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dayseternal-blog · 3 years

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Hi days! I know you're the best person to go to for some NH fic recommendations. Can you share with us really angsty NH fics? I've read White Lillies, that amount of angst is revitalizing I LOVE IT!!! big thanks!!!

HELLO

For how fluffy NaruHina is, there SURE ARE A LOT of shippers who LOVE NARUHINA ANGST. I’ve been asked for angst recs far more than any other type????

I will now compile every angst fic rec I’ve ever made into one long list. (folks can see if there’s anything I’ve missed 🤓)

NARUHINA ANGST

“A Place In The Sun” by ihaveastorminme - Rated M for smut and depictions of violence, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto realizes that he’s not enough to love her. He’s not enough to save her, either.

“A Fate Worse than Death” by Caelestia - Rated M for smut, ABO Canon-Divergent, One-shot. Naruto, improperly socialized and traumatized as a child, rejects his inner Alpha, which has devastating consequences on his family and marriage. “A Risky Bet” is its fluffier follow-up.

“Girl No 10″ by meeiwen - Rated M, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Naruto makes a mistake with a dancer one drunk night. Years later when he meets her again, he begins realizing his perfect life is a lie, but he’s too late to fix it. Angst if you want to know what dying feels like warning.

“if this is love (why does it hurt?)” by ClairvoyantDreamer1011 - Rated M, Friends with benefits Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Hinata knew many things about Naruto Uzumaki. She knew that his heated glances meant ‘I want you’; that lingering touches whispered 'please’, and that the sight of his back to her screamed 'leave’. But she couldn’t tell you what they were to each other for the life of her.

“If You Said You Loved Me” by destiny’s sweet melody - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, One-shot. Naruto begins to realize he took her feelings for granted and now he’s too late.

“The Ring that Binds” by softwind - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto and Hinata are married. So why is Naruto calling “Sakura” in his sleep?

“Why would innocent little Hinata be out dressed like that?” (One-shot) and its follow-up “On Any Given Day” (Long One-Shot) by @utsus - Rated T, Canon-Divergent. Hinata tries to move on from Naruto, right when he realizes he wants to keep her.

“For the Future” by @utsus - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Complete. Hinata understands this better than anyone else. Naruto is easy to love. (I actually just hate the ending a lot. That’s what puts this on the list).

“Gilded Butterflies” by Kid Crisis - Rated M for depictions of violence, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Tenshi, beautiful prostitute of the Villa, realized from a very young age that people seem to do nothing but empty her, and not even Naruto seems capable of convincing her otherwise.

“Serenity Prayer” by @katarinahime - Rated M for smut, substance abuse, PTSD, and depictions of domestic violence and non-con, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. When their fairytale endings smash to ugly pieces, Hinata and Naruto help put each other back together.

“Common Side Effects” (Naruto’s POV) by @katarinahime & “Medicated” (Hinata’s POV) by @szajnie - Rated E for smut, substance abuse, mental illness, and depictions of violence, self-harm, and attempted suicide, Crime/Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto and Hinata, in a struggling relationship, must confront the pain inside before they can love each other.

“In Another Life” by theGeneralissimo - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Complete. In which Naruto listens to his mother’s advice and marries a girl like her. And lives to regret it.

“Mistake” by Cherry1315 - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto falls apart, and, unfortunately, Hinata has to pick up the pieces.

“Until the Day I Love” by BluBlooThalassophile - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Everyone is recovering from the war.

“Hidden From Sunlight” by @bunny-hoodlum - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. How different could Naruto’s life be when the girl that seemed 'barely around’ is truly hardly around at all?

“Powerless” by @bunny-hoodlum - Rated M for depictions of violence and character death, Mystery/Crime High School/Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. His family’s past can’t be taken at face-value, and it comes clawing back to hurt him in ways that are out of his control. DELETED FIC.

“21 Days” by @bunny-hoodlum - Rated E includes dub-con, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Anonymous internet friends decide to meet up IRL and give each other their first times.

“April - Too Late/Missed Opportunities” from “Still Falling for You” by @chloelapomme - Rated T, College/Modern AU, One-shot. After her 3 years away for college, Naruto decides to confess.

“June - Honor/Sacrifice” from “Still Falling for You” by @chloelapomme - Rated T, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Naruto marries Hinata, the girl of his dreams. If only she loved him back.

“you totally almost killed me that one time (it’s okay I still love you)” by @itachiboutit - Rated G, High School AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Naruto, a promising baseball player, returns to Konoha Prep, and, without so much as even a “long time no see,” hits a ball into Hinata’s face. (This isn’t really angsty…but I get really upset in Ch. 4 and cry a lot every time.)

“Because I Love You” aka “Arranged Marriage AU Take 2″ (Same fic) by @magmawrites - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, One-shot. A canon divergent fic in which The Last never happened and Hinata Hyuga was promised to another.

“Asylum AU” from “Tales of Two Ninjas” by @magmawrites - Rated M, Modern AU, One-shot. What’s to say what’s real and what isn’t? The only thing that’s valid and true in all universes is their love for one another.

“Dreaming of AU” from “Tales of Two Ninjas” by @magmawrites - Rated M for implied suicide, Modern AU, One-shot. Naruto dreams of her. He grows to love her. Dreams are nice. Too bad reality is a nightmare. (Most likely a continuation of the Asylum AU.)

“Memory Loss AU” from “Tales of Two Ninjas” by @magmawrites - Rated M, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, One-shot. I LOVE YOU. Will I ever hear those words from your lips again?

“The Path We Walk” by @tenney-shoes - Rated T, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. With his memory of the past five years missing, Naruto never expected to be married to Hinata, and now he must navigate through the maze that is their life together with no memory of how he got there.

“Easier For Me” by @tenney-shoes - Rated T, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, Two-shot, Complete. How will Hinata handle waking up with no memory of how she got there?

“My Escape” by @marimare-writes - Rated T, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto wakes up from a coma with no recollection of life after graduating the Academy. Hinata, anxious and with a secret that will change both of their lives, struggles with what to do.

“Consolation Prize: Through Her Distorted Mirror” by mysterious intentions - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Her love is taken lightly, as if her heart could change so easily.

“Good Luck” By LovelyLori - Rated T, Flowers/Ballet AU, Two-Shot, Complete. A Japanese ballet company arrives in Naruto’s town. Can love transcend language barriers? (I spent HOURS looking for this one, it totally breaks my heart.)

“On the outside looking in” by @char-lotteral - Rated E for smut, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto’s in love with his best friend’s girlfriend fiancee. And he’s not moving on.

“Sincerely, Uzumaki Naruto” by @bkgsbby - Rated T, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Ongoing. After his wife leaves him a week after giving birth to their son, Naruto moves back to Konoha. He adjusts to life as a single father, with the help of his friends and surprisingly, his old crush.

“Road to Redemption” by averagejane497 - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Complete. Naruto’s made a lot of mistakes in his life, especially concerning the women he loves. Maybe this time he can get it right.

“You’re the One” by AnimeloverNUMBA100 - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Complete. After 4 desperate years, Hinata finally asked Naruto out. He decides to give her a chance, but his feelings for Sakura has never faded. Hinata is slowly losing hope as time goes on…and she soon chooses to leave him.

Untitled by @randomprose - Rated G, Canon-Divergent, One-shot. Prompt: Hinata finds out that Naruto told Minato that Sakura is his girlfriend.

“Jitters” by ncfan - Rated T, Canon-Compliant, One-shot. He has her heart but he doesn’t even know it.

“The Red Umbrella” by ncfan - Rated G, Canon-Divergent, One-shot. As the rain hits her, Hinata thinks about what she doesn’t have, and what she’ll never have now.

“Duplicity” by GoldKing - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Uzumaki Sakura wants to know why Hinata’s children are blond.

“My Favorite Night” by @peppercornpresses - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Hinata harbors deeper feelings for Naruto after three years of being his roommate. When he starts dating Sakura, Hinata decides it’s in her heart’s best interest to turn the other way, and leaves Naruto for good with a heart-breaking secret in tow.

“The Loving Type” by @peppercornpresses - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Ongoing. A few years have passed since the Fourth Shinobi War, in which…Rookie Nine steadily advances in rank. Naruto gets engaged. Hinata leaves Konoha. And Kakashi schemes for days.

“Blurred Lines” by @vegebulsoup - Rated E, Police / Cops and Robbers Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Detective Naruto Uzumaki is having a hard time staying focused at work due to an elusive, dark-haired beauty. (Starts off fun and smutty, grows angsty).

“I want you to cry” and its sequel “Road of Tears” by Devahhole - Rated E for graphic murder, dub-con/non-con, and smut, High School AU, Multi-chapter, Ongoing. A sociopath blinded by revenge runs into his greatest opponent.

“Absolute” by @ssa25 - Rated M, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Ongoing. She was his kind, shy and innocent friend. Until she wasn’t. He was her pure, beautiful and unrequited love. Until he wasn’t.

I’m very glad that you enjoyed my “White Lilies” fic!! Here’s everything I could think of for you to cry or stress out over.

SAD READING 😢

#anon #naruhina fanfic recs #naruhina angst

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my2phetaliaheadcanons · 3 years

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So on the one ask about the yandere marriage. What would happen if the same characters darling escaped and actually tried fighting back? Probably won’t work out but they tried.

You are correct, darling tried. But it didn’t work, and lead to some harsh consequences.

Germany – The sweet and outgoing nature of his kitten made her seem docile. Luther didn’t count on her claws coming out when she was cornered.

Luther’s love for his kitten will cause him to gloss over her rough behavior at first. Every protest would be seen as a concern that could be swept under the rug. Yelling and screaming would be a lover’s quarrel. It wasn’t until her hand hit his face that Luther would realize that harsher methods would be needed.

Luther’s methods would start off simple, leaving Kitten in a sealed room for a day or two. Each time-out session’s length would be based on what the actions of rebellion would be. After trying this for a couple of months, and reaching isolation periods of two weeks, or having a weapon drawn on him, Luther would up the intensity.

Instead of just isolation, it would start to include chains, starvation, and darkness. These restrictions could eventually break Kitten down to the point of submission. If she hadn’t won Luther’s trust through fake affections and obedience first.

She would either escape through an open window or convince Luther to get extremely intoxicated to the point of passing out. At that point, she could walk right out the front door.

Once Luther realizes what happens, Kitten had better pray that she stays ahead. Luther’s methods are reminiscent of a hunting dog. Persistent and willing to use the pack. If Luther couldn’t find her within three days, then he’s calling the other axis members. More than likely, the help of the other members will corner Kitten quickly.

After she is found, Luther doesn’t wait. He swoops in the second she is away from witnesses and knocks her out. All Kitten manages to squeak out is a “Luther!” and then it's dark.

When she awakens, all she can feel is pain. Luther broke her dominant leg, and though it was well wrapped, she noticed a couple of other new things. The chains that once wrapped only around her ankles became a harness. It's not cutting off circulation, but it was tight. The room she’s in is small, stone, and cold. The only light in the room came from the crack in the door.

This would be the punishment for escape. Luther had been worried and at least this way he knows where she is. Maybe on their five-year anniversary, she could come out.

Sweden – Hustru was a ray of sunshine. Beautiful, bright, and also hot. Not just in terms of attractiveness, her warm cherry attitude would easily change to a blistering fury. This was amusing to Bernard, despite being from an area known for chills, this heat was welcoming.

Going the route of a true yandere, Bernard would hide you away, his logic would be that all newlyweds need some time. Though since it was done with approval from both of their bosses, it would not be in one of his unknown places, rather a newer and known spot, one designed just for her. It would be a simple house, out in the foggy Swedish forest. The outside would be reminiscent of a by-gone area, but the inside would be a mix of modern and medieval.

Bernard thought she enjoyed it until she started to fight against his ‘simple’ rules. Things like yelling and screaming would be funny to him. It was showing Bernard a side that he hadn’t yet witnessed, and he enjoyed that. Each action of rebellion would be recorded by him with joy. Until that is, hustru decided to get physical.

Bernard, like Luther, is fine with backtalk. Physical fighting though is a sign of distrust and the breakdown of his bond with his hustru. At this, hustru would be restrained and with his silver tongue, he would talk her out of attacking. His voice would sound joyful, but his eyes would communicate anything but that.

That would be her only warning. If hustru would attempt another attack, Bernard wouldn’t hesitate to break a limb. This should quell her fire for a time, and at that moment Bernard would coo at her. A sweet voice asking how she could be so clumsy, and how she should allow Bernard to take care of it.

Eventually, it would reach the boiling point she would make a break for it. Bernard would have been waiting for this moment. After all, he already takes people to his home, Bernard knows that it's only a matter of time before they run.

He would follow behind slowly, fully understanding what she would be looking for in an escape route. Each turn hustru would make, she could hear Bernard taunting her and making false promises. Whether or not hustru would realize it, Bernard would be herding her like a ewe to the slaughterhouse.

Bernard would end the chase by cornering hustru. It would either be by a cliff or a lake. Her look of panic would thrill Bernard, and he would descend upon her like a wolf. Their struggle would last until Bernard could give either a hard blow to the back of her head, chokehold, or hold her head in the water.

Holding her now unconscious body close, Bernard would take her away. She would not return to the nice home in the Swedish forest but instead would find herself in an unfamiliar place. It was Sweden’s oldest and best-hidden spot.

This one is underground and like a hobbit hole. Though the inside is much bigger and maze-like. Hustru will never find the door, but Bernard will always be there to give her affection.

Russia – Viktor knew marriage was an adjustment for both the husband and the wife. They were living together for the first time, and that meant getting used to each other’s constant presence. Well, at least for родная, since Viktor knew everything about her. Though, he was reaching the end of his patience with her insults.

Viktor would be willing to turn a blind eye to any rebellion for about a week or two. As I said, marriage is an adjustment, and he would be willing to give родная some time. After that period, and if she is still fighting their love, then Viktor sees reason to correct the bad behavior.

As a yandere Viktor is fine with the occasional comment. Should родная do it more often than that, or attempt to lay it on thick Viktor is gonna act. His punishments are always smart and calculating with the purpose of ensuring submission. It starts simple; restricting her time outside the home and the disappearance of specific privileges. Things like entertainment and basic comforts are the first to go. As time goes on, and if she chooses to escalate her acts, then it's only gonna get worse.

Physical attacks lead to periods of isolation, additional housework, and prevention of sleep. These three together would make it easier for Viktor to shape her behaviors and throughout ask her specific questions to see how she is coming along. If родная is smart enough, she will submit quickly to avoid seeing how far he is willing to take this.

If родная should escape, she then there must be an insurance that Viktor is not home. Once out of the home, then she has no choice but to take the alleyways. Viktor’s men are well-rounded and without a doubt one of them is well versed in hacking. Once found, whether it be via a security camera, or through the use of documents, Viktor will bring her home.

It won’t be a pretty moment. One, it would be in public and there would be screaming and begging. Two, no one would help, mainly because Viktor would appear not only her husband but provide papers to make it seem like she had some illness that required guardianship.

In the end, she’s in a basement tied to a chair. From there Viktor would work once again with his previous taming methods, this time though he would make sure it sticks.

England – Oliver was quite pleased on their wedding day. It was beautiful and perfect, but the events since that wonderful day have been troubling to him. His sweet little Dearie appeared to not be adjusting well to married life, but he’s got the tools to help.

Oliver has always had a need for control, and after the American Revolution, it had gotten worse. When Dearie fights, it’s almost like a flashback for him. He doesn’t handle it well, Oliver is willing to give a warning, after all, it is his wife. Though after not only having his warning ignored but receiving back-to-back threats and the claims that he is a monster, Oliver decides that his wife needs lessons on how to be a lady and housewife.

These lessons range from proper posture and basic manners to tea ceremonies and fancy dances. The length and frequency of the lessons depend on the severity of her crimes. Which to Oliver, each is extremely severe and must be taught out of his sweet little dearie.

For each lesson, Oliver has an enchanted device. For posture, a corset with celestial bronze and white silk. Each attempt of slouching or relaxing causes it to tighten like a python with a rabbit in its coils. Dance lessons involve iron shoes, not only do they burn when the dancing stops, but they can only be removed by Oliver. These are just two of many that he has.

Her escape would not be easy. Oliver’s flying bunnies, Chocolate and Strawberry would always be nearby. Waiting and ready to report. Her best chance of escape would be a moment of pure chaos. Whether she caused it or she had been blessed with it, this would be her only chance of escape.

Once he realizes that she had run away, Oliver would open his dreaded spellbook. The magic would flit and fly around him as he reads various spells. Creatures of all kinds would be summoned and with the leadership of his bunnies, they would spread across the land like the shadows that appear with the setting sun.

Eventually, she would be found. Caught and dragged away by the various shadows Dearie thought she had escaped.

Once Oliver had her back in his arms, an enchantment would be placed. Nothing too harmful, just something that would bind their souls together. Forever.

#2p headcanons #2p hetalia #2p england #2p russia #2p sweden #2p germany #yandere hetalia #yandere

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood.

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you.

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall.

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne.

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination.

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby.

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his.

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes. With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet.

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system.

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did.

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even,

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end.

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

#murder he wrote #j's haunted house 2020 #dark ransom #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but not enough to prevent cold

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone. With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. “Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat “Window. It’s a window.”

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize” you bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Aalongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath.

And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

And now she was all his.

*****

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand.

His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

And you knew then, you were in for it.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you Princess? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

He could make out 3 vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** WIYPT Tag List:

Everything

@momobaby227 @marvelfansworld @cobalt-gear @djeniiscorner @ayamenimthiriel @coldmuffinbanditshoe @nerdofthefandoms @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @southerngracela @goldenfightergir @kellymat @what-just-happened-bro @jennmurawski13 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @jtargaryen18 @redhairedfeistynerd @charmed-asylum @saiyanprincessswanie @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @jhayes6984 @anika-ann @icanfeelastormbrewing @gigglegirl77 @princess-evans-addict @mes-2016 @theladybiers @void-hoechlin

Ransom Drysdale

@patzammit @icandothisallday @capsiclewinter @this-is-serenaa @alexakeyloveloki @perplexed3001 @twittytelly @kelbabyblue @maan24

If your name appears above but the tag isn’t live please let me know.

