welcoming surprise,” you giggled breathlessly as Vox unhooked your bra with practised ease, letting it slip from your shoulders and fall forgotten to the floor.

“Sunshine,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. Before you could tease him further, he pulled you into an embrace, his warmth enveloping you entirely. There was a tenderness in his touch, a vulnerability rarely seen in the man who always seemed so untouchable.

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by his sudden affection, but then you melted into him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you rested your cheek against his chest, humming softly in comfort as his steady heartbeat thrummed against your skin.

Without a word, he lowered you gently to the plush carpet, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree casting a golden glow over both of you. You glanced up at the glittering ornaments above, their reflections sparkling like tiny stars. “How festive,” you quipped with a bright smile, though the moment felt far more intimate than playful.

Vox’s lips curled into a soft smirk as he leaned down, his crimson eyes locking with yours. “I’m just starting our time a bit earlier,” he murmured, his claws tracing a slow, tantalizing path down your side. His touch left a trail of fire on your skin, every stroke deliberate, lingering.

“You’ll have me for the rest of today and tomorrow,” he promised, his voice dipping into a husky tone that sent shivers coursing through you. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. “No one else, just you and me, babydoll.”

Heat coiled low in your belly as you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him flush against you. The hard length of him pressed insistently against your core, a potent reminder of the passion simmering between you. “Yeah?” you whispered, your fingers trailing up and down his spine in delicate, featherlight touches.

He closed his eyes, his expression softening as if savouring every brush of your fingers, every shift of your body against his. Slowly, he rolled his hips forward, the pressure igniting sparks of pleasure that made you gasp.

“My lovely sunshine,” he murmured, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was achingly slow and reverent. It wasn’t just passion—it was something deeper, as if he were trying to etch this moment into the fabric of time, a memory neither of you could ever forget.

You basked in his warmth, in the tenderness of his touches, the way he made you feel cherished. Whatever this was—love, devotion, something close to it—it made your chest tighten with emotion.

He opened his eyes, crimson pools filled with desire and something unspoken. With deliberate care, he adjusted his hips, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance. Slowly—achingly slowly—he began to press forward, stretching you inch by inch, filling you completely.

Your back arched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sensation overwhelmed you. “B-been a while,” you murmured shakily, your hands gripping his shoulders as your hips instinctively pushed against his, urging him deeper.

Vox groaned low in his throat, the sound sending vibrations through your body. His voice was thick with praise as he moved, his hips rocking in a maddeningly slow rhythm. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing your skin. “So perfect… so mine.”

When his hips finally pressed flush against yours, his cock buried deep within you, he began to grind in slow, deliberate motions, the friction against your clit ripping moan after moan from your lips. Bracing one arm beside your head, his other hand trailed to your chest, his claws teasing your nipples with gentle pinches and twists. Each motion sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core, making you squirm beneath him.

“Ah, d-don’t tease me, V-Vox,” you whined, your hips bucking against him. The need in your voice was unmistakable, and you wrapped your legs tighter around him, pulling him closer. “Please… just fuck me already.”

A smirk spread across his lips, but the look in his eyes was molten. “Patience, sunshine,” he purred, though the tension in his body betrayed how much he wanted to lose himself in you. Slowly, he began to move, each thrust deep and purposeful, as if determined to make this moment last forever.

“Oh, babydoll,” Vox growled, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine. “This is just the appetizer. You and I? We’re not getting a wink of sleep tonight.” His hips snapped forward with a force that left you gasping, a sharp exhale tearing from your lips as he filled you completely.

“Yeah?” you moaned, arching into him, your hips grinding against his in a rhythm that sent waves of heat crashing through you. “You’re really gonna fuck me all night?”

His grin widened, that dangerous, predatory look lighting up his glowing crimson eyes. “That’s right,” he purred, driving his cock deeper, stretching you until every nerve felt alight with pleasure. “You’re gonna be working overtime for me, doll.” His laughter, low and wicked, earned an eye roll from you even as your body quaked under his ministrations.

“God, you’re so lame,” you managed to tease, though the giggle that bubbled up from your throat was quickly swallowed by a moan. Summoning all your strength, you pushed him onto his back, his cock still buried deep inside you, and straddled him.

The moment you settled over him, his hands flew to your hips, gripping you with a possessive force that only made the fire in your belly burn hotter. Slowly, you began to roll your hips, savouring the way his cock stretched and filled you perfectly.

Vox’s crimson gaze locked onto where your bodies met, watching intently as your slick heat swallowed him over and over. The sight clearly unravelled him, his grip tightening as he let out a deep groan. “Like what you see?” you panted, leaning forward just enough to let your chest graze his.

He didn’t answer with words, just another deep groan, his hips bucking upward to meet yours. The small thrusts sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, your rhythm faltering as you clung to him. “Fuck,” he moaned, his voice raw, the sound of your slick skin meeting echoing in the room.

Your head fell back, a cascade of pleasure crashing through you as he angled his hips to hit that sensitive spot deep inside. You cried out, your moans echoing against the warm glow of the Christmas lights. Your breasts bounced with each motion, the sensation adding another layer to your pleasure.

Vox’s claws skimmed up your thighs before finding their way to your clit, drawing agonizingly slow circles that sent you spiralling. “Fuck, babydoll,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “When we’re done here, I’m going to eat you out so thoroughly you won’t even remember your name. Gonna make you come so hard you’ll pass out.”

His filthy promises sent a delicious shiver down your spine, your head lolling forward to meet his lust-filled gaze. “Oh? Is that why—ah—” your words cut off as his thrusts grew faster, rougher, driving the air from your lungs, “I saw you buying all those holiday-themed sex toys?”

His grin was wicked, full of mischief and desire. “’Tis the season, babydoll,” he quipped, his voice strained with pleasure as he pounded into you harder and harder, each thrust coaxing you closer to the edge.

Your body trembled, the coil in your gut winding tighter and tighter. “Fuck, Vox,” you whimpered, your hands clutching his chest for stability as your hips stuttered. “I’m so close—so fucking close!”

He snarled low in his throat, gripping your hips and driving into you with unrelenting force, his body colliding with yours in a sinful, intoxicating rhythm. Your moans mingled with his, the room filled with the sound of your shared ecstasy as you teetered on the brink of oblivion.

Vox’s hand moved with precision, his fingers teasing and circling your clit in rhythm with the relentless thrust of his cock. His voice, rough and gravelly, rumbled in your ear, “Yeah? You gonna cum for me, doll? Gonna cum all over my cock?” Each word was a deliberate strike to your senses, his pace punishing, his strength overwhelming as he drove you higher.

“Fuck—ah—yes, yes, yes!” you screamed, your voice breaking into a cacophony of desperate moans and gasps as the pleasure built into an unbearable crescendo. Every stroke, every flick, every pulse of his cock sent you closer to your peak.

And then, with one final push, he shattered you. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing through you with devastating force. Your body convulsed as you babbled incoherent praise, gasping out how good he felt, how perfect he was, how hard he was as you come for him.

Your pleasure was his undoing. His hips bucked erratically as he followed you over the edge, spilling into you with a guttural moan. His cock throbbed, filling you to the brim with his release as his movements slowed, his breaths ragged and heavy.

For a moment, the world stilled. The warmth of him inside you, the sticky evidence of your love-making spilling onto his thighs and the plush carpet below, tethered you both to the present. You rested against him, your breath mingling with his as you came down from the high together, basking in the intimacy of the moment.

Then, a shrill ring pierced the quiet, coming from Vox’s screen-like face. Your contented haze faltered as the unmistakable image of Valentino lit up his display.

Your expression soured immediately.

Of course. Valentino. The moth pimp always had impeccable timing.

You began to move, reluctantly preparing to dismount Vox’s lap, but his firm hands stopped you. He held you there, his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to let go.

When the third ring echoed, Vox’s display glitched for a moment, and then the image of Valentino disappeared.

Vox had hung up.

Your eyes snapped to his face, wide with surprise, just as his features reappeared. His signature smirk was back, but this time, there was something softer, something resolute in the way he looked at you. “Where do you think you’re going?” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety purr.

You froze as his hand reached up, his clawed finger curling a stray strand of your hair. His eyes were half-lidded, his grin dripping with affection and something deeper—something just for you. “Didn’t I say,” he drawled, his tone almost teasing, “today and tomorrow, sunshine. You have me, and I’ll have you.”

Your breath hitched as his words sank in, warmth blooming in your chest. Slowly, a grin broke across your face, small but filled with understanding. “Damn right,” you murmured, your voice carrying a mix of affection and playful defiance. “I’m working overtime for my boss, after all.”

He chuckled, the sound low and full of satisfaction, before pulling you against him, his arms encircling you tightly. Your head rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady and rhythmic beneath your ear, grounding you in his presence.

“That’s right, sunshine,” he whispered, his voice soft and laced with an uncharacteristic tenderness. “You are always my first choice.”

His arms tightened around you, as if he could etch the moment into eternity, as if he could brand his words onto your soul. And as the glow of the Christmas lights bathed you both in a warm, golden haze, you believed him. For tonight and tomorrow, and maybe, just maybe, forever.

Please follow #DRP Smutmas 2024 to get all the latest updates of our stories!

Wanna hang out with me? Come talk to me at Voxtek Server!

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axkirak · 6 months ago

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The Curse of Cassandra│(Qimir x Reader)

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings: Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader) [The Acolyte]

Content Rating : Mature 18+ Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary: Being a prophet is both a gift and a curse; you see the future and you’re burdened with the weight of knowing that every decision you make could shape or destroy entire universe, with the overwhelming pressure that the fate of the galaxy hinges on your choice, and every path fraught with sacrifice.

Status: Completed (Finally! 😭)

A/N : I'm thai and english isn't my first language (sorry for the broken English)

This fic exists 'cause I got high (thanks to weed!). So my work's full of random shit in many ways. But I hope you'll dig it.

I got inspo from novels and movies I'm obsessed with: Dune, Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, Blue Eye Samurai, and Anne Carson's Cassandra Float Can. (Hence the title "The Curse of Cassandra," linking to the Greek myth)

It's a mash-up of different universes, not just Star Wars, with a lot of tweaks for my storyline. If you want fanfic that strict Star Wars canon, this fic isn't for you.

Also, diversity FTW! the reader in this fic isn't white, she's a SEA woman, we gonna representing ASEAN pride.

➡ EP : 1 // EP : 2 // EP : 3 // EP : 4 // EP : 5 // EP : 6 // EP : 7 // EP : 8 // EP : 9 // EP : 10 // EP : 11 // EP : 12 // EP : 13 // EP : 14 (Completed)

Special OS : Phantom Thread // My mother is my enemy

[Intro] A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away

What fate could be worse?

Being captured by Jedi

Or being hunted by Sith

You close your eyelids, frowning at the stabbing sensation creeping into your brain. It's always like this when you try to sink into the stream of time, pondering what's yet to come. The price for this wicked foresight is torment of both body and soul, intensifying as your senses expand.

You see, you hear, you feel. The moisture in the air, the sound of water droplets hitting the ground, the wind rustling through the grass, the capillaries in your nasal cavities twisting and rupturing before blood gushes from your nose.

As you casually wipe away the red fluid with the back of your hand, you suddenly realize certain truths that have always been part of you.

You are an aberration, something repulsive. An Abomination.

And abominations must be eliminated—so they say.

You let out a long sigh, allowing your mind to drift through the past, present, and future—every possible event and situation. You watch it all with a numb mind, as if you've seen the same movie hundreds or thousands of times, a movie whose ending you already know well.

Yet there's one thing you still don't know: which ending will the path you're on now lead to?

Something pulls you out of your meditation, coinciding with the moment you sense someone's piercing gaze openly fixed upon you. That man is watching you from the shadows behind a large tree, not with malicious intent but with curiosity mixed with several other complex emotions too ambiguous to explain.

You remain seated in meditation at the same spot, amidst the blood and corpses of the Jedi, not daring to move, almost forgetting even to breathe.

You are the last one still breathing, the final victim of the Jedi massacre carried out by the mysterious Sith—The Stranger who is now closely observing you.

His face is completely hidden beneath a dark, twisted metal mask. Yet you can still feel his gleaming eyes surveying your body, as far as sight allows, focusing excessively, even invasively.

The curiosity in his mind is so intense that you find yourself trembling.

You see visions of what might happen—there's a high chance he'll rush in to slice you to pieces with his red lightsaber, searching for secrets or whatever might be hidden inside your body. Or he might subjugate you with his Force, using his power to penetrate your mind, deep into your subconscious, hoping to taste the forbidden fruit of secrets that you alone possess.

But he will never know, as long as you don't wish him to.

The scent of death hangs heavy in the air as heavy footsteps crunch over gravel, approaching you slowly, like a predator toying with its prey. You freeze, every muscle in your body tense, as you face the tall figure in dark cloak, his visage concealed behind a strange metal mask carved into a distorted smile.

For a moment, this man reminds you of the grim reaper from ancient religious myths that vanished thousands of years ago.

He is the harbinger of death everywhere he goes, including your own death

Awareness strikes like a warning signal. Various possibilities flash through your memory, similar to how a dying person recalls everything that happened in their life.

You instantly realize how crucial this moment is. This is an incredibly fragile juncture.

There's a fifty percent chance he'll kill you, and another fifty percent chance he'll spare your life.

Fear spreads throughout your flesh, imprinting itself on your soul, turning your blood ice-cold. Your pulse races with panic.

You take a deep breath, quickly focusing, trying hard to regain control of your shaken mind. "I must not fear," you mutter to yourself, the same phrase your mother used to teach you as a child. "Fear is the mind-killer, fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration..."

A low, hoarse laugh escapes from behind the metal mask. Clearly, he heard what you said. "Oh, I think you should fear," he says, his words teetering between mockery and sarcasm.

You know he wants you to fear because, for the Sith, fear leads to power.

You do the opposite, swallowing the lump of fear in your throat, maintaining a calm demeanor as you force a faint smile for the person before you.

"Humans fear what they don't know, just as they fear me, and just as they fear you." You pause momentarily, carefully considering your final sentence, which could determine your fate.

Finally, you speak, firm and unwavering, "But I know you, so I do not fear."

There's a fifty percent chance he'll kill you, and another fifty percent chance he'll spare your life—this thought returns to your mind once more.

He had always kept his secret well, never letting anyone who knew his true identity survive.

You know well that your revelation will bring about an end that changes everything, both for better and for worse.

This is the gamble you've already placed your bet on, for this purpose and for this moment.

The lightsaber hilt in his hand remains tightly closed, showing no sign of the red flame that has taken countless lives. He kneels before you, his action clearly revealing vulnerabilities in his body. You could easily grab the lightsaber from the Jedi's corpse and behead him in one stroke.

But you don't kill him, just as he doesn't kill you.

You look into his eyes, he looks into yours, gauging each other in silence.

His large hand reaches beneath his mask, unlocks the mechanism, and slowly removes it, revealing the familiar face in your sight.

His face is sharp in every proportion, with messy jet-black hair. His eyes, once gentle when touched by sunlight, now cold as ice, contrast starkly with the smile slowly spreading wide, in the same fashion as the smile on the mask he wore earlier.

"Qimir"

His name sounds strange when you utter it, as if it's not a name you're familiar with, and the man before you is not the man you know.

The man chuckles softly and moves even closer, cutting off any chance for you to escape. You swallow hard, trying to turn your face away from his intense gaze. But he doesn't let you. His fingers, wet with others' blood, dig into both of your cheeks, pressing hard enough to hurt, forcing you to look only at him.

"Surprised?" He leans in closer, his hot breath on your face, and whispers softly in your ear, "I told you, you can't run away from me."

#qimir x reader #qimir x y/n #the stranger x reader #qimir fic #qimir x you #the acolyte x reader #star wars #the acolyte #qimir #star wars fic #the acolyte fic #Angst and Tragedy #Strangers to Lovers #no gods no masters no beta not edited either im going to sleep #english isn't my first language #The Curse of Cassandra

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 1 year ago

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 5: Rebellion

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 5.8K

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

Run?

Your stilled heart may not be able to beat any longer, but all-consuming fear still afflicts your battered body. You feel the familiar prickling sensation of adrenaline expanding outward from your constricting chest like a glassy lake disturbed by a thrown stone. All your hair stands on end as you think about the approaching dawn.

Staring into the icebound pools of Astarion’s scarlet eyes, you think about everything he has stolen from you - your life, your body, your soul, your love, your loyalty, your freedom.

He has taken everything from me.

Your voice shakes, “The sun can’t harm me if you’re near.”

“How certain are you that I don’t control that lovely little benefit?”

“Do you?”

One of his eyebrows pulls down hauntingly, “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I don’t. Are you willing to risk your life on it, pet?”

“Yes.”

“What about dear Shadowheart’s life? I would give her a very warm bloody welcome when she comes looking for you.”

Shadowheart.

“I won’t let you touch her.”

“If you’re a pile of ash on my front step, I don’t see you having much choice in the matter, darling, but you’re welcome to loiter out here all you like.”

Astarion turns his back on you. You seethe with a noxious loathing - for yourself, him, and the mess you’ve dragged your friends into. A deep rage you have kept caged for too long finally breaks free of its prison.

With a bellowing roar, you lash out at him, casting Telekinesis and hauling him off his feet, throwing him across the courtyard.

His body impacts a stone statue with a thud, shattering it into rubble. The ground greets his body with such force that he bounces off it.

What have I done?

His muscles tense, and he shifts his body, using the momentum to easily roll back onto his feet. A weeping gash on his forehead causes blood to stream down his face, streaking it with vicious red to match his eyes.

“You’ll pay for that.”

I know.

His reflexes might be like liquid lightning, but you’re not some feeble halfwit. Even though you’re not sure it will hold him, you cast Hold Person on him, catching him off guard. You see his frame flicker slightly as he tries to turn himself into mist, but your magic is strong, fuelled by your rage.

Shadowheart.

You have a choice - you can hold your ground against him as long as possible and allow either the sun or him to end you, or you can try to make it home before sunrise. He may follow and hunt you down like a rabid animal that needs exterminating, but either way, your fate remains the same.

Gale. Shadowheart. I have to try.

You pivot and force your body to move forward as fast as you can. Feeding off your rage, hatred, and all the devastated pieces of your broken heart, you run.

You dash over fences, skip across roofs, pull on every ounce of magic your body can contain and Misty Step until you’re not sure whether you’re mist or corporeal from one moment to the next. You push forward erratically, skittering towards home.

You don’t look back. If Astarion follows, you don’t want to know. You already know the fate that awaits should he choose it.

Your muscles twitch and cramp woefully with over-exertion as you draw closer. The stars no longer shine in the sky as they are snuffed out by the quickly rising light of dawn, but you can see the little house just up ahead.

I’m so close.

As the first light starts to break over the horizon, you throw the old wooden door open, throwing yourself to safety inside, slamming it shut.

Backing away from the door, you wait pensively, wondering if Astarion will burst through at any moment to make you pay for what you’ve done. You watch that door with a fixed, heated glower for hours, but nothing happens.

You go up to your bedroom and sink to your knees on the ground. Without the swarming fervour of hatred to dull the aching of your heart, you fall to pieces.

He really is gone, isn’t he?

The spasming pain in your stomach cleaves at you, awakening you from the troubled trance you slipped into. Your arms curl around your midsection, trying to stifle the recurrent waves of convulsing pain rocketing through you.

I need to eat. Badly.

You have to force your starving body to move forward. Your muscles cramp and jerk out of your control. Each step has to be taken with purpose and effort as you try to control your writhing body.

The journey is agonizing and takes you longer than it should. When you finally reach the forest, you’re already exhausted. You fill your useless lungs with air they don’t need in an instinctive sharp inhale.

Another spasm in your unruly limbs causes you to stumble. You catch yourself on a tree and rest your forehead against the rough bark, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that the muscles of your face ache.

“There you are, little love. I’ve been waiting.”

You groan at the velvety smooth voice and force your eyes to open, casting them toward it. Astarion is standing on the other side of the small clearing.

Dressed in black, he melts into the shadows like an apparition. His clothing is reminiscent of what he wore the first night at camp after the crash, and you curse at him inwardly for wearing something that reminds you of old times.

You push yourself away from the tree and try to stand tall, but the cramping in your stomach persists, and you lurch over awkwardly.

“What the fuck do you want.”

“To talk.”

You scoff, “I have nothing to say to you.”

Astarion starts to walk towards you, and you grasp at the weave. Using Telekinesis, you throw him backwards, off his feet. He skids harshly across the moss-covered ground.

Once again, using the momentum, he tucks and rolls onto his feet, righting himself, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Yeah, right.

“If you come anywhere near me, I will burn you with every ounce of magic I have!”

Will I?

He starts towards you again, but before you can cast anything, he shifts into mist and rapidly reappears behind you. Terrified, you turn, ready to defend yourself against whatever horror he is going to inflict.

You might be fast, but he will always be faster. He effortlessly grabs your hands and forces them together, rendering you unable to cast. You struggle against him furiously, but he easily overpowers you, barely wavering.

He snarls, “Why do you insist on making me treat you in this manner? Why do you fight me at every turn?!”

Make him?

You break into venomous, hysterical laughter, and his eyes widen in shock.