#halloween challenge #j's haunted house 2020 #jshauntedhouse2020 #dark ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #murder he wrote #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale fanfiction #knives out #knives out fanfic

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ricinbach · 3 years

Text

for the record. | chapter 3 - charlie

the return back on the grid set fire to the rain.

[Day 1, 2011 - 01:23:36, Bering Strait]

The roaring thunder shook the helicopter, raindrops hitting fabric in such speed as the giant ocean waves rumbled beneath the Bravo Team, rippling against the freighter.

“Rules of engagement, Sir?”

Many pairs of eyes then raised up to the squadron captain, his commanding voice still managing to give you the resolve you needed under the almost melodical purring of the engines. A couple of side glances were exchanged between all the soldiers, seemingly at edge but concealing it all too well as they waited for their captain to speak.

The orange blaze of his thick cigar a blur underneath the storm clouds and the rain, the only small beacon of warm, ashy specks of light illuminating the darkness of everything around.

Grey smoke trailed upon the cold air as he took one final drag overlooking the scenery. A couple raindrops managed to sneak their way into the evident target, gentle hisses emanating off of the partially extinguished cigar. He seemed to pay no mind.

“Crew expendable.”

The cigar was thrown out swiftly into the vastness of the ocean. A hitched breath left your mouth, laced with the slightest of hesitation under the brave face you put out for the squad to see - the clenched jaw, determination flowing from your irises, lips pursed yet relaxed. All clad in tactical gear, you had been expecially thankful for the light leathery scuba fabric - keeping the raindrops from penetrating down to your skin. Goggles ready to be slid down, gloved hands clinging onto the rifle as the seatbelt of the small chopper seat kept you from falling over in this forsaken rain flurry.

Deep breath in, and out. Another one. Chest heaving ever so gently as red signaling lights mixed in with the pure white glow of thunder illuminated you occasionally, approaching closer and closer to the landing point of the deck. The entire view of the ship right in front of your eyes, surfaces shiny and darkened by the rain.

Everyone on board is hostile.

This was your job, the job, what you did for a living - it had been surprisingly easy to forget without going out onto the field much. Successfully passing Selection and the endurance tests all those years ago, these types of covert missions were what you had done and trained for the relatively short duration of your entire life. Extracting packages and securing hostages. Surviving in the gnarliest conditions that mother Nature had to offer. It should have been natural to shoot and never ask questions by now, to follow your superior officer’s orders to the very nitty gritty detail, word by word.

“Thirty seconds, going dark.”

A subtle glance and the meaningful tilt of the head from the Captain sitting to your diagonal in front of you, right across the FNG huddled up to your rightside, seemed to do the trick.

Whatever you had to do to stop being in your thoughts that much, you had to do it pretty damn fast - the chopper began a slow, barely noticeable descent as it approached the main deck facing the control room, recalling the ship plans you had spent hours memorizing in preparation.

“Lock and load.”

The cocking and bolting sounds coming from the rifles mixed in together as your nimble hands worked with accustomed ease, turning the safety off and adjusting the nozzle - the ritual sounding like music to your ears at that point. Red signaling lights turned on, the buzz of the helicopter slowing ever so slightly. The man huddled right next to you, with only the padded columns of ammunition pockets and holsters separating the space between the small bench caught your eye for the briefest of moments - and at that moment, you were no more than two newcomers exchanging a look of reassurance, ice blue eyes almost sensing your unease as they somehow insinuated you would all make it back alive.

It gave you enough of an incentive that your hands would swiftly lower the goggles down to clear your vision.

“Green light - go, go, go!”

Gloved hands found the thick rope as you began your fast descent, legs wrapped and your weapon strapped to you back - the FNG hot on your tail as he had given you way. The first wave of the squad had been sent in to clear the deck - including you. As your boots found the slippery, hard metal surface of the deck, the rifle was switfly pulled out.

“Weapons free,” came your Captain’s orders and it did not take too long for the glass to shatter within suspended gunshots into the control room, leaving the two men lifeless on the ground. It was as is a small switch in your brain had been flicked off - the wheezing sound of bullets hitting surface and human flesh, blood trickling out onto the metal seemed to have emancipated one thing that had kept you going for all of those years into training and fighting.

Fear.

It kept you alive. It kept you alert and on your toes, with your fingers wrapped tightly around the handles of the killing machine, your stride methodical.

For your first mission back in the grid, that would just have to do enough to keep you safe from bullets.

Get the intel and get the hell out, as per Captain’s orders.

Finger pulling down the trigger as your aim impoved within every step, Soap and you trailed behind the Captain as they advanced down deeper into the confinements of the ship - groans of fallen soldiers echoed in the otherwise silent atmosphere. The crew had been asleep this late at night, the only ones partially awake had been on the edge of complete drunkness.

It almost felt cruel to lay these ones down the ground but a mission was a mission. This was what you were trained to do, what you were getting paid to do - and you would be damned if you did not give it every effort you had in you, after all this time spent away from the field.

Anything less than that, you knew you would be a bloody, lifeless mess on the floor.

Killing was your second nature, some sort of second skin you wore during the calls of duty - it had to be that way. Reflexes and trained eyesight continued to save you as the guns kept on blazing in the close-quarters of the ship. Crimson splattered through the rusty walls as the unit kept on advancing through, deeper and deeper, checking corners at each and every turn. The air growing more and more stale, smell of residual salt surrounding you, mixed in with the decaying metal.

“Stand by. On my go,” echoed the Captain’s words through the comms, making you halt in your step as you waited near the entrance of yet another hallway. The FNG moved up from behind you, tossing a flashbang from cover amidst the source of the bullets hitting the crevices - way too close to your liking.

“Go, go, go!”

And onwards you went. Taking out enemies as their dying screams echoed, the team found themselves in the storage of the ship - with big containers and all sorts of various cargo packaged, you would note, as your boots carried you down towards the opening in a fast harmony of thuds.

“I’m getting a strong reading, Sir. You might want to take a look at this.”

Gaz’s insight was what made Captain Price stop in front of a certain container and signal at you and him to open the doors up - rushing towards the metal handles, a soft groan did the trick as Price took a peek inside. Sneaking your head in, the evident flag and a couple of documents screamed “mission complete” at you. As you held onto the doors for support, you would exchange confirming looks with the rest of the team and Soap - who all looked equally on edge, and they had every right to.

“It’s in Arabic. Baseplate, this is Bravo Six. We have found it. Ready to secure package for transport.”

That dreaded static ran through your ears yet once more.

“No time, Bravo Six. Two bogies headed your way. Grab what you can and get the hell out of there.”

As Soap rushed past you to grab the intel document, tucking it in his waterproof compartment, the gun was back in your grip as you all rushed towards the exit route, heart thumping and your muscles screaming at you to rest up. Following Price through the wings, the FNG kept a close pace just couple strides ahead of you.

“Wallcroft, Griffen, what’s your status?”

The rushed and scared voices of your fellow soldiers rang through your ears like bullets wheezing. “Already in the helicopter, Sir! Enemy helicopter inbound! Shit - they opened fire – ”

And fire indeed, was all you saw.

A loud bang and the residual echoes of ringing and buzzing in your ears were all you heard as your body collapsed onto the floor with the impact of the blast. A grunt emanated from your lips, mixing in with the others’ as your eyes tried to regain focus.

“Bravo Six, where the hell are you?”

The tactical gear suddenly began sticking into your skin more, your movements creating slight splashes as you managed to slowly get on your knees first, then on your feet. Panic rushed through your very core as you saw the Captain rise up too, the FNG and Gaz just a couple feet away from you - with Soap struggling to regain his composure.

“The ship’s sinking! We’ve got to move!”

Waves burst through the opened doors and sprinkles of saltwater leaking in through the pipes as a curse slipped past your lips. Mouth slightly parted as you considered your options, you slung your gun back and moved towards your fallen teammate - only to be beaten by the Captain as he motioned you to go with the others.

Tossing yet one more look back as he was helped up, your feet inches deep in the rising water would rush you though the maze of cold and darkened corridors yet again, illuminated by the red light of the alarms. Standing on straight ground was no more as you felt the rumbles of the sinking ship under you, your entire being disoriented with the increasing tilt - yet you would not dare slow down.

“Back on your feet, let’s go!”

As you finally stepped outside and ran towards the lowering helicopter who had thankfully waited for all of you, the control over your body no longer belonged to your conscious as adrenaline took over. Without looking back, or a second of hesitation, you had managed to jump onto the welcoming opening - the bedlam of the storm wreaking havoc outside easing slightly as your body hit the hard surface, crawling and reaching up to hold onto the benches as it straighened itself up. Amidst all of it, came Price’s loud yell, cutting through the rain with a certain fire in the words.

“Jump for it!”

Chest heaving, your eyes widened as you saw a pair of arms slipping down in pure desperation, trying to claw their way back up onto the platform. Maybe it was muscle memory, some sort of underlying reflex, the mantras and philosophies from your training deep within the confinements of your soul - but you did not think twice, did not bat an eye as you rushed towards the open rear end of the chopper, rain and wind hitting you hard yet you kept your balance.

In the peripheral, you spotted Captain Price do exactly the same, rushing towards his Sergeant holding onto the edge for dear life - his body dangling halfway over the angry ocean.

We leave no soldier behind.

Huffing and groaning a bit as you helped pull the giant of a man into the transport, you were more than thankful that Price had been there too, realizing you may have failed to pull Soap up given your relative size - just the thought of it making your jaw clench. Some relief washing over you in your state of exertion upon seeing the soldier get to his feet and catch his breath, one hand extended out to hold onto the vertical railing as your own left his gloved one in a fleeting second.

“Thank you.”

The words came out in a muffled, breathless yet genuine tone as Soap tried to get his composure back - which he had managed without much trouble, sending you another lingering nod to which you reciprocated, equally breathless. Hand rushing to take off the goggles that have been keeping your eyes safe, your side leaned against the sturdy metal wall - adrenaline pumping through your veins as the entire team relieved in the needed silence of a job well done, the only sound being the pilot’s static ringing in your earpiece. Almost all eyes were fixated on the sinking freighter, minds possibly thinking about what was to come next.

Almost all eyes but his. The icy blues, now relieved from the protective goggles, shot a sideways glance at you as you stood close to the edge of the chopper, the landing platform partially lowered to grant you the full experience. Storm breaking all hell loose, sparks of white lightning and the moonshine illuminating metal sinking. The sight alone enough to make you shiver knowing that had you been just minutes, hell, seconds late, you would have been drowning in the unknown ocean as well.

“Hell of a view, eh?”

As you looked up to the source of the accented words, you would note he stood taller than your chunky military boot enhanced frame. The gun identical to the one that was strapped on your back stood slung across his shoulders, laying in gentle thuds on his chest - maybe not the smartest way to store the deadly weapon but it certainly had done the job, considering the man had just jumped for his life. Raindrops pattered down his camoed face, droplets sliding down the leathery skin - and in those orbs, he housed some sort of relief. If there had been an ounce of fear within, he knew how to hide it well.

That earned a pensive nod out of you, slight upwards curl on your lips. Meeting his eyes for a brief second before your gaze refocused on the dark, dark ocean waves, the breeze caused by the storm and the chopper blowing stray hairs out of your face. Mind racing with the sounds of bullets and static - with a certain aura of calmness.

“You could say that again.”

previous chapter | next chapter

#here it is #lmk what yall think #im sorry this took so long lmao #ily ALL OF YOU #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #cod x reader #cod reader insert #modern warfare #cod modern warfare #val writes #writing

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flutteringphalanges · 4 years

Photo

Summary: “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: T

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you for all of the reviews/comments/kudos, folks! You are the best! Feedback is always loved and appreciated! Hope you enjoy this chapter! -Jen

Chapter Four

Labyrinth. A complicated maze filled with endless passageways-some even leading to nowhere. Agatha had heard of the tunnels, the darkness that clung to the walls. Jonathan Harker had recounted in his testimony to Mina and her of his attempts to successfully navigate through them. A warning she found herself not heeding.

A shiver ran up Agatha's spine the second her bare feet touched the cold, stone floor. Her head spun, vision cloudy, and for a brief moment the nun began to reconsider her plan. But no. No, it was now or never. When would she have the chance again? Inhaling deeply, using the wall as a means of support, she slowly made her way out of the room and into the corridor.

Vampiric Physiology. It had been her grandfather, Abraham Van Helsing, who pulled Agatha into the legends of Dracula. Raised by the man after the death of her father, she grew fascinated by the tales of the professor and his encounters with the beast. It was on his deathbed that his granddaughter made her promise, swore on her life, that she would carry on his legacy. Finish the act he failed to. Find the vampire and destroy the Devil where he stood. Forever end the miserable existence of Count Dracula.

The further she walked the deeper Agatha found herself in the bowels of the castle. The air was thick, musky, and the heaviness of it all scratched at her already sore throat. She concentrated on her breathing, trying to keep level headed. The secrets these caverns surely held. So caught up on her thoughts, the nun stumbled across a loose stone, nearly tumbling to the ground. Silently cursing, ignoring the pain in her now bruised big toe, she went on.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. In the back of her mind, Agatha began to fear if the count had already returned. What would his reaction be to her empty bed? Would he storm the castle like a predator stalking its prey? Dwelling on it would do her no good now. She was in too deep. As she turned down another hallway, she heard a weak cry.

"Please. Help me."

The voice was soft, pleading. The nun stopped in her tracks, the hairs on her arms standing up. It sounded so distant, and yet, so close.

"Hello?" She called out, hesitation in her tone. "Who's there?"

"Please," it begged. "Please, help me."

"My name is Sister Agatha Van Helsing," Agatha replied, moving towards the noise. "Keep talking, I'll find you."

"Please." It was a woman's voice, her accent thick. Russian? "I'm so cold. It's so dark. Please, help me."

The corridor opened up into a large room. The aroma of the air changed, mildew, soil, rot. Agatha covered her mouth, attempting not to dry heave. Surrounding her were many boxes. Her brow furrowed and in her fevered state, she thought back to Harker's words. Boxes. Coffins. The nun's eyes grew wide as she realized her terrible mistake. In horror, she watched as one of the lids creaked upon, a decaying arm dragging across the opening.

"Please," the voice hissed, agony laced in his gravelly tone. "I'm so thirsty…"

Agatha began to scan around the room looking for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. The woman, or what used to be Agatha imagined, had now pulled herself halfway out of the box. She stared at the nun with hollow eyes, mouth open to reveal stained, jagged teeth.

"Stay back," the nun warned. But even as brave as she was, Agatha couldn't hide her fear. "I'm warning you, I'll-"

Just then, something swooped by Agatha. The creature let out a cry, cowering back as a figure rose a sharp stake in the air before plunging it deep into the undead's chest. Count Dracula wheeled around, a look of fury glaring in his eyes that even put the nun on edge.

"I show you the best hospitality and this is how you thank me?" He growled, stroding over so that he now loomed over the nun. "Do you realize what would've happened if I hadn't made it in time?"

"I...I can handle myself…" She mumbled, her cheeks flushing.

"Clearly not," he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "How did you even find your way down here?" The vampire's gaze flickered up and down. "With the state you're in?"

"I'm fine, if that's what you're trying to get at," she frowned. "What exactly is this place? You owe me an explanation."

"Ha, I owe you absolutely nothing," he chuckled coldly. "But you mildly impressed me. So I suppose perhaps I can offer you some insight into my special project."

"Special project?" Agatha questioned, an eyebrow raised, finding herself morbidly fascinated. "You mean, experimenting with the undead? Jonathan Harker mentioned…"

"Oh, it's quite more complicated than that," Dracula said with a dark smile. "And Johnny's memories aren't that reliable. But, I digress. Death is a curious thing, Agatha. As is mortality. The balance between it, that is where the science lies."

"I don't think I quite understand-"

"Of course you don't," he interrupted. "But I think that's enough lecture for one day."

Without warning, he scooped Agatha up as if she were no lighter than a feather. The nun yelped in surprise, caught off guard by the count's motion. He grinned at her, his arms wrapping around her in such a secure fashion that the nun couldn't decide if he did so to protect her or keep her from getting away.

"Put me down," Agatha struggled. "Let me go this instant!"

"You sure do get testy when you're tired, Agatha," Dracula smirked as he carried her bridal style from the room. "I think a good nap would do you some good."

"And I think a good stake in the heart would suit you nicely," she countered. "Or a nice stroll outside during a sunny day."

Dracula scoffed, his hold on the nun not loosening until they were back in her room. With surprising care, he gingerly placed Agatha back into bed. The nun frowned, eyes like daggers as she watched him walk over to the side of the room. For the first time, she noticed a small parcel sitting on the dresser. Picking it up, the vampire reappeared by her side and held it out.

"A gift," Dracula said simply. "A friendly gesture." When the nun continued to eye him warily, he let out an exaggerated sigh. "Come on, Agatha, if it was something disturbing, I wouldn't have taken the time to have it wrapped so nicely. Take it."

Finally caving, Agatha carefully took the package from Dracula. Caustionally tearing the paper back, she was stunned by the contents within. Cream colored, the sleeves just intricant enough that one could still consider it modest, was a dress. She was at a loss for words. It was by all accounts beautiful. Something so nice that she hadn't owned ever since she became a nun.

"To replace that hideous habit of yours," Dracula stated. "I hope you like it. If not-"

"No," she whispered, examining it. "No, it's nice...Thank you…" The words sounded foreign when they left her lips. "May I try it on?"

Dracula snorted. "If you so desire to. The nap, after all, was just a suggestion…" Even the count seemed a little awkward now. "Shall I go or…"

"Until I change," Agatha said, momentarily pausing. "But you may return, since you did purchase it after all…"

It was weird. It felt weird. Was it the fever? Minutes ago she was nearly killed. On the verge of entering a shouting match with her mortal enemy. And now she was trying on a dress that he gave her. A gift. Agatha's mind was surely discombobulated. With just a slight amount of struggle, she managed to slide into the dress and adjust it correctly.

"You can come in now," she called out.

Dracula stepped into the room, his eyes looking Agatha up and down. Though she'd never admit it, the nun felt a little bashful. A small part of her wanted to feign a faint so it could all be over. But she didn't. She stood there quietly, waiting for a response.

"Well," she said, beginning to feel a little offended. "If it looks bad on me, you might as well-"

"No," he interjected. "No. You look...lovely."

Again, Agatha felt the heat rush to her cheeks, only this time she knew it wasn't the fever. It was as if she was a little school girl again. The strange, uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. Butterflies? No. No, no, no. Focus. The nun swallowed, shaking her head.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Now, I think I should like to take that nap you mentioned. Today was rather eventful, much to your doing."

"You're quite an interesting one, Agatha Van Helsing," Dracula replied, eyeing her with a strange look. "But I'll leave you to your own devices," he paused, a glint of mischievousness in his eye. "For now. Get some rest. You know where to find me."

"Unfortunately," but her voice lacked the usual hatred she held. "Goodbye, Dracula."

As she watched him leave, Agatha sat on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands. She was beginning to feel sick. But this was different than the fever. This was something else. More complex. And she hated it. Was it possible? Was Agatha, Vampire Hunter, Van Helsing starting to feel for the bloodthirsty Count Dracula? If Abraham Van Helsing could see her now. God help her.

#Dracula #Dracula 2020 #Dracula on Netflix #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula x Agatha #Dragatha #Bad Moon Rising

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neko-shinigxmi · 5 years

Text

.: Meeting the Dhampir :.

When my SI met Alucard...and he realized, perhaps he doesn’t have to live alone, wallowing in memories and doubt after all. [ Adrian “Alucard” Tepes x Rahela (SI) ]

It had been a few months since Trevor and Sypha had left the grounds, wandering who-knows-where. In that time, Alucard had started adjusting the mess left behind, gathering information and sorting it. The painful, exhausting, daily work of seeing his parents’ work, forever unfinished. Passing by his childhood room- sealed now- and knowing that within still would be a burned carpet. A ruined bed.

His father had died there.

He killed his father. Mother long dead by suspicious, paranoid, God-fearing humans... It all made his stomach churn. Perhaps that’s why he never looked at the family painting in the study for more than he could handle.

Shouldn’t that have been them? Happy, smiling? His mother alive and father content? Adrian Tepes...happy, alongside them?

Still, the library was getting repaired and tidied up. The castle was slowly looking better every passing day in those long, silent months. Did he break down into tears? Well... Sometimes, not that he’d admit it to anyone. It was better off for him to be here, tending to the grave that was now Belmont and Tepes equally. Figures that it would be a dhampir tending to the old Belmont homestead, though...or what remained of it.

Did Trevor’s ancestors mind this? Or would they be turning in their graves? Alucard didn’t know if he cared, either way.

...Though his thoughts would soon change, one stormy day...

The thunder rumbled outside, lightning brightening the dark sky in vivid flashes. One of the worst storms Adrian had ever seen in his life... He’d be interested in it, if he wasn’t more fussed about finishing up a room and getting some heat going in the study. He could do that, as soon as he finished this, so... Just a moment longer.

Task completed, he stepped out into the hall, intent on hurrying to the study and getting the fireplace running... When something caught his ear. A distant sound, so quiet he wondered if it was a mouse. Could one have gotten into the castle? Surely the animals would loathe this weather...and it wasn’t like he’d invested in new doors.

Who ever would want to put their effort into making new doors for Dracula’s old castle? Not much of anyone, if Adrian had to wager a guess.

He ignored it, but kept an ear out regardless, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from...and if it was a creature or a human. Petrichor filled his nose, but maybe there would yet be something he could better smell the closer he got...?

Much to his disappointment, Alucard got to the study before he could find out who or what the sound was, but at least he could get the fire burning before setting his mind to finding out what the mystery sound was. At the very least, he could pinpoint the origin to being somewhere around or in the main entrance hall...

So Alucard swept his way down and over, walking through the maze of a castle with ease and purpose to the entrance, golden eyes quickly sweeping over the place. The hall seemed empty...but being there now, something definitely didn’t feel right. A presence, somewhere in the room...but where? He couldn’t smell anything that wasn’t rain or earth--

A sound to his right alerted him, rushing over with his vampire speed to see...a dirty woman? Small sticks and leaves in her hair, with mud and rainwater soaking her clothes; some kind of ragged dress and an equally patched cloak.

She looked up at him slowly, realizing there was a presence beside her too late, eyes widening when her eyes met his- green to his gold- and lurched back in a hurry, gasping harshly.

“Ah, ad aeque elaboraret deterruisset eam! Eu has iuvaret delicatissimi, facete urbanitas vulputate eu mea?” Alucard blinked in surprise, staring at the woman. What...in all of the lands was she saying? It sounded...something vaguely like Latin, but also so far removed from it he felt lost. Deeply so.

“...Pardon me? Can you repeat that?”

“Sea in natum dignissim, ceteros euripidis ullamcorper te pro!!” She grumbled, frowning and pulling herself closer, into a ball...but shuddered, wincing as she looked down at her sopping wet clothes. Alucard frowned uncertainly, not sure what to do, but wanting desperately to help.

How can you help someone who doesn’t speak a lick of any language, though?!

“Hey, um... Are you cold?” He crouched down, pointing to her clothes. She looked at him, confused, then followed his finger to look down at her clothes. “Yes, those. Aren’t they wet and cold?” He pulled his arm back, hands on his upper arms, and gave a fake shiver. She watched him....and the relieved sigh that escaped him when she nodded couldn’t be stopped.

“Yes, well... I have...a way you can get warm upstairs. Fire, right? You know fire...?” He felt dumb trying to do this, trying to baby-talk his way to getting her to understand him, but if it worked...then it worked, right?

...Her staring at him like he’s an idiot didn’t help matters any.

“Look, just follow me, okay? Getting you to the study will at least help a little bit...” He stood up, gesturing for her to follow. He started walking off, listening intently...and sighed another, softer, relieved sigh when he heard them rush to get up, following after him like a lost dog.

This would definitely help...or be a good start, as it were.

.:.

It was a struggle getting her to surrender the coat, but thankfully, after realizing how much warmer the fire could be without it, the nameless little creature in front of his (it...is technically owned by him now, isn’t it?) fireplace gave up her fight, sighing happily at the heat. Still wasn’t dry, but she was doing far better than when he first found her in the entrance hall.

“We’ll need to get you clean, you know,” he says to her, well aware she won’t understand a word he says. “I have my suspicions some of my mother’s old dresses are still here and I wouldn’t mind lending them to you, but you’ll have to get washed first. I don’t want you getting them dirty.”

“Eum ne pertinax prodesset,” she says, like it’s some obvious information. He can only roll his eyes.

“Can’t understand you. Still. Besides, you don’t seem to be living anywhere, if you’re that dirty.” He pauses, staring at her. Now that he’s said it... “Do you have anywhere you live? Do you live with someone?” She looks back and up to him, sitting in his father’s old chair, and Alucard repeats his words, pointing at the floor. “House. Do you live in a house?”

Shakes her head slowly. He...doesn’t quite like that. That’s worrying, for some feeble little human like she is.

“So you don’t have anyone else, I’d imagine...” Despite the fact she likely has no idea what he’s saying, the woman lowers her head to the floor with such a deep sadness in her eyes, it makes Alucard’s heart hurt. Did something happen? Does she understand his expressions?

There’s so many questions, not enough answers, but he hopes that maybe there’s one question that she can answer for him. So he knows something about her...

“Hey, there’s one more thing I want to ask you,” he starts, leaning forward in the chair. Slowly, she looks back up to him, a pout on her lips. Alucard forces himself to focus on those eyes. A deep green that are sparked with some orange from the firelight. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?”

“...enim sonet verear no pro?”

“A name,” he repeats, hopeful. “Like... My name. I’m Alucard.” Does he have to introduce himself like that anymore? He’s not sure and feels like it’s a bit too late to back out. “Your name?”

She stares at him for a long, long moment, and he begins to lose hope. Well, what did he expect? She seems to be some kind of hermit, circumstances tearing her away from family and other humans... Asking if she had a name might have been like-

“R... Rahela...” He freezes, eyes widening. Unintentionally, his jaw drops, turning to look at her in shock. Did she...? A coherent name? A coherent word?

“Did you... What’s your name?”

“Rahela,” she repeats, with more insistence this time. A smile slowly grows over his face, nodding. There was something there...and maybe- if she had a taste for learning- he could help her. Help them communicate better. And as selfish as it might be, having someone in the castle- no matter for how long- sounded lovely.

“Rahela... That’s a wonderful name,” he responds with a nod, watching as she seems to fluster at the compliment, looking down at her lap and hands, messing with her own fingers. It’s...kind of endearing. “Thank you for telling me it. I hope I can help you, Rahela. If you need anything, just ask...or, well, gesture, I suppose.” He waves his hands for emphasis, catching her attention and gaining another nod.

...Definitely going to be difficult, but it all seems fun, despite the struggles up ahead.

#self insert #self insert community #self ship #self ship community #Aki Stories #otp; love will never leave us #oH HEY MORE FIRST MEETING STORIES IMAGINE THAT #also it's nice to be motivated #for once #still hard to figure out what I want to do first!!!#but the writing part is easy at least #ALSO yes I used Lorem Ipsum for the Unknown Language #Rahela uses bc I DON'T KNOW #I just needed a gibberish language is all....#and that just...worked out in the short term #eventually I DO want to make a full #language for what Rahela knows in the early days #bc it IS a language in it's own right #I just....don't have that kinda time right now

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ficklefics · 5 years

Text

Friends Like These: Chapter Ten - Freedom

Trapped and afraid, Harleen's options are limited and grim.

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER NINE

Chapter Warning: Self-inflicted injury, restraints, fear, choking, hair pulling, assault

In the silence following his sinister promise, Jerome just stares at me and grins, his hot breath fanning over my face. No matter how much I try, I cannot bring myself to look away. It’s like I’m trapped by his gaze, staring into my very soul. A sudden banging at the door makes me jump, and Jerome laughs at me. A yell of “Boss!”, accompanied by the insistent bang makes Jerome take a step back. He looks over me one more time before growling “don’t move” and leaving the room, locking the door behind him with an audible ‘click’. I wait until the sound of his footsteps echoes into silence, then let out a breath I had only just become aware of. I gasp for air, suddenly desperate for oxygen, for relief. Jerome’s presence is like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and being alone with him simply heightens everything. Every nerve, every cell in my body is burning, and it’s all because of him.

Bastard.

I twist in the chair that I’ve been left in, the rope around my wrists rubbing me raw. I strain for a glimpse at the door that is now behind me, but I’m too restricted. I stop moving, forcing myself to steady my breathing and collect my thoughts. Panicking won’t get me anywhere. Right. I am essentially trapped. Tied to a chair, in a decrepit room, somewhere in some abandoned building in the middle of nowhere. It would seem that I am absolutely and truly fucked. I groan in frustration, throwing my head back to stare at the ceiling. A single light hangs from it, flickering and adding to the horror-movie situation I have found myself in. Why couldn’t I just be normal? A normal girl with normal interests who attracts normal guys. That feels fair. But no. I have to be the kind of girl who can only attract insane criminals and weird loners. I breathe out heavily through my nose, steeling my resolve. I will not give up. This is what Bruce and I have been training for. I’m not ready. It doesn’t matter whether I’m ready or not, it’s now or never.

I begin to think through my options, discarding most of them as quickly as they come to mind. Give in to Jerome. Absolutely not. Go along with it until you can escape. Maybe, but escape might never come. Get him to kill you. Slightly too morbid. I’m not that desperate – yet. Get out now. A nice thought, but how? Break the chair, like in the movies. Pick the lock. Run until you find a window or stairs. And? Keep running.

Right. That’s it. I’m not going to sit here and wait patiently for whatever Jerome has planned for me. But don’t you want to know? I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away. No, I don’t want to know how he plans to break me, to make me like him. But you do. The very idea of it excites you. Don’t lie to yourself. I bite my lip, chewing hard until the pain brings me back to reality. Now is not the time to let my instincts take over. That will only get me killed, or worse, make me play right into Jerome’s hands.

I tug once more at the ropes binding my hands, producing only pain as they chafe against my already tender wrists. I clench my jaw, take a deep breath, and close my eyes, before swinging violently to the side. The chair follows, wobbling dangerously on two legs before bringing me back. I stick with its movements, encouraging it to move a bit further each time until suddenly I tip over the edge and crash to the floor. The fragile chair shatters beneath me as I land on the hard concrete. My head bounces, releasing a blinding pain that fills my mind like static. I push past it, focusing on the coppery taste of blood in my mouth. I must have bitten my lip in the fall, but that is irrelevant for now. I struggle into a sitting position, taking a second to glance at the door and listen for any noise or alert. Nothing. Either Jerome has some particularly silent and ignorant minions, or I have been left unguarded. I pray that it is the latter. I reach behind me into the remains of the chair, grabbing at a sharp piece which I begin to rub against the rope trapping me. I keep one eye on the door, not allowing myself one spare second. I have no idea how long Jerome plans to leave me here, but I want to be long gone before he gets back. I can feel the rope fraying, and I let myself smile as it bursts apart. Finally, some luck. I scramble to stand, finally able to examine the rest of the room now that Jerome’s presence isn’t filling it. The door, of course; heavy, metal, and presumably held shut by the lock sitting next to the handle. I can’t be too complacent though; there may be other locks on the opposite side, or even further security measures.

I make to move towards the door when an object in the corner of the room catches my eye. I blink, not believing what I’m seeing, but it remains. A television, sitting on a trolley and plugged into the wall. I glance at the door one more time before deciding, and step up to examine the television. I press the on button and it flickers to life. I immediately go to turn the volume down, afraid that someone outside might hear, but its already almost silent. I carefully adjust it so I can just hear it. I frown at the children’s show playing on the screen, and begin flicking through the channels. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but when I find it my mouth drops open. I take a step back, letting the light from the news programme wash over me, and gaze at the photo of me on the screen. It’s my most recent school picture, one of the few times where I could be deemed acceptable by the uniform code. I tune into the words being spoken over the picture and listen carefully. “Harleen Quinzel, sixteen, was abducted from Gotham Academy earlier today following an attack on the school by infamous Arkham escapee, Jerome Valeska.” A picture of Jerome, his most recent mugshot, replaces me on the screen. His cold gaze sends a shiver down my spine, even in photo form. “Witnesses say that the deranged psychopath was looking for boy billionaire Bruce Wayne, who has not attended school since the recent breakout, and that Harleen stood up to Valeska, saving the life of another student.” That’s a nice way to put it. Makes me sound almost heroic. “Upon the arrival of the police, Valeska and his gang fled, taking Harleen captive. The police do not know the location of the criminals or Harleen, but they believe that she is still with them. If anyone has any information or has seen Valeska or Harleen, please phone the number below.” The images on the screen then switch over to a live news feed. My eyes widen and I begin to shake my head when I see my mother, father, and sister standing on the steps of our home, tears in their eyes and surrounded by reporters. “What are you doing, no, you idiots-” “Please, bring our daughter back.” My mother begs the camera, and I choke back a sob. “She’s innocent in all of this, she’s just a sweet, innocent girl who tried to do the right thing. We’ll do anything to get her back.” I slam a fist onto the television as she continues. The sentiment is sweet, but all she’s doing is making the three of them targets. I don’t want them to get hurt because of my mistakes.

I am drawn out of my thoughts by a high pitched whistling, which cuts in and out of existence as it moves ever close. Jerome. Shit. If he’s coming for me, then I have no time. I let panic take over, making me grab one of the chair legs from the floor, ignoring the splinters digging into the palms of my hands, and position myself next to the door. If Jerome is coming in, then I can get a good hit as he comes in the door and run. I don’t know how much time that’ll give me, but it’s better than sitting and waiting for him. I spread my legs slightly to lower my centre of gravity, remembering my training with Bruce. Jerome’s whistling grinds to a halt as he stops outside of the room, and I realise too late that I’ve left the television on. If he can hear it, then he’ll know I’ve managed to get free. I can only hope that it’s too quiet, and he’s just stopped whistling because he wants to. But I know that would be too easy. I hear a series of bolts slide across and ready the chair leg, knowing that I am most likely going to get myself killed doing this. Then again, better to go out with a bang than become Jerome’s plaything. I hear the click of the lock and brace myself. The hinges creak slightly. I can still taste blood in my mouth, but my head has stopped spinning. I am ready.

The door slams open and Jerome takes barely a step in before I slam the piece of wood in my hands into his face. I’ve caught him by surprise, and he falls down onto one knee. I don’t wait to see what he does, leaping over him like a hurdle and sprinting down the corridor in front of me. At the end of it, I take a left, my feet pounding in time with my heartbeat. The corridors seem endless, twisting and turning, like a maze with no exit. I pause for a second to glance behind me, and upon seeing nothing but an empty corridor I slow down. I’m not foolish enough to think he’s just going to let me go, but I hope that I have lost him for now. I continue down the corridor, checking at every junction for that flash of red hair. I go to exhale, to give myself a break, when I hear him. His voice echoes through the building, coming from every direction.