“No one can make you do anything anymore, Astarion. What you do and who you are - those are your choices to make. You have no one but yourself to blame for any atrocities you commit and your shitty behaviour.”

His eyes soften, “You’re right, which is why I need to speak with you.”

Wait...

I’m right?

No.

Don’t fall for this again.

“Did you not hear me? I want nothing to do with you!”

He sighs, “I understand. If you wish, I will leave Baldur’s Gate and never return. You will never have to see me again, but you must hear me out first.”

… What?

“I’m going to let your hands go now. Are you planning on attacking me some more, or will you listen?”

“Let go and find out.”

He chuckles, “Fiery as ever, my dear.”

Astarion releases his hold on you and puts his hands up in an innocent gesture, backing away from you slowly.

You watch him through narrowed eyes as he retreats. You position yourself in a defensive stance. A fireball blooming in your palm, and your fangs bared.

“What is this, Astarion? What kind of sick trick are you playing now?”

“No tricks. No games. Please, hear me out, but allow me to get you some food first.”

“You want to feed me?”

He nods, “It will allow you to think clearer. I can see you’re in pain…”

He pities me, but Gods, I am so hungry.

“No, thank you. The last time I accepted your help, it nearly got me turned into a pile of ash.”

His crimson eyes look at you sadly, downturned at the corners, “Let me help you. Please.”

Starving.

“Fine.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you should stay put. You are likely to scare everything away. Do you have a preference? Deer, boar, bear… Kobold?”

What the fuck is happening right now.

You wave a hand at him in dismissal, “It doesn’t matter. Blood is blood.”

Astarion vanishes somewhere into the thickly treed forest, leaving you with your thoughts. Your mind is reeling, confused, and unsettled. Your nerves buzz, your skin feels like it’s crawling, and you have no doubt that if your stilled heart could beat, it would be throwing itself around your chest, trying to break your ribs.

What part of the nine Hells have I fallen into?

Astarion returns quickly, and you consider for a moment if he may have poisoned the animal, but what do you have to lose at this point?

Once you finish your four-legged feast, you stare at him, observing his behaviour. He stands with his arms crossed, leaning against a tree, looking exceptionally pensive. His cardinal red eyes dart rapidly, never focusing on anything in particular.

He looks… anxious, scared even.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?”

He jolts out of his thoughts, “Yes, of course. Do you feel better?”

Gods, yes.

You could almost moan at how relieved you feel - clear-headed, strong, no more gut-wrenching pain, turning your insides to mincemeat. Your muscles have stopped their relentless, painful spasming and are finally under your control again.

You might hug him simply for this feeling alone, but you lock your knees and keep your feet firmly planted.

“I feel fine. Tell me what you want.”

Astarion shifts away from the tree he’s been leaning against and steps toward you. You take several steps back, instantly lowering your centre of gravity protectively, and fire sparks to life in your hands.

He stops, a dismal expression on his face, “You’re afraid of me.”

“Observant, as always.”

Afraid doesn’t begin to cover it.

“What I did to you… What I’ve done to you… I… I abhor myself for it.”

You scoff, “Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stand there clinging to your fire for comfort. Your mouth is dropped open in astonishment. You observe his features keenly. His crimson eyes are downcast and glassed over, melancholic remorse shining brightly in the waxy moonlight.

His shoulders are slumped. His demeanour reminds you of the night he tried to bite you in your sleep, and you awoke to him hovering over you, fangs bared.

What can I even say to this?

He drags his fingers through the highlighted silver curls of his hair, “I feel different after the ritual. Something in me is… broken. I am not myself.”

No shit.

He looks at you with frightened, round eyes, “I don’t want to be this way, this person, but the power…” He looks at his hands as they ball into fists and clenches his bared teeth, “It corrupts, and I lose myself in it.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“I need your help.”

“You want my help? After you threatened to kill me?” You shake your head, “What kind of morbid trick is this, Astarion? What games are you trying to amuse yourself with now?”

“No games, my love.”

My love?

Am I actually considering this?

Have I gone completely mad?

Tightness coils like a spring constricting your chest, and you let the fire burning in your palm retreat, “How can I ever trust you again? How can I know if this is real?”

Astarion comes closer with slow, deliberate steps, “You can cast Detect Thoughts, no?”

“Yes, you know that. You’ve seen me use it countless times. Why?”

“Cast it.”

“What?”

“You need to know this is not a trick, and I can hardly blame you. Cast, darling. Tell me what you see.”

Astarion continues his slow advance toward you. The one good thing about being dead and having no heartbeat is that he can’t tell how scared you are. You hold your ground with a rigid stance, muscles tight and ready to react at a moment's notice.

He searches your face, looking deeply into your eyes, “They never did completely change colour, did they? Your eyes, I mean.”

All of your friends had remarked that although your eyes did take on the red hue of his, your irises held splotches and slivers where your original eye colour was still visible. You wonder what it must look like, but your face will forever be just a memory until one day it too fades.

“I wouldn’t know. I have no reflection anymore.”

“I’ve taken much from you.”

My love. My passion. My life.

Astarion hand trails down your arm to your wrist before turning your palm up and kissing it softly, “Cast, love.”

Do I want to do this?

You shouldn’t even be humouring him; you should be asking him to leave the city as he said he would, but there’s something in his voice, in the way he moves, and in his eyes that you recognize, and it tugs at your inherent intuition. You grit your teeth and cast.

My Astarion… If there’s even a small chance, I have to take it.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. I haven’t used it.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid of what I might see, hear.”

He chuckles, “Me too.”

You delve into his mind. There is so much noise in his head that it makes it hard to focus on any one thought, and you struggle with isolating them. The cacophonous commotion maims your conscious mind and makes you want to yelp.

Shaking your head, you try to stifle the throbbing pain between your ears, “You need to settle your mind, Astarion.”

“How?”

“Focus on something that calms you.”

“Okay,” Astarion anchors his eyes on you, “try again.”

The chaotic mess of his mind batters yours as you try to focus yourself from one thought to the next. You manage to catch snippets here and there, but nothing concrete, nothing that can tell you if this is a trick, game or some other form of callous manipulation.

“Not calm enough, Astarion.”

“Is everyone's mind like that?”

“No one’s mind is like that. At least no one I’ve done this to. Thoughts are usually coherent and fluid like a slow stream slipping into a bigger river, but yours are chaotic, loud, like a raging storm.”

Although this certainly sheds some light on his erratic behaviour.

“What now?”

This might not be my brightest idea.

“I have an idea, but you might not like it.”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Well, what is it?”

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm the fear curdling in your stomach. Closing the distance between you, your lips meet his tenderly.

He’s shocked for a moment, and you wonder if you overstepped, but his arm comes around you, pulling your body flush against his. He deepens the kiss with a low moan.

Now, the hard part is trying to keep enough of your mind off this moment to be able to read his thoughts accurately.

You once again focus your spell. The blaring white noise that had obstructed and retaliated against your intrusion slowly drops to a low murmur in the background.

His thoughts start to form coherently, and you follow the meandering stream. You can hear them now, as long as you don’t allow yourself to get too lost in him.

A challenge all on its own.

There’s something different about his thoughts compared to others’ minds you’ve read. He’s in there, but there’s something else, something sinister that chants malice, hatred, and corruption. It grasps at and infects his thoughts as they flow, polluting them.

You can hear his thoughts as they drift.

“What have I become?”

“Who am I?”

“Help me.”

He’s not lying.

Having heard enough to get answers, you allow the spell to wane. You intend to break the kiss, but his mouth on yours feels divine. He hasn’t kissed you with this much passion since the night he turned you, and you soak into it and immerse yourself in him.

I have to stop this, but Gods, I don’t want to.

His tongue trails along your lower lip, sending spiralling shivers running down your spine, and you gasp, parting your lips for him. He explores your mouth skillfully, tasting you, and a growl reverberates in his chest. Feverish need washes through you in a deluge and pools hot in your stomach.

You push yourself further into him, trailing your hands greedily up the smooth contours of his body. His thumb sweeps affectionately across your cheek. He is the center of your universe, and you can’t help but be pulled into him. Your yearning desire swells between your thighs, and you sigh against him at the throbbing ache, begging for him to relieve it.

You can feel your rationality start to slip away from you as you gravitate towards him helplessly.

Reluctantly, you push him away, with a panting breath, “Stop.”

He groans but releases you immediately, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

Shaking your head, you hold your hand up to stop him. This wasn’t his fault. You had initiated it in the first place and allowed it to go on far longer than you should have. Your lips still tingle with the phantom feeling of his urging mouth, and you crave more.

His sultry gaze penetrates you, “I did very much enjoy that idea.”

Me too.

“You’re not lying, as far as I can tell, but I still don’t know what you think I can do for you.”

“You’re the only one that will stand up to me. Well, that I know I won’t kill anyway.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

His eyebrows round, and his mouth drops open, “You think I will kill you?”

“Yes. I think you might. You’re certainly more than capable of it.”

“I…” Surprise dances across his features, “I would never.”

You scowl at him, “You almost did.”

“Darling, I was right behind you the entire time, just out of sight. I would never have let you burn.”

Was he?

“Oh, I see. So, you just, what? Enjoy seeing me running for my life, terrified? I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“I don’t enjoy it, but I feel… compelled to do it like something takes over, and I’m out of control…” he sighs, “again.”

“I don’t know if I can save you from yourself, Astarion.”

His eyes fall to the ground, full of sorrow and fear, and your heart breaks for him.

“I… I understand.”

“But I will try.”

I have to.

“You will?”

What do I have to lose?

Reflexively, you take a deep breath and nod, “Yes.”

Astarion takes your hand in his, “Thank you.” He smiles, “Will you move back into the palace?”

You pull away from him, “I have to think about it, Astarion. I need time to process…. Whatever this is.”

“Yes, of course. That’s eminently reasonable. Shall we discuss your terms tomorrow night?”

Another transaction for my help. Lovely.

“Fine. Until tomorrow, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my treasure.”

You sit in the stark chair by the fireplace in the empty house you share with Shadowheart and Gale. Anxiety prickles your skin and ripples through your thoughts.

Am I falling for another trap?

Agreeing to help him may prove to be your undoing, but when have you ever been able to resist him when he’s pleading for your help? It’s what got you into this mess in the first place - isn’t it? If the ritual did cause this change in him, you can’t help but feel it’s your fault.

It sounded like he was still in there. If he is, how do you save someone from their own corrupted thoughts?

Tears slip down your cheeks, and you bring your knees to your chest. The fire wanes in the fireplace as it runs out of fuel, and you allow it to die like you allowed Astarion to take your life. As the fire burns out, it washes you in darkness. You wish Shadowheart were here to try and talk you out of the stupidity you’ve just agreed to.

Can I even be talked out of it?

You have always been headstrong, likely to your own detriment at times. You preserve where others balk. That resilience had carried you through after escaping the Nautiloid, but could it carry you through this?

The hectic cacophony of Astarion’s mind makes you shudder. You’ve listened in on the thoughts of countless people and never encountered anything similar. It had been like watching a crystal-clear stream slip through a contaminated bog, turning it into a gelatinous, toxic soup.

Could the ritual have caused that?

There was no way to know for sure. You had never listened to his thoughts before. Even when you had the tadpole, you never forced your way into any of your friends’ heads out of respect for them and their privacy. The only times you had crossed those boundaries was when the tadpole resonated with his out of your control.

Going to your room, you crawl into your bed. The wooden walls creak and groan eerily around you as if the ghosts of the 7000 souls you condemned were haunting you. You let your consciousness glide into the meditative tranquillity of your trance.

You awake when the shadows have devoured the light again. Slipping into a tightly fitting robe, you bolster yourself for what’s to come. You run a comb through your hair and adorn your favourite circlet. The metal is delicately shaped in prancing dragons, and a shining red gem hangs low on your forehead.

A knock on the door makes you twitch slightly, though you already know who it is. Astarion is waiting when you open it, leaning against the doorframe, handsomely bathed in the small beams of pale light that slip through the parting clouds covering the inky sky.

He’s dressed in a fancy red and black jacket with silver and gold piping and finely embroidered. His scarlet eyes are vibrant, dazzling you.

“Hello, little love. Are you ready to discuss?”

Am I?

“Yes. We can talk.”

“Where are Shadowheart and Gale?”

“Not here.” You leer a warning at him, “Stay away from them.”

His eyes cast down, “Do you truly think I am such a monster that I would hurt them?”

“I don’t know who or what you are anymore.”

He shakes his head with a sigh, “Neither do I sometimes, my dear. Shall we get you something to eat before we talk?”

“You’re not dressed for hunting.”

He chuckles, “I may be a tad overdressed. I came from a business meeting.”

Business meeting?

“Come, let’s go get you some food.”

You and Astarion walk to the forest in uneasy silence. A low fog covers the ground in an eerie, chalky mist. You keep a tight grasp on your magic, ready to cast at a moment's notice.

Astarion may seem different, but you’re not entirely sure if you can trust him. Part of you thinks this is all just another manipulation, and you’re walking straight into it.

The lovesick hero… Gods, he couldn’t have been more right.

“Do you always stomp so loudly when you’re hunting?”

You scoff, “I am not a hunter, Astarion.”

“Yes, that’s evident. How did you keep yourself fed?”

You shake your head, abject, “I didn’t. Not well, at least.”

Astarion strips himself of his jacket and shirt once he’s surmised you’re deeply enough into the forest. His pallid skin makes him appear almost ghost-like in the washed-out glow of the diffuse beams of light that flicker, cast from the full moon glowing brightly behind the clouds. His muscles appear as though they have been etched from stone by a master mason.

Fuck.

He looks ethereal in this moment, and you can’t pry your eyes away from him.

“Enjoying the view, precious thing?”

“Yes, the forest is beautiful tonight.” You cast your eyes upward before meeting his with a taunting glare, “I could take or leave your body.”

“Oh,” he giggles, “feeling bold tonight, I see.”

This feels too much like before he usurped the Rite of Profane Ascension, making you restless. You fidget with your hands and shift uncomfortably on your feet. Your palms are still warm, prepared to cast, just in case he turns on you like he has so many times.

“We can talk about what’s bothering you if you wish.”

You didn’t even notice him walk over. Astarion stands in front of you. His eyebrow is cocked, and he eyes you acutely with a probing gaze.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Stay put, and do try not to move about too much. You scare away the animals.”

You roll your eyes at him, “I’m well aware of my inadequacies, thank you.”

Just like the night before, Astarion returns promptly with your dinner. He redresses himself while you eat, and you mourn the loss of that mouthwatering sight.

Get ahold of yourself.

“Where would you like to talk? I presume you have… demands.”

“The palace is fine as long as you don’t currently have any… guests. ”

“Guests?” He cocks a brow at you, confused.

“Your new lover. Whatever her name is.”

“Oh…” He shakes his head, “It’s not what you think, my dear. We will discuss it.”

Not what I think? She basically told me as much.

Once you hit the city streets leading to the palace, you are overwhelmed by all the people outside, even at this late hour. They smell like prey, and even though you just ate, that hunger is insatiable. You could likely eat every person in this city and still not quench that sanguine thirst.

Their hearts beat lazily in their chests as they mull about, and it’s the only thing you can hear. You grimace and grit your teeth, trying to stay in control of the bloodlust that consumes you.

Astarion notices your unease. He had spent two centuries with it, after all.

“Hold my hand, little love. I’ll keep you safe and them.”

He holds his hand out to you, and you look at it tentatively, unsure if you should take it. A child runs past you, chasing his friends, laughing hysterically, and you grab Astarion’s hand in a death grip. You clamber and hug tightly to his side as you fight the urge to chase the gleefully playing children.

Gods, what have I become?

“Eyes on me, darling. You’re alright.”

“Astarion, I can’t.” Your voice is panicked, pleading, “I need to get out of here before I kill someone.”

He nods and looks around, “Do you see that rooftop?”

“Yes.”

“Can you make it up there?”

You nod, “Yes.”

“Go.”

You cast Misty Step and disperse into a fog, reappearing on the rooftop. Astarion is already there waiting for you, no doubt turning himself into mist as he had done in the forest to subdue you. He holds out his hand again, and this time, you take it gratefully. Despite the fear he has instilled in you, there is solace in his touch as there always was.

Astarion leads you over rooftops, jumping from section to section and catching you when you inevitably nearly fall. The breeze up here is unhindered by obstacles and remains fresh and mostly void of the smell of the living, allowing you to calm your raving mind.

Walking into the palace courtyard, you eye the statue you had thrown him through in your rage just a few nights prior.

So much can change so quickly.

The square base of the statue remains largely intact, but the rest of the marbled-grey figure lies in large, jagged pieces strewn haphazardly on the ground.

Astarion follows your gaze and smirks, “I didn’t like it much anyway.”

You follow him into a large, lavish sitting room, obviously meant to occupy the spawns’ guests before Cazador came for them. Looking around the dim, dreary palace, you shudder.

I hate this place.

“Darling, do you mind?”

“What?”

He points at the fireplace, “Would you be so kind?”

With the flick of your wrist, fire springs to life, igniting the kindling and logs, crackling and popping. A soft, tawny glow casts across the room. The tacky paintings and art he hated still embellish the walls, and the furniture remains the same.

Why has he not changed any of this?

He sits down and watches as you glide through the room, inspecting it. You finally shake your head and bring yourself back to the matter at hand.

Let’s get this over with.

“I have stipulations.”

He chuckles, “I would not have expected any less.”

“I don’t want to live in this horrid place.”

He waves his hand dismissively, “This is my home.”

“It’s not mine. Let me be perfectly clear - I will not live here.”

He sighs, “Alright, but please tell me you are not asking me to move back in with Shadowheart and Gale?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

“I will purchase another then.”

“I don’t want to see your lover. If you must be with her, you can go elsewhere. Return to this palace for all I care as long as I don’t have to see her and you together.”

“It upsets you.”

Your anger flares, the fire in the fireplace pulses and sputters along with it, “Yes, it fucking upsets me. Does that make you happy?”

He stands and walks over to you. You cross your arms over your body and keep your eyes off him, not wanting him to see just how much it breaks you.

Astarion uses his fingers to gently bring your eyes up to his, “Why does it upset you so?”

You scoff at him, “That’s a stupid question.”

“Be a dear and humour my stupidity then.”

“You wouldn’t even touch me after you turned me into… this. You barely laid a finger on me.”

His eyebrows knit together, “Did you want me to?”

“… Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

I wanted you to want me...

“It hardly matters now. Let’s move on.”

“I’d rather like to know why you care so much about the, what did you call her?” He cocks his head, eyes upcast, “Ah yes, my “purple-haired hussy.” You left me, remember?”

“You didn’t give me a choice. It was either run or be ruined by you, but I don’t wish to drudge this up. Let’s move on.”

He grabs your robe aggressively, tugging you close to him with a threatening sneer, “I said tell me.”

Well, that didn’t last long, did it?

Here goes nothing.

Reaching up, you grab one of his fists holding you, and you burn him. He winces, recoils and throws you to the floor.

“You little shit!”

“Stop listening to whatever is whispering to you in your head, Astarion.”

I need to snap him out of this, but how?

Your words in the forest float through your head, “Focus on something that calms you.”

Me… He anchored himself with me…

In a swift motion, you throw yourself up and wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace, “Don’t let it win.”

He growls menacingly, and you squeeze him tighter. Your whole body is trembling, terror-stricken, and you clench your jaw hard and wait for whatever comes next.

He’s either going to throw me off, kill me, or….

Astarion stills. His muscles flex and relax chaotically. You look up at him, and his eyes are tightly shut with his teeth grit together so harshly they rasp sickeningly. The tendons in his neck jut out unnaturally. His hands are balled into fists at his side. You reach up and cradle his face, and he snarls threateningly, but you sweep your thumb across his cheek.

“Hey, eyes on me, Astarion.” You echo his words from earlier when he had saved you from your own morbid, intrusive thoughts.

His eyes open slowly and meet yours, “Easy now. You’ve got this.”

Quiet minutes tick by without a word from either of you. You watch the war raging inside him through his eyes. They flash from cold and dead to the crimson warmth you recognize and back again while he battles with himself.

With a slight shake of his head, his whole body relaxes instantly, and his eyes warm again.

“I… I apologize. I…”

“Lost yourself, I know.”

He pushes you back and looks you up and down, “Are you hurt?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me, but I burnt you. Apologies.”

He looks at the reddened marking on his pale hand, “Think nothing of it. I heal quickly.”

“Yes, I’m well aware.”

Astarion’s eyes look at the floor, ashamed of himself, “Are you going to leave? I’ll take you home if you wish.”

“No. I believe we still have terms to discuss.”

“You’re still going to help me?”

You smile, “Always.”

“You truly are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

His confession at Moonrise rings through your mind. The memory is overlayed in sorrow, and your chest clenches tightly, remembering his words, “I want us to be something real.”

You thrust the thought away as quickly as it reared up, “Are you okay now, or do you need a moment?”

“No. I’m fine. We can continue with your demands. You will not live here, no lovers, what else?” He smirks, “You are a particularly demanding little thing tonight.”

“You need to teach me how to hunt so I can feed myself.”

“We’ve swayed to this particular song already, love. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember. I will endeavour to be a better pupil this time.”

He chuckles, “You may get the hang of it in a century or two or three. Fine. I will do my best to educate you. Anything else?”