“Harleen! Come out, come out, wherever you are!” I break into a run again, straining to locate the source of his voice and avoid it at all costs. “And I thought we were having fun!” I hear a gunshot, and jump to cover my mouth before a yelp can escape, giving me away. The shot sounded close. I keep pushing forward, knowing that to stop now is to die. Glancing down a corridor to my right, I skid to a halt at the sight of a window. Freedom. I change direction, sprinting towards it. When I reach it I press against it, trying to judge how far from the ground it is. We’re a good few stories up, at least two, and I doubt that I’ll be able to survive the fall. But I might, and regardless of what happens at least I will be free. “Harleen! I will give you to the count of three to give yourself up! And if I get to three, well…” He bursts into a horrific cackle, “I don’t think I have to tell you, you will not enjoy it. But I will.” I search the rim of the window, looking for a latch to open it with, but there’s nothing. I guess I’ll have to chance it with a jump. “One!” I begin to back up down the corridor, wanting to build up momentum. Nothing would be worse than trying to jump through a window just to bounce off of it. “Two!” I take off at a sprint, preparing for the imminent pain of crashing through solid glass. But instead of leaping to my freedom, a figure tackles me at the last minute, pushing me to the ground and leaving me dazed. “Three.” Jerome. He’s lying on top of me, one arm either side of my body, crushing me. I stare at him for only a second before I begin to claw at him, screaming, thrashing at anything I can see. My actions do nothing to deter him, seeming only to encourage him by the stretch of his permanent smile. He grabs at my hair, twisting it around his hand and pulling me up. I stop my attack, grabbing at him in a futile attempt to escape. All I can do his grasp at his arm as he heaves me to the side, throwing me against a wall only to push up against me. I refuse to give up, pushing and scratching at his chest and face despite the pain in my body and head telling me to give in, to let him have me. He grabs my wrists with ease, squeezing them until I stop struggling. I know I’ve lost, and he knows I know it. I stare at his face, refusing to cry or show weakness. He matches my stare, his face serious for once. Somehow, seriousness is more terrifying than humour. More unpredictable. More deadly. He shoves my hands above my head, holding them slightly too high for comfort, and keeps them there with one hand. The other drags through my dishevelled hair and caresses my cheek, making me flinch away as much as I can, before resting at the base of my neck. A shudder runs through me and he shushes me, almost gentle if it wasn’t for the threat upon my life. He begins to squeeze, tighter and tighter until tears well up in my eyes that I can’t hold. They burst free, running down my face like a waterfall. “Please,” I don’t know what I’m begging for, death or freedom, but it brings a smile to his face. He leans forward, chasing my tears with his lips, kissing the tracks left in their wake and when a new droplet begins to fall his tongue darts out to taste it. He hums, and tightens his hold on my neck, pushing me over the edge into unconsciousness. The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is his eyes, blue, then green, then blue again, staring at my fragile, broken form.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

#flt #friends like these #jerome valeska fanfiction #jerome valeska #jerome valeska fanfic #jerome valeska x harleen quinzel #Gotham #Harleen Quinzel #jerome valeska/harleen quinzel #gotham fanfic #gotham fanfiction #gotham fic

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cloudbatcave · 4 years

Text

Notos - P1

Necahual dreamed of fire.

Flames sprang from tree to tree across the jungle with ravenous speed, choking her with billowing smoke as she ran, tripping and stumbling across roots and burning branches falling in her path.

There was no moon to guide her. Only the flickering, deadly glow of the encroaching flames.

Her breaths turned ragged, every gulp of air a dagger in her lungs. She panted, shutting her eyes as a spray of embers showered her, scorching through her short gray fur and scales.

A shriek tore itself from her parched throat as she fell, desperately crawling to escape the blaze -

-when she looked up, and saw a creature with a rippling void for a face.

The capulin sat bolt upright in midair. She was floating in a small stone room with one door and window. The night sky shimmered outside as she glided over to look outside and smiled at the reassuring sight of the crescent moon.

She sniffed the air and sneezed three times in a row from the dust that had accumulated on her body and clothes as she slept.

Wait, how long had it been?

With a dive and twirl, she swooped over to the stone calendar on the wall, whose magic had thankfully endured and which read…

Moon and stars! Had she really slept that long? Some guardian she was.

But then, if the Labyrinth itself hadn’t woken her, everything was fine. Probably.

Necahual almost crashed into the thick stone door in her eagerness to get out before remembering to pull instead of push it.

“Okay!” said the woman, having navigated that difficult prospect. She stood on the ground now, raising and lowering her birdlike feet as she got used to the ground again. It actually resisted her. “What to do first, what to do…um…”

Her tail, long and tapering with a cluster of feathers at the end, slapped the dirt in frustration.

Nearly a thousand years of sleep could make a person forget a lot of things.

She squinted up at the sky, eyes adjusting to the light she hadn’t been under for centuries. At least the air was the same. Wait. Was she an old lady now, technically?

No, she immediately decided. She was still young, and cool. Nothing was cooler than looking after the fountain of immortality.

“THE FOUNTAIN!”

Necahual screamed as she shot off the ground and zoomed at top speed toward the labyrinth’s heart.

She sighed with relief to see the vast tiered structure still reassuringly dry. What else would it be? Obviously, if there had been anything out of the ordinary, the Labyrinth would have woken her.

She was the guardian for a reason. Isn’t that what her father had said? ’Neca, you have to do this. No one else can.’

Perfect. Excellent. Wait.

If she’d woken up, someone had found a door.

“Aughhhhhokaywherearethey - thankyou!”

With a helpful rock spire having shot out of the ground to point the way, she flew off toward the first person who would meet her as the guardian.

They probably weren’t expecting someone whose long ears flapped behind her in the wind and occasionally slapped her in the face when she slowed down to look around.

Necahual wasn’t expecting to find someone fighting for their life.

A furred being in a blue mask and blue clothing was fending off three people with avian and feline traits with a fiery blade, quick and skillful enough that they had only a few cuts staining their pale pelt red.

Yet she could see them tiring with the droop of their brown ears, the slowing of their steps as their aggressors, while breathing heavily, pressed them against the wall of the maze that towered hundreds of feet tall.

Their blade was knocked out of their hand; the bird-felids scattered to avoid it as it charred the grass where it landed, but the fire from the blade did not catch and spread.

With grim beaked faces, they raised their knives in unison.

Necahual dropped out of the sky and kicked each one in the head. All three fell like sacks of rocks, likely concussed as they hit the ground unconscious.

She landed with her hands covering her mouth, fur standing on end as she shook slightly.

Did she really just do that…?

She turned around to check on the masked person, who was staring at her with as much shock as she felt.

Shock, and…was she reading those slitted eyes in the mask’s holes incorrectly…disbelief?

“Well!” They said, recovering enough to lean down to get their sword, and sheath it in a scabbard around their waist.

“Thanks for the rescue. I was in a slight spot of trouble.” They deadpanned, and their mask split open in a sharp-toothed smile.

They bow, and then curtsy, so they really must be a they: no gender, or at least none Necahual can recognize, and she remembers it’s rude to ask.

“I’m Zolteotl. Are you by any chance the guardian?”

“Necahual!” She blurted out, then wince, whiskers twitching in embarrassment. “I mean, yes I am, my name’s Necahual. Ahem.”

She stood up straighter, her voice more serious.

“Why do you seek the fountain of immortality, Zolteotl?”

They stare, those slitted blue eyes disconcerting, but after a minute they speak.

“My people are dying. There are only some thousands of us left - maybe less since I left two days ago. I don’t need the water for myself; I didn’t catch the plague. I need it to keep everyone else alive before it kills them all.”

“If they drink it, they will be sick until they are cured.” She warned them, black eyes full of caution.

“We can find a cure eventually. At least this way there’s a chance.”

They’re young too; their voice sounds barely older than her, though the mask makes it hard to be sure.

Did their people trust them with this too? Did they have family who wished them well?

Her heart ached swiftly and suddenly for this bloodied youth whose life she just saved.

“Your reason is sound, and your skill in combat is worthy of the trials.” She announced, arms crossed as she floated back up in the air.

Her black eyes shone with an iridescent gleam, like the colors of an oilslick. A symbol - a series of nested shapes, circle square and triangle in a larger circle - appeared in stark black lines on the stone of the wall.

Around them there was a thin blazing outline of light, forming a door from the solid rock that opened.

Necahual floated over to Zolteotl, the tip of her tail almost brushing the tips of their long brown ears.

“Go in, seeker of immortality. Your tests will start soon.” A wind blew through the moonlit night and while she could only see their eyes, she could swear they were smiling behind their mask.

After they had stepped in and the door sealed shut behind them, melding back into the wall, Necahual sniffed the wind that had picked up. A rotten odor had drifted in.

Curious, she floated off to investigate and found, to her mounting horror, dozens of corpses around the walls of the labyrinth. She flew for minutes - perhaps hours - and there seemed to be no end. They had obviously died twisted in agony, some with foam flecking their mouth. There were species from what she assumed must be many worlds, each different from the next.

All had died horribly.

When she came back to the place where she’d left the blue-masked seeker, one of their attackers was struggling to wake. She landed by them.

“What happened? Why is everyone dead? Were these all immortality seekers?”

The creature’s beaked face looked at her in pure fear, and they spoke with a voice slurred by the damage she realized she had done to them with her blow.

“Don’t…don’t let them in…you don’t understand…tlaztal…”

“That’s rich! You were the one attacking them! For all I know - ” Her eyes widened as the thought struck her, and her fur stood on end. “For all I know you and your friends were the ones who killed them all! That’s so awful! Is poor Zolteotl the only one who survived?”

The wounded attacker laughed, so hard that it turned into a gurgle, and then they too died. At least there was no foam around their mouth.

Disturbed, Necahual took several steps back. What had just happened?

She’d killed someone. Three someones. She hadn’t meant to!

Zolteotl was safe. At least one seeker had survived. She’d done her job, even if very badly.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. She’d bury them, at least. She didn’t have time for everyone around the wall, poor souls, but she could at least do it for them.

With magic and sweat, the deed was done. Trembling, she rose into the air again.

She watched as the labyrinth’s entryways, one by one, closed themselves off again to the other worlds. She watched as the maze rearranged itself, preparing to test its single challenger.

The guardian of the labyrinth looked up at the crescent moon, and she wept for everyone who’d died to find her maze.

Far below her, Zolteotl looked up at the sound of her cries.

Behind their mask, they smiled.

#notos gets a VAST rewrite #but my cover is still legit #cloud writes #notos

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sweetlangdon · 5 years

Note

headcanon request! i don't know how into hawthorne!michael you are, but I'm knee deep in writing him at the moment so am obsessed. If you haven't done it before (or have, but aren't tired of it), would you be able to do hawthorne headcanons?

Hawthorne!Michael is one of my favorite phases of his life, and if they had given us an entire season of just Hawthorne and Michael’s growth while he’s a student there, I would’ve loved that. I still want to know more about the warlocks and their magic and culture, beyond the petty war against the witches and the sexism.

Under a cut, because it’s longer than I thought it would be!

Hawthorne Michael Headcanons

It takes him about a week or so to get used to it, but Michael likes the Hawthorne uniform. It instills him with a sense of style, which he also develops from being around his fashion conscious instructors.

Also consider (one of my favorite things tbh) casual!uniformed Michael. After hours, doing homework or practicing incantations in his dorm. His blazer is off, he’s got the sleeves of his crisp white button down shirt rolled up to the elbows and he’s lost his tie somewhere on the floor the minute he walked into the room.

Michael catches onto the curriculum easily, even though he’s new. He likes learning and having structure to his days, which isn’t something he’s used to. There’s so much to learn, and although he has ulterior motives, I think he’d be genuinely interested in the warlocks’ magic style.

His adjustment period isn’t without its issues, though; he has a trouble-making streak a mile wide even though his manners are impeccable, his advanced mind makes him quick to speak out of turn in class, and he’s used to doing what he wants when he wants so having rules at first is not something he likes. During the first week, he’s often late to his classes.

Though the other students are quick to welcome him, he has some difficulty making friends and finding a social circle. He still has the mentality of a child despite being a magical prodigy, and the disconnect between himself and his classmates is apparent. He’s awkward and socially inept, not used to having peers. And even then he can’t really relate to them and their experiences.

Hawthorne is a maze, and Michael is eager to explore it. He’s been caught after curfew wandering the halls, discovering new rooms. He has the whole place memorized within two weeks.

He likes having classes in the library; it’s the heart of the school and it’s cozy and the books are interesting. Sometimes, if it’s late and almost abandoned, his fingers will ghost over the keys of the piano. He might even attempt to learn how to play it. (His mother was a musician, after all.)

Michael loves the praise/adoration he gets from Ariel about his progress even though the pressure of potentially being the Alpha gets to be a little too much sometimes. Michael’s favorite instructor, though, is Behold because he really enjoys his teaching style and sense of humor.

There are students who loathe Michael because they’re jealous of his advanced magic. Others struggling with their studies shyly seek Michael out for extra help, and he becomes the unwitting leader of a study group.

(All of this just feeds his ego and that’s part of why he becomes so confident and smug and cocky, which I love.)

Michael started learning Latin while under Ms. Mead’s roof (she was adamant about it) and it becomes useful, of course, at Hawthorne. Incantations and spells in Latin roll of his tongue easily; he’s one of the most proficient speakers at the school.

Michael using transmutation to break rules, especially curfew. I love the image of him up in the rafters or clinging to the ceiling to hide from instructors. The little shit.

Hawthorne gives the boys rare occasions to leave the school for days off or whatever, and Michael and his friend group of course get up to trouble in town. The town kind of treats them all as if they’re cryptids.

Several of his classmates develop crushes on him (it’s unavoidable, obviously), and he doesn’t know what to do about that. He may be an arrogant ass on the outside, but he has zero clue how to navigate romance or lust or infatuation, much less consider if those feelings are something he feels. But this might be the start of him observing how his beauty influences others and how he can use sensuality to his advantage.

Most of the Hawthorne staff worships him and his potential, some, like John Henry, are distrustful and wary or even afraid of him, but I like the idea of him having at least one instructor who looks past his power and nurtures his human side. There’s someone at Hawthorne who sees this skittish, moody loner who’s having trouble fitting in and adjusting to this new life and actually helps him. He’s a person Michael can open up to about whatever, even if Michael can’t talk about his true identity.

The meals at Hawthorne are fantastic, but sometimes Michael really gets homesick for Ms. Mead’s kitchen and her French toast.

Michael using one of the rooms on the lowest floor (maybe the same room he uses for the blood ritual in episode 3?) after curfew as a secret ritual room, trying to contact his father. It’s not as involved as that blood ritual; just a circle of candles and a haphazard pentagram drawn in charcoal on the floor. He never answers, never really gives Michael a sign of his presence, but Michael does it anyway to try and understand more about where he came from and what his purpose is.

And this one is AU, but I’m personally intrigued by the concept of a handful of Hawthorne students who see Michael for who he is, the Antichrist, and have secretly pledged themselves and their magic to the dark and to Satan. They decide they’re loyal to Michael and even though they hide in the shadows, they’re his first followers.

#michael langdon #fic: headcanons #fic: hawthorne era #ahs fic #michael langdon imagine #ahs imagine #ahs apocalypse imagine #ahs fanfiction #ahs apocalypse #ask

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avasilvugh · 5 years

Text

we are the impact and the glue

find it on: ao3 ff.net

my ko-fi

They've never talked about kids, Lena realizes abruptly one night when she's, of all things, glued to the television and watching Kara battle it out with a pair of six-armed Fort Rozz escapees. She's not sure what brought the thought about—it probably started surfacing when Kara ducked a blow and swooped down to move a little girl that had wandered into the street out of danger, making sure to tuck the stuffed animal she'd dropped back into her arms.

It doesn't fully land until she's watching Kara get slammed into the concrete by one of her opponents and seeing the DEO agents on the ground rushing forward. In the seconds before Kara staggers to her feet and shakes it off, Lena thinks about how very little they've talked about the future. How so much of that is Lena's doing, too afraid that she'll lose Kara one way or another the moment she starts laying down plans.

She's not sure she wants to continue like this anymore, not when she has Kara, more than human, better than she could ever dream of being—why put it off when she has the best partner to plan with?

It's become routine in the nearly four years they've been together; Kara is injured and ends up in the DEO's med bay, Alex fussing over her until Lena arrives and accepts the baton. She beats them to the DEO this time, lead foot on the gas and emotion pressing against her ribcage, making it hard to think anything other than Kara, Kara, Kara.

Kara had managed to get her clearance for certain areas of the DEO as a present for their anniversary a couple years ago, meaning that Lena no longer had to wait outside the building until Alex or Winn or J'onn arrived and took her to Kara. It's something that Lena's never taken for granted, this trust in the form of an ID card, pressed into her hands so gently. But it's moments like these that she's so grateful for it that she could cry.

Lena waits in the medical room, seated beside the sun bed that Kara's sure to be relegated to for the next few hours. When Kara limps in, leaning heavily on J'onn with Alex just behind them, lips pressed into a thin line, Lena straightens in her chair, slides her purse to the floor and stands.

She's not so foolish to think that she can help Kara more than J'onn can at the moment, or than Alex can in the next, but Kara's entire posture relaxes when she sees Lena and her smile is small, but Lena's still sure it could power at least the top ten floors of her building. Lena likes to thinks that she can help a little, at least.

She stays on her feet until Kara's been carefully rolled onto the sun bed, biting her lip as her girlfriend winces at the movement. J'onn is quick to leave, gruffly instructing, "Rest, Supergirl," before he disappears back into the maze of halls whence they came.

It's only when Alex starts her checks that Lena takes a seat. There's still a level of tension in the air, left over from the scare of watching a nigh-invincible superhero get thrown around like a ragdoll, so she stays quiet as Alex worries over her sister.

"You should've waited for back up," Alex scolds as she shines a light in Kara's eyes, checking her pupils. "That shit show could've been so much worse."

Kara scoffs, ducking the slap Alex aims for her shoulder. "How was I supposed to know they'd both have six arms?" she asks, the indignation in her tone clear. "Who expects twelve arms, Alex?"

"I—," Alex breaks off, swinging her gaze to Lena. "You're with me on this, Luthor," she more commands than asks, raising an eyebrow at her when Lena hesitates.

"Would you have guessed I'd be ducking twelve arms, Lee?" Kara asks, turning to pout at her girlfriend as well.