“When this is over, I want my freedom. I know you won’t turn me into a True Vampire, but I want to be free to decide my fate.”

“Why do you think I won’t?”

“You told me as much. “Trust me, it doesn’t happen.” After you turned me, I was too blinded to realize you were saying what I wanted to hear in honeyed lies. I am not so naive anymore."

He scowls but takes a deep breath, “Then you will have it, my dear.”

Big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read/follow/like/reblog/comment/etc. I'm honoured to know you're enjoying reading my fics!

I'm sorry this chapter took awhile to come out - I've rewritten it so many times I've lost count, so I hope you like it!

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion x you #astarion smut #astarion #soft ascended astarion #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x named tav

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twignotstick · 3 months ago

Text

Mud Dogz - How to be Homeless 🏚️

Warnings (if there's anything I should add here, tell me please!): homelessness (as if that wasn't already obvious), eating thrown out food, violence involving children, fire, happy ending [More spoilery tags at the end! This story doesn't get too dark, but read at your own risk!]

Words: 7,440

Summary: Eight year old Daniel Tesseau, who would one day become the infamous Dastardly Danny, runs away from his family after finding out about their criminal business. However, living on the streets isn't as easy as he first believed. Can he earn the trust of an unlikely ally to survive?

Notes: This is the first fic of my Mud Dogz AU! The goal of this AU is to expand on the many questions left unanswered by the Hidden City in ROTTMNT, specifically following the lives of the Mud Dogz before, during, and after canon. I hope you enjoy!

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For the first time in his life, Daniel Tesseau had no idea what he was doing.

He had done all the research he could. He read countless books, even some from the surface. He had packed his bag to the brim with filling, easy to carry food and other necessities.

And yet, only a week after running away, he had no idea what he was going to do.

He knew that, in the end, this would be better than staying with his family. He didn't want to be what they wanted him to be. Ever since, two weeks before his great escape, his mother had told him about what he was destined to become.

He had known that his family was composed of powerful mages. He, himself, was one. He knew that they specialized in enchanting artifacts. They had a nice shop, too! He just hadn't known about their underground dealings with one of the most dangerous people in the Hidden City, and their history of selling dangerous things to dangerous people.

When his mother finally showed him the terrible, besmirched inheritance he was set to overtake, and set to start involving himself in scarily soon, he knew he had to leave.

So here he was. three weeks after his world fell apart, one week after he left his broken world; sitting in an alleyway, contemplating whether or not he should try dumpster diving.

Daniel knew he needed to eat. He could potentially go for longer without food, but he had already proven that his reaction time and street skills weren't the greatest in a less than fortunate encounter with some birds. If he didn't keep his body in the best shape he could, he wouldn't stand a chance on the streets.

He glared at the dumpster like it owed him money. The smell was utterly awful to Daniel's heightened senses, but he knew statistically that there had to be something salvageable in there. It just might take some… digging. The thought made him want to gag, but his stomach was too shallow to risk that.

“Why are you in my spot?”

Daniel flinched at the voice that appeared at his side. He looked over to see a green skinned yokai around his age with a large nose and unkempt, black hair. He had a strip of light blue fabric struggling to keep the hair from his face, and a tank top seemingly made of the same material. A pair of baggy brown pants hung around his waist, held up by a piece of rope tied into a sloppy knot slipped through the belt straps. He had a single tusk showing through his grimace.

“Dang, with ears that big, you'd figure you hear me fine.” The green yokai leaned down to get closer to Daniel's eyeline. “What are you doing at my dumpster?” He asked, slowly emphasizing each word.

Daniel's eyes widened and he struggled to stand. “O-oh, is this your building?” He stuttered. “I can go if you-”

“No, it's not my building. It's my dumpster. Now go away before I make you.” The yokai grabbed the lid of the dumpster and flung it open, leaning over to dig around inside.

Oh. So he had the same idea.

Daniel watched the kid, obviously already experienced in this, open a trash bag and start digging. He threw a good amount of napkins to the side before coming up with what he was looking for.

A greasy pizza crust.

He took a bite and glared back over at Daniel. “Well?” He asked, raising a bald eyebrow. “I said scram. Go back to whatever rich people convention you came from.”

Daniel looked down at his clothes. He had almost completely forgotten that he wore some of his most comfortable clothes when he ran. He had a purple sweater vest over a soft off white undershirt, and his most casual dress pants. He basically didn't own anything less fancy.

“I didn't come from a ‘rich person convention’. That isn't a thing. You sound stupid.” Daniel crossed his arms and stared back at the boy.

The yokai's eyebrow rose higher. “Why are you here, then?”

Daniel rubbed his heel into the floor, deciding what information he should tell this complete stranger. “I'm… on a mission. From my family. T-to prove my worth without my magic.”

“Here?” The boy questioned, leaning back into the dumpster to dig out another crust. “This place is the pits. Why would you come out here?”

“B-because it's the best place to prove myself, obviously!” Daniel tensed his shoulders, seriously contemplating jumping in the dumpster to find anything to get rid of this terrible hunger in his gut. “It's better to prove yourself in a tough situation, not an easy one.”

“You don't look like you're ‘proving yourself’ that good. You look like a runaway.”

Daniel's ears flipped up and his tail straightened. “I-I'm not a runaway! I didn't run away! You can't prove that! O-only stupid kids run away from their family!”

“Woah, man, chill out!” The kid backed out of the dumpster to better look at Daniel. “I'm a runaway, I get it.”

Daniel sucked in a gasp. “Oh.” Daniel dug his heel harder. “Sorry. I didn't mean that. Runaways aren't stupid.”

The yokai laughed. “Eh, it's alright. We're all a little stupid.” He glanced from the dumpster back to Daniel. “Are you hungry?”

Daniel grabbed his tail to fidget with. He nodded just a bit, looking away.

“Here!” The yokai reached back into the dumpster and tossed a pizza crust into Daniel's hands. Daniel fumbled to catch it, but managed to do so. “I'm Leonard.”

Taking a small bite of the slightly stale and weird smelling crust and holding back a pout, Daniel responded, “Thank you.”

Leonard watched Daniel uncomfortably eat. “Y'know, when someone tells you their name, you should usually tell them yours.”

Daniel quickly finished the crust, forcing himself to swallow the last of it. The aftertaste wasn't great, but it was good to have something more on his stomach. “Uh,” he mumbled, “I'm Daniel. Daniel Tesseau.”

“Daniel? Cool!” Leonard walked over to him, stopping just a bit away. “Why'd you run away?”

“None of your business.”

Leonard's face flattened at the sudden aggression. “Oookay.” He looked Daniel over before gasping. “You're like, a literal street rat!”

“Wha-” Daniel scoffed. “I'm not a rat, I'm a yokai. Just like you are. I'm just a rat-like yokai. What kind of yokai are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“I'm an ogre. Obviously.”

Daniel squinted at him. Sure, he had the green skin, the pointy teeth, the offensively big nose, but something was wrong.

“Why are you so skinny, then?”

Leonard puffed out his chest and crossed his arms, pushing his biceps to make them look bigger. “You're one to talk! Y-you look like you can't even lift five pounds!”

“Anyone can lift five pounds.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-huh!”

“What about babies?”

Daniel paused. “Okay. You have a point. But I'm not a baby. I'm almost eight.”

“Hey, me too!” Leonard grinned. He glanced back at the dumpster, then at the sky. “I should probably get going. I've got something I need to do. Seeya around, Danny!”

“It's Daniel.”

“...uh, okay. Bye ‘Daniel’.”

“W-wait!” Daniel held up a hand just as Leonard started to turn to leave. “Uhm,” he swallowed, “how long have you been a runaway?”

Leonard took a second to think, scrunching his face. “Uh, I think I was almost six? So…a year?”

“...that's two years.”

“Oh! Guess I lost track of time. Two years, then.”

Daniel took in Leonard's appearance one last time. He was skinny for an ogre, sure, but he still had a good amount of muscle mass. He looked like he ate well. He looked (relatively) clean.

He was experienced.

Daniel breathed deeply. “Well, Leonard, I hate to ask this of you, but I must admit to my desperation. I have only been… a runaway for a week, and I've discovered that I do not yet have the skills required. I need help learning just how to survive out here without the aid of my magic, as I refuse to use it.”

Leonard squinted. “Are you…” Leonard chuckled. “Are you asking me to teach you how to be homeless?”

If Daniel wasn't covered in fur, his face would have become flushed. The twitch in his ears and tail was telling enough. “N-no,” he stuttered, “I'm just asking you to help me learn how to survive on my own without my magic.”

“Or your parents?” Leonard asked slyly.

“...yes.”

“Or your rich people house?”

“...yes, Leonard. I'm proving this to myself. Now will you help me or not?”

“Hmm..” Leonard leaned back on the alley wall, rubbing his chin. “How about this?”

Daniel looked up, his attention fully taken.

“I have a scheme to pull tomorrow. Tomorrow night, same time, meet me here. I'll tell you the details then. If you swear to help me pull it off, then I will promise to give you my money-less wisdom.”

Tapping his toe on the ground, Daniel weighed his options. He could accept Leonard's offer and possibly be getting into way more trouble than he bargained for, or he could refuse and possibly die because he doesn't know how to… be homeless.

Or he could just go home.

“Okay.” Daniel stood straight as he could. “I'll help you enact this… scheme that you're planning. But you have to help me.”

“Sounds good to me!” Leonard patted Daniel's shoulder, causing him to flinch and grab his tail again. “I'll see you tomorrow then, Danny!”

“It's Daniel!”

Leonard was already prancing away.

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

When Leonard returned to the dumpster the next night, he found Daniel standing with his heel dug in the dirt and his tail twisting in his hands. He was side-eyeing the dumpster again, glancing side to side intermittently. Leonard approached more comfortably this time, making sure to make a little noise.

“Hey Daniel!” Leonard greeted. “You ready for the coolest thing ever?”

“Hello, Leonard.” Daniel tried to gather himself and swung his tail behind him. “Uh, I guess? I don't think a ‘scheme’ is exactly the coolest thing ever…”

“It will be!” Leonard almost ran forward to grab Daniel's arm, but stopped when he heard a grumbling sound from Daniel's stomach. He looked Daniel up and down again, asking, “When did you eat last?”

Daniel mumbled something, grabbing his tail again subconsciously.

“Huh?”

“Last night.” Daniel spoke louder, obviously upset by the fact.

Leonard's eyebrows furrowed as he frowned. “Do you not like digging in there?” He asked, pointing to the dumpster. Daniel shook his head.

Leonard stood up straight. “That's alright, I'll do it for you!” He jumped onto the dumpster and tossed the lid open, talking as he started to dig. “There's a group that always throws their crusts away that comes once every week. I think they came in yesterday, but I still might find- oo, jackpot!” He hopped back out with a half eaten slice of pizza in his hand. “This works, right?”

Leonard took the way Daniel's eyes lit up hungrily as a “yes” and handed the slice over. Daniel almost took a bite before pausing and ripping the slice in half, holding one half to Leonard. “Oh, I ate before I came,” Leonard said. “You go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah! You need it more, anyway.”

Daniel started eating, mumbling a “thanks”. Once he was done, Leonard grabbed his arm, shouting, “Come on, I'll fill you in on the way!”

Daniel nearly tripped over his own feet, but eventually the two boys fell into stride. He still felt very uncomfortable about using his talents to help a total stranger, but it was better than going hungry. Leonard tried to make some small talk, but nothing seemed to land right. When they were closer to their destination, Leonard started getting to the point.

“Alright Dan, you're a man with a plan, right?”

“Daniel.”

“...okay. Daniel, you're a maniel with a planiel, right?” Leonard rephrased condescendingly.

“I would say so,” Daniel replied, equally condescending.

Leonard sighed heavily. “Well,” he started, “there's a shop over here that's got a big exchange going on. I want to try to take some of the moolah from right under their noses. I've seen them do exchanges before, but I don't know exactly how to get the cash. Got any ideas?”

Daniel slowed a bit. A robbery? He needs to steal money to earn this kid's trust?

Well, correction.

He needs to steal money to get this kid to teach him how to be homeless.

“...well,” Daniel said, “I'd have to scope out the place first. But if we can somehow make our move during the exchange, then we could have an opening to take some… ‘moolah’.”

Leonard nodded along as he explained the vaguest plan he had ever thought up. “Do we know what they're exchanging?” Daniel asked.

“Nope,” Leonard said bluntly. “She sells meat, though. Mostly fish.”

“Do you know the owner of the shop well?”

“She's some bird yokai, I think. Not too old, so she's probably not blind or whatever.”

“Okay,” Daniel nodded, “and the other party involved?”

“Dunno. She gets stuff from a couple different groups. I've been scoping the place out for a while, and I think I've seen her trade with, like, eight different people?”

“So we have to be ready for anything?”

“Basically. But she always brings the meat and stuff inside and sets it on a table before bringing the money outside, so if you can come up with a good plan, it'll be a breeze!”

Daniel slowed their pace a bit, rubbing his tail in his hands. “Where does the exchange usually happen?”

“At the back door. And there's not really any good windows into the back room where the cash is, I've checked. The building's sorta… split in two.” Leonard tried to illustrate the floorplan with his hands. “It's like, one big room for the shop, and a smaller room where she does all the meat cuttin’. And they always park their big mounts in the back to unload.”

Daniel nodded in understanding. “Okay. So all we'll need is a good spot to wait, and then a good opportunity to slip inside. And then… I guess we'll figure out the way out from there.”

“Sweet!” Leonard pumped his fist. “Slip in, grab the cash, slip out, profit!”

Daniel grabbed his tail tighter, looking to the side to hold in a smile and a giggle. “I guess.”

“Great! Well, here's the spot!” Leonard said, holding his arms out in a grand gesture. They were standing before a shop that could easily be recognized as a butchery, with many advertisements for various meats hanging in the windows. There was, as Leonard had previously mentioned, an emphasis on Hidden City seafood. In addition, there were ads for more exotic, hard to find forms of seafood. It was easy to assume that those were the kinds of things that required a late night exchange.

The storefront was closed, and there was a thin alley that allowed for access to the back. Leonard sidled into it, keeping his back braced to the store wall. Daniel, hesitantly, did the same.

The area behind the building was basically what Daniel expected. The space was pretty open, obviously to make space for any mounts or vehicles carrying heavy cargo. The back of the shop was nothing interesting, just a single door with a few steps in front of it. There weren't even any windows.

Leonard looked over at Daniel, waiting for him to speak. The yokai in question met his look with an exasperated one. “This isn't much to work with.”

“Well, it's what you got.”

“Do you know anything about the inside?”

“...it's a fish store. There's a door behind the desk that goes to the back.” Leonard pointed at the closed door. “That's the back.”

“Do you know what the back looks like?”

“I think there's, like, a table in there. I've never been in there before.”

“So you're useless. Great.”

“Hey, you didn't think I was useless when you asked me for help!”

Daniel was adequately silenced by the accusation.

He turned back to look at the space, noticing a small movement above. The movement got closer, forming into the shape of a large flying creature. It looked to be a dragon-like creature, though on the chubbier side, and seemed to be turning around in the air. Tailing behind it was a carriage, with the back corners being held up by two gargoyles. As the dragon turned and put the carriage facing where Daniel and Leonard were, it became obvious where they were landing.

Right behind the butchery.

The boys ducked down out of sight behind a trash can. The carriage landed slightly before the dragon, both with loud thuds. Daniel could feel the rumbling of the dragon's throat in his chest.

There was the sound of a latch opening in the carriage, and two tall, muscle-covered yokai, who had the features of bulldogs, came through the doors of the carriage. The gargoyles who were previously lifting the carriage flew inside the open doors. One of the bulldogs was wearing thick rubber gloves and carrying something. A strange chittering noise was coming from it.

The back door of the shop opened shortly after, and a bird yokai walked through. The bird was feminine, with bluish black and gray feathers and light blue eyes. Her hands and feet bore sharp talons. She wore black pants and a matching black jacket, with an apron hanging over her front.

The bird yokai looked mildly upset by what the taller bulldog yokai was holding. “What is that supposed to be?”

“Your catch,” the yokai grumbled, dropping what he had on the ground forcefully. The chittering became eerily childlike screaming.

On the ground, writhing from the force he had been dropped with, was a very small eel yokai. He looked so young, nearing infantile, and the sounds he was making were some strange mix of chittering and squealing. He was orange and a light teal, with freckles across his snout, spots on his body, and short, teal fins. Leonard and Daniel had to cover their mouths to keep from gasping and revealing their location.

“Can it,” the shorter bulldog growled, as he stomped on the eel's tail. The eel squeaked loudly from the impact, but his squealing quickly lessened to whimpering.

“This isn't what I sent you to get,” the bird yokai stated calmly. “I wanted three adults.”

“There were only two adults there,” the first bulldog grumbled, “and they put up more of a fight than you warned us about. Mari’s been knocked out for four hours. So give us our money.”

“Money?” The bird yokai laughed lightly. “That thing's a baby, it hardly even counts as one. I told you to get me three.”

“We risked our lives for this one, Koya!” The dog stepped forward, stepping on the eel's tail and making it scream again. “We aren't leaving until we get paid!”

The bird, Koya, tried to respond, but the eel kept screaming, slamming his fins against his attacker's foot. His screaming reached a peak, and a bright flash and loud zap emanated from him. When the light died down, the dog yokai was curled on the ground, and the eel was desperately pulling himself away, crying weakly.

Koya stepped up to the crying child and looked down on him scornfully. With hardly any effort, she reached down and grabbed the eel's tail, holding him up in the air. He had no more energy to fight, so he just dangled there like a wet rag, panting and shaking. Koya glared into him.

“You will get paid half,” she said to the yokai on the ground, not looking away from her prey. “500 unicorns, that's it. And you should thank me for being generous.”

The bird slowly walked into the building and to a tank filled with water, just barely visible from Daniel and Leonard's perspective, and dropped the eel in, watching it steadily drift to the bottom. His eyes were half lidded. She turned around and walked back out of the building, kicking the shaking bulldog still on the ground. “Get away from my shop before I change my mind.”

The second bulldog yokai helped the first stand up and walk back to their carriage. The gargoyles reemerged and the dragon flapped its wings, lifting the carriage into the sky and away. Leonard and Daniel made sure they hid completely. Only after the shop door shut behind Koya did Daniel realize.

“No!” He whispered, grabbing his ears. “We totally lost our shot!”

“‘Lost our shot’?!” Leonard hissed. “That's what you're worried about?”

“Well…” Daniel hesitated. “...yeah? You said-”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I said I'd help you out if you helped me, but there's bigger problems now!” Leonard started leaning around, searching for some other way to look inside. “This isn't just a freaky meat shop anymore, they're kidnapping people! We need to get that kid out.”

“Woah, that's way more complicated than just grabbing some money and leaving!” Daniel grabbed Leonard's shoulder to get his attention, earning a somewhat intimidating child's glare. Easily the scariest one he'd ever seen. “You said you'd help me if we could pull off a robbery, not a rescue mission.”

“Well, now I won't help unless we can pull off a rescue mission,” Leonard pressed snidely. “And if you don't help, I'll save him myself.”

Daniel scoffed at the disrespect. “You lied!”

“No I didn't! I just…” Leonard contemplated for a second, then sighed. “Things are different now. We can't just do nothing. That's a kid, he looked younger than us!”

Daniel shut his mouth to think. He needed Leonard's help to live on his own, but this was a big job. It would require making a whole new plan, and figuring out another way in.

“Please, Daniel.”

Something stirred.

“Fine,” Daniel conceded. “But only if you promise to help me regardless of if we actually save the kid or not.”

“Deal.” Leonard spat on his hand and held it out. Daniel stared.

“I'm not shaking your gross spit-covered hand.”

“You want me to be honest? This is me being honest.”

“You're being unsanitary.”

“Ugh, what is up with your-”

The sound of a door opening stopped their arguing abruptly, and Leonard grabbed Daniel to pull him back into their hiding place.

“EW!” Daniel screamed, as quietly as he could.

“Oh, get over it! I think you'd per-fer a little germs over getting tossed in a cage!”

“...it's pre-fer.”

“Ugh.”

Koya stepped out of the door again, holding a trash bag. She tossed it to the side of the door, on top of a couple others. She then re-entered the building, shutting the door behind her once more.

After a couple seconds had passed and the boys were sure the bird was gone, they crept out again. Looking at Leonard and feeling safe enough to stop whispering, Daniel said, “I trust your word this time. No need for gross spit pacts.”

“Basically just did one.” Leonard smirked.

“Nope, nuh-uh, not thinking about that,” Daniel said, wiping his arm clean and using just a little magic to be sure.

“Yeah, sure,” Leonard said, rolling his eyes. “You got a new plan?”

Daniel rubbed his chin in thought. “When does she usually get deliveries like this?”

“Every couple days, but she's stocked up good right now, so it'll probably be a while.”

“He might not have that long…”

“W-what?!”

“SHH!!” Daniel rushed to cover Leonard's mouth and push him further into hiding, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one saw them.

“Sorry, sorry, what do you mean?” Leonard asked, lightly pushing Daniel off.

Sighing, Daniel loosened. “When I peeked at the inside, she had display tanks for live fish, and a separate display for dead fish.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Why do you think she has a separate tank in the back? With nothing in it? That tank is for the stuff that's about to be dead.”

Leonard looked almost offended. “You really think she's gonna kill him, just like that?”

“What else would she do? You do know that birds eat fish, right?”

“You think she's gonna eat him?”

“I don't know, maybe she owns a butcher shop!?”

Leonard backed up a bit. “You have a point.”

“Of course I do, I always do,” Daniel mumbled. “Whatever. Look, the point is, if that kid is going to stand a chance, we need to get into that place pronto. And, unless bird lady feels like taking out more trash, the backdoor isn't an option anymore.”

Leonard scrunched up his face uncomfortably, obviously trying to make him look like he was thinking more deeply than he truly was. “Maybe we could just… go through the front?”

“Oh yeah, go through the front,” Daniel said. “In case you've forgotten, the shop's closed. We can't get in until she opens up again in the morning.”

“We aren't supposed to get in…” Leonard said, walking around the building with Daniel close behind. “...but maybe we can!”

“I just-... I just said we couldn't. Are you- are you not listening to me?”

Leonard stepped out onto the sidewalk and stood proudly with his hands on his hips. “We just need a disjunction!”

“...distraction.”

“That's what I said!”

Daniel sighed and pressed his palm to his forehead, looking over at Leonard. “And just what did you have in mind, genius?”

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

“This is a horrible distraction.”

“You're just jealous that I came up with it and you didn't.”

“There is nothing to be jealous of! Why do you have a jar of bugs?!”

“They're not bugs, Danny-”

“Daniel.”

“-they're pixies. They wreck stuff for fun! All we have to do is wriggle through the window, hide in a corner, and let ‘em loose.” Leonard held up the jar of fidgeting fairies. It was nearly the size of his head, and the pixies within were buzzing around rapidly. There were maybe thirty in the jar, but it was hard to count with how fast they were moving.

“And just how did you come to have these pixies?” Daniel questioned.

Leonard moved the jar to hold it under his arm. “I caught them trashing my place. There were like, a ba-jillion of them then, but I was only able to catch these ones.”

“Don't most houses have anti-pixie protections? They shouldn't have been able to get in in the first place.”

Leonard scoffed, mumbling, “Maybe they wouldn't have if it was a house,” and walked up to the slightly ajar window. He obviously hadn't intended Daniel to hear, but with the rat’s keen ears, he did. A slight pang of guilt shocked Daniel's chest, but he did his best to brush it off.

Leonard pushed the window slightly further up, making a good enough opening. “It's a tight squeeze, so don't get your tail caught, street rat,” Leonard mocked as he lifted himself in through the window. It took some shimmying, but he was able to drop down on the tile floor inside with a quiet grunt, picking himself up with his arms.

“Okay, I deserved that.” Daniel hefted himself in the window as well, a little more gracefully. The inside of the shop was scarily silent, though sound could be heard from behind the back door. It sounded like Koya was cutting through something, her knife repeatedly hitting a cutting board. “Where are we hiding, Leonard?” Daniel whispered.

Leonard surveyed the room, his eyes landing on an empty shelf behind the counter. It was just big enough for both of the boys. “Let's go there, fast.” He ushered Daniel over to the spot, simultaneously starting to unscrew the lid of the jar. The pixies became more excited at the possibility of freedom, and were ready to cause problems.

Once Leonard was sure he and Daniel were properly hidden, he released the pixies. They quickly started filling the shop with pink light, knocking things over and attacking the dried meat still left on display. Daniel pulled Leonard further into the shelf instinctively as the noise in the shop became louder. The squeaking laughter of the pixies was grating on the ears.

The backdoor opened with a slam and Koya stepped through, holding a slightly bloodied knife in one hand. She squawked at the sight of the fairies trashing her store. “Wh- How did you get in?! OUT!” She started swinging her knife at the pixies in a fruitless attempt to cut them down. They only laughed louder and started pulling at her feathers.

Leonard and Daniel eyed the open door and looked at each other, nodding. Quickly but quietly, the pair slunk into the back, away from the aggressive bird.

Finally being able to see the entirety of the back room, they took note of the table to their left with meat piled on it. A small oil lamp sat on the corner, illuminating the space where Koya had been working before. With a tightness in their chests, they looked to the tank they'd seen before; sighing in relief.

The eel was still laying at the bottom of the tank. He only looked half awake. When he saw the strangers enter the room, he tried to push himself backward, accidentally pressing his injured tail against the wall and choking on a yelp. It was hard to tell if he had been crying due to a lack of tears, but his eyes looked irritated. He had at least been rubbing them.

Maybe he just wanted to stay awake.

Maybe he was scared he wouldn't wake up again.

Leonard grabbed a chair and pulled it to the side of the tank, using it to pull himself on the edge and look down at the frightened child. “Hi, little guy…” he whispered.

While Leonard spoke with the yokai, Daniel busied himself with making sure the backdoor was ready for them to rush out.

“We're here to get you out, buddy,” Leonard assured. He put his arm in the water, shivering from how cold it was compared to the outside. “J-just grab my arm, buddy, then I'll pull you out.”

“Be careful,” Daniel pressed, getting Leonard's attention. “You saw what he did to that big dude, imagine what he could do to you.”

“He won't, I know it.”

“How?”

Leonard looked back down into the frightened eyes of the eel, seeing all the innocence and fear in them. He was broken, both mentally and physically. He didn't have a clue what was happening.

“...I just do.”

Leonard reached his arm down further into the tank. The eel looked at his hand, examining every finger. After an endless stretch of maybe 10 seconds, he scooted forward slightly and swam up in the tank, flinching from the pain it caused in his tail. He reached out both fins to Leonard's hand-

-and grabbed on tightly, allowing himself to be lifted out.

He yelped as soon as he hit open air. Koya was still occupied, so it didn't really matter, but the pixies’ laughter was dying down. They needed to get out of there.

Leonard dropped off the chair and lowered the kid as slowly as he could, holding under his armpits. His tail hit the floor somewhat heavily, making him wrap his arms around Leonard and stuff his face into his shoulder to muffle a scream. “It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, we're getting you out, we're gonna keep you safe, just hold on,” Leonard consoled hurriedly.

Unfortunately, the kid was a little bigger than expected. He was thin, but his tail- while not adding to his height at all- made him a little heavier than Leonard could easily handle. Leonard tried to grab him where he assumed his waist was to get him into a princess carry, but his skin was too wet to properly grab.

Daniel was listening closely to the sound from the other room, keeping one eye on the door and one eye on Leonard scrambling. The struggle beyond the wall was nearly gone. “We need to move, now.”

Leonard grit his teeth. “Well, a little help would be nice!” He growled.

Daniel sighed, hurrying over to help lift the eel's other end. He had begun making those chittering sounds again. It sounded like he was trying to ask questions.

The boys finally got the eel off the ground and started moving to the exit.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Koya stood silhouetted by the doorway, the knife brandished in her hand. Her eyes held nothing but discontent. The boys stared, stunned in place.

“Let go of my PROPERTY!” Koya screamed, moving forward.

Both boys felt a surge of electricity through their arms. Not enough to knock them out, but just enough to send them falling backwards. The eel flopped to the floor between them, squealing and sobbing.

“Little freak,” Koya hissed, walking over with purpose and grabbing the eel's tail to dangle him above the floor again. “Thought you could call in some favors, did you?”

The eel yokai screamed.

“Let go of him!” Leonard pulled himself off the ground, still keeping a few feet of distance to stay away from the knife in the bird's hand. Daniel was still on the floor, shaking more from fear than the shock.

Koya laughed. “You don't have a clue what's going on, do you?” She clutched the tail tighter, grinning down at Leonard. “You're so cute. You don't even know who this kid is, and yet you're risking your life for him. You don't even have the common self preservation to run when you have the chance. Your rodent friend seems to understand how much danger you're in.”

Leonard looked at Daniel behind him, who looked ready to bolt.

“And you,” Koya said to the eel, holding the knife closer to him, “you will behave. You'll thank me for my generosity. I'm saving you from having to live that pitiful life with your pitiful-”

Ears rang with the strength of the blast.

A burst of electricity, blinding every soul in the room.

Emanating from the eel.

Once they were able to properly see again, Daniel and Leonard found Koya lying on the ground with her knife knocked just out of reach and the smallest flame on one of her feathers. The eel was laying on the ground again, close to motionless. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were fighting to stay open. Mostly losing.

Leonard ran over to the kid. He grabbed his shoulders and tried to lift him up again. “You're gonna get out of here, okay? That was so cool! I can't wait to see what else you can do!”

The eel whimpered a little in response. Without him trying to help, he felt a lot heavier.

Daniel was still frozen. He couldn't bear the thought of moving any closer. Even though Leonard needed help. Even though the threat was on the ground, unconscious.

Not unconscious.

He watched as, unbeknownst to Leonard, the bird rose on her elbows. She shook as she reached out and grabbed her knife. She leaned over Leonard and held the knife high.

Something stirred.

Daniel ran to grab the lamp off the table.

“WATCH OUT!”

The glass of the lamp shattered as it slammed into Koya's shoulder. The small flame that had been on one of her feathers from the blast quickly caught the oil that spilled. She screamed as she tried to bat the fire out, but only caused it to spread.

Leonard was the one frozen in place now. Daniel, filled with adrenaline, slapped him on the shoulder to bring him back to the land of the living. With tight breath, Leonard picked up the eel in a princess carry like he'd been trying to before. Both boys, with their rescue, ran out the door to escape the spreading flames.

They didn't stop running until they were blocks away.

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

“He's still not waking up?”

“N-no,” Leonard wheezed, hefting the body in his arms up again. Their adrenaline had faded, and it was becoming increasingly harder to hold him up. “B-but my place isn't too far! We can lay him down when we get there.”

“Let me,” Daniel said, gesturing for Leonard to put the eel down, to which he gladly complied. Sighing, Daniel conjured the magic within him to lift the eel above the ground.

“Woah…” Leonard stared in awe. “But, didn't you say-”

“-that I didn't want to use my magic anymore, to prove I could live without it?”

“...yeah?”

“This isn't for me.” Daniel smiled at the boy floating in front of them. “It's for him.” His smile dropped a bit as he glanced to the side, mumbling, “And you too, I guess. Cause you clearly couldn't carry him anymore.”

“I coulda!” Leonard refuted, before dropping into a calmer state again. “But… thank you.”

Daniel just smiled. He kept a close pace behind Leonard as he directed Daniel to his place. Apparently, this “place” was a garage. Leonard had to put a lot of effort into lifting the large door open, but he did, and he let Daniel pass with the eel. When Daniel got inside, he was genuinely a bit shocked by what he found.

The garage was dark until Leonard pressed a button on the floor. The button was attached to a string of fairy lights that were strung all around the room. Leonard ran around the garage, flicking on lamps and other small lights. He was climbing over pillows, blankets, and avoided running into a sofa that sat just to the side of the center of the room. There was a cooler to the right, plastic battered and broken in spots, but still effective. To the left, on a rug, piles of paper and pencils. Most of the paper was just crinkled posters, flipped to the back so they could be written on.

In the back of the garage, there was a metal tub. On the side, an embossed design of a pumpkin surrounded by three apples. Sitting beside it were two buckets.

“Can we put him in that tub?” Daniel asked as Leonard flicked on the last lamp. “It might help him heal faster.”

“Oh, uh,” Leonard looked back at the tub. “I should probably change the water first. I used it a couple days ago.”

“How long will that take?”

“Ehhhh, five minutes?” Leonard held his hand out in a shaky gesture. “I have to go out to the fountain, cause all the other water nearby is nasty.”

“Try to go fast. We don't know if he's okay to stay out of water for long,” Daniel said as he laid the eel on the sofa.

“Got it!” Leonard ran and grabbed the buckets by the tub, lifted the garage door again and ran out with a bucket in either hand.

Seeing nothing better to do, Daniel sat up on the sofa with the eel. To fit nicely, he had to lay the boy's head on his lap. He noted then that the eel was shivering a bit, his face scrunched up and jaw grinding. Daniel placed one hand on the eel's chest, and used the other to rub his head. He lightly pushed the teal fin on top to the side, and the eel started to relax. He unconsciously rolled his head so he could rest against Daniel's stomach.

“...you're going be okay. I promise. Me and Leonard are going to take care of you. We're going to make sure you get better. Then we'll figure out where you came from and bring you home.”

He sat and comforted the eel until Leonard came back, signaled by a knock on the metal garage door. Daniel gently slipped out from under the eel and helped hold the door open while Leonard brought the buckets in, full of water. Leonard tipped the tub over, emptying it of all the old water as it drained into the grate in the center of the garage. Daniel found it interesting how perfectly everything was arranged in the room, making sure nothing got wet when the tub was drained.

After Leonard tipped the tub back upright, he emptied both buckets into it. “Do you think it should be hot?” He asked Daniel.

Daniel thought for a moment. “Lukewarm, just a little. He's cold now, and we don't want to hurt him or shock him with hot water.”

“Lukewarm,” Leonard confirmed, getting a nod. “I can do that. Give me a second-” Leonard reached into a bag that was sitting near the wall, pulling out an orange and red mushroom. Daniel felt the mystic energy from it immediately.

Leonard dropped the mushroom into the tub, and it started to glow and dissolve. Daniel looked with a curious expression, which Leonard noticed. “I found a patch a couple months ago where they grow,” he explained. “They make water warm. I usually use a couple when I want a warm bath, so just one should do the trick.”

“...cool,” Daniel whispered as he watched the glow fade, the mushroom fully dissolving. Remembering who it was for, he reached into the tub to check that the temperature was good and used his magic again to lift the eel over to the tub, slowly lowering him in.

“...cool,” Leonard mirrored, watching the sparkles of Daniel's magic dissipate.

“He should be okay to leave there,” Daniel spoke. “He was breathing the water before, so we don't need to worry about keeping his head up. We should keep an eye on him, though. Try to be here when he wakes up, so he knows what's going on.”

Leonard smiled. “Sounds good to me. You can take the couch, I'll be on fish duty.” He started gathering blankets and pillows to put next to the tub. “It's late anyway, so we should sleep.”

“W-well, I-” Daniel hesitated. He didn't want to leave the kid alone, even if he was with Leonard. He wanted to make sure he would be okay, with his own eyes. “-I don't think I can trust you with making sure he's taken care of properly when he wakes. I have to be on fish duty.”

Leonard snorted, seeing through Daniel's excuse. “Alright, how bout we both do fish duty. Your loss on the couch, though, it's really comfy.”

“Yeah, sure,” Daniel said, grabbing some pillows before stopping and looking up at Leonard wide eyed. “Uhm, is it okay if I grab these?” he asked shakily.

“Grab whatever you want,” Leonard chuckled. “Just don't touch the food or the paper. And make sure you set up on this side. In case you didn't notice, that part of the floor is still wet.”

Daniel nodded, grabbing what he could and avoiding the wet spot on the ground. He ended up right next to Leonard, laying on some discarded decorative pillows and a blanket with a clumpy, itchy texture. He hadn't seen anything better, but he was hating the way the blanket grabbed on his fur.

Leonard watched him uncomfortably try to settle before speaking. “Hey, how about you grab that blue bag over there? It's got some mouthwash and water bottles in it. You can go outside and spit it out in the alleyway. And… I dunno, pee probably, cause I don't want you peeing on my stuff in your sleep.”

“Wh- I wouldn't pee on your stuff!” Daniel sat up and walked over to the blue bag Leonard had mentioned. “But I will do as you said, for the sake of sanitation.”

“Thanks,” Leonard said as Daniel went out. Without an audience, he walked around turning off lights, grabbing a small battery powered lamp to keep by the tub.

He leaned over the tub. It was hard to see inside it, but he could still make out the shape of the eel. The eel that they had saved. No- the boy they had saved. The boy who almost had his life put in danger, that he and Daniel had saved.

Daniel had saved Leonard's life too.

Putting one hand into the water to rub the eel's head, Leonard whispered, “You're going to be okay. Whenever you wake up, I'm gonna be here for you.” He paused, thinking, then continued. “Danny's gonna be here for you, too. We'll make sure you're loved, and safe, and you can do whatever you want with your life. I promise.”

Leonard laid back down, tucking himself in. And if he had switched his own comfortable blanket for a clumpy, itchy one, no one would complain.

○●○●○●○

Spoiler warnings: kidnapping, black market trade, dehumanization

This fic will (hopefully) be the first of many. I've had many ideas for the Mud Dogz, as well as other new characters for them to meet! I hope that you will stick around to see everything these funny little guys will get up to. :)

#tmnt #tmnt au #rottmnt #tmnt fanfiction #teenage mutant ninja turtles #save rottmnt #unpause rottmnt #mud dogs #loathsome leonard #malicious mickey #dastardly danny #fanfiction #fanfic #twig writes #mud dogz au

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minhosimthings · 1 year ago

Text

Hold me Without Hurting me

Chapter 14: Hibiscus and Holding on

A/N: In which an old friend fills your life with flowers again, along a bumpy sided road.

Pairings: Ceo!Jay × Ceo!fem!reader, includes rest of Enhypen and certain other groups

Warnings: angst-fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to enemies to fake dating to enemies to lovers, Mentions of food and alcohol, swearing, nothing much but it's a bumpy story.

Story prompt: If I had a flower for every time I fell in love with you, I would walk in my garden forever. (This story is based on the language of flowers.)

A/N: Oh my god what! Mona posting two chapters in one day? It's a Christmas miracle. But real guys this is the second last chapter before the big ending and ITS GONNA BE LIT. im gonna go slow with the last chapter, make it as poetic as possible, so that these two idiots finally get a happy (sappy) ending. Also tagging @yunabi436 I hope this keeps her fed for a few days until the last chapter!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Jungwon was never one for relationships and love and all that jazz. Although his mother constantly pestered him to get a wife and give her some grandkids, he never took interest in it. After all, he was young, younger than his boss, whom he had never seen with another man wraped around her arm.

But Park Jay was different.

Although Jungwon didn't know his boss that well, he knew that she was a no nonsense woman who liked to get her job done on time. So when he saw her excitedly narrating her tales of her Jay and her played in the mud and planted flowers, he knew that this was something special, along with Jay's own assistant Kayla of course.

"Promise you'll call?" Kayla said, giving a small peck to Jungwon's cheek. Jungwon smiled down at her frame, and caressed her cheek. "I'll try to get a transfer here, alright?"

"Why is Miss Yang leaving so soon anyway?" Kayla questioned, still holding onto her lover, "I thought Mr Park were the full lovey dovey couple." Jungwon chuckled at his girlfriend's words and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know much about that." He stated, hearing you call for him, "I love you babe, I'll call you when I get back." With a tight squeeze of her hands and a kiss to her lips, Jungwon scampered away, suitcase in hand, and a sad frown on his face.

"Congratulations Mr Park." A dreary faced man, with an awful moustache have a key to Jay, "You have earned this." Jay's hands trembled as he took the key and opened a mighty metal safe. Everything felt cold, his mother's stare, the lawyer's smirk, the metal of the key and the ringing noise in his ears. The wilted hibiscus in the corner begging for water, reminded him of your cold stare, as he shook hands with all the Ceo's, thanking them for coming to the meetings. Your hands didn't have that touch anymore, that cotton touch reminding him of why he still pestered on with life. And now, you were gone.

"Leave us." Jay commanded to the lawyer, who scampered away like a rat, leaving Jay and his mother alone.

"Why?" Jay slammed his hand on the table, making the old woman clutch her pearls tighter, "Tell me why the fuck you had to drive her away."

"She was ruining you." The woman spoke, her tone high and commanding, "Jay, this is your entire future, you can't risk it all for a girl you fell in love with fifteen years ago."

"I loved her!" Jay shouted, his voice echoing throughout the room, "And you just had to make history repeat, didn't you? Driving me away from her again and again, so that this stupid buisness can thrive." The woman clutched her pearls tighter, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Son, look on the bright side." She sighed, "You can expand the buisness now with these papers!" She looked at all the documents strewn on the table, "You can build an empire, Jay."

Jay had never felt angrier before, as he looked at his mother, greedily eyeing the papers. He would have drunk a snake's venom right now, if it meant having your hand twist in his, if it meant having to see you again, daintily flowing in a mud caked sundress, if it meant telling you, about all the times he had experienced death, thinking about you.

"You know what, mum?" He scoffed, putting the key in his hand down, "You're fired, from now on, you are excused from your position as my Chief of Management. You may leave now."

The old woman let out a pained cry, her face forming something akin to shock. "Jay, sweetheart-" "Leave mother." Jay glared daggers at the woman, "No more excuses from you. My lawyer shall be contacting you in a few days about your position from now on. You're excused."

As the woman got up slowly from her seat, pearls on the verge of breaking from how tightly she was holding them. Her face was a disgusting painting of horror and pain.

"I'll tell you this Jay." She said, before leaving, "Don't come scampering back when that girl ruins your chances of capital."

"Oh I'll take that chance." Jay spat his words with sweet venom laced in between.

He had one last chance.

And he wasn't going to waste it.

"Ma'am?" Jungwon wrapped his head around your door, frowning at the sight which beheld him. Your head was held in your hands, as you stared at all the papers in front of you.