Oh no, absolutely not. Lena has learned never to get involved when the Danvers sisters argue, even over something relatively benign such as this, even when Kara's safe and they're arguing about things in the past. She says as much, earning a half-hearted glare from Kara ("We're not that bad," she grumbles) and a look of begrudging respect from Alex, though she's obviously a little irritated she didn't side with her.

Lena won't say it out loud, at least not now when Kara's laid up like this, but she does agree with Alex.

"Alright dummy," Alex says finally, soothing any hurt from her tone with a kiss to Kara's forehead. "You've got to hang here for a couple hours to charge up. I'll be around, but I'm sure I won't want to be in here." She directs the last part towards Lena, giving her a significant look. A look that very obviously said no 'I'm happy you're alive' sex until you are somewhere far away from me.

Lena had no intentions of going against Alex's wishes—one intensely awkward encounter was more than enough for her.

After Alex leaves, it takes Kara all of a second before she's trying to sit up. "Oh no, no," Lena huffs, up on her feet in an instant and pushing Kara back onto the bed. "You're here until Alex clears you."

"I just wanted to kiss you," Kara whines.

Rather than responding, Lena leans forward to kiss her girlfriend chastely. Some of the urgency, the need to be near her has worn away now that Kara's in front of her, beneath her hands and lips and still so warm and whole. The sudden press for plans, for the future has dulled enough that Lena's heart settles back where it should be and some of the knots in her stomach untie themselves.

When Kara's this exhausted, she likes to just listen, to let someone else do the talking for once. It had taken Lena quite some time to adjust, to learn to ramble in detail about the tiny inconveniences of her day, but now it's second nature. She waits until Kara's settled back onto the sun bed before she starts in on her investor meeting this morning, the one she'd had to pry herself away from Kara for. The reminder sets Kara's cheeks aflame and Lena cuts herself off to tut, "You weren't blushing this morning," earning her a soft laugh, though it's tempered by the wince that immediately follows and Kara pressing a hand to her likely still bruised ribs.

That's enough to throw the reality of their lives back into Lena's face. The change must show on her face (and to think she used to be so proficient at hiding her emotions—just another thing lost in the wake of Kara Danvers), because then Kara's trying to sit up, grimacing as she goes.

"Alex told you to rest," Lena scolds her, pushing down on her shoulders in an attempt to get her girlfriend to lay back.

Kara relents, finally, but frowns up at Lena just the same. "What's wrong?" She points an accusatory finger at Lena—or, rather, Lena's forehead. "You're doing that thing with your eyebrows."

There's no use in lying—there's no instinct to either. Lena just shifts so that she's leaning her elbows on the edge of the sun bed and takes one of Kara's hands in her own, bringing it to her lips for a soft, brief kiss before setting it back at Kara's side. She clasps her own hands then, rests her chin on the back of one.

"Today was terrifying," she admits quietly. "Those moments before you got up were some of the—," she pauses, searching for the right word. "Some of the worst of my life."

Kara's brows draw together as she presses her lips into a thin line, the corners of her mouth twisting down. "Lena," she breathes and it looks like she wants to say more but they both know there's no promise she can make. Lena's made her peace with that.

"We should talk about this when you're not laid up like this—."

"Lena."

"Would you—I mean," she stumbles over the words. Stops, stills. Kara's always given Lena her full attention when she speaks and, by this time, Lena's used to it, used to someone caring about what she's saying and thinking and feeling, but now it feels heightened and she struggles to get around the lump growing in her throat. "Have you ever thought about—."

Lena's face heats up when she finds she can't force the words out. Because this should be easy, because this is Kara, but the words are sticking at the back of her throat and Lena can't find a work around for them.

There's gentle pressure on her hand and Lena looks down with a start, only just now noticing that Kara's pulled her clasped hands apart and is holding one in her own; she's leveling Lena with a soft, steady gaze, one that Lena's grown accustomed to receiving from Kara.

But this time feels different, more significant. Lena's has the altogether irrational thought that this is one of those now or never moments, that if she doesn't ask the damn question, she'll never get around to it and, while she's entirely happy with the way things are now, there's a part of her that's itching for tomorrow.

"Have you ever thought about the future?" Lena asks, and it's not the real question, but she hopes Kara understands what she's getting at. A small part of her berates herself for her words—concise language, some voice that sounds too much like Lillian hisses. Because they have talked about the future and they have even talked about their future.

Finally, Lena asks in a small voice, "Kara, do you want children?"

And the moment hadn't been light by any means, but now it crystalizes, freezes, and the weight behind whatever answer Kara has feels like it could break this, break them. Because Lena's not sure if she wants children, but she's not sure that she doesn't, and this was the wrong time to bring this up, she knows, not now, not when Kara's exhausted and Lena's emotionally wrought. But she's said it and now, when she looks up, she sees the very careful way Kara's watching her.

Lena thinks she's seen that look before—that night when all the pieces fell into place for them, when Lena had finally put words to the warmth that would bloom in her chest every time Kara's smile was directed at her. When Kara gave her this look before she leaned in, before she asked if she could kiss Lena. It's not searching, really. Or, if it is, it's searching with a purpose, for recognition of something that Kara's feeling as well.

Which is why Lena's not all that surprised when Kara answers, "I'm not sure, but I think so. Maybe."

She leaves what would surely follow her answer unsaid—only if you want them too. Only if things calm down. Only if I could keep them safe. Only if the reality of their lives could somehow sync up with the reality that would be raising children.

"Oh," she hums, turning it over in her head. It's silly now, after she's the one that posed the question, but Lena's never really given the idea much thought. Never let herself wonder much further past the general nebulous concept of children. She loves children, a fact she only discovered a handful of years ago when she had the time and means to begin to partner with local orphanages and group homes; she knows Kara loves children, if the delight on her face whenever she clocked someone's baby at Catco was anything to go by. She shouldn't be so on edge because of an answer she knew was coming. "Right," she manages.

"Lena, that doesn't mean—."

"No, no, I'm not upset or—or anything like that." And she's not, truly. She's just—worried is probably the best word. Worried that she won't be able to give Kara everything she wants and deserves. Worried that the universe will intervene in some other horrifying way. "I just want so badly to—to be able to know I can give you that, if you want it."

Kara's hand slides over Lena's, palm warm when Lena flips her hand over to lace their fingers together. "That's—Lena, if we have children or not, it's not all on you. It'll be a decision we make, together. But," Kara murmurs, shifting to face Lena fully, "maybe you were right. This probably isn't the right time to talk about this."

It's not. Kara's bruised, exhausted, and Lena is drained, still reeling from the scare earlier in the night. She just wants to be home, with Kara; wants to be warm and safe and curled up in their bed—Kara's bed, technically, but that's more a formality than anything else. Lena wants to go home. She wants this all to feel settled, wants this weird thing that's taken hold of her chest to go away.

Lena nods, lays her free hand over their conjoined ones. "Okay," she acquiesces. "I'll call Alex in?" When Kara nods, Lena stands, keeps her hands over Kara's for as long as she can as she moves towards the door. "But we're talking about this later."

...

It doesn't come up for another two years. Lena means to bring it up sooner, has a thousand different opening lines for that conversation, but any time she gets the nerve to, the universe has the perverse sense to throw another crisis their way; one time it's Lillian reappearing and wreaking havoc on one of L-Corp's production facilities in Bangkok, sending Lena halfway around the world for weeks and sending the DEO into crisis management mode to try and get a handle on whatever it was Lillian was planning.

The next time, it was the first weekend both she and Kara had absolutely zero work commitments and Lena had planned on it, she had, but then Kara had to help with a fire outside the city and when she came back, soot covered and smelling of smoke, burning rubber, she'd wanted a hot bath, a glass of wine, and to be held. Who was Lena to refuse her?

Time and time again, something came up. And now they're here and Kara's on one knee and Lena—Lena can't. Not with this hanging over them. Not with how far away Kara's eyes get when she talks about Krypton, talks about the traditions, the culture she lost in the losing of her home. When she thinks about how Kara will have to lose the promise of that all over again, just because Lena's unsure.

"Lee?" Kara breathes, starting to stand, to reach for Lena, but she shakes her head, shakes her off and joins her on the floor.

"We never talked about it."

"Talked about—?" Kara starts, before trailing off. "Oh. Yeah." She shifts so they can sit side by side, leaning up against the kitchen counters. Lena reaches up, back blindly, flips off the stove. They'd been in the middle of cooking dinner when Kara had asked. She doubts they'll get back to it, regardless of what happens next.

It gets very quiet. For several long minutes, the only thing Lena's human ears can hear are the sounds of her and Kara breathing—still in sync, still matching breath for breath—and the clock, relentless. Finally, she breaks the silence.

"I do," she says, staring at the wall, catching Kara turning towards her out of the corner of her eye. "I do want to marry you."

Kara lets out a breath, reaches for Lena's hand. She laces their fingers together, keeps looking at Lena while Lena moves her gaze to their joined hands. When it becomes clear she's not going to continue—at least not without a little push, like most things—Kara exhales, "Okay. Well, I want to marry you too." She pauses, then huffs out a laugh. "Obviously."

She pauses again. Squeezes Lena's hand gently. "So, we want to marry each other," she says slowly, waiting for a further explanation.

The words stick in Lena's throat, but she forces them out anyway. "I still—I'm still not sure—," she chokes on the rest of the sentence. Swallows the words instead.

She's not sure how to put it? Not sure the best way to say that she thinks she wants it—wants the kids and the house and the minivan, wants it all with Kara, but that she's still so scared, so worried that maybe Lillian broke her, made her something entirely incapable of the sort of love that parenthood requires.

But maybe—maybe, she thinks that Kara understands. Because she's nodding and pulling Lena into her lap and holding her close. "I want you," she assures her evenly. "Everything else is…everything else, you know? I want to marry you because you're you and I love you. Alright?"

Kara leans in, tilts her chin down, asking for something—through the fog, Lena recognizes the motion instinctually, leans in as well to rest her forehead against Kara's. "I love you too," she says in response. "I want to marry you."

"So that's a yes?"

"That's a yes."

...

"How would you want to go about it?" Lena asks, resting her chin on Kara shoulder and smiling at the baby in her arms.

They're on Earth-1, visiting Barry and Iris after the birth of their first child; Nora is wonderful, chubby and bright eyed and gurgling happily at every person that holds her. She's probably the strongest argument for parenthood that Lena's ever encountered.

Which is why she's even managing this now, even figuring out the words to put to her feelings. Kara lit up when baby Nora had been passed to her, her entire demeanor shifting, her attention moving immediately to the grinning infant in her arms and—god. Lena knew.

It was innate, inherent; in one moment, she wasn't considering it again, wasn't thinking about anything beyond how entirely adorable the baby was and the next her heart was cracking open at the very idea of having this, having Kara glowing, having a little baby that looked at them with as much adoration.

It was enough to make Lena think logistics; think about how Kara can't really pull off a pregnant superhero, but how she's a high dollar target for hitmen. Think about how just about every adoption agency will take a look at her name and turn them away.

She can't let her mind go too far, needs Kara's input first.

And—jesus. Kara's looking at her like she's a goddamn miracle.

"Are you serious?"

And it feels new, feels fragile still. Not them, but this sense of certainty within Lena, the cautious wonder in Kara's voice. She considers her next words carefully.

"I think," she starts slowly, "that it would be naïve of us to consider starting a family without first discussing specifics. What path we want to pursue, when we want to aim for—." Lena breaks off, catches her breath. Catches Kara staring at her, full of awe. "What?"

"You're not just saying this because you think it's what I want to hear, right?" Kara asks, brushing her hand over the downy hair on Nora's head. "You actually mean it?"

This thing, this part—it feels important. Like whatever Lena says or does now predicts their future trajectory.

She nods carefully, small smile growing wider to reflect Kara's blinding joy.

...

They talk to Alex, briefly, when they return. No specifics, just—is it possible? Is it silly to consider it? Lena is just as happy to adopt – slightly prefers it if she's being honest, even with the obvious additional hurdles they would face – but she knows the level of comfort afforded to Kara if they were to have a powered child, a child that she couldn't accidentally hurt somehow. Even if the thought terrifies Lena a little, takes her breath away.

But there's still that image in her mind, a little golden child, shining brighter than the sun itself. She wants that, Lena realizes. She desperately wants that.

"We don't have to," Kara says one night. They were just home from the DEO after Lena went through a battery of tests just to see if she was even a viable candidate and, quite frankly, Lena is exhausted from baby talk. Exhausted from learning all the ways it could go wrong and leave them bereft, devastated.

Lena's spent a lot of time crying over all those things—always when Kara's on Supergirl rotation, out of super hearing distance or too distracted by more pressing matters to listen. It could be fine, but Lena is human and fragile and this hypothetical baby may be as well, might be just as susceptible to the pitfalls of pregnancy, if not more so, combining two species' DNA. Even still—

"Don't be ridiculous," Lena huffs. She doesn't mean to be short, she really doesn't. But it's tiring to go over things she thought they'd already decided. "I'm fine."

"Lena."

Kara's watching her from the bed, cross legged and leaning up against the headboard while Lena busies her hands with anything – anything but this. But facing facts. But approaching this head on.

She has to, though. They promised this in their vows: to always be honest with each other. To stop hiding the bad parts of themselves away.

"I'm terrified," she manages, tears springing unbidden. Kara reaches for her and Lena drops the laundry she was folding, crawls onto the bed to join her wife. "There are so many things that can go wrong."

"We don't have to—."

"I want to, though," Lena interrupts, tired of that same argument, knowing it was always made for her benefit. "I want this and now I know all the ways I may lose it."

Kara leans forward and pulls her close, one hand reaching up to pull the pins from Lena's bun, then the elastic before she shakes her hair free. "I'm scared too," she says quietly.

Lena doesn't know how to make this better, easier for them—that's Kara's wheelhouse, really. Always quick with a smile and something to take Lena's mind off whatever it is that's worrying her. Lena's not sure how she does it.

"But we're scared together, okay?" Kara murmurs, pulling Lena out of her own mind. "That's the beauty of it. We're in this together."

And she sounds so earnest and so entirely Kara that Lena can't help but nod, can't help but be pulled into her wife's embrace, can't help but collapse against her. Can't help but find some comfort in how her hands are a little unsteady as she begins to card through Lena's hair.

They're in this together. Lena can work with that.

...

Sometimes, late at night when Kara's been asleep for a few hours at least and Lena's kept up by the insistent pressure on her ribs – when it's just her and the kiddo awake, Lena's terrified. Which feels wrong, considering how much she wants this child, considering how happy she was when she found out about them. But sometimes, when it's very late and Lena presses a hand to her belly only to feel a little foot or elbow press back, she's choked by fear.

How is she to know for sure if she's even up to the task of motherhood? It's not as if she has any shining examples to follow; her own mother – her birth mother – is little more than a fever dream now, the ghost of a hand pressed to her forehead when she was very small and very ill, the lullaby she finds herself humming when she's particularly tired or worried.

And Lillian – well. At the very least, Lillian serves as a playbook of what exactly she should not do.

Here is the root of her fear then: it's not that Lena doesn't want this child. It's that she wants them so much, perhaps more than she had wanted L-Corp, perhaps more than she had wanted Kara – and there's a part of her that worries that the universe will realize that she has already been given too much.

With each passing day, Lena loves the little person she carries even more. And with each passing day, she knows the price she would pay were she to lose them grows exponentially.

Loving a hero – that comes with its own terrible math. Lena knows it well, has done it time and time again to try and pinpoint exactly how much it would hurt to lose Kara, how terribly she would be devastated in her absence. She's dedicated an inordinate amount of time to thinking about the stop-gap measure she'd need to put in place to ensure that she wouldn't slip down the same path as Lex had, that she wouldn't let heartbreak and grief cloud her vision so entirely that she could not see the good of the world anymore.

But there is no math to be done with a child. Anything Lena can imagine now – she knows it would be worse. Ten times, a hundred times, an infinity of grief that would only get worse as the years pass, as she marks what would have been their birthday, their prom, their graduation.

She's not sure there are enough stop-gaps or safety measures or reminders in the world that could keep her mind free of that awful, mind-numbing grief.

On very bad nights, she's started wondering if that's what really sent Lillian towards Cadmus; not the loss of Lena – she'd never dream of ranking so high in her mother's priorities – but the loss of Lex. He may be living, but her brother is little more than a shell of himself and, perhaps, that might be worse.

Was that what truly did Lillian in? She'd never been all that warm or caring of a mother before, but she hadn't been so outright cruel – had made an effort even, sometimes. But then Lex happened.

The few times she's mentioned these fears to her therapist, she'd been redirected to the question of whether Lillian had ever actually been a mother to Lena or if that was just the remnants of the woman's emotional abuse talking. But even if it was, the fear remains.

Tonight, she can't seem to remain still and slips out of bed slowly, trying as hard as she can to allow her wife to remain asleep. Kara's taken to getting up and staying up with her whenever she can't sleep, but that's unsustainable for them both and, when it comes down to it, Lena can move around her schedule to allow for napping – the perks of owning your own company.

The nursery is across the hall, the door left open and windows cracked just the slightest to allow the lingering smell of fresh paint to air out. They'd painted it mint (Seafoam green, she hears Kara admonish her) the weekend before, but the smell had stuck around. Even still – Lena loves to be in here.

The furniture isn't assembled yet, but it's all here, boxes placed roughly where they've planned on the actual pieces to go. There's stacks of onesies and tiny pairs of socks in storage containers, a short-term solution until the dresser they picked out is set up.

And there, in the corner, is Lena's favorite thing.

When Lena had mentioned, off hand, the faint memory she had of being rocked to sleep by her mother when she was very small – no older than two, she thinks, for the timing to be right – she hadn't thought anything of it when Kara had asked if she remembered what the chair looked like. She had, in fact, and she'd been so pleased for a reason to speak it into existence that she hadn't considered what it might mean that her wife was so interested in a chair from thirty years ago.

When Kara had told her to cover her eyes before she led her into then-office, the meaning became quite clear, quite quickly.