"Yes Jungwon?" You cleared your throat, quickly sitting up straight and wiping the tears from your eyes, "Are those the reports for today?"

Jungwon nodded and sat down on the chair opposite you, an action quite unusual, as he usually just deposited the files and ran away. "Ma'am you need to stop working so hard." Jungwon's lips formed into an adorable pout, "You haven't even eaten a morsel in so many days."

You tried your hardest to smile up at Jungwon, and ran a hand through your hair. "I'm alright Jungwon, just hand me those reports."

"No you're not." Jungwon stated simply, as if to take control of the conversation.

"Ma'am no matter how much you try to distract yourself from Mr Park, it's not going to work, and especially not if you keep drowing yourself in work like this." You were taken aback at his words. What happened to the shy, nervous assistant you had been hanging out with for so long?

"I know I'm not supposed to butt into your personal life, but it is really taking a toll on your health too." Jungwon sighed, "So please, for God's sake, would you go home and rest for once?"

Jungwon's ears had turned hibiscus red by the time he finished with his impromptu speech. The confident mask he had once worn seemed to have deteriorated now, that he was fiddling his fingers and nervously biting his lips.

"I forgot how convincing you can be." You chuckled, easing his nerves a bit, "If I go home and rest for a few days, can I trust you to manage the office, Jungwon?" Jungwon's face lit up and he nodded frantically.

"I will literally do anything for you to go home and rest." He giggled, as you quickly packed up your things with his help.

"Thank you Jungwon." You sighed, as he dropped you off at the entrance of the building, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The warm touch of the water hit your skin like a blanket enveloping you on Christmas night. When all were asleep, and you just couldn't bring yourself to drowse off, until a boy wrapped you all comfy in his arms, and cradled you to sleep, humming a song into your ear.

You had forgotten how cold the evening was, as you wrapped yourself tightly in your bathrobe, glass of wine all prepared and your cat Perry, lazily dropped on your bed, hid whiskers untamed.

Seven pm, the clock read. Still enough time to make dinner, you thought and relax to watch a sad Disney movie. Maybe you'd watch Up or The Good Dinosaur, you didn't really have a choice.

Outside your window, the winds of Zephyrus, Notus, Boreas and Eurus ran through time like an expatriate, leaving your lips cold and dry, without the touch of someone else's on them. Someone very specific.

The sudden sound of your cat leaping off of the bed, broke you out of your deep thought.

"Why do you sit on my phone, if you know it scares you, you stupid cat?" You rolled your eyes at your cat, who by now, had rested himself on the bedside table, and picked up your phone, which showed Jungwon's caller id.

"Won hey. Is everything alright?" You said, picking up the phone. "Yes ma'am.... And also no ma'am." Jungwon's voice rang in your ear. "What do you mean?"

"Mr Park has just landed in Seoul."

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noforkingclue · 1 year ago

Text

Right, so, here are my opinions from yesterdays episode of Doctor Who.

Warning: if you click 'read more' you will be seeing spoilers for the 60th anniversary special. I will also be tagging this with 'Doctor Who spoilers' so read at your own risk.

Also, these are just my opinions. Everyone has different opinions (the world would be a very boring place if everyone agreed all the time) so please be respectful to my opinions.

Anyway, on with my thoughts!

So, I have mixed opinions on this episode. There were certain things I really like and certain things I really didn't.

First thing I didn't like was the MCU style opening. I really hope that this is just something for the 60th specials and not something they're going to keep in the main series.

I did like most of the script and most of it felt like Doctor Who was back on form. However, you could really tell that the production value has gone up and where all that Disney money has gone. There's also a lot more CGI and it is starting to feel more MCU-y which I hope they tone down.

The elements of the script that I like was mainly with Donna. I love how she defended her daughter and when she had a go at the Doctor when she re-gained her memories. I also love the relationship between her and Shaun. They have a trust and love for each other which is very clear and I adore it!!!

Now then, here were things that I didn't like. I felt that the scene with the pronouns was a bit cringe and felt very forced. I also didn't like the bit where Donna and Rose said that the Doctor should've remained a woman and that he wouldn't understand because he's now a man, completely ignoring the fact that he was a woman.

There are a lot of things the I hope RTD will expand in the other two episodes. So while not my favourite episode ever it's also not my least favourite.

#doctor who #doctor who spoilers

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voxofthevoid · 8 months ago

Note

Re: the person who had a hissy fit about your fic on AO3 not having the tags they wanted... these people DO understand that tags are a courtesy, right? Like, you don't HAVE to tag anything at all. It's a COURTESY that writers tag as much as they do, and if there's something that the reader is particularly bothered by, even if it isn't explicitly tagged for, then assume it has it! Don't assume it's safe!

VERY GOOD QUESTION!

Honestly, no, I don't think they understand. Or bother to. I'm not expecting anyone to memorize the ToS, but it'd sure be nice if people would at least check the tagging FAQ before showing their entire unwashed ass in the comment section. To be clear, I'm talking about entitled demands and other nonsense, including weird guilt-tripping bullshit and attempts at peer pressure. Polite requests and dialogue are encouraged by the archive itself, though individual mileage may vary.

A general rundown, not directed at anon but for those unfamiliar with Ao3's content policy: The archive leaves damn near everything to author discretion. Some things are mandatory, like accurate language, fandom tag, rating, and main warnings—the latter two, however, can be opted out of via "Not Rated" and "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings," respectively. Even if you make a mistake in these, Ao3 will contact you first, and if you don't respond, they may recategorize or hide a work; they have specific policies for this too, which can be found in the FAQ linked above. Point is, the entire Additional Tags field is optional. So are the character, relationship, etc. fields. You are fully allowed to tag as much or as little as you want.

From the reader end, a lack of information is also information; it lets you know what the author is willing to tell you before you enter a story. If, for instance, you want to avoid all underage fics, don't touch stories tagged with "Underage" or "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings."

I'm fond of extensive tag usage, but it's this freedom to tag how you want that I value more. It accommodates all kinds of writers and readers: the minimalists and the ramblers, the risk-takers and the cautious. Both what's there and what's not there are telling. Having preferences for how tags work is one thing, but dear god, the entitlement you see these days is something else.

The reason I switched to using Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings was that I kept seeing people say that writers using "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" for stories regardless of the content was denying them fics they had a right to. Fucking fuck that. I stopped tagging top/bottom for a similar reason, though connected directly to hypocrisy rather than entitlement alone.

What I've been seeing, both in my comments and in general fandom spaces, is an increasing number of people who want their specific tagging tastes or expectations to be followed by all writers. The writers' own choices don't matter; it's all about catering to some rando without the manners god gave an algae.

The most egregious instance of it I've experienced was on a recent fic where I went out of my way to explain the sexual and romantic split in an unbalanced poly ship and still got people bitching (among other things) that they couldn't be arsed to expand a drop-down tag in the author's notes.

It's like the more you try to accommodate people, the more entitled they get. I used to add tags or even tweak bits of phrasing to make my readers as comfortable as possible. All that got me was increasing demands and entitlement. I've seen others share similar experiences. I take it as a learning experience in establishing and enforcing my own tagging habits and boundaries, but the entire atmosphere pisses me off.

The vast majority of readers are perfectly nice and polite. The minority comprised of pissrags are, however, loud and prone to ruining fandom as a whole. I'd say we're seeing the effects at the pan-fandom level right now, judging by fandom spaces I frequent.

...This got obscenely long. Oops. Sorry, anon! I've been pent up about this recently.

#i love my anons #anon #vox has opinions #was gonna answer the other asks too but gotta scram now

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annaraebananawriter · 2 years ago

Note

"We just can't seem to get it right, huh?" With Dream and Nightmare? Maybe after some kind of truce and they had a fight?

Oooh, how I love writing Dream and Nightmare having a fight and then making up afterward. Even though my skills for writing dialogue in arguments are still rusty and generally not the greatest, in my opinion.

This got a little long, and that's my bad. But I had lots of fun writing it, and I hope you have lots of fun reading it!

Small warning for smoking and some implied self-hate.

That said, happy reading! Prompt is italicized.

~oOo~

Dream sat on the curb of a random street in a generally negative AU. The despondence in the air weakened him just enough that he didn't have the power to summon his own portal. He was definitely late for dinner.

Sighing, he took a drag of his cigarette and stared into the concrete at his feet.

Usually, he stayed clear of negative AUs. He didn't want to risk being stranded there until Ink realized where he was and took him home or his brother's gang found him and thought he was intruding. Fighting was a necessity, not a want. Even now, after the truce, he still tended to stick to his regular AUs, helping the people there until he couldn't anymore. Then, he would sleep, if he felt like it, for a few hours and repeat it all in the morning.

It was his way of spreading positivity, the way he was used to. Nightmare, upon learning this, had frowned and seemed frustrated at something, but otherwise left it alone.

Until earlier.

He had just been hanging out with Nightmare. Part of the truce was an agreement they made to try and understand each other's jobs, and the way they did their duty. Dream tagged along on some of Nightmare's routines, and vice versa. Sure, the negativity or positive made their magic weaker, relying on the other for transportation, but physically they were fine.

Today was a Nightmare day--or night. His brother tended to work at night, drawn to those having bad dreams or bad thoughts or things similar. He heightened the emotions closest to the surface and kept an eye on things.

Dream usually hung back and watched silently. Not today.

They had been by a kid's house, whose dream was just on the edge of turning into a nightmare. He watched from the window as Nightmare expanded the drop of fear into something more, watched the kid start to turn and whimper. His brother appeared beside him not long after and they both stood there for a moment.

Fidgeting with his fingers, Dream found himself talking before he really knew what he was going to say. "Are you sure you need to do it this way?"

Almost immediately, he inwardly cringed, tensing up for the coming response.

Nightmare's gaze turned to him. "Do what this way?"

Dream had shifted in place, uncomfortable. "Well, you know...spread negativity, I guess. Do you have to do it this way? It just seems..."

Nightmare still stared at him, almost daring him to complete his sentence.

"...cruel?" Dream's voice lowered, bordering on a whisper. It almost feels like saying something taboo, he thought.

"Why would it be cruel?" His brother's voice was clipped.

"I just mean--"

"I know what you mean," his brother had said, icy, turning to walk away. Dream hurried to follow. "I had thought we were past this, Dream."

"We are. I honestly didn't mean it that way. I just--"

"What other way is there? For kids, nightmares are a sure way they learn what to fear. At the same time, it creates a memory for them with their parents or guardians or siblings, good or bad. It helps them."

"Yes, I know."

"Do you?" Nightmare stopped at the end of the block. "Do you? I think you still have a bias about what is good and what is bad. You agreed to not let this bias control your actions."

"I am not."

"Aren't you?"

Dream floundered for something to say, understanding he upset his brother and wanting to make things right. "I...I do not think so, no. I had simply meant that I don't see the need for scaring a child into submission." He remembered something one of the villagers used to say, repeating it absently. "Negativity is not something to be pushed or heeded, simply something to be controlled and rid of."

A beat of silence passed.

Nightmare straightened, smiling bitterly. "Funny. That sounds exactly like something the villagers that beat me used to say." He ignored Dream's flinch away, turning. "You claim to be learning and go and say things like that."

Dream stood frozen for a moment. "Night, I--"

Nightmare held up his hand. "If you want to be rid of me, you just had to ask." Then, Nightmare slipped into the shadows and vanished from the AU. Dream stood there alone, hand half-outstretched.

The position reminded him of someplace else. He hastily shoved his hand into his pocket.

In the present, he took another drag of his cigarette.

He can see that he said all of the wrong things. That's easy to understand. It's also easy to understand why Nightmare got so defensive over what he did. He is not angry over that. He is mostly angry at himself and his stupid beliefs that he can't seem to shake. Why must he always see things through a black-and-white lens? Even Ink and Blue are far better at being open-minded than he is. Is there just something wrong with him?

A guardian should be mindful and respect their opposites, he reminded himself. And yet, when had he done that? He's failed at the simplest thing of being a guardian.

(Just like everything else in his life.)

It was probably for the best that Nightmare left him here before things escalated even more.

And yet, just as he finished the thought, someone sat beside him. Nightmare gazed out across the street, stoic. Dream watched him anxiously, an apology running circles in his mind. Just as he managed to get it down to his mouth, Nightmare spoke.

"We just can't seem to get it right, huh?" he said, holding his hand out as he turned to him. Dream stared for a moment, not getting it.

Nightmare sighed, plucking the smoke out of his fingers to take a drag himself.

"What do you mean?" Dream asked, tugging his knees to his chest.

"We seem to always argue, even when we don't mean to." Nightmare said, taking another drag. "I apologize for leaving you here. I just had to cool down for a moment. And I already know you're sorry, the guilt is practically dripping off you, so shut your mouth."

Dream sighed, ignoring him. "I'm sorry for what I said."

Nightmare groaned. "Did you not hear me? I said to shut your mouth. I already forgive you." He fell silent.

Dream looked away. "I..." He struggled for the right words. "I think...I think I've been taught that negativity is akin to a sin, something to atone for should you indulge in it. I am truly trying to understand that that is wrong, but..."

"You haven't had five hundred years to unlearn everything," Nightmare finished, saying what he was hesitant to. "I know. And it might be overdue, but I'm sorry for that." He seemed genuinely sad as he said it.

"It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?"

Dream frowned, turning bitter. "No. If anything, the villagers should be to blame." Something in his soul instantly tried to protest, still clinging to the belief that they were once friends. He shook it away.

Nightmare hummed. And Dream must really be getting sleep-deprived because he could've sworn he felt a prick of pride from his brother for saying such words. "I suppose you're right, brother." Taking one more drag, he held it out for Dream to take. "They were really shitty people, weren't they?"

With a heavy soul that felt ten times lighter from the simple act of Nightmare calling him his brother, Dream let himself smile. "They were. They really were." He took the cigarette and took the last drag, stamping it out with his foot.

They watched the stars together for the rest of the night.

#my writing #ask #ask prompt #fanfic #drabble #prompt #utmv #dreamtale #dream sans #nightmare sans #undertale #tw smoking #tw self-hate

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yet-another-heathen · 1 year ago

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Separation

1,483 words. Original Work: Liliholm & Page.

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Author's Note | This is the re-penned version of everyone's favorite Liliholm and Page chapter! Since originally writing this, Luca and Garcia have evolved so, so far into their own characters and their own story arcs, and I wanted to go back to have this chapter actually reflect that. I hope you enjoy getting your first glimpse at them, there's more to come soon!

Want to see the original version? You can still find it (and all the beloved comments and replies) here <3

Chapter Warning | interrogation, torture, stress position, suffocation, head trauma, loss of conciousness, dislocation, knives, blood, cursing

Tag List | @ink-and-salt @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpvp @redwingedwhump @lave-whump @castlehillwhump @sideblogformindtrash @burtlederp @fanastywhump

And special thanks to @whump-in-the-closet, who found this series the very day that the update was set to post <3 Hope you enjoy!

"I'm going to give you exactly one chance, Deimos," they said calmly, lifting his chin with the tip of their shoe. Wesley's entire body was trembling with strain and desperate agony, "What did you do with the files?"

He had been interrogated before. Tortured a handful of times, too—so came the risks of sticking his nose into places he knew he shouldn't. But this?

They tsked down at him.

This was brutal.

The ropes tightened again, and a groan of pain clawed its way out. It felt like every muscle in his chest was about to tear. It ended with an ugly, bitter laugh.

"You know, you'd be a lot more intimidating if you weren't all of five foot fucking nothing," he rasped, trying to relax into the oncoming waves of pain, "At least that brute is imposing, even if he's got all the brains of a meatloaf."

"Hm."

They let their shoe fall away, and Wes' head slumped. Out of the very corner of his eye he saw them nod to the other interrogator.

The mountain of a man who had been looming in the corner walked up behind him and pulled the restraints further up his arms, lifting them impossibly higher behind his back. He increased the pressure until his shoulders were on the verge of dislocating. His breaths came ragged and shallow through his nose, and he couldn't help but let out a gasp as he pressed his forehead against the ground.

And this time, the biting weight of a hard rubber sole pressed into the nape of his neck, tearing at the hairs. Luca's weight crushed his forehead down into the concrete as they ground their foot into the back of his skull.

Wes opened his mouth to gasp, but no air filled his lungs. Something about the angle had cut off his breathing, and the pressure just kept increasing and increasing—

"He thinks he's cute, doesn't he? Garcia, you think he's cute?"

Wes' diaphragm started seizing, stabbing pain jerking through his ribs when his lungs refused to expand.

"Maybe before you started making such a mess of him. Now? Not so much."

His consciousness slipped along the edges of their minds, searching for cracks, but it was like trying to hold onto a glass sphere covered in soap. All he could think about was his diaphragm, and the burning of air that wouldn’t come.

Darkness began encroaching on his vision. The figures above him exchanged something that he entirely missed, but the shoe and all Luca's weight still didn't move.

His body started jerking, fingers clawing into the empty air behind him as desperation finally took control of his movements.

He couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe—

The shoe slid down his spine, catching agonizingly on his skin until it threatened to rip. And with one final, tiny push, his shoulder left its socket. A lurching POP rent the air.

Darkness became white, and everything fizzled out into agony.

When the room came swimming back into focus he realized his teeth were vibrating with bitten-back sobs of pain. He dragged in wet, rasping breaths through his teeth. The fine grit covering the floor was sharp against his cheek.

Luca was a few feet away from him with their back turned, the dull echo of voices shifting under the void of his thoughts. Pain rang up his arm, down his back, and so deep into his chest it felt like something was trying to crush his heart.

Wes curled one lip and spat a mass of blood and spit on the floor, trying in vain to lift his weight off his injured arm.

Voices came back in slowly, muffled and too loud all at once.

"—like this."

They turned around, and Wes tilted his head back to see what they were holding in their hand.

A kitchen knife. A really fucking big one, glinting as it caught the harsh light from above.

...of course.

They handled it so casually, twirling it loosely by the hilt. "I've always appreciated the simplicity of household implements," they said to their coworker over his head.

"Almost poetic, in't it?" Garcia's deep, gravely voice replied, "After all, it's still all just gristle and meat."

Wes felt his heart pick up, pounding in his ears and throat. They knelt down beside him, looking him over with a hollow smirk.

"Make sure you hold his head up. I want to watch his face."

A huge, thick hand tangled in his hair and wrenched his head upward, exposing the bare curve of his throat. But it wasn't his neck they went for, they were leaning over him and—

His eyes went wide, only moments before the tip of the blade stabbed downward through his skin. He jerked and hissed, trying to lean away.

The knife dug slowly, so so so slowly, into the bent mass of his shoulder where the joint had been separated from its socket.

It took every single ounce of his resolve not to scream. The horrible, horrible pressure of the blade digging in between cartilage and bone made his face pale, nausea rising in his mouth.

He felt the grating echo through his entire body as the knife scraped along bone, inside him, like an ice pick wedging between his teeth.

The sound that left him was inhuman. Low and bitten back and so deep with agony that it scarcely counted as breathing.

"Hm. Tough crowd," the big one teased.

And it finally ripped a frantic cry out of him as the flat side of the blade tilted downward, prying the bones apart.

Nausea rose to an unbearable limit, and blackness overcame his mind.

When he came to he was slumped with almost all of his weight in Garcia's hand, neck bent backwards at a painful angle. Sticky heat was pouring down his chest and dripping to his thighs. It took him a long moment to realize that it was blood. A lot of blood.

His body was jolting with hiccupping little half-sobs, breaths coming so shallow that he wasn't truly breathing at all. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back against the unbearable pain that sent little floating wells of black across his vision.

Luca wiped the blade clean on Wes' trembling arm, squatting so close to him that it made him sick.

"Reconsidering your position yet?"

Wes recoiled, surprising himself when a little surge of anger split through the fog of pain. He gathered himself to spit a mouthful of blood at them. He stopped short only when the tip of the knife pressed against his lips.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," they said quietly.

Wes glared at the blur of them, entire body trembling with exhaustion and strain. The unspoken threat made his blood boil.

"Go fuck yourself," he snarled, ignoring the way the cutting edge tugged at his lower lip.

He reached for his powers, and threw everything he had at them. They almost dropped the knife when the sound hit, eyes flying wide with shock and pain as they gasped and covered their ears against the raging scream of noise only they could hear.

"Garcia!"

And Wesley's head was slammed into the concrete floor. His attack was immediately cut off, gold blooming behind his eyes from the ferocity of the blow. He felt his hair ripped upward, ready to slam him down again—

Luca barely stopped Garcia from simply cracking his skull open on the concrete. This time when they seized Wes by the chin, their nails dug in. Every ounce of amusement was gone from their eyes.

"You little shit," their voice was scathing, "The next time you pull that stunt, I'm going to peel off your face, piece by pitiful little piece, and feed it to you."

Wes wanted to snarl something clever at them, but his brain was having a difficult time staying any form of coherent. His ears rang. Everything was swimming, the walls seeming to zoom out around the edges of their silhouette.

That wasn't good. That really wasn't good.

It didn't stop him from spitting that dark spray of blood directly into their face. Red and clotted black splattered across pale skin.

No matter what they did to him for it, Wes decided then and there that the look of shock and disgust on their face was worth it.

They slowly wiped a hand down their cheek, a cold mask slipping over their expression. Then they sighed.

"Well, I did warn him."

They leaned forward again, knife breaking the skin just above Wes' other shoulder, only to stop at the sound of approaching footsteps and muffled words from the other side of the door.

"Ah, now the show's starting."

Despite so much blood, despite the arm loose from its socket, despite the fact that he was trembling from head to toe and very, very much in pain, Wes growled at them, "I'm not fucking scared of you."

He startled when both of his interrogators laughed. The door lock snapped in its casing, heavy hinges creaking as it was pushed open and the sallow light from the hallway poured in.

"Oh, I'm not the one you have to worry about."

They casually flicked the tip of their blade toward the thin, frail-looking old man that entered the doorway, wiping his hands clean.

"He is."

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marrow-and-bone · 1 year ago

Text

Fic: you don’t know how you got here (you just know you want out)

I wrote a fic for the @dtqkbigbang! What better way to inaugurate this Tumblr, yeah?

Title: you don’t know how you got here (you just know you want out) Rating: M Words: 16K Fandom: DSMP Ships: Quackity/Schlatt, Quackity/Wilbur, Quackity/Karl/Sapnap

Summary:

Like every other severed employee of DSMP Inc, Alex exists as two different people, who share the same body but know nothing about each other. Every morning when he goes to work, Alex becomes Quackity, and until now he’s been content to leave his other life a mystery.

But then late one night in a diner parking lot, Alex is confronted by a strange older man with mutton chop sideburns and alcohol on his breath, whom Alex can’t remember having met before but who clearly recognizes him, who calls him “Quackity” and tells him they’ve been lied to. And less than five minutes later, that man is lying dead on the ground.

Notes:

Mind the tags!!!!! This is a weird one!! Q is not having a great time!

I'm also planning to expand on it, so if you enjoy what's been posted so far, definitely keep an eye out for more. :3

Preview:

Alex needs to stop doing this.

He’s gonna get a formal reprimand if he keeps missing his clock-in window at work — it’s the one part of his job description he’s really responsible for, and warnings keep turning up in his locker, polite anonymous form letters printed on plain white paper. And probably the worst that would ever happen is a ding to his end-of-year bonus, but Alex isn’t gonna risk it. He needs this job – this job in particular, with all its peculiarities, with all the ways it keeps him sane. He needs to be standing in the office elevator no later than nine fifteen tomorrow morning. He should already be in bed right now.

Instead, he’s alone in a booth at McPuffy’s at one in the morning, nursing a bad-idea coffee with a notebook open in front of him, pretending like maybe he’ll work on his music if he stares at the blank page a little bit longer. He’s primed for a singer-songwriter era right now, after all — if being dumped by one fiance is great material, then two should be a goldmine. And maybe it would be, if he ever let himself think deeply about where he’s ended up — about the cold bed he’ll go home to tonight, or the empty apartment he’ll wake up in, or the rings that sit wrapped in a handkerchief at the bottom of his nightstand drawer. If he sat with how any or all of that felt, maybe he’d be the musician his mama always believed he could be.

But that’s not the choice he’s made, is it? That’s not the road he decided to take.

Funny, how people will judge you if you get blackout drunk every night as a way to cope…but if it’s your job that swallows your days, that strangles the part of you that feels much of anything at all, that’s fine. That’s capitalism, baby. That’s the system working as it should.

Alex doesn’t need to ask his waitress for the check. He gets the same thing every damn time, and he tips the same way — an empty coffee cup and a few crumbs of toast left on his plate, a ten dollar bill pinned under the salt shaker. There’s only one other customer, and he doesn’t look up as Alex takes his coat down from its hook. No one looks at Alex at all as he leaves, and he tells himself that’s how he likes it.

He’s alone because he wants to be. He chose this for himself.

The night air is a shock — cold in a way that makes all the muscles of his back seize up. He’s already got his keys in hand, tucked into his coat pocket as he walks between pools of streetlight.

Later, Alex won’t really remember what he was thinking about — probably hoping his car will start, or wondering if he should stop at the all-night pharmacy to buy more melatonin. He’s on auto-pilot, after all, normal thoughts for a normal night, variations on a bone-deep familiar theme.

Alex won’t remember what he was thinking, but he’ll remember the exact moment his night went off the rails; the pivot on which his life would turn.

Someone coughs, wet and painful-sounding and loud as a gunshot in the silent parking lot. There’s a rasp of gravel and asphalt under a heavy shoe.

Alex stops and turns toward the sound, his body humming with fresh adrenaline. He’s small and tired and alone. He calculates how long it would take him to reach his car; he slots his keys between his fingers, makeshift spikes on a fist he hopes he will not have to use.

A figure steps out from behind a pickup truck, stumbling forward into the light. A man, easily twice Alex’s size and at least a head taller – even stooped and shambling like this – leans heavily on the truck as he shuffles closer. He’s coatless and hatless, dressed only in a rumpled suit and a stained white cotton shirt, a cardinal necktie hanging loose around his neck, his dark hair and mutton chop sideburns heavily salted with gray. Even from here — at least ten feet away — Alex can smell that he’s been drinking. He reeks of whiskey and vomit.

Alex’s grip tightens on his keys. His voice is too high — too obviously scared — as he asks, “Can I help you with something?”

The man’s sharp bark of laughter dissolves into more coughing, and he wheezes as he catches his breath. There’s a smirking chuckle in his voice as he says, in a rough-throated rasp, “Jesus Christ, Quackity…you took your fucking time in there, you little shit.”

#dtqkbigbang #quackbur #tntduo #pumpkinduo #c!quackity #c!schlatt #c!wilbur #severance AU #seriously I have a giant-ass outline for this story and I will finish it or die trying #sometimes you are two guys in one bod and both of those guys are gay idiots having a very hard time #my fic

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tarabyte3 · 2 years ago

Text

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 1/? (5.2k words)

Chapter 2 ->

AO3 Link

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

Warnings: Explicit rating, smut, stalking, spying, blackmail, manipulation, dubcon, dubious consent, Dom/sub, sadism, masochism, unprotected sex, oral sex, masturbation, mutual masturbation, choking, dirty talk, praise, humiliation, possessive love, yandere, minor description of gore, minor description of violence, murder, discussion of murder, shame involving sex work, light shaming of sex work, emotionally abusive mother, troubled mother/daughter relationship

A/N: Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from the poem "Saint Joan" by Louise Glück, The Seven Ages

(There's a more indepth note below the cut)

A/N pt 2: I know those warnings seem like a lot! I try to tag everything, no matter how small, because I want to make sure no one is blindsided by anything in my fics.

But remember, David Robey is not a good man. He's a murderous psychopath, he's cruel, and he feels no remorse (though I do REALLY flex the boundaries of all that because this is fantasy and fanfiction after all.) This reader character is also NOT a good person, just to a lesser extent than he is. Therefore this is going to get quite dark on occasion. Though if you're here because you want David Robey smut, I suspect you're well aware of what you're in for. Still! Heed all tags and warnings. I will continue to expand them as they come up in the story and try to point them out as I add them, but always check the end of the list for anything new.

If you're worried, know that I have personal boundaries I will not cross in my fics. No gratuitous descriptions of violence, murder, gore, or torture in my smut fics unless specifically and clearly warned. No noncon or SA. No physical or domestic abuse. And though it is a smut fic about a fictional serial killer, any mental or emotional manipulation will be in line with what exists in canon, so no wild cards there either.

Pregnancy scares, worrying about or fear of getting pregnant, taking steps to avoid pregnancy through the use of contraception or other means, or having my reader character get pregnant—all as the result of unprotected sex between the characters—will also never come up in anything I write. They won't even think about it. I want my fics to be a fun escape for myself and for you all so I say no thank you.

Finally, there is some shame from the main character and problematic language used about sex work in this and I want to be clear: We respect sex workers in this house 👏😤 Sex work is work. Anything that suggests otherwise in this fic is because the characters are assholes.

Chapter 1 - I heard a dark prediction rising in my own body

You're always very careful not to show your face on camera. It's not what's for sale. Certainly not for fifteen pounds per monthly subscription. These men watching aren't paying you enough to risk your career.

Or worse, to risk your mother finding out.

She's always harping on you to settle down, get married, and have children. You don't have the stomach to tell her how absolutely horrible all of that sounds. Most men bore you with their undeserved egos, horrible ties, and inane chatter about sports clubs. Or the way they smother the spark that drew them to you in the first place because afterwards they want a good little wife instead. And you definitely don't want children.

So no, you don't want to marry any of them. Instead you'll gladly take advantage of their desperation to escape their dull lives and their tired, jaded spouses. Likely women who thought marriage would be different, only to find out what you already know: most men can never give you what you truly need.

Now you've been doing this for over a year. For an hour a night, you sit in front of your webcam in low cut blouses and secretary skirts and undress down to your lingerie and panties. You run your fingers between your breasts and whisper lies into your microphone.

At first it was out of desperation.

Your flatmate had moved out with little warning and left you scrambling to make rent. Your job didn't pay enough for you to afford the entire sum by yourself until you found someone else to take her place. Sure, you could have moved or downsized, but you didn't want to. The location was perfect and to get the same rate, you'd have to move further to the edge of the city. Your morning commute would be longer, and you didn't want to spend so much time on the tube with the smell of sweat, crying babies, and creeps brushing up against you.

It was a pop-up ad that gave you the idea. "Live women on camera. Watch now! Get your first month at a reduced rate!" It declared over a scantily clad young woman who was pushing her cleavage together with her arms and fluttering her eyelashes.

If only it were that easy, you had scoffed.

Then you opened your laptop and did some research. Because what if it was? Which is how you ended up making an account on a smaller camgirl website and sitting uncomfortably with your webcam pointed at your torso and nothing but a white wall behind you.

After a few days of no activity, you unbuttoned your blouse a bit, wore a push-up bra, and finally got your first viewer. So you unbuttoned it further and further, and, as your numbers rose, your top came off completely.

You learned to tease them after that.

And degrade them.

"BigDaddy47 wants to know if I'm wearing panties. Mmm, what do you all think? Should I take off my skirt and let you find out? If you were all very good, I could show you what's underneath, but you don't deserve it, do you? I know how filthy you all are, asking me to take my clothes off. You disgust me."

Oh, but then you apologize and beg for forgiveness for being so mean to those poor, overworked men that no one else appreciates while bashfully covering your body with your hands and telling them you're just a little shy. That's what really boosted your numbers. They ate it up. Because more than seeing a pair of tits, they love being told exactly what they want to hear. And they especially love believing it.

That's why they're really there. To forget. To pretend.

You made enough extra money to keep your flat. Barely at first, and it completely wiped your savings, but with each new paycheck there was more leftover. Eventually you also bought better lingerie. More strappy numbers to hide under your office girl persona. More ways to hint at your bare breasts without showing them. Because you will never get naked on camera. Ever. The thought of all those men seeing your full body repulses you. They repulse you. That part, at least, is never a lie.

Then the empty second bedroom became your recording studio. You put a feminine, silky comforter and fancy pillows on the bed so you could pose in different, carefully pre-selected positions. You draped a blanket over the back of the chair so you could cover yourself while you pretended to be shy and repentant, and they all begged you to take it back off.

It was almost too easy. It took less than seven months for your stream to be featured on the front page of the site as a hot new account, and another two for you to make the top fifty. Now you're making as much in seven hours of streaming a week as you do in a week and a half of full-time work at your day job. And you keep nudging your way closer to the top twenty.

So you could say things are going well.

At least, they were.

The first time you got a strange text message from a number you didn't recognize, you shrugged it off. All it said was: How are you doing? Which could be anything. A wrong number, a phishing attempt, or an old friend you deleted the contact information for ages ago. Of course you ignored it.

But a few days later you got another one from the same number.

You don't want to chat?

That one had made you a little uncomfortable, but you could still tell yourself it was a mistake. Maybe even a guy you gave your number to for a hookup during a rare night out that you never followed through on. You set your phone down, went about your day, and managed to forget about it quickly.

Then today it buzzs again.

You're not even this shy on camera.

As you read it—and reread it to be sure you're not seeing things—your heart leaps to your throat with your first rush of fear. How had they gotten your number? You never entered a phone number into the website. You've been so careful. You even set up a separate bank account.

"Who is this?" You finally text back.

A fan.

You quickly fumble with your phone to block them, but a new message appears on the screen before your trembling thumbs can manage to tap the correct buttons.

I wouldn't do that.

And then there's a video.

You hesitate.

You know you should just block them anyway, but something about the blurry still of the preview seems familiar. Naggingly familiar. So you tap play.

There's a figure standing right in front of the camera. They're so close, all you can see at first is a plain black shirt and a bare arm. Then they move away, further into the room. It's your spare room, you quickly realize with horror. You can see the familiar layout and the blush colored comforter on the bed. After a few more seconds, you also realize the person in the video is you. You're folding the blanket you use during your stream and setting it on the chair. Except it wasn't taken from your stream because there's daylight coming through the lacy drapes covering the window. You only stream at night. And your face is visible as you bend over to pick up a pillow from the floor.

It's you in your pajamas, tidying up the room the morning after a stream. When your camera isn't supposed to be on. When you aren't being careful.

You feel sick.

Now would you like to chat?

"What do you want?" You type out with shaking hands.

I want a private show.

"If you don't stop harassing me, I'll call the police."

Now now. No need for that.

Because if you do, I'll have to send a few videos to your mum. This is her contact information, isn't it?

Then you're staring down at your mother's phone number and home address. You let out a sob.

"Why are you doing this?"

I told you. I want a private show.

"I don't have a private stream."

Your phone buzzes with another notification, but this time for a new email. In your personal inbox.

You have fifteen minutes.

You reluctantly open the message. It's an invite with a link to a private chat room.

Wear the black nightie with the same bra and panties you wore two nights ago.

You don't respond. Instead you throw your phone down onto the couch and you pace.

What do you do? Do you block the number and call the police anyway? Do you call your mother and tell her not to check her messages or answer the door? But then she'll ask why. And what do you tell her? That you have a stalker? That they're threatening her, too? God, she's so stubborn and nosey! She'd look at her phone anyway to tell them off and then it'll be over. She'll see. You were raised Catholic! She'll disown you.

You stop pacing.

Would that be such a terrible thing? You're very much an adult. You're not dependent on her for anything. You have every right to do what you want. It's not like you're doing anything that bad! Not really. You're just trying to survive! If she can't handle that, then that's her problem. You're doing just fine. You can live without her nagging and berating you all the time. Making you feel small or as though you're wasting your life by not doing what she expects. Asking you, "What will people think?" after everything you do. Plus, it's her religion, not yours. It stopped being yours when you were very young, even though the guilt still rears its ugly head every once in a while. Usually because of her forcing it on you. No more.

With renewed determination, you pick your phone back up and go to block the number.

The buzzing of a new message startles you.

Did I mention that I also have the contact information for your boss and the passwords to all of your social media accounts?

Fuck.

Ten minutes left.

You start to cry. Because you feel truly helpless now. You think for a brief moment that maybe this person is bluffing. Surely he's just counting on you to obey immediately and doesn't plan on doing anything. But he filmed you without your knowledge and he had your mother's personal information. Finding where you work would be even easier than that. Plus, are you willing to risk your whole life and your career to find out?

No, you realize. You aren't.

With tears streaming down your face, you run to your bedroom. You have to upend your hamper to find the specific bra and panties he requested since you hadn't washed them yet, but you manage to get changed faster than you ever have before.

Are you supposed to put on make-up? He didn't say. You check your phone for the time. Four minutes. And you still have to boot up your laptop. So you grab your eyeliner and a tinted lip gloss off of your vanity and sprint towards the other bedroom.

While your computer is starting, you use your reflection in the screen to hastily put on the eyeliner. It probably looks horrible and uneven thanks to your puffy eyelids and lack of mirror, but if he wanted something better, then he should have been more specific or given you more time. Or not harassed you at all. So fuck him.

You click over to your inbox with one hand and dab the rouge color onto your lips with the other. Then you're staring at the link with a minute left. No use stalling, you think. It won't make this go away.

You take a deep breath and click it.

The chat window pops up and then, after a brief second of loading while your heart pounds in your chest, your own scantily clad breasts and lace covered torso are displayed onto the screen. In the corner, there's a black square icon. Both the video and audio indicators have Xs through them.

He's here, then. Of course he is.

There's a chat window along the side, and, as you're looking at it, a message pops up from the username YourBiggestFan.

Fix your camera. There's no reason to hide your face any longer. Not from me.

You swallow and reach forward to tilt the camera a little higher. The video is shaky for a moment, and then you're staring at your own image on the screen. Your full image. It's unnerving.

There's your lovely face.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Your voice waivers. "There are millions of women on the internet. Thousands that do what I do."

They aren't you.

"I'm not that special."

You don't do nudity on your stream. Why is that?

"Because…" You hesitate. You really don't want to talk to this man, but not doing so feels risky, too. He does have all the power here, after all. "Because I don't need to."

You would make more money if you did. Or if you moved to a better site.

"I'm getting by just fine." You glance up to glare into the camera.

You could quit your job.

"I don't want to quit my job."

You want to be a glorified secretary for the rest of your life?

"Fuck you," you hiss.

Answer the question.

"Of course I don't! But I don't want hundreds of men seeing my tits every night, either! So if that's the trade off, I'd rather keep being a glorified secretary, as you so kindly put it." You start to roll your eyes, but stop yourself from reacting this time. You may already be pushing your luck as it is and there's no need to piss him off. "I don't do either of them because I enjoy it. I do what I have to so I don't have to worry about money."

You certainly seem like you're enjoying yourself every night.

"It's called pretending," you sigh irritably. "Surely you've heard of it. Do you think all of those men would tune in otherwise? Tell me, would you? You're one of them, after all."

I'm not one of them.

"Aren't you? Mr. Your Biggest Fan," you scoff. "Sure you aren't."

No. Because I see you.

"That is rather the point."

You're very clever. You know exactly how to manipulate all of them into staying without giving them what they want.

"I have to be. All of the women that do this learn how to keep the audience interested."

But yours comes from a place of hatred.

You blink in mild surprise, but quickly school your features. You don't want him to know he's caught you off guard.

Your stream is the only one in the top 50 that doesn't show their face and the top 100 that doesn't include nudity. Did you know that?

You shift in your seat. "I…I didn't, actually. I knew I was the only one with my numbers, but not that many."

You're an anomaly.

"I'm good at my job," you correct him.

Yes, you are. You know how to manipulate all of them because you find them rather predictable, don't you? Predictable. Pathetic. Dull. Beneath you. They make it easy for you.

You aren't able to hide the shock on your face this time as you stare at the chat. He doesn't wait for you to respond.

You don't take your underwear off because you and I both know that's beneath you, too. And you're right, you don't have to. It's quite impressive.

"Is that so?" You don't sound as dismissive as you hoped.

I told you. I see you. And you intrigue me.

"Fine, you can see through my bullshit. And?" You cross your arms. "Am I supposed to be impressed? What's the point of all this?"

I wanted you to show me the real you.

"And me angry at you is the real me, is it?"

Yes. Because you aren't lying to me.

He has a point there. This is arguably the most honest you've ever been sitting in this chair. Sure, you're being guarded considering the circumstances, but otherwise you haven't lied to him.

Tell me, have I gotten anything wrong?

You bite at your lip as you consider whether or not to continue being honest. But if you change tactics now, he'll sense it. You know, instinctively, that he will. Because you would in his place. So you finally look into the camera and say, "No. You haven't."

More honesty. There's a good girl.

Your heart skips a beat while there's a brief flutter of interest in your stomach, and you're disgusted with yourself for your body's reaction to that. He's a creep just like the rest of them, you tell yourself. Worse because at least the rest of them are harmless. To you, anyway.

He doesn't type anything else and his silence feels almost smug. Like he knows exactly the inner turmoil he's caused you and he wants you to stew in it. The flutter spreads lower.

"Now it's your turn to tell me how you guessed at any of that since I don't even show my face," you blurt out, desperate to think of anything else and not wanting to give him the satisfaction of thinking he's won somehow.

It wasn't a guess. I can hear the difference in your voice. The only time you mean what you say is when you berate them.

You think back to all the times you've snarled into the microphone and called them despicable. Disgusting. Useless. The one slip in your act.

You enjoy it. You enjoy getting to tell them exactly what you think of them while you take their money. You enjoy it so much, you have to stop yourself from pushing it one step further. But you want to. I can hear how much you want to. It feels good, doesn't it? To not have to hide, even for a moment. To treat them the way they deserve.

"Yes," you breathe out before you can stop yourself. Because it does. It feels incredible. The fluttering between your legs has grown into a slick heat now from his words alone.

How could he know that, though? How could he know that you've dreamed of telling them their only worth to you was their wallets because there at least they had a use. That having to read every horrible thing they said through the veil of anonymity made your skin crawl. That they're the reason their own lives are so miserable. Sexless bedrooms. Loveless marriages. Endless failed relationships. The inability to find someone to look twice at them. And you're glad they came slithering to you rather than have the self-awareness or brain cells to look in a goddamned mirror. Pathetic.

You've never even admitted that out loud to yourself. Only in your darkest thoughts. Now this man is typing out those inner thoughts as though they were written plainly on your face.

"You enjoy it."