The glider looks old and comfortable, more like the one that she remembers than Lena even thought possible. For the briefest moment when she had first seen it, she had actually wondered if Kara had somehow gone back in time to retrieve it – it wouldn't have been the most outlandish thing Kara had done just to be sweet to her.

Lena had cried then, when Kara had led her into the room to see the first piece of the nursery in place, their desks shifted aside to make room in the windowed corner with the best view.

She still feels just on the edge of tears now as she pads into the room and eases into the chair, hooking her foot around the leg of the ottoman to pull it closer and prop her feet up on it.

It's silly but – even the deep emerald upholstery feels the same. Lena remembers being too short to quite get into the chair of her childhood, remembers the feeling of the fabric rubbing against her arms as she tried to find purchase to haul herself up into it when her mother wasn't around. She thinks about how her own child might form the same memories and begins to cry in earnest.

She doesn't speak about this much, about the hole in her chest the feels about the shape and size of her mother. Often, Lena doesn't think that she could find the words for it even if she wanted to.

How do you mourn a woman you hardly remember?

There's no one to ask, to gather details from in order to hold her closer, remember her fully. Perhaps Lionel would have told her, if she'd known to ask him when he was still alive. Perhaps, if she was very brave, Lena could have investigated on her own.

But the truth comes down to this: Lena can find herself struggling to remember her mother's name, some days.

The thought makes her cry harder, biting down on her lip to try and keep quiet. The baby moves again, unhappy and pressing up against Lena's ribcage.

Part of her fear is this, too. Her mother had been her whole world and then she had been gone in an instant, in the space of a breath. She had been smiling at Lena on the lakeshore in one moment and then she had fallen beneath the water in the next, never to return. And Lena remembers the ache in her chest, feels it still sometimes, the heaviness of absence, the knowledge of everything that may have been better, everything she may have avoided if her mother had resurfaced.

She'd never want to leave a child like that, she thinks.

There's some comfort in knowing that Kara would be there to hold their child's world together, some more in knowing the strength and resiliency of the family that Kara has built, the family that welcomed Lena and accepted her with warmth and care and love. Their child would not be left alone, that much Lena knows for certain; they would never know the same grinding loneliness that Lena feels creeping in the shadows on nights like these.

"Lena?" comes Kara's gentle voice, still in their bedroom but not for long. In the time it takes for Lena to suck in a single, shuddering breath, Kara must realize what's happening and then she's there beside her, faster than Lena can track, pushing back the hair in her face and wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"Sweetheart," Kara murmurs softly, so softly, breaking Lena's heart just to mend it again. "Come here."

Lena doesn't fight Kara as she scoops her up carefully, arranges them so that they're both curled up in the glider, Lena tucked up against Kara's chest. Why would she fight the care her wife is offering her? She knows that there was a time, not long ago, when she would have shied away from being seen like this, from being cared for like this. But they've both done a lot of work on themselves, on their relationship; Kara knows when to give her space and Lena knows when to not push for it.

They don't speak. Lena cries into the crook of her wife's neck until her eyes are itchy and her head is throbbing. Kara's arms are warm around her, grounding her to this life, to the home that they share, to the fact that she's not in this alone.

When Lena quiets, Kara presses a kiss to her temple. "What got you thinking?" she asks quietly.

"My mother." And when Kara opens her mouth, Lena clarifies. "Shannon, I mean."

A rush of air, as if Kara's deflated by the statement. "Oh."

Her arms tighten just a little, her hold a little firmer. They don't often discuss their shared grief – two motherless mothers, stumbling around in the dark. Eliza has done so much for them both, has raised and loved Kara just as she is, has accepted Lena and cared for her as if she had been doing so from the start. But the ache is still there, recognizable between the two of them. It's likely it won't ever really go away.

They stay like this for a long while, long enough so that the sun is beginning to crest over the city around them, the weak pink of sunrise filtering in through the shades over the windows.

"I'm going to call Snapper and let him know I'm taking the day," Kara tells her as the city comes to life below them. Somewhere further out in their home, Lena hears the gentle chimes of coffee maker turning on.

"Kara, that's not –," she starts to protest, until she looks up and is silenced by the look on her wife's face.

She looks raw. Stripped down and vulnerable, fear and worry and love in equal measures written across her face. Even down to the eyebrow crinkle.

Kara leans down to kiss her forehead, her touch warm. "Let's go back to bed," she says.

The baby kicks out once, twice, startling them both into giddy laughter. They've been kicking for quite some time now, but it's still a wonderful surprise when it seems like they do it in response to their voices.

"I think the kiddo agrees," Lena laughs, her voice still a little thick.

...

Despite being quite sore, Lena's not sure she's ever been so pleased to wake up in a hospital.

It's a bit of a tight squeeze, despite it being a queen bed that came with the outrageously expensive private suite Lena had booked. Between the IV and monitors that Lena's still attached to and the amount of pillows Kara had insisted on tucking behind her (which Lena grudgingly admits is helping relieve some of her discomfort), it's almost as if they're squeezed into a single together.

But despite all that – when Lena opens her eyes, she's greeted with Kara, still in the sweats and old NCU pullover she threw on in the rush to get to the hospital, gazing down at their son adoringly.

"I don't think I'll ever quite get over this," Kara murmurs. She's always been superhumanly good at knowing exactly when Lena's woken up. "He's just…gorgeous," she marvels.

"He is," Lena agrees. How could she not? Despite how light his downy hair is – he nearly looks bald, Lena thinks – his lashes are dark and lush against his chubby, soft cheeks. Lena doesn't think she's ever seen a more perfect baby, and that's taking into account her own bias.

Kara manages to drag her attention away from their son – Lena's not sure how, really – and she turns her adoration to Lena. Even now, after all these years, she's still not entirely sure she's deserving of it, but she basks in it just the same.

"How are you feeling, Lee?" Kara asks, slipping one hand out from under Finn's swaddle to cup the back of Lena's head, bringing her in for a brief kiss.

Lena hums in contentment against her lips before she groans a little as she shifts back. Even with as little as she moved, she can feel the ache in her body spike. "Like I just went through the trial of childbirth," she grumbles half-heartedly, easing back against her pillow wall carefully.

Kara laughs, a delighted sound. "I'm not laughing at you," she promises, wrinkling her nose at Lena's look of faux-annoyance. "I just – we have a child, Lena."

And Lena can tell that she's searching for more words, but she doesn't need them – Lena knows, feels it just the same. This tender, open hearted thing that's sparked inside them, that's burning them up from the inside out in the best way. Lena could cry from happiness.

She does, actually, laughing as she wipes at her face and then laughing some more when she catches Kara doing the same thing, albeit awkwardly, her reach a little stunted with how she's holding Finn.

"Here," Lena says, reaching forward despite the sharp spike of pain. She wipes her wife's cheeks gently, her thumb brushing over her cheekbone, looking for any extra point of contact. "We have a child," she echoes, awestruck as she turns her attention back to their son, still slumbering in his mother's arms.

For all the pain and worry, all the fear and missteps – Lena can't fault them, can't bring herself to carry any residual anger or disappointment over things long past. Not if it brought them here.

Finn sleeps on in Kara's arms and Lena feels the insistent tug of sleep pulling at her too, her eyelids growing heavier by the second. The doctor had warned them that this could happen, that her body might need a little extra recovery time.

"You should sleep," Kara tells her softly. At Lena's drowsy look, she adds, "I'll wake you when it's time to feed him."

Well – there goes her argument.

As much as Lena would like to stay awake, her body has other plans. But here, in the quiet of their room and curled up beside her wife and child, Lena thinks that it might not be the worst to fall asleep like this again.

#supergirl #supercorp #lena luthor #kara danvers #so i revisted the superbabies!#again!

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mz-hide · 5 years

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Trick Of Might - Chapter 2

Aka: a Dragon Ball Z slash fic.

Chapter 2

Goku has a disturbing nightmare. Vegeta has a good, bad time.

Summary: An ancient enemy makes a sudden comeback into Goku’s life. Long-suppressed memories surface again and it’s no longer possible for the young saiyan to ignore them. Warnings: Dubious Consent, (because of drug use) Ships & Pairings: Bulma/Vegeta, Goku/Vegeta, Goku/Turles, Goku/Turles/Vegeta, Turles/Vegeta, Raditz/Turles, Nappa/Turles, Nappa/Raditz/Turles Contains: Threesome - M/M/M, Group Sex, Polyamory, Aphrodisiacs, Secret Crush, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Love Triangles, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Gay Sex, Biting, Scratching, Boners All Around, Feral Behavior, (just a tiny bit), Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content

You can find the rest on my AO3 page (username: originalmonkeyhydes)

Blows fell heavy from everywhere. The chase was urged too rapidly for him to react. Fists were alternated with jabs and with kicks. He couldn’t follow nor evade them. His body moved too clumsily, his reactions were too slow. He was completely at the mercy of his opponent. At some point he thought he’d found a chance to counter, but the other warrior disappeared from view faster than what he thought possible. Before he could do anything, a knee hit him hard in the stomach, making him bend forward and loose his breath. A kick followed rapidly, hard enough to lift him off the ground. He only had the time to catch a glimpse of his enemy’s grin before he was hit again, on the back. The power of this last blow hurled him downwards. He hit the ground hard. The impact dug a deep hole in the wood of the tree, burying him underneath a pile of debris. The pain was deafening. He let himself slip sideways and fall into a split between the roots. He was paralyzed. His head, his arms and his back throbbed from the scraping and the numerous wounds. For a long, terrible instant, the only thing he felt in his legs was a deaf numbness. He couldn’t get up, his limbs seemed to give up on him, refusing to support his weight. “What the matter, Kakarot? Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got.” Another kick made him roll on his back. He screamed, feeling his ribs threaten to crack. He opened his eyes. He struggled to get them to focus on the approaching enemy. Turles stood before him, gifting him with a mocking grin. “I’m going to ask you one last time, Kakarot, and I won’t take a no for an answer. Join me. You can take your son with you, if you want. Together we can conquer the entire galaxy, like true saiyans. We’ll be unstoppable!” “Never!” His voice sounded chocked, his throat ached. “I’m not like you, I’m not a true saiyan! The Earth is my home and it’s where I will stay!” Turles’ look hardened. The pirate’s hand curled among his hair and banged his head against the bark of the tree. Goku screamed. His ears were ringing impossibly loud. When the colorful spots that had blinded him faded, he saw Turles’ face extremely close to his own. A cruel smile ignited his features with a light that was all but reassuring. “It means that I won’t have any other choice but destroying your beloved planet and leave you no other choice then to join me. And then you’ll finally be mine, Kakarot…” Before he could do or say anything more, the dark lips of the pirate were on his, bloodied and already disclosed by ragged breaths. A molten hot tongue slipped into his mouth. When he recovered from the shock and realized what had just happened, he instinctively bit down. Turles swiftly pulled away, like he’d been burned by an open flame. From his broken lip blood dripped down onto his chin. The renegade saiyan touched the new cut and looked back up at him, incredulous. Then, to Goku’s immense astonishment, the dark saiyan began to laugh with sincere amusement, licking away the thick drops of blood that kept spilling from his mouth. “Oh yes… Sooner or later you will be mine, Kakarot.”

Goku woke up with a startled gasp, jumping up to a sitting position. HIs eyes darted from side to side, meeting the familiar walls of his bedroom instead of the ostile maze of roots. Next to him, instead of an enemy ready to jump him, lied Chi Chi, sleeping soundly and facing away from him. In the silence of the night the fast thrumming of his heart seemed to be the only sound. Goku ran a hand across his face. It was just a dream, he told himself. His eyes instinctively went to the dark skies outside his window. The countryside air was clear that night and the stars burned eerily bright. But why did I dream of that moment? No matter how hard he’d tried to dismiss them, his newly awakened memories kept cursing through his mind. He remember that moment well, possibly the only instant of his fight with Turles his friends hadn’t witnessed. He could remember it as clear as ever. He recalled how, once the initial shock had subsided, he had given that gesture little thought. His only focus had been the fight. He could have also told himself that the memory of that kiss had been just a trick of his adrenaline-clouded mind. Yet, he couldn’t convince himself completely, no matter how hard he tried. He could doubt his mind, but his gut never lied. He brought a hand to his lips. It had all come back clearly now, all those things he hadn’t thought about in years. He could still conjure up the taste of the dark saiyan’s blood - his velvety tongue - in his mouth and the indecipherable tone of his voice, half threatening, half dreaming. Goku asked himself what it had all meant and found himself fighting a strange uncomfortableness once again. He needed to cast those thoughts aside. Goku got up from the bed, slipping out of his pajama and into his training gi. He exited from the window, silent as a feather, flying away above the dark treetops of the forest. If there was something that could have used to distract himself was training. The solution to his problem was easy, after all. The young saiyan had never been one for thinking too much, after all. It had always been pure instinct to guide him and he could never remember a time where that had backfired on him. Yet, even with his mind emptied of unsettling thought, instinct still prompted him to raise his eyes to the sky. He couldn’t look anywhere else.The twinkling of the stars was almost hypnotizing. Despite not being able to perceive that strange aura, something inside him knew there was something up there for him to feel. It was something Goku couldn’t name but it told him he was never going to get it out of his system if he hadn’t gone to the end of that story. Then, he caught a purple glimmer far into the dark depths of space. It was entirely probable that it had just been a deceiving glare, a trick played on him by Earth’s atmosphere on his eyes. Though, the warrior didn’t waste a second thinking about it. True or not it was irrelevant. He knew now what exactly what he was going to do. The youth brought two fingers to his forehead and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

“Don’t you dare!”, the woman cried out between moans, instinctively jumping up to admonish her lover as soon as she felt his teeth grazing her skin. Vegeta grunted his dissatisfaction, grudgingly sinking his face and his fangs in his pillow, longing for the fragrant scent of her skin that he’d been compulsorily forbidden to break. He found himself clenching his teeth onto feathery softness instead, feeling the warm body beneath him move with the thrusting of his hips. It had taken him a long time to resist that instinct but there was no amount of time that would have sufficed to suppress it completely. He knew that. It was in is blood, after all. It was a primordial hunger the human woman could have never been able to sate fully, even if she’d let him violate the ivory crook of her neck. That was a concession the beautiful scientist didn’t seem to be willing to give him after the previous few painful experiences. Yet, that was a deprivation the prince would have had to endure if he wanted to keep enjoying that curvaceous, willing body. His lover didn’t seem to care for his denied needs. She was moaning and whimpering underneath him - a well-earned symphony to his ears, a welcome balm for his pride-, her flesh twitching delightfully around him. Vegeta tried to focus on that, instead of his sulking. One of his hands slipped underneath the woman’s stomach, his calloused palm grazing the soft curve of her groin until his fingers found what they aimed for, nestled into silky dampness. He confirmed for himself that he could still put his digits to good use, despite the difference in strength with his companion. Making her shiver and gasp like that with so little pressure was endlessly endearing to him. He’d been lucky to have found someone who could let him indulge in such wanton carnality. Bulma was once again lost in her own sensations, undisturbed by the Prince’s longing for the taste of her blood. How he would have longed to sink his teeth into her… Each day that passed convinced him that she might have been deserving of it. Yet, even so, it wouldn’t have done him any good. Dammit… dammit all to hell! His frustration soon became her pleasure once it translated into faster, harder thrusts. He kept it up until she finally cried out loud, the delicious tightening of her flesh bringing him to his own orgasm. He took a few seconds to collect himself before sitting up and getting off the bed the woman still lied on, blissed out and panting. Glistening drops of sweat gathered along the seductive curve of her back and her flushed, moist sex, perfectly visible between milky thighs. Vegeta had had his difficulties adjusting to the woman’s lack of a tail and her inexplicable habit of systematically remove body hair, even from places which - in his opinion - were more alluring with rather than without hair. However, he had to admit that the plump morbidity from the pregnancy had made his improbable lover even more attractive to him than before. The smooth, soft fullness he embraced at night was enough to make up for the last of hair. No matter how pleasant that sight was, however, he didn’t stared too long. After Trunk’s birth it had been easier for him to accept the idea of sharing Bulma’s bed with a certain regularity, even if they both kept avoiding any serious involvement. After the misunderstandings and the fights that had followed, Vegeta’s departure and his return, between them was in force a sort of silent agreement. Discussing the undeniable attraction between them was as pointless as it was trying to change the occasional nature of their relationship. Therefore, the saiyan had preferred to keep a certain distance that allowed him to be around the woman avoiding discomfort. Among the implicit rules of their precarious couple dynamic, there was one about sharing the bed just for some specific activities. Sleeping wasn’t included. Vegeta liked to have a bed of his own for that. In that specific occasion he was eager to regain his own space with a certain haste, in case his lover had the intention to bring up the potential biting accident they’d barely managed to avoid. However, he failed to leave the room in time. “Wait!”, the woman called with a shaky voice, still panting and dizzy, and gestured in the direction of the bathroom, “At least clean yourself up a little before you leave. What would happen if my parents saw you wandering around like that?” Vegeta had noticed several cultural differences between human and saiyan culture, but there were levels of decency shared by both. He listened to the woman’s suggestion and entered her bathroom to clean himself up. At that point he possessed a certain familiarity with her shower to know how it worked. As he was drying himself up he heard the ringing of a communication device from the other room and Bulma’s sigh as she got up to answer the call. The prince immediately lost interest for what was going on in the other room. He didn’t have the habit to eavesdrop, even when it came to his lover’s conversations. Yet, he couldn’t help but overhear as the other’s tone rose with apprehension. “Goku did what?!”, the scientist exclaimed, “Are you sure, Gohan?” Vegeta walked into the bedroom again, the towel hanging around his neck. Bulma was holding the receiver precariously between her cheek and shoulder as he hurriedly picked up the clothes she’d previously scattered around the room. It was obvious that something must have happened. Not that he cared for that idiot, but the fact that Bulma hadn’t even cast a glance in his direction was not good. Especially for his pride. “Of course you can. I’m not sure I understand exactly what’s happening… But yes, if it can help, I’ll do what I can. I’mm get to work immediately. It’ll take a while… but with a little luck I’ll try to be done by the time you get here.” She glanced in his direction. The prince had the distinct impression that the “little luck” she’d just mentioned might have had something to do with him. Another bad sign. Just as it was bad that apparently it had been Kakarot’s runt to call that late at night. It didn’t take a genius to come to the conclusion that something bothersome had happened. The warrior got dressed. Something told him he’d better be in operation order in a short while. “Vegeta”, the woman uttered slowly after hanging up the call, “I promise I will build you another one as soon as I can.” “Care to elaborate better?”, the prince demanded, despite the fact he knew he’d already guessed the answer. “Gohan and Piccolo need to take the ship. I know that it’s technically yours because you use it for training, I but I was the one who built it and… and I shouldn’t even be here asking your permission! There’s an emergency and my friends need a lift. I’m taking the ship!” Before he could return, Bulma had already jumped up and left the room. The two of them sure seemed to share the same strategies to avoid discussions, after all. Though, that was hardly the time to indulge in that kind of comparisons. “What kind of emergency?”, he demanded, following her. The situation was utterly irksome. Not only he was going to loose the space he used to train soon, now he had to chase the woman to know the reason why he was forced to suffer that deprivation. Furthermore, he had a bad feeling about that whole situation. “Apparently, King Kai warned Kami, Kami warned Piccolo and Piccolo told Gohan that- Oh, it doesn’t matter. There was a lot of word-to-mouth involved. Anyway, apparently Goku had a great idea and disappeared without warning anyone. Gohan says he used the instant-transmission to get to some nearby planet to check on I-don’t-know-what. I’m not sure I understand what his exact intentions are. I think it has to do with some kind of tree or something.” Those words made Vegeta’s ears prick up. “Did he say a tree?”