"It feels good, doesn't it?"

Like he understands.

You both sit in silence for a minute that stretches out for far too long while you read his message over and over again, until your sex starts to ache.

You should feel ashamed, you realize. This is the moment you should feel horrible for thinking those things. And for being turned on by the way he told you that you enjoyed it. Only you don't.

"I don't know what you expect me to say," you whisper.

You've said enough. That was all I needed.

He knows, you think. You've given this man too much. "So what now? You still haven't said where all of this goes."

Yes I have.

"Right. A private show. How could I forget?" You mean for it to sound sarcastic, but it comes out confused because you're a little dazed from all of this. "You really still want me to flutter my eyelashes at you, push my cleavage at the camera, and say some insipid bullshit, even though it's all lies?"

No. I want to see ALL of you.

Your face flushes in embarrassment and anger, and you have to squeeze your thighs together to quell the want that is continuing to build in your core. "You're blackmailing me just to see my tits?"

You're going to talk to me as well.

"And say what?"

More of how you really feel. I want to hear more of the truth from your lips. As I said, I want to see all of you.

"Well, right now I'm feeling quite pissed off."

And as you're talking, you're going to touch yourself for me.

There's a swell of panic in your chest and it's as though you've been dunked in ice water because you've gone from hot to bone chilled. "Fuck you. I'm not doing that."

Why not?

"Because it's a violation! I'm not consenting to any of this. You're not giving me a choice."

You have a choice.

"Oh, choosing between masturbating on camera for you or you ruining my life? My mistake! Nothing dubious about that."

You're beautiful when you're angry.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths to stop yourself from throwing your laptop across the room. You will still need it after this, after all.

When you open your eyes, you look up into the camera with a serious, pleading expression on your face. "I don't want to do that. Please don't make me. I'll get undressed for you. I'll let you see all of me. But don't make me do that."

You shift your attention to watch the text box. There's a pause.

A long pause.

You start to think maybe you've finally angered him by saying no and he's in the process of messaging your mom and your boss. Just when you begin nervously shifting in your seat, a new message pops up.

What if you wanted to touch yourself for me? Then would you?

You stare at the message in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Answer the question.

"If I wanted to, then…" You hesitate as you consider how to tell the truth. "I guess, yes I would. But that's different. I don't want to."

You don't want to yet.

"So you won't make me?"

No. I won't make you.

You exhale in relief. "Thank you," you whimper.

But I will make you want to touch yourself for me, that I promise.

"I highly doubt that. You've given me plenty of reasons to want literally anything else, the most important of which is that I'm still here because you're blackmailing me."

There is that.

I could delete all of it. If you ask nicely.

You furrow your brows in confusion. "What do you mean?"

I could delete it. Then there would be nothing forcing you to stay.

"And I'm supposed to just trust you?"

Yes.

You scoff. "Yeah, right. Besides, if you delete it, I'll just leave."

And go back to lying on camera?

"Surprisingly, I do still have to pay my rent after this."

What if you didn't have to?

"Didn't have to pay rent?"

No. Go back on camera or back to that laughable firm you work for. What if you didn't need the money?

"I already said I'm not doing either of those things because I enjoy them. Of course I wouldn't go back if I didn't have to."

Check your bank account.

The OTHER bank account.

You sit there and stare at your screen in horror. Because you've only just now realized that, in your panic, you'd been thinking too small before. You were worried about phone numbers and addresses. Such little things to keep you distracted and focused so you didn't have clarity of mind to stop to wonder at what else he could find and hold hostage.

"Why?" You whisper.

Just look. No reason to be afraid.

You frantically pick up your phone and swipe until you find the banking app. The last time you checked, you had over eight thousand pounds in that account after paying rent. Nothing extravagant. But it's reassuring knowing the savings is there if you need it. That you're relatively safe and comfortable. Because it's yours. You earned it.

The balance reads £308,218.72.

Three hundred thousand pounds more than should be in there. It's more money than you've ever seen in your life. It's more than you could ever hope to have at one time in your life.

"What is this?" Your voice sounds small from the shock.

A gift.

"I can't accept this." You look up into the camera. "I won't accept this."

Why not?

"Because I'm not a whore!" You snap at the lense. "And I refuse to be beholden to you. I won't let you own me."

No strings. You can take the money and run if you like. But we both know you're not going to.

"Won't I?"

No.

"And why not? Are you going to say something ridiculous like, 'There's more where that came from?'"

No.

"Why then?"

Because whatever you run off to do will bore you just as much as what you're doing now since the money doesn't change what's making you miserable. But you're starting to understand that I could offer you so much more. And I don't mean the money.

You clench your jaw in frustration and rage. You want to yell. To protest and deny it. You wish you could. But deep down you know he's right. Your world has been upended and laid bare in the span of, what, half an hour? From the moment he forced his way into your life, it has been many things, but boring is not one of them. Because, you realize, he does see you.

"I still…" you start helplessly. "I don't understand."

I told you. You intrigue me. No one intrigues me.

"For some reason that doesn't feel like a compliment."

I know I intrigue you, now, too.

"What do you really want from me?" You say quietly. "I know this isn't about getting a private show. It never was, was it?"

You.

I want you.

"Then why the money?"

I don't want you distracted.

You know nothing about this man. You don't know what he looks like and you can't hear his voice. But there's something about the way he referred to your entire life as a distraction that sends a shiver of fear up your spine. And something else rekindling inside of you that you now refuse to acknowledge.

"So I'm not giving you a show."

Oh, you'll give me one. Eventually. And I'm going to enjoy myself knowing I'm the only one who's ever seen you like that.

"How do you know I've never stripped on camera for anyone else before?"

It's beneath you. Because there's never been anyone on the other end deserving of it.

"You think you are?"

Am I?

"You seem like the kind of man that thinks he is."

That's not an answer.

You mentally curse because he's so damn perceptive. Your usual tactics don't work on him and that throws you off balance.

Am I?

"I don't know yet," you finally admit.

You really are so beautiful without the mask. Honesty suits you much more than the lie.

"My honesty suits you, you mean."

I'll never deny that I'm enjoying it. But you deserve to know that what's underneath isn't hideous like you fear. You can always take it off in front of me.

"And you'll enjoy it whenever I do," you murmur, almost entranced by the thought.

I will. Immensely.

"How do I know you're not just some creepy slob in a basement somewhere that's really good at hacking?"

You would have seen through me if I were.

He's right. Something about him seems sophisticated, but effortlessly so. Too effortless to be an act. Which leaves, what, bored rich guy? Well, at least you have one thing in common.

"Who are you then? And don't just say a fan. The only way you'll get me to even consider not running the second I close this window is by giving me something that isn't money or text on a screen."

I'm a man that knows what it's like to live with the mask. How do you think I saw through yours? I also know how good it feels to take it off. But even better than that is to be seen and embraced for what's underneath.

Does that satisfy you?

"Not nearly enough."

You'll learn more next time. The link will stay active. When you come back here, I'll know.

"When," you huff in disbelief under your breath.

When.

"We'll see, won't we?"

Before I go, is there something you're forgetting? Something to ask me maybe?

"Something to ask…?" You trail off in thought because you have no idea what he's talking about. But as you replay parts of the conversation in your head, you remember that he said he would delete everything if you asked. Nicely.

You clench your fists and take a deep breath to prepare yourself. Because you know he added the "nicely" specifically to see you squirm and you refuse to give it to him. Then you look up into the webcam, and, with all the sincerity you can muster, you ask. Nicely.

"Please delete it. All of it. I want you to. I won't promise you anything in return because I don't know if I'll come back, and I won't lie to you or myself with a false promise. But it would prove to me that you mean what you say. That you want me. Because if you have all of that to hold over me, if I can't make this choice on my own, you'll never truly have me, will you? There will always be parts of myself that I keep back and I'll never look at you or talk to you as a man. Only as my captor. So please, I am begging you. Delete it."

You look down to the text box and wait.

His video comes to life then, surprising you and splitting the screen in half. But what's there isn't his face. It's a computer screen with a desktop so basic, it almost looks unused. There's also an open folder, and it's full of video, image, and text files—far more of them than you would have guessed. He's been observing you for a while and you had no idea he was there. You can see your own face and your lingerie in a couple of the video and photo thumbnails. Then you watch as he highlights all of it and, without fanfare or hesitation, deletes it. The folder—which you now realize is titled after you—sits empty.

You open your mouth to protest because you aren't an idiot, but as though he anticipated that, he shifts over to the trash can and empties that as well.

It's done.

"How do I know there aren't backups?"

I guess you'll just have to trust me, won't you?

Then he leaves the chat and you're left staring at your own face on the screen.

Before you close the window, you have to wonder if you aren't truly seeing yourself for the very first time.

Chapter 2 ->

A/N: I hope you enjoyed and are now properly buckled in for this trainwreck of a gratuitously smutty and fucked up romance. Please keep your arms inside the vehicle at all times because I have already lost complete control of this. But I promise it's gonna be a lot of fun. 😌😏

#david robey #david robey x reader #david robey x f!reader #the devil makes us sin fic #luther the fallen sun #luther the fallen sun fanfiction #luther #luther fanfiction #fanfiction #andy serkis #x reader

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kellyscowboy · 1 year ago

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꒰✧ᯇ✦꒱ DON'T BE SORRY FOR LEAVING AND GROWING OLD || ch. 1

ᯇ summary ! ✦ Jack Kelly finally gets out of New York and makes something of himself. Though, he's never been good at goodbyes and David won't answer his letters. || read full thing on ao3 now WRITTEN FOR THE NEWSIES FIC EXCHANGE ᯇ tag list ! ✦ @bound-for-santa-fe @bunniebusiness @hotelbxllamuerte (taglist form is in my pinned post if you would like to be added!!) GIFT FOR @daveysjackie !! (sorry for the tag) ᯇ warnings ! ✦ cussing & angst 1230 WORDS © 2023 , 𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

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“Were you ever going to tell me, Jack?” David asked. His lip was in a deep pout, and his hand was placed disappointedly, loosely, on his hip.

Jack bit his nail nervously. “Uh-huh.” It was a lie and they both knew it. In fact, not a single person was meant to know. Jack was supposed to quietly slip away in the middle of the night and never have to face the sorrow of a goodbye. It had been a solid plan, until Racetrack had found the ticket underneath his pillow.

They had been arguing for a while when Racetrack punched him and left a nice shiner on his cheekbone. “You’re a coward,” He screamed. And he was right, Jack knew as much. He was a coward.

“I don’t owe you anything!” Jack yelled. I owe him everything. “What have you, what have any of the newsboys done for me? Huh?”

There was a festering bubble of guilt that steadily grew inside of Jack. The newsboys had done more for him than his own family had. They had taken him in. They had saved him from himself after he had been in the refuge. Quite frankly, he owed them his life.

In his mind, these were valid reasons for him to not say goodbye. They were a family. He knew that if he ever told them that he was leaving, that he would never make it to Santa Fe. Jack would be tied to New York forever. He couldn’t risk that; he couldn’t risk staying there any longer. It would destroy him.

“Whatever, Jack. Who needs you, anyway?” Racetrack had half the mind to rip up the ticket, to force the boy to stay. “Wouldn’t be the first time you left us in the dust.” He honestly believed he never wanted to see Jack’s face ever again. Conflicted with his feelings of betrayal and hatred, he spat at Jack’s shoes.

Jack was quiet for a couple of seconds. “You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“No. No, I won’t tell no-one. On the promise that you never show your ugly mug back here ever again.” Race dug a finger into the boy’s chest. “You’re gonna hurt everyone who ever had faith in you. And I hope you never feel anything but guilty for it.”

After that, everything was fine. No-one else knew, and he could still slip away without having to say goodbye.

Then, the day before he left, David let his curiosity get the best of him. In the middle of the line at the circulation gate. “Hey, Jack. I’ve been meaning to ask, where’d the bruise come from?”

Jack saw the finish line stretch farther away, felt the bubble of guilt in his stomach begin to expand. It had been a couple of days since he got it, and he was riding on the fact that everyone was too scared to ask. Leave it to David and his stupid words. “Oh, uh-”

“Yeah, Jackie. Why don’tcha share with the fellas, huh? Where’d you really get the shiner?” Racetrack interrupted. “Or should I tell ‘im the truth myself?”

David gave him a sideways look. “Jack? What’s he talking about?”

“I dunno. You know Racer, he’s always yappin’ on about something. Don’t mind him. He don’t know what he’s talkin’ bout.” Jack threw an arm around David’s shoulder and gave him a small grin.

Racetrack scoffed, then shoved the boy away from David. He replaced Jack’s arm with his own. “You want to know why Jack’s been acting so weird?” He gave a few pats to David’s pec over his shoulder before he pointed at Jack with the same hand. “Why he ain’t been around so much?”

“Um…” He looked at Jack and wished he could ignore the guilty look the boy wore. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well! Our Jackie boy—he’s got himself a one-way ticket to Santa Fe, New Mexico.” Racetrack stated, then gave David a sarcastic smile. “Ain’t that nice? He’s catchin’ the 8 o’clock train tonight.”

Les shook his head. “Jack wouldn’t. He wouldn’t! ‘Specially not without saying goodbye! Right, Jack?” Jack looked like a dog with its tail between its legs as he avoided Les’ gaze. “Jack?”

That’s where he found himself. His nails bitten and David demanding the truth.

“Don’t lie to me, Jack.” David said. “Please. Don’t lie.”

Jack frowned. “I just-”

“Just what, Jack? Just didn’t think we deserved the decency of a goodbye?” David yelled. “You know, every single one of us has had your back since the day we met you. I blindly helped you lead a fucking strike. And even after you abandoned us—for the first time, I guess—we all came together and helped you. We at least deserve a goodbye.”

Jack’s hands swung helplessly at his side. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Deep down, he knew David was right. But he couldn’t admit that. Not there, not now. So, he deflected. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone, Racer.”

“Well, excuse me. I didn’t realize the breaking of trust had to be one sided in this ‘friendship.’ You’re full of it,” Racetrack said.

“Don’t get mad at Racetrack because you’re a shitty friend.”

“I’m the shitty friend? I finally get a chance to get out, to be in the place I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid. And all you care about is the fact that I was too busy to think about saying goodbye? You should be happy for me, David! All of you should be!”

Racetrack scoffed. “Don’t pretend like you just forgot to tell us, Jack. We ain’t stupid.”

“Why would I be happy for you? You’re leaving behind everything that was ever good to you.” David said. “You’re going to ruin yourself, Jack Kelly.”

“Yeah, well.” Jack looked David up and down before staring at him. “I’m also leaving behind everything that was ever bad to me."

"Really? When have we ever been bad to you?"

Jack was silent for a moment. "Didn't ya always say I could be something more? That my art could get me somewhere? What happened to that, Dave?"

"You can be something more here, Jack-"

"No. I can't! You don't get it!" Jack's face was red as he yelled.

"No! I don't! I don't get why you have to go halfway across the country just to paint!" David yelled back.

"I ain't got no inspiration out here, Dave!"

David frowned. "Really, Jack?"

"You can't find no inspiration in us, Cowboy? Really? After everything we've done together?" Racetrack was livid. "We took down the biggest paper company there is, and you can't find any fucking inspiration in us?"

"No. I can't."

"You're unbelievable." David scoffed. "I just can't understand you!"

"Whatever, Dave. Who needs the lot of ya?"

Jack angrily stomped his way to Wiesel and bought his paper. He let the Delancey brothers’ snide remarks consume him. The bubble in his stomach grew bigger.

Jack made one fatal mistake; he turned around for one last glance at the boys. Racetrack and David were seething, they had their fists tightly clenched together and were biting down on the inside of their cheeks.

And Les looked up at him with big eyes, wide with betrayal and disbelief. His usual wonder-struck gaze filled with sorrow. The bubble in his stomach popped, and he walked away into his new life without another word.

#all 5 chapters on ao3 #the rest will be posted on here soon!!#newsies #jack kelly #david jacobs #newsies fic exchange #javid #livesies #newsies live #˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ newsies // fics ❥

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fnaffersblog · 2 years ago

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Eyyyy Spoilers for 'Moon Says GOODBYE in VRCHAT'

Trigger Warnings Below Cut for: Cursing

(This is a bit old at this point, but eh. Curse of loving a show that airs daily, yeah?)

Also, beep beep, ty to everyone for your nice comments and stuff in the tags, I see them and I appreciate them. I love that everyone loves this show. It's fun to do these little deep dive reaction posts. :)

RIGHT OFF THE BAT WE START OFF WITH SUN INSISTING MOON DOES NOT HAVE TO LEAVE

MOON INSISTING HE DOES

SUN RE-INSISITING HE DOES NOT

This was kind of what I was talking about in the last post. Sun does not have the confidence to ask for what he NEEDS. He knows what he needs. He needs Moon to STAY right now. He's pulling every excuse out in the book. He's trying to frame it as 'Maybe Moon doesn't really want to go.' which isn't going to work because yes Moon does. He's trying to frame it as 'Maybe Eclipse isn't really a problem' which isn't true. He's talking about the length of time. Framing it as being "A month of not being in your life."

Sun kind of DOES touch on the issue, mentioning that he'll be alone, which had to be INCREDIBLY difficult, just that one word, you know? Because even one word opens up the possibility of the question 'Are you okay?' and then the horses are out, you know?

He's desperate at this point to get Moon to stay here, dropping every explanation he can to try and convince Moon to stay but the only thing that's going to get Moon to stay is him saying, 'Moon I Need You To Stay Right Now'

Which SUUUUUUCKS

At this point I don't think Moon COULD put off going and getting the stuff for the satellite. He's right too. They don't know what Eclipse is up too and his disappearance is MUCH more concerning than if he was around being a nuisance. They also probably run the risk of being found out if they wait too long. They also now have Jigsaw locked up in the arcade (which, aren't there like, customers? How... why... there's... anyways)

But I'm sure if Sun SAID something, Moon would take a moment and re think it, maybe try and plan a way, bring him with or set up a method of communication. Time dilation or otherwise.

It does sounds a little bit like Moon is using this as a break which is something I did touch upon before, that Moon and Earth can't be constantly holding Sun up or they're going to get exhausted themselves. Something that may inadvertently affect Sun if they take said exhaustion out on him. Which happened last episode so that's a very likely possibility.

I am glad he's taking a break. They need it. This is just really BAD timing. It's nobody's fault. It just sucks.

"Gregory is a kid" OnLy WHen It'S coNveNieNT

"That the computer doesn't have ANY input on." "Damn it."

Lol

"Maybe FLUFFY dinosaurs?" That's not any better! Lol

There was a very fun, long ass section here about Moon and Sun that devolved into several pages of discussion melding and expanding upon stuff people have said to me and stuff I’ve said already.

Uh.

So I took it out. I’m hammering away at it slowly for it’s own post. Ppppphhhbt.

Ah 4-5 days NOT 45 days. I was confused at first I thought Moon's VA was taking a month off not a week.

Nope. Never mind. Moon hasn't changed at all. Still a dick. Reset didn't change anything. /j

He's such a gremlin. It would be funnier if Sun didn't sound on the verge of crying.

"I'm about to beat you to death with this thing. I'm actually happy you're leaving now." Lol. Siblings.

Cool. That's good. So Sun will still be able to contact Moon if he needs.

"Shall I read you your last rights?" "I hate you." Ahhh, AI1. ALWAYS a pleasure.

"He'll be fine for a week." Are you sure? Again. He's just... sitting in a public space in a giant arcade room in a pizzaplex made to entertain families. I think, if he were to threaten to tear a child's limbs out slowly, there'd be problems.

Good Eclipse! Good to see him!

Damn Eclipse, you keep ur daycare like this? Barrels all over the place? Clean up not a thing in this dimension? (lol)

I never actually watched the episodes with the british gator. Is this Lord Monty?

Oh no he's as bad

Oh no

Oh NO

Folks I have found a character on the Sun and Moon show I dislike

WHAt is He SAYING?

I HATE HIM

IM CRYING LAUGHING I DISLIKE HIM SO MUUUCH

Eclipses IMMEDIATE regret at the accent My brother in SaMs YOU DO THE GATORS VOICE

I love this it's so funny im crying

#fafferchat #faffreacts #sams #tsams #sams spoilers #sun and moon show #tsams spoilers #sun and moon show spoilers #it's been sitting in my drafts!#but I've been so busy irl #I wanted it GONE #so here

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awritingcaitlin · 4 months ago

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🧪Find the Word

Thank you @kaylinalexanderbooks for the tag! It's taken me a hot minute to get to this but let's go!

My words: warn, analyze, expose, try

Tagging: @runeseaks, @nanashi23, @italicised, @circa-specturgia, and @theprissythumbelina (no pressure!)

Your words: mouth, stop, fight, convince, secret

Snippets from Cure under the cut!

🏴‍☠️Warn

They’re not going to let you mouth off to them forever, Kanjo said, reaching out to her telepathically. Then they’ll start shooting. Well, they’re not going to get very far since I expanded the bullets in their chambers. That can backfire explosively, he warned. Best I can do while still being subtle. Ideally, I’ll heat their weapons and make them drop them before they try to shoot. No one’s got any charms to protect against that. Clever, Kanjo mused.

🔍Analyze

The ward was set up to stop projectiles, both physical and magical. The faster one moved, the more of a risk of triggering the ward to stop them outright. So while an enemy could not fire a gun or shoot a bolt of lightning, neither could anyone else. Rinnie’s own thoughts and Killian’s meshed for a moment as they analyzed the ward. She felt as if time slowed down and everything shifted into focus. There was power everywhere and she wanted it. Killian pulled something out of a pouch on his armor. A knife? No. Tuning forks.

🤛🏻Expose

“How can you plan during a fight?” Rinnie asked, exasperated. “Training.” Killian's response was calm. “So, what, you’ve just left me openings?” “Any move leaves openings.” Rinnie took a deep breath and truly felt the position they were in. Without changing the rate of her breaths, she elbowed Killian in the side with the hand he didn’t have gripped. She backed it with a bit of kinetimancy to make it hurt further. Then she twisted out from under him, formed the moisture in the air into a stiletto, and aimed at his exposed armpit.

📞Try

Getting past the answering spirit wasn’t terrible because Rinnie knew the extension for Crossweave’s office. However, she then ran into the problem of trying to convince the staffers to get her to Crossweave’s desk without using her real name or credentials. “Edansa Intelligence Office in Himmelmauer, this is Corporal Roseblade, how may I help you?” Rinnie gritted her teeth. She knew Roseblade. Nice, competent woman. “I’m trying to reach Commodore Crossweave,” Rinnie replied. “In response to an invitation he gave me.” “What’s your name?” Roseblade asked. “And the invitation?” “Serene Windheart,” Rinnie said, giving one of her two escort names. The one Crossweave would recognize. “And it was a personal matter.” She twirled the phone cord around her finger. Crossweave hired hookers all the time, it was an open secret.

#tag games #find the word #my writing #cure for the queen #rinnie #kanjo #killian

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youandtom2 · 2 years ago

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We Need to Talk About Peter (dark!Peter Parker)

Summary: There's something not right about Peter. Why is no one talking about it? Themes: angst, horror w/c: 4.2k a/n: I wanted to write something a little darker based loosely on the book We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. I didn't want to romanticise anything, this is simply just a story and NOT a 'peter parker x reader' even if it might be tagged as such. Please take the time to read the warnings as this is about a topic that is triggering. Also, this is a reminder to keep yourselves safe out there, especially in places where gun control isn't as enforced as it should be.

T/W: SCHOOL SHOOTING, BULLYING, VIOLENCE, SUICIDE, DARK CONTENT AHEAD! VERY RAW! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

MASTERLIST

Every school has one: that detached, isolated person who sits at the back of the class, having no intention of uttering a word to anyone that approaches them. The deviant nobody pays attention to because, after many fruitless attempts, it is simply too difficult to connect with them through any means of communication. To everyone's knowledge, they're just a name and a body and nothing further. A walking, empty soul that floats around the school. A blank canvas who has yet to leave an imprint on society but with no personality, no emotion and no social background, it seems highly unlikely they ever will.

Every school has one regardless. But none of those other schools ever had someone quite like Peter.

Now Peter contained all of the typical symptoms. Quiet, restricted, invisible. Oftentimes you would pass him in the corridor with the hint of a bruising or a red blemish developing on his face just minutes after being harassed by someone who didn't quite understand him. Not necessarily saying that you did, but you knew more than anyone else that there was something psychologically obscure about him; something that wasn't to be reconciled with. Everyone else disregarded him and blamed it on a defect of character, but what struck you about him was the way he would never stray from that stone cold expression, you never saw any other emotion donning his face. No fear, no pain, nothing. But that was just typical Peter.

You couldn't ignore how much it bothered you that everyone was completely blind to his very distinct anti-social behaviour. The teachers paid him no mind because he did the work, he was a grade A student, and his family background checks were completely healthy. So as long as he was able to conform to the school rules and there was no trouble at home, then it was assumed that having no personality was his personality.

Indeed, he was unique. But not in the way that everyone thought because he embodied something that no one else had. Something that exhorted him to exceed his reputation and do the unthinkable.

He had a motive.

~~~~

Your day at school is like any other. Your English literature work basks in the sun, shining its rays onto your desk as if it was mocking you, reminding you that once again you are stuck in school with work at your fingertips. English isn't your favourite but it's tolerable. The class isn't half bad, the teacher knows what he's doing and maybe about a third of the course sparks your interest. The other two thirds you fall asleep to.

The other dilemma is your partner, Peter. Having the misfortune of sitting next to him, it is inevitable that when teamwork projects come along you will always be paired with him. You have to give it to him though, he never fails you when it comes to putting in the effort. He's smart, clever and a little too cunning for your liking. This particular feature about him you try to suppress when it gets the better of you, knowing all too well that he gets enough shit from everyone else. The least you could do is persevere and expand your patience.

It's team project day and as instructed by your teacher you turn towards your partner. Your skin turns cold when you notice a purple haze grazing his cheek amongst the red undertones of his skin, where the traces of tears are obvious to the eye. Like you say, he gets enough shit from everyone else. The last thing he needs is for you to be the same. With a hesitant smile on your lips and a spark of optimism growing, you present your findings to Peter.

"Okay, so I spent 3 hours last night doing analysis and evaluation on chapter 3. I also started making the template for our presentation which I can do if you're totally not up for it. It's cool. And I know you're supposed to be doing quotes but..."

You can't help but drag your eyes over his bruising face, thinking how could anyone have the insolence to hurt someone as innocent as Peter? As your commiserate eyes skim over the last detail of his beatings he turns, catching you staring at his face.

"I-I could them if you don't want to?" Of course he doesn't reply, which is what you expect. However you're too quick to judge as he rips out a piece of paper from his notebook and begins scribbling.

'No, it's okay I'll do them.'

You read the words in your own voice simply because you don't know what his sounds like. Nevertheless, it's still something. He usually doesn't tend to write anything to anyone.

"Are you sure?"

Miraculously, he nods. After finalising his decision, you both put your heads down and focus on your work in silence, just how you both like it.

~~~~

That was all you got from him that day. That week, even. As the month progressed you noticed that Peter, however impossible it seemed, was becoming evermore unresponsive. Every period of English that you endured felt like a battle just trying to get him to even look at you. He wouldn't move other than to blink and to breathe.

He had done all of his work for the team project in four days. Something that was supposed to last 2 weeks had been completed in four days. You, on the other hand, were completely flooded with work, desperately trying to catch up with his work ethic, but even then, you were still working on finishing touches up until the day before the presentation was due.

You can understand why he did it so quickly: spending the free time he granted himself in complete ignorance because he didn't have any work to do, and left you helplessly trying to complete your half of the project in a scramble. You knew you had delegated the work equally, but showing a little decency to help you out wouldn't have harmed anyone. However, you decided not to pester him about it.

And it's a good thing you didn't. Otherwise you might've ended up like the others.

~~~~

On the day before presentation day you decide to stay in school late, running through your presentation and perfecting every detail of it. You want it to be flawless. Especially since you won't be having any assistance presenting it no thanks to a certain stubborn mute.

Under Spring's pink sky you walk home constantly being tormented by the craving of a good night's sleep. With the team project no longer occupying your mind, you take your time enjoying the view around you. That is until you turn the corner. Your view is now being hindered by a certain, lonesome, stubborn mute walking ahead of you. His back is turned and you notice a heavy rucksack clinging to his back as he drags it along the pavement. What could he possibly be carrying that's so heavy? Intrigued, you track every footstep remembering to keep your distance.

Something else comes into view in the distance. Three, no, four boys you recognise strut round the corner, obnoxiously laughing as they advance on Peter with nothing but mischief in their predatory eyes. Those boys are the recipe for trouble and you fear that the nice weather isn't the reason for their little stroll through the neighbourhood. Specifically one that Peter inhabits. Your heartbeat picks up as Peter fails to avoid them, refusing to break his stride until he and the boys come face to face. His feet are rooted to the ground and his statue-like stance doesn't convey any form of fear. He should really run if he knows what's best for him.

Their voices are muted. Words are mumbled. You can't hear a damn thing but yet you still remain hidden behind a parked car watching very intently as the scene unfolds before you. In amongst the irritated voices, you know for a fact that none of them are Peter's.

"ANSWER ME!" The boy's quick to slap Peter's face. The piercing sound so disturbing it leaves you wincing, cowering even further into your cover knowing that it was only the beginning and the worst is yet to come.

Still, Peter's reactions cease to exist. There is simply nothing that will make him bat an eyelid, even if it means slapping him in the face to test the theory. Empty-handed, the boys grow impatient, desperately waiting for something exciting to happen. They think that if they aggravate Peter further, he'll break and retaliate, giving them what they want and have never seen before: a reaction.

They never learn their lesson. They won't get one, no matter what they do.

"Fuck this," the other one says, and gives Peter a mighty blow to the face, one that's capable of breaking his jaw, and sweeps him clean off his feet. After the initiation, it's like a monkey-see-monkey-do situation. One kicks, the others kick. One punches, the others follow. The whole thing makes you sick to the stomach. Peter's body is constantly being beaten around, twitching and jerking lifelessly with the sounds of bones cracking, and laughter ringing through the air.

"STOP!" you hear your own voice yelling, suddenly realising now that your legs are carrying you towards them. "STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

The boys look at you with confusion riddling their face, questioning why someone like you would defend someone like Peter. One of them even mutters your name through his heavy breathing, exhausted from beating Peter senselessly. You take your stance in front of Peter, defending him from the boys.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Huh? He didn't do a fucking thing to you, and you think it's okay to beat him up?"

"Back off, this is none of your business," one of them has the audacity to say.

"You fuck with Peter, you make it my business. Now you fuckwits better leave because that old woman over there witnessed the whole thing from her living room and is probably on the phone to the police right now. So unless you want to spend the night in custody I'd suggest that you back off."

They leave accordingly knowing how much being involved with the police would jeopardise their precious football careers, but not without getting a last word in.

"Left a little surprise for your aunt when she gets home, Parker. I'm sure you'll enjoy it too."

~~~~

That surprise was the last straw for Peter. You helped him hobble home to discover the words 'slut' spray painted across the side of his aunt’s car. Not only that, but as you looked up to the apartment building you couldn't miss the numerous egg stains and little shards of shell scattered across the glass panes of his windows. You remember very distinctly the prominent lump in your throat when you saw what they had done to his home, thinking that nobody should ever have to go through something as debilitating as that.

You knew well enough Peter didn't show emotion, but after seeing the atrocities blatantly displayed across the Parker property, there should've been at least something, even just a hint of anger somewhere inside him. A clue or gesture of some sort that would prove that he's actually human would have sufficed.

There was absolutely nothing.

He walked the remaining distance into the building independently and slammed the door. Hearing that slam was like a wash of relief. It was the result of anger, frustration and fury. That alone was enough to convince you that there was something inside him that was capable of feeling emotion.

But for him, though, it wasn't enough.

~~~~

You make your presence known at the front of your class, anxiously waiting to get this presentation over and done with. Your eyes peer over to Peter's empty desk thinking how he should be here. As mysterious as he is, you can't understand why he isn't here, he's never skipped class and would never think to tarnish his 100% attendance record. You know giving presentations isn't his thing, but he could've at least shown you some moral support.

Pfft, yeah right.

You shrug the thought away before it bothers you even more and without delay, you begin your presentation.

"Lionel Shriver is the author of the 2003 novel We Need to Talk About Kevin which-"

Your words are cut off by four, angry shots echoing down the hallway, followed by a heart-stopping scream. Your eyes whip to the open door and in that moment you feel like your mind is absent, stunned in the disbelief of what you just heard. You try to move but you find that your muscles have stiffened, paralysed with fear and complete panic.

More shots follow, even louder than before. Your teacher yells at you to take cover which you do eventually after an unnecessarily delayed reaction, but your ears are ringing and everything you see has morphed into a blur.

The shooter is three...two...one footstep away from the classroom. Your sensitive ears pick up the murmurations of sobs, whimpers and sheer panic effusing from your classmates. But there's nothing more deafening than the heavy tread of the shooter's steps pacing slowly into the classroom.

Silence. It's just absolute, unadulterated silence. The longer it continues, the more the anticipation strangles you.

"Hmmm, where is she?" His smooth, puckish tones are unrecognisable but just as equally terrifying. You can't seem to get a good look at his face; the front panel of the teacher's desk obstructs your view. "She must be in here somewhere..." She? Who's she? You make eye contact with your teacher who presses his index finger to his lips as he too hides under the desk. Whilst the shooter wanders around the room at an unbearable pace, you distract yourself by counting to ten, praying that it'll calm your uneased mind. It's completely illogical but right now anything will help.

One.

It's almost impossible to pinpoint exactly where he is based on your judgement of sound. He could be anywhere, ready to pounce.

Two.

You close your eyes, inhaling and exhaling.

Three.

He fires two warning shots into the ground and even seconds after you can still feel the harsh repercussions of the bullets hitting the ground. Screams and cries of mercy fill the room. Bits and pieces of the floor ricochet.

Four.

You have to force yourself to clamp your hand over your mouth before you end up exposing yourself to him.

Five.

"Oh look, our presentation's on the board!" There's something chilling about his words; his taunting yet playful voice emphasises the word 'our', giving you a perfectly obvious clue as to who the perpetrator is.

You know it, but the thought can't process through your dazed mind any slower. Our. He said 'our'. You and...Peter. That answers the question why you were unable to recognise his voice. He's the shooter. And he's looking for you.

Six.

An abrupt shriek emits from a girl's mouth, one you recognise as your friend Ellis.

"Is she under that desk over there?" His cool tones are still heard despite Ellis's cries and desperate pleas. You don't hear her answer, but your guess is that he didn't need one. Adrenaline settles in and your eyes grow wide in the unprecedented fear of what is about to happen. His footsteps, unlike before, are quick and thunderous as they stalk closer and closer.

Sev-

"Found you!"

Despite his deceptive body frame, his brute force drags you out from hiding in seconds. The first thing that comes into your mind is his gun. That small but powerful TEC-9 gun is secure in Peter's clutches. Instinctively, your awareness of the threat that you face takes priority in your mind and you watch it with cautious eyes. You’ve never seen a gun up close before, and now that Peter waves it around aimlessly in front of you, you realise the very real danger it poses. All it takes is one single bullet. The very thought makes you shudder.

Like an ornament, Peter presents you to the class, body stiff and unresponsive. He stands to your left, his hand crawling up your spine while the other points the gun to the ground. You just hate the way your name rolls off his tongue, unfamiliar in his voice. What does he want with you?

"I won't harm you. I just want you to point out the bastards who attacked me."

~~~~

In that situation, you had no idea what to do. It was their life, or yours. You spent what felt like hours convincing Peter that they weren’t there as their pleading eyes begged to keep them safe, but Peter had figured it out for himself after a total rampage of the classroom. There were only two of the four of those boys in your class at that moment. Perhaps if they hadn't been in your English class they would still be alive.

But unfortunately that wasn't the case.

From that class alone, 3 died and 5 were fatally injured. Peter thankfully spared the lives of the others to continue the search of the two remaining boys from that night. Of course, he took you with him as a hostage for leverage and protection. Every part of Peter was raw. For the first time you were able to see his true self, seeing beneath the silent facade he had hidden behind for so long. You wish you hadn't.

The whole thing seemed like a nightmare you wanted to wake up from. The memories are drilled into you now: the blood splattered across the walls, lifeless bodies lying there for everyone to see the damage that had been caused. That will never leave you.

~~~~

"Peter," you whimper, clinging on to the newly discovered shrapnel wounds on your arm. He turns but he doesn't stop walking. "Why are you doing this?"

That stops him. He eases the pressure from around your arm just slightly. His presence becomes threatening, the distance between you narrows and you're now staring into the face of a cold-blooded killer. Words pass his lips in a cool manner that is strikingly discomforting, especially coming from someone who has just massacred a school. There's only one thing audible in these narrow corridors; your throbbing pulse, drowning out any exterior noise.

"I won't harm you," he repeats, however you still fear that you can't take his word for it. His hand snakes up towards your face and catches your jawline in between his fingers and his thumb, forcing you to look at him. He's always tried to avoid all eye contact, but now that he's surrendered himself to his emotions it's the only thing he's after. "I have been putting up with their shit for long enough. I have been in this silence for long enough. I have waited long enough. If it's a reaction everyone is wanting, then here it is," he spits through gritted teeth. Peter overshadows you with his authority, his presence looming over your fear and manipulating it. You have no other choice but to submit yourself to be a vital part in his vengeance.

You both travel further deeper into the heart of the school. The number of people that still remain inside is unknown but presuming that most people haven’t made their escape, Peter leads you to the classroom where the other two boys should be. Before Peter breaches and parades in, he turns and gives you one last slice of insight.

"You know why I finished the work so quickly?" he asks but you don't respond. "So I could spend my time planning this. It was going to happen on graduation, but after what they did to me I couldn't wait any longer." His malicious chuckle makes you quiver.

"Peter, y-you're only j-just going to spend the r-rest of your days in p-prison."

"Then so be it."

~~~~

A further 6 people died and another 20 were injured. True to his word, Peter got the revenge he was craving. Everyone who hurt him, everyone who pestered him and treated him like he was nothing paid the consequences that Peter had set out for them. In amongst the tragic deaths and the numerous injuries, you were spared. As thankful as you may be, you are just as equally guilty. You should've been on that list of deaths, you should've been suffering like the others did. After all, you were his only hostage. But you survived with as little as a couple of shrapnel injuries to recover from.

Once Peter had achieved his objective, he was just having fun. He didn't need you anymore but yet he still dragged you everywhere like a dog on a leash. If the leash was a gun. Peter made you watch him continue his killing spree and you remember counting up the number of lives he had taken. Ten, eleven, twelve...

With each life he took, you grew a certain abhorrence towards yourself because you didn't prevent it. The signs were there, clear as day. Quiet, restricted, invisible. The victim of harassment and bullying. Smart. Cunning. Psychologically obscure. Carrying heavy loads. These weren't the symptoms of a typical Peter. These were the symptoms of a typical terrorist. He was given the perfect ammunition, all he had to do with flick the switch and like that he became a murderer.

~~~~

"Please, Peter, stop this-"

"No."

"I want to leave-"

"No."

"Why?! Why me?! Why am I different from everyone else?"

"Because you cared!" His loud voice resonates around the perimeter of the deserted canteen. You cautiously follow his movements as he perches himself upon the lunch tables, swinging his gun around as if it was nothing more than a mere toy. He stands proudly upon his podium once again unleashing his very dangerous emotions that have no sense of direction. Standing very defensively in the corner of the canteen with beads of sweat trickling down your spine, you can feel Peter's eyes burn holes through your body like it's your 6th sense. You're muttering something about wanting to leave, but tears don't help with articulation.

"Think of it this way then," he jumps off the table, striding towards you with a dubious expression donning his face. You don't feel yourself breathing, but you know there's oxygen flooding your lungs. Your gut clenches, fingernails dig deep into your palms when he firmly presses the muzzle of the gun against the side of your head. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot you right now."

He's right. You did care. Much more than anyone else did. That's what kept you alive.

~~~~

When Peter pressed that gun against your head, you had never felt closer to death. Oxygen didn't pass through your lungs and even though it was only for a couple of seconds, it felt like a lifetime. You were stuck in a state of fear and anticipation, and you're certain Peter was too. Even he couldn't predict his next actions.

His time as a murderer was short lived. The relief that had washed over you when the police had barged through the doors to your rescue was indescribable. You knew from then on that maybe, your life was still waiting to be lived. Peter, on the other hand, had destroyed his. Guaranteed.

You could never forget how Peter lit up like a Christmas tree with the amount of red dots that smothered him head to toe. The canteen was soon flooded with angry yells and authoritative demands to drop his weapon, but with his eyes fixated on yours he chose to ignore them.

Whatever strategy Peter adopted that made it easy for him to conceal his emotions before, it didn't help him then. Looking into his glassy eyes when he finally accepted his fate, all you could see was nothing but sheer despair and defeat outlined by the tears threatening to fall. He was human. He was alive with emotions. He just didn't know how to use them. Once they were out, they were outwith his control.

It looked like it was all over. Your future was secured and you were able to live another day now that the police force had him surrounded.

But you were wrong. It wasn't over yet.

Until they officially intervened, both of you were locked in that position nobody would ever dream of being in. Evident in Peter's hazel eyes, you recognised that knowing look of deviance. It took you less than a split second to realise that Peter still had something up his sleeve. A conversation was held but there were no words shared between you; the feeling was mutual. You both knew what was going to happen. He still had one more battle to fight, he still had one more life to take.

"I'm sorry."

He whispered his last words to you before he took the gun, held it up towards his head and pulled the trigger, adding another name onto the list of the deceased.

Peter Parker and 12 others died that day. And you, along the hundreds of others, were traumatised and scarred by his actions. So much so that you remember that day like it was yesterday, the memories still fresh in your mind even years after it happened. Other schools, teachers, friends, family couldn't imagine the pain and horror that will forever be a part of you, none of them could ever know what it was like.

Because none of them will ever know someone quite like Peter.

#dark!peter parker #dark!tom holland #peter parker angst #peter parker fic #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #spiderman #no way home #peter parker fanfic #dark peter parker #tom holland #tom holland imagine #the avengers #peter parker

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