He didn’t need more than a second to understand what kind of tree stood before him. The sight in front of him sufficed to completely bring back the memories of the first time he’d laid his eyes on that monstrous plant. It had been years since then, but he knew he couldn’t be mistaken. It was the tree of might. The planet’s surface was hidden by a tortuous grid of roots, pulsing slightly with the energy they were absorbing from progressively deeper layers of the planet’s core. While the planet was facing his progressive extinction, the alien plant that was consuming it showed no sign of decline. If anything it was thriving. The tree looked darker but creepily more luxuriant than the what it had been on Earth. It was a lot chunkier in its proportions, though that didn’t diminish its magnificence. The imposing obsidian trunk split into chaotic bundles of branches that sustained an impressive amount of foliage. Dark leaves seemed to avidly absorbed the little crepuscular light of the tiny, faraway star the planet revolved around. Undoubtedly, hadn’t it been for the heat dispersed on the surface by the action of the tree, the planet would have been almost unbearably cold. Yet, somehow, the pleasant heat stirring in the incredibly humid air was made even more ominous by this notion. The planet probably didn’t have much longer to live. Not that it would have mattered, anyway. It looked deserted and uninhabited, after all. Goku had no reason to care for the destructive action of the tree, even though he couldn’t help but notice how much more advanced the stage of of it was compared to what he’d seen on Earth. The thought reminded him of something; he didn’t see any fruit anywhere, just some blossoms glowing dimly with a faint, crimson light. Even though they contributed to making the atmosphere even more eerie, their presence might have been a good sign, after all. I don’t remember seeing flowers like these when the tree took roots on Earth, he ruminated, looking about the place. The last time the tree grew at a monstrous rate and started producing fruits almost immediately. Here there’s none. Seems to me like there’s never gonna be some either. The roots had already completely encased the entire planet and there was no more space for them to grow any further, nor more energy to absorb. Once the core had been drained from all power, the tree would have died along with it. Those blossoms would have withered too. They looked at the end of their growing ciclo anyway. Their petals were full and engorged. In their centre they contained nothing but a hollow socket where a thick, crimson sap gathered. No sign of fruits nor anything that might suggest their future presence whatsoever. Plus, more importantly, no sign of the person that, long before, had caused Goku to get acquainted with the power those fruits actually carried within themselves. The young saiyan’s eyes grew dark below borrowed brows. It was true. There was no clue that might have suggested Turles’ involvement, least of all proof that he’d survived and that he was on that planet in that instant. Even if he had been alive, and the tree had been his plan, it seemed like he’d failed in his intent. Indeed, now that he though about it, planting the tree on such a puny planet felt like a plan destined to fail. It was clear even to Goku, who didn’t really know all that much about the Tree of Might. Yet, that was exactly what arose his suspicions. The fact that he couldn’t properly sense energy did nothing but enhance his apprehension. It sure would have been easy to conceal a power level, even a significant one, in that infernal landscape, where conspicuous waves of energy move constantly, coursing through twisted roots all around… There was no reason for him to linger further on that doomed planet. But there was no reason not to either. And the youth wanted to silence his fears once and for all. The warrior flew off again, his eyes sharp and focused, following the flow of energy towards the place where it was gathering. He headed for towards the trunk of the tree.

#Vegebul #kakavege #dbz #DBZ Fanfiction #dbs #dragon ball #my fics #Trick Of Might

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one-fucking-intimidated-wri-blog · 5 years

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Hey, if anyone is reading this!

Would anyone want to read my writing? I do just some of my own style of fantasy. It’s nothing special but I feel like I might want to get it out. I’m gonna post it anyways because what can I lose, so let me know what you think 😬😄

Ansley’s Books

Magnus Spears: a young boy in his twenties who loves a book store (aptly named Ansley books)

Leonard Ansley: an old, mysterious man who runs a bookshop that always seems to be closed.

The world is magical and Mr. Ansley has quite the secret...

****

Magnus Sears was walking down the surprisingly quiet city street. For being right in the middle of downtown, the cobble-stone paved road was relatively barren, just the occasional stray cat that skittered across the street and under haphazardly parked cars.

Magnus could feel the magic emanating from here, some houses giving off more energy than others, but magic was here nonetheless. Although most beings here knew magic, the modernization of the city blocked the feel of it; the rubber and concrete and heavy metal absorbing the reverberations that the spells put off. But here, with basic houses and more trees and plants than anywhere else in the city, the magic was able to easily permeate the air.

No house or shop looked alike; with a lack of major city funding, homeowners were free to build and decorate the houses as they pleased, something that always pleased Magnus. The well maintained, put together city always seemed disingenuous to him. To Magnus, magic was a raw, beautiful practice, but the rest of the world only seemed interested in making it as easily accessible and user-friendly as possible.

Alder street was one of the very few remaining places in Ohio that denied the oncoming slought of modern magic, and that is why Magnus spent so much of his time here.

He passed a few more earth-toned houses and brightly colored shops before he came upon his favorite; a run-down looking building surrounded by the most beautiful arrangement of flower beds on the street. The one small window rested just besides the front door, adorned by a small planter box filled with rosemary, basil, cilantro, and one plant that looked unfamiliar to Magnus.

This was Ansley Books.

Magnus walked up to the door, not without stopping to smell the fragrant lavender and the potent eucalyptus that lined the gravel walkway. Through the small and grimy window, he saw the faint outline of a closed sign. It was always up since the owner was a bit of a hermit. How he kept bringing in enough money to run the shop, no one knows. But nonetheless, Magnus walked up to the door.

He knocked. This was mainly out of politeness for the owner; for Magnus had been here a few times a week for almost a year now. He waited for a response, although he knew he probably wasn’t going to get one. The old man was likely lost in an old manuscript of some sort, oblivious to the young brunette man knocking at his door.

Magnus opened the door, which protested the action with a loud whine. The sunlight from the outside briefly lit up the dark room, illuminating motes in the air like little dusty fireflies. He shut the door behind him, and suddenly he was surrounded with the stuffy scent of old books.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing he was surrounded by hundreds of books. Each shelf was stuffed so full, the wood beneath the heavy bound paper was bowing with the weight. No book was the same, each title more obscure than the rest. There was a large amount of bookcases in comparison to the size of the building, but even with the intricate, maze-like pattern of them, it felt cozy rather than cramped.

Like the street, the store was eerily quiet, and Magnus could feel the magic in the air more tangibly than the air outside. Each book, he sensed, had some sort of spell, incantation, or hex put on it, and he swore he could feel each one separately. His skin tingled with the feeling.

How, Magnus wondered, was it possible for someone to have so many books?

After casually weaving through a few shelves, he made his way to the cluttered desk in the back of the room. Behind a rather large mess of papers sat an old man, looking to be around 70 or so years old. The wrinkles around his mouth and eyes were deep set, creased like someone etched the skin with the knife. Whether or not the man noticed Magnus enter or not, he did a great job at not showing it.

Magnus gently cleared his throat, the sound slicing through the silence the way a knife passes through jell-o. The man didn’t even look up to acknowledge him.

“Make me your best offer on a book, and don’t stay here for too long, I’ll be closing up soon.” The old man continued looking through the faded yellow papers scattered in front of him, clearly not interested in probably the only customer he’d have that day.

“What, no hug?” Magnus asked teasingly. The man didn’t think that was very funny, although the stony look on his face softened slightly at the sight of the young boy in front of him.

“Greetings, Magnus. I meant what I said, don’t stay here for too long. I have important things I need to tend to and I can’t waste my precious time.”

The man had said this before, many times, but by the time Magnus successfully roped him into an engaging conversation, all thoughts of the apparently high importance tasks dissipated into nothing.

I wonder how long I can keep him here today, Magnus thought. He never knew exactly how much time in the bookstore he would be granted, some days he managed to keep the man talking until late into the night. Most of the other times though, Magnus could only extract a few sentences before being shooed back onto the street.

“I was wondering if you have any books about ancient religions. Specifically Celtic?”

****

Let me know if you like it or want to be added to the tag list! I do admit, I love a busy life and also struggle with procrastination so I may not post consistently but I will try to post as much as I can!

#fantasy writing #romance writing #writing #writeblr #my writing #musings #short stories #validate me #read my stuff #Ansley Books #Magnus Sears #Leonard Ansley #bookshop #bookshelves #old man #tragic backstory

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jaceyneedsabetterusername · 6 years

Text

Fun House Of Horrors

Pairing: Teen!Dean Winchester x Teen!Reader

Warnings: Violence, Cursing

A/N: Tailor, Illinois isn’t a real town, just in case you were curious :P Hope you enjoy! I love feedback!

Word Count: 2830

You paced around your bedroom nervously, stopping every few rounds to check in the mirror and ensure that not a hair was out of place. You had to look perfect. Okay, maybe you were being a little dramatic, maybe even a little out of character for you, but this was Dean Freaking Winchester, the gorgeous new guy at your school.

You remembered the first time you laid eyes on him. It was Tuesday morning, three days ago now, and you were sitting in English class, trying with all your might to focus on what your teacher was saying and failing miserably due to the lack of sleep from staying up all night studying for a chemistry test you were pretty sure you’d failed. Just as the exhaustion nearly won over, the door opened and everybody’s heads shot to look at who had arrived. And there he was. Tall and tan with beautiful green eyes that looked around confidently, almost cockily. Your teacher quickly introduced him as Dean Winchester and sat him a few desks away from you. All of the girls were mesmerized by him and you were no exception. Just as you were about to look away, his eyes roamed to meet yours and he flashed a cheeky smirk that nearly knocked you out of your seat. His presence definitely made it a lot easier to stay awake that day.

Now it was Friday night and you anxiously waited for him to pick you up for your date to Tailor, Illinois’s annual Summer Nights Carnival! You’d gone with your friend’s every year since seventh grade but this was your first time ever going with someone as a date and you couldn’t lie: You were pretty damn excited. You checked the clock on your night stand. 5:54 pm. Dean said he’d pick you up at 6:00. After one last once-over in the mirror, you walked out to the living room to wait for the inevitable knock on the door.

Within minutes, you heard a loud engine arrive and turn off just outside your house. You watched as Dean got out of the beautiful black car, walked up to your door, and knocked. You waited a few seconds to answer, just to make sure it didn’t look like you were just waiting for him before opening the door, “Hey!” You smiled, a blush creeping up in your cheeks as his green eyes scanned over you.

“Hey beautiful. You ready to go?” He asked. You nodded before shouting a quick good-bye to your parents and heading out the door. “Hope you don’t mind but I brought my little brother Sammy and a girl he’s into. Things shouldn’t be weird though”

You couldn’t help the smile that appeared on your face at the way he seemed to love his brother. It wasn’t something you saw very often. Brothers always looked like they were trying to kill each other. “That’s totally cool! Oh- Thank you.” You thanked him as Dean opened the passenger door for you. As you waited for him to walk around the car, you looked back at the younger couple behind you, “Hi.” You greeted shyly. Looking at them, you almost started laughing. The blonde girl in the back seat was very obviously interested in Sam, while Sammy sat nervously on the other end of the seat, hands fiddling subtly in his lap while he shot longing side glances at her. It was adorable.

When Dean got in the car, you couldn’t fight the rising question, “So if you have a car, why do you always take the bus to school?”

He laughed mischeviously, “Well, it’s actually my dad’s but he’s passed out at the motel. Been working for days. So we’re just… borrowing it.” He added innocently.

“Motel?” You questioned.

He shrugged as he drove, “Yeah my dad travels a lot. It’s cheaper to just do hotels ‘n stuff than to buy a house or something.” That was definitely not the kind of information you were expecting. The rest of the drive went on with casual conversation with Dean’s occasional remark towards Sammy, trying to embarrass him in front of the pretty girl next to him.

Soon, you guys arrived at the carnival and all hopped out excitedly. Dean, being a gentleman, refused to let you buy the wristband that got you onto the rides but did let you pay him back by buying him a slice of pecan pie from a local bakery that had a booth set up. A few hours and several rides into the night, Sammy’s date, who you’d learned was named Claire, pointed out a particularly creepy looking fun house, “Is that a haunted house?” She asked.

“Looks like it.” You responded, looking at the creepy clown statue outside of the entrance and the strobe lights that flashed just inside. “Wanna go?” You asked the group, wiggling your eyebrows excitedly. Whether you hated haunted houses or loved them, you figured it would be a good excuse to get Dean to feel like he needed to hold you.

Sammy gave Dean an apprehensive look that didn’t necessarily say that he was afraid but seemed more like he was just... reluctant? Like going into this house was the last thing he wanted to do. Dean on the other hand shot Sam a look that shut down any rejection and winked at him, nodding slightly towards Claire, “I think it’s a great idea. Lead the way ladies.” He smiled, grabbing Sammy by the arm to keep the two of them a step behind. Behind you, you could hear Dean harshly whisper, “Dude, if she’s scared she’s gonna hold on to you. It’s easy contact!” You chuckled slightly then quickly acted like you heard nothing when Dean ran to catch up with you.

The man sitting outside of the entrance looked like he couldn’t have possibly been any more bored than he was in that exact second. The four of you flashed your wristbands at the seedy looking man and he waved you in.

If the darkness wasn’t enough to throw your eyes off, the strobe lights definitely were. Thank goodness for Dean who gripped your hand and led you until your eyes adjusted enough to see. You giggled a little, “It’s not like anyone wanted to see- AGH!” You screamed and jumped back as some loud mechanism shook in the wall right next to your head, startling you.

Dean laughed, “I got you, princess.” He put his arm around your shoulders as the group continued through the maze. You guys walked up a small flight of stairs and began walking until suddenly you dropped, clinging to Dean for dear life. But you didn’t fall a long way. As you stood there, you noticed you just bounced up and down. The floor was a trampoline. “Trampoline guys. Don’t die.” You warned.

After about ten feet of trampoline floors, the ground returned to normal wood but the walls were all fun house mirrors. More people were gathered in this room, enjoying looking at each other’s distorted reflections. You walked around, moving your body to find the most ridiculous reflection you could. You’d wandered slightly from Dean, only one or two mirrors, and you turned to the side slightly, giggling at the way your butt curved steeply up in the mirror. You felt someone bump into you, “Oh sorry!” You apologized quickly before you realized it wasn’t your fault.

You saw the stranger’s reflection in the mirror before you saw their actual body but when you saw their reflection you gasped in terror. He had the face of a man but his flesh was grey and rotting and his hair was black and patchy. You couldn’t even tell if he had eyes or not. But when you turned to look at him, he was a decent looking forty-something year old man with dark hair. Dean, however, must have noticed your terrified look because he quickly came over to you, “You alright?” You couldn’t take your eyes off of the mirror.

“He… that didn’t look like special effects. There was no way that was real though.” You tried explaining. The man was at the other end of the room now but your eyes darted between his putrid reflection and healthy physical body as he moved.

“What do you mean?” Dean snorted with a crooked smile but something in his eyes looked nervous.

You pointed at the man’s reflection, “Him! Look at him in the mirror then look at him in real life.” You directed. You watched as Dean’s eyes followed your instructions.

“Shit.” He cursed, eyes wide, “Sam! We gotta get out of here.” He said hurriedly, nodding towards the man. Sam, who was finally smiling, seemed to get the message, dropped the smile, and grabbed Claire’s wrist as Dean grabbed yours.

You tried to keep up as he dragged you through the rest of the maze, “What’s going on? Do you see it too?”

“What are we seeing?” Claire asked, confused and scared.

“Nothing!” Dean yelled back towards her. Then he looked at you, “Yeah and it’s probably nothing but better safe than sorry.” He lied terribly. When you guys finally got out of the maze, Dean stopped just long enough to look back. You looked back too and saw the man following behind you guys. “Run!” Dean yelled and all four of you guys booked it back to the Impala.

“Do you know what the hell is going on?!” You asked Dean, ignoring the stares people were giving you as you ran.

He looked back for a second, “I’ll explain later! Just get to the car.” You guys finally got to the Impala but had to wait for Dean to unlock the car.

You, Sam, and Claire all repeatedly pulled on the handles while Dean fumbled with the keys. You turned for one second to look at Sam who was next to you but before you could see anything, you found yourself slammed against the side of the car. When your brain processed what happened, you saw the man in front of you, one hand gripping your throat and using it to press you backwards against the car. “Dean!” You struggled, hands clawing at his grip. The man’s free hand rose up and you were sure you were dreaming when you saw what you saw. A bone-like spike was protruding from his wrist. Just as he was about to thrust it into your neck, you kneed him as hard as your could in the gut just as Dean ran up behind him and put him in a headlock before throwing him to the ground.

“Are you okay?” He asked, winded. You nodded, gasping to regain your breath. “Get in the car!”

He got up and started running to the driver’s side when the monster tackled him, spike extending more. “Is that silver?” Sam yelled at Claire. The poor girl’s eyes were wide with terror as she watched the scene unfold before her. “Claire!” Sam yelled. She thumbed a silver chain around her neck and nodded silently but frantically. “Sorry.” He said, ripping it off her neck, chain snapping, and jumping out of the car and wrapping the thin chain around the man’s neck as if it were a rope.

Smoke seared from the contact and the creature screamed, letting Dean go just enough for him to wiggle out from under the monster’s weight. He quickly tackled the monster and Sam readjusted himself so he could keep the chain tight around its neck. It screamed and tried to throw them off but the pain from the metal must have been too much. After a few more seconds, it stopped moving completely and laid motionless on the ground.

“Is he… dead?” You asked in shock.

Dean groaned, “Fuck, dad’s gonna kill us.”

“Did you kill him?” You asked again.

“We are so dead.” Sam agreed.

“WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?!” You yelled, finally getting their attention.

The brothers looked at each other cautiously before standing up, leaving the dead heap of whatever the hell that thing was on the ground. They both stood quietly and you could tell they were contemplating whether or not to tell you the truth. You raised your eyebrows expectantly and Sammy burst, “It’s a wraith.” He blurt out, earning a smack on the back of the head from Dean for exposing the truth.

Claire finally shook from her scared paralysis, “A what?” She asked.

“A wraith,” Dean gave in, “A monster that feeds on brain fluid.”

“Brain fluid?” You asked, “What kind of monster feeds on brain fluid?” You almost could have laughed if you hadn’t just nearly been murdered.

“A dangerous one. Now let’s just get in the car so we can get you two home safe.” Dean exclaimed. Everyone piled into the car quietly.

“So… monsters?” You asked, unsure of your sanity at this point.

Dean nodded, “Uh, yeah, monsters.”

“How do you know about all this?” Claire asked.

“You know that work that our dad does? He hunts them.” Sam explained.

“What about you two?” You asked.

Dean shrugged, “We kind of do, too.”

“How did you even get into this?” You questioned.

“It’s complicated.” Dean summed up shortly and you could tell it was better to drop that question.

After a few miles of silence, a terrified Claire was dropped off at her house and Sam soon fell asleep in the backseat. On the way to your home, you glanced at Dean, “Are all monsters real?” You questioned nervously, not sure if you wanted to know the answer.

“Most of ‘em.” He answered, eyes glued to the road.

You couldn’t help the scared giggle that escaped you, “That’s actually kinda cool in a horribly terrifying way.”

He looked at you for a brief second with an amused look on his face, “You almost get killed and you’re first thought is that it’s ‘kind cool?’ I can’t tell if that’s crazy or badass.”

You shrugged, “Probably crazy but if it makes it any better it wasn’t my first thought… more like the third or fourth.” You laughed a little. “So was the wraith what your dad is here for?”

Dean shook his head, “Actually, no. Dad’s hunting a ghost actually. But I guess Tailor is a little more paranormal than we thought,” He sighed, “But Y/N, you can’t tell anyone about what happened tonight or what we do.”

“Of course,” You replied, “Even if I did, everyone would think I was crazy.” The Impala rolled to a stop in front of your house as you finished speaking and you couldn’t lie, you weren’t ready to go home. It was clear now that Dean spelled danger but you also felt so safe with him. Besides, it also seemed as if Tailor was just a beacon for these kinds of monsters anyways. After tonight’s events, all you wanted was to stay with Dean and learn about his world of monster hunting.

Maybe that did make you crazy.

“Thank you for tonight,” You managed, reluctantly willing yourself to initiate the end of the night, “With the exception of the whole wraith thing, I had a lot of fun. And thanks for saving my life, too.”

Dean smiled, “I had fun, too. I’m just sorry you almost died. I swear that doesn’t normally doesn’t happen when I take girls on dates.”

“Considering you’re not with them anymore, maybe a little near death experience is what you need to keep a girl.” You raised an eyebrow, suggesting that this wasn’t going to scare you away.

“Who the hell says that?” He laughed.

You’re not sure where the burst of confidence came from but you shocked yourself when you realized what you said, “A crazy girl hoping for a second date.”

Dean couldn’t stop gazing at your face. You were absolutely beautiful - prettier than any girl he’d seen in the last several schools he’d been to. You were funny and witty and genuine and undeniably a little crazy. But maybe he needed a little crazy.

You’d noticed his extended gaze and flushed a deep red. The tension was definitely thick in the air and thickened impossibly when his eyes flickered to your lips for a fraction of a second. Honestly, you weren’t sure who leaned in first but your lips met his in a soft and gentle kiss. It was nothing crazy or passionate. It was innocent and perfect and enough to take your breath away.

Dean didn’t want to mess this up or take it too fast. You weren’t like other girls. Now you knew the truth about him, whether he wanted you to or not, and, yes, it was clear you were scared, but you weren’t at the same time. You were… reasonably curious. And he knew he’d be moving again as soon as his dad took care of the ghost so why not give himself just a little bit of happiness while it lasted?

#dean winchester #dean #dean x reader #teen!dean #teen!sam #high school!au #high school au #wraith #supernatural #dean imagines #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester drabble

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scftuan · 6 years

Text

Pick Your Poison (part 11)

Genre: horror/romance

Rating: M

Characters: Baekhyun x reader

——————————

Your head was pounding when you came to, the dull ache increasing to a painful throb the more consciousness returned to you.

Groaning softly, you twisted your body in an attempt to roll to your side, the coolness of whatever room you were in sweeping over your body and sending a shiver through you.

Blinking back the headache, you began to examine your current situation.

The room was dark save for a thin line of light that seemed to be coming from a door on the other side. It was smaller than the rest of the rooms in the manor, and the stifling air proved that it wasn’t used very often. If you squinted, you could just make out the outline of the door (which was difficult considering how well it blended in with the dark wood walls and floor).

A slight frown turned the corners of your mouth down as you attempted to make a movement towards the supposed door, only to find your hands unmoving.

It was then you registered the burning on your wrists, the obvious chafing caused by a thick rope wrapped around them, keeping them bound tightly together. Your ankles too were kept immobile, the robe uncomfortably tight (you supposed to keep you from making a run for it).

You struggled briefly with your bindings, but froze when a shadow crossed under the door, the sound of a key being turned followed quickly thereafter. You held your breath as the door opened and was then shut, your eyes barely adjusting to the light soon enough to make out the figure who had entered. Once the room was dark again, the figure moved towards you, kneeling down so that he was so close there was no way you couldn’t recognize him.

“Baekhyun?” You whispered, your mind suddenly flashing back to the expressionless face as he did nothing.

You heard a sharp intake of breath, then nothing. For a moment, you wondered if you’d imagined a presence or if it was not Baekhyun after all.

“Don’t speak.” You heard Baekhyun say, his voice cold and unfeeling as he cut your ankles free of the ropes before you felt a hand grab your bindings and pull you into a standing position, the sudden movement making you yelp as the ropes cut into your skin.

You protested as Baekhyun pulled you towards the door and out into the great world beyond.

As you walked (more like dragged) behind Baekhyun, you noticed the subtle change to the great mansion. Firstly it was a part of the place you had never been in before, the area much more cold and dark as if it was rarely used; secondly you noticed the aura of it all. You’d always thought the mansion was a mix between good and bad, but this place...it felt as malevolent as it felt cold.

You were so lost in thought, you only realized Baekhyun had stopped when you heard him whisper.

“We’re here.”

Looking around you, you noticed that the room was quite large, almost the size of what you expected a ballroom to look like, but one that hadn’t been used in years. Large sheets covered most of the furniture (which had been pushed to the back of the room), leaving only a few select pieces on which rested glowing candles, the small flames throwing eery shadows around the already disturbing room.

Near the center stood Jongin, his clothing simple (as it had always been) but all black, his usually soft brown hair had been dyed white, the color standing out starkly against his dark skin and the relative darkness of the room.

At first he kept his back towards you, but at the sound of your entrance he turned, a pleasantly disturbing smile on his face.

“Ah Y/n,” he announced, “what a pleasure it is for you to join us.”

You wanted to protest and tell him just what this was (hint: it wasn’t a pleasure), but were cut off by Baekhyun pulling you closer, only letting you go when you barely a few feet away from Jongin.

The man in front of you nodded at Baekhyun, who merely bowed and retreated to the front end of the room, right by the door where he could prevent you from escape.

You glanced back at him, his expression cold and still, nothing dancing in those usually warm eyes of his (but it was too dark to see anyway).

“Y/n you wound me,” you heard Jongin say, turning your attention back to him, “aren’t you going to greet an old friend?” His tone was teasing, but it was mocking in its humor. You glared at him, hoping he could read just how you felt about him in your expression, “thats funny, I didn’t think ‘old friends’ chased each other down in the woods.”

You saw the corner of Jongin’s mouth twitch before he shook his head and moved closer to you. “Do you at least like the hair?” He asked as he approached, “I got it just for you.”

Up close, you could see that he’d even cut his hair, shaving along the sides to leave an undercut. In another world, you might have called him handsome, even sexy (especially with the new cut), but now everything about him just screamed at you to run away. “You didn’t have the courtesy to give me the truth about you sooner rather than later,” you shot back, “so why would you get a new hairstyle just for me?”

Jongin grinned at you, and for a moment you saw the old one shining through, the one who had welcomed you and made you feel safe when all you could feel was torment. “Because love,” he murmured, and you hated the way the term sounded on his lips, “I need you to stop thinking of me as Jongin and think of me as Kai.”

When you said nothing, he sighed, turning his back to you in order to gaze out the large windows that filled the wall on the far end of the room. You noticed it was dark outside, the moon and stars giving you barely any light behind the grey clouds that covered them.

“She’s no fun like this.” You heard Jongin say, almost as if he was pouting, “Take her outside, I feel like letting off some steam.”

In an instant, you felt a hand grabbing your bindings again and dragging you back the way you had come.

“Baekhyun.” You gasped as the aforementioned dragged you none too carefully through the weaving mazes of halls and doors till you finally entered the part you were used too. “Baekhyun! Please, listen to me!” You pleaded, the ropes burning almost as much as the tears that threatened to spill.

Baekhyun ignored you, his movements determined, almost as if he was forcing himself from turning back towards you.

Before you could protest or plead any further, the both of you had stopped, and you now found yourself standing right outside the main entrance, the forest dark and silent save for the few crickets who dared to disturb it.

You gasped as you felt the ropes fall away from your wrists, the skin raw but still in one piece, having failed to realize Baekhyun had cut them off with a small knife.

You turned to look at him, hoping you could talk, but you were silenced by what he said next.

“Run.”

Baekhyun’s tone was cold and even, but you could feel the urgency in it, he was telling you to run, to try and save yourself or just get as far away as you could you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t try to argue.

So you ran.

——————————

The deja vu from the night before (you assumed it had only been about 24 hours) was strong. You running for your life from whatever monster was hunting you down, desperately hoping Baekhyun would show up at the last minute and help you.

But this time it was pitch black, the shadows swallowing you up as you ran through the dark trees. At first you’d chosen to go straight, but soon you began to notice the random twists and turns that would throw you off, forcing you into a direction you didn’t want to go.

It was only when you heard a taunting ‘tsk, tsk.’ Echo throughout the trees that you realized just what this was.

It was a maze.

This was another game of cat and mouse.

And you knew exactly what you were.

At least this time you would manage not to trip over something.

“Y/n...” you heard Jongin’s voice echo, the sound reverberating around you, threatening to make you stp purely out of fear, “why do you run from me Y/n? I thought we were friends.” His taunt stung more than you cared to admit. You knew he was mocking you, mocking your trust, trying to get you to cave, to give in to whatever game he was playing-and maybe a small part of you did or at least wanted to.

But then you thought of Baekhyun.

Whatever Jongin had done to him, he was still your Baekhyun, you could see it even behind the controlled actions and cold stares.

Filled with a renewed determination, you darted through the trees, ignoring the ever growing sense that someone or something was closing in on you.

“Y/n...” you heard Jongin’s voice again, this time it sounded somewhere between a pout and a growl, “I don’t have all day.”

Darting behind a tree in order to catch your breath, you frowned at his words. What did he mean he didn’t have all day? Was there some other game he wanted to play? Some torment similar to the ones you’d faced when you first arrived?

You were just about to start running again when you felt it.

A cold shiver, the ghost of something touching you, creeping up your entire body.

“Come out Y/n, its time to play.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, stifling the startled noise that almost escaped you.

Jongin was there, somewhere nearby, and you sure as hell didn’t want to find out what game he wanted to play.

Looking this way and that, your eyes spotted a tree not to far from you, one short enough that you could reach the first branch and pull yourself into the cover of leaves.

Your only problem? You’d have to cross into the clearing to get to it, leaving you vulnerable and out in the open.

Unfortunately, it was the only option you had.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed yourself forward and sprinted across, the tree almost within range, if you could just reach it-

A cold hand pulled you out of your bubble of hope and onto the hard ground.

“Gotcha.”

You didn’t have much time to react. You knew Jongin would most likely restrain you in a very short period of time, but if you could get to the tree you might at least be able to get some leverage. Before Jongin could do anything further, you kicked ut, your foot hitting something (you assumed Jongin’s leg), startling him enough for you to push yourself up, grab ahold of the nearest branch and pull yourself into the tree.

It would’ve given you a feeling of triumph had it not been for the fact Jongin was already at the tree and he did not look happy.

In the darkness, you could see him at the base of the tree, his eyes flashing between black and red as he growled up at you, lips pulling back to reveal his sharp teeth.

“I dont like it when my playthings fight back, it makes it so much less enjoyable.” He said, barely concealing the anger that was radiating off of him. In the blink of an eye he had shot up to the branch just underneath you, grabbing your leg and pulling you down with him.

You yelped in pain as you hit the ground, your head just barely missing a large root that would’ve knocked your head open.

Jongin stared down at you, his hand pinning your arms in place as his legs straddled your hips. “Times up love,” he murmured darkly, his face nuzzling just briefly into your neck before you felt the movement of his lips against the skin, “you dont know just how thirsty you’ve made me.”

You whimpered at the scrape of teeth against your pulse point, your teeth squeezing shut as you prepared yourself for the sharp pain that would soon follow.

But for some reason, you felt the need to open your eyes again. Turning your head, you blinked into the darkness, your eyes catching on a figure that stood just inside the cover of trees.

Baekhyun.

He was beautiful as ever. His dark hair was parted slightly, showing just a hint of his forehead, his lips which you remembered so fondly were set in a firm line, his skin was paler than usual, as if the moonlight drained all of its golden color, his eyes flashed with an unknown emotion and you could see his jaw clench, imitating the current movement of his hands.

Baekhyun, the love you would never get to have, the man you’d so unexpectedly fallen for.

‘At least I get to see him before I die.’ You thought bitterly, wondering what would have happened if you’d stayed with him the other night instead of leaving.

You could feel Jongin’s teeth beginning to press into your skin, and with one last desperate cry you said, “Baekhyun! Please!”

What happened next you still weren’t sure.

Jongin’s teeth had barely pierced your skin when he was thrown off of you, leaving you scrambling to sit up.

A few feet away stood Baekhyun, chest heaving and eyes flashing as he stood over Jongin who was quickly regaining his senses.

Jongin sat up, his hand reaching up to touch his mouth where a thin trickle of blood was coming from. He chuckled darkly, looking up at Baekhyun who hadn’t moved. “You really did fall in love with her.” He taunted, shaking his head, “such a shame.”

Before you could react, the tables had turned. Now it was Baekhyun who was being held up in the air, Jongin’s hand on his throat as Baekhyun grasped desperately, trying to free himself.Jongin looked over at you, his smile cold and dangerous, “You see what you’ve done Y/n? Because of you, he now has to die.”

You watched helplessly as Jongin threw Baekhyun to the ground, hand still on his throat as he slammed him against it repeatedly before throwing him to the side, Baekhyun’s back hitting one of the trees hard before he fell to the ground.

You cried out, wanting to rush to him but couldn’t move your feet.

“What’s the matter Y/n?.” Jongin mused, notching your obvious predicament, “You won’t even fight for him? I thought you loved him.”

You looked helplessly over at Baekhyun who was groaning softly as he tried to push himself off the ground. You noticed he was bleeding, the blood starting to drip down and stain his clothes a dark maroon color.

“Jongin, please,” you begged, forcing yourself to move, to take a step forward, “don’t hurt him.”

Jongin grinned at you, merely shrugging his shoulders before he replied, “Oh but love I’m not Jongin. I’m Kai.”

Everything else became blurry to you.

You launched yourself forward, crying out to Baekhyun, who looked up with such sad eyes you felt your heartbreak.

“Baekhyun!” You cried, “I love you!” Through your tears and the darkness you could see something change inside Baekhyun.

He pushed himself up, and he fought back.

It was a violent fight, one that Jongin clearly had the upper hand on, but Baekhyun fought back, snarling and pushing at Jongin until the other vampire did begin to fall back.

You were almost horrified by what Baekhyun did next (though in retrospect you realized this was how a vampire truly won). You watched as Baekhyun sunk his teeth into Jongin’s neck tearing them out violently before throwing the very injured vampire hard into a tree.

Jongin collapsed, bloody and very much injured, the blood even seeping into his perfectly white hair.

Baekhyun looked at him for a moment before turning to you, making you realized just how many injuries he had sustained.

“Y/n.” He whispered weakly, his body staggering before finally collapsing to the ground.

When a scream ripped through the forest, you didn’t even realize it was yours.

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