#every time I draw Wild with dot eyes it's chaos | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

delicrieux · 3 years

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☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 "𝚘𝚑"

PART 8: CAT BOYS

... it’s late into the night and y/n is streaming with one of her new friends, sykkuno. running on caffeine and redbull is apparently not enough because she falls asleep on his shoulder 45 minutes into their cyberpunk gameplay. at that exact moment, twitter goes up in flames.

─── corpse husband x reader, sykkuno x reader (because i was threatened by thirsty anons) ─── soc. media + written fiction! ─── word count: 1.8k author’s note: here it is...what yall been asking for. literally had to add a new part for this but i loved this idea sm i couldnt just nOT NOT do it. i tried writing this with the same energy as the smau lmao so expect chaos as always. hope you enjoy it and as always lmk what u think! hopefully yall wont go too feral, but tbh thats prolly too much to ask for xx EDIT: srr for the fucky format tumbler dot com is being lame

ultimate masterlist. ҉ myso masterlist ҉ previous. ҉ next.

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Such a back and forth continues for the better part of the day as you get ready. Corpse only whines a bit when you forget to text him back - you are packing, and your prestigious cat ears you bought from Amazon for 10$ deserve exquisite care - which only fuels your seemingly bottomless hunger for mischief, leading to you sneakily ignoring him more. When your phone lights up with a message, you giggle, giddy with excitement. Your laughter only gets louder and more erratic, to the point where Rae had busted down your door and threw her Hello Kitty plush at you - one you’d gotten her, mind you! - and told you to just “Shut the fuck up!”

Ungrateful. You know not everyone can appreciate your sense of humor, or stand your hyena like cackle, but that was uncalled for and you told her as much. Noting the mess your room is in (more than usual, that’s for certain), she leans onto the door frame, crossing her arms over her chest, pretty brown eyes twinkling curiously, “Where you off to?”

“So I had this idea-” You start, but are promptly shut down with a raise of her palm.

“Already know it’s a bad one.”

Insulted, and hurt, you clutch your heart. As if she had not mocked you enough today, “Rae...The hell, that’s so mean...” You mutter, face scrunching into a soft frown, “I only wanted to tell you what me and Syk thought of.”

“Oh?” Intrigued, she raises a brow, “Continue.”

“Gee, thanks for letting me this time.” You mumble, rolling your eyes, “So. We thought we’d stream together. The catch? In the same room! We’ll be playing Cyberpunk. Gotta cash in while the hype is still up.” You add, making her snort, “And, ya know, the whole cat boy business...We’ll be wearing matching cat ears. Admit it, I’m a genius.”

She’s quiet for a moment, mulling over your words; you can practically see the gears in her head turning. She glances around the room, then briefly at you, strangely apprehensive. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Well, that is definitely not what you expected her to say. You figured it’d be more along the lines of you’d be one ugly cat. “Huh?” Is all you manage to stutter, “What do you mean?”

She gives you a look, one all people give when something is so plainly obvious, “Y/n. You do know the stans will go wild, right? And you do remember our conversation involving Corp-”

“Nope!” You exclaim cheerily with a bright smile to match. You don’t want to think about that. The relationship between you and Corpse is strictly platonic, and besides, seeing Twitter loosing their shit is always funny, and you never miss an opportunity to mess with your fans. Sykkuno is also a good friend, albeit a new one. This supposed flirting from Corpse’s end Rae deduced was nothing more than her projecting her feelings onto the situation. She always liked shoujo anime and was probably thinking one was happening right in front of her. Not a chance. Corpse was just being a friendly crackhead. Your energies mesh beautifully.

Like, beautifully in a strictly friend way. Absolutely nothing more than that.

She gives up, naturally, arguing with a wall would be more productive than arguing with you. You’re such a (Zodiac sign).

“Well,” She mumbles, ticking her head to the side, leaning off of the door frame and turning to leave, “Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

Your grin melts as soon as she leaves. Glancing at your bag, you shove your last necessities in with newfound hesitance.

Nothing bad will happen, right?

...Right?

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It is well past the generally set “appropriate” time to hang out, but since quarantine, what is appropriate anymore anyway? You’ve never been in Sykkuno’s apartment, but now that you’re here it’s...strangely him. Every corner seems tailored to his specific requirements. It’s cozy, and pleasantly warm - it’s a bit chilly in LA, as surprising as that is.

He’s even shyer than you remember him being. And a whole lot more awkward, but in an endearing way, a way that makes you want to laugh and try to reassure him that it’s just you and he has nothing to worry about. While you hung out only once, the history you share is rich and tender. From him following you on Twitter and subsequently prematurely ending your stream, to kidnapping a stray cat affectionately named Juan. His long lost brother, Juan (no the Second, just Juan), lives in your Minecraft server.

His stream room is sadly bare. There’s an appalling lack of merch or fairy lights. Not even led-lights. It’s a good thing you brought your own. As you try to decided which color would be best - his signature lime green, reminiscent of his adorable Among Us astronaut, or, perhaps, mischievous violet? - he boots the game and tweets out a quick “streaming with y/n in ten mins! come one come all!”

“You should probably tell your fans, too.” He mumbles, looking somewhere above your shoulder. You settle with cherry blossom pink. Glancing at him, you shrug.

“Ah, do it for me, please?”

“Oh!” He hiccups, “Uhm, I wouldn’t want to pry and I don’t know your password and-”

“It doesn’t have a password.” You had removed it, knowing something like this would happen. Bless your foresight, you did not want him to know it was demonspiitinmymouth. Before he could protest further, you rush to the nearest mirror to put on your cat ears and make sure they aren’t crooked. You look absolutely adorable. The cat boys in your dms will go feral. Hell, you might just go feral looking at yourself! Sykkuno is not ready. No one is. This will be a stream to remember.

When you return (with flourish of course), he’s anxiously fidgeting by his computer, his own little cat ears, one’s he wore for the Halloween stream, peaking out from his silky brown hair. You have to suppress a squeal. When he catches you gaze he gives the kindest, sweetest little smile.

“They, uh--” He points at you, then decides it’s rude to point, bringing his hand back to his lap, then clutching his mouse, lastly releasing a sound stuck between a chuckle and a wheeze, “suit you, uhm, a lot!” He finishes with a resolute nod, quickly spinning in his chair and away from you.

This is the reaction you desired. All is going according to plan. Is this what God feels like? If not, then you pity her. She’s missing out.

Taking a seat next to him - he had been gracious enough to haul you a spare chair from the kitchen - you draw closer, and he, instinctively, shrinks away with another nervous chuckle.

“You have, uhm... I-I didn’t look!” He quickly chimes. You raise a brow, “Uhm, unopened messages? From Corpse? He texted you when I was tweeting! I didn’t mean to look, I’m sorry-”

Instantly, you recall the famous vine with the scandalous “daddy chill” line, though refrain from saying it aloud. You love havoc, but you’re not evil (Rae would ardently disagree with you, though). Instead, you just shrug, “’S fine, don’t worry. I’ll text him back later. Let’s start?”

He nods, but doesn’t look at you. Granted, you don’t think he glanced at you even once since you returned, “...Okay. Ready?”

“Ready!”

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You’re much too immersed into the game and Sykkuno’s twitch chat to even check what’s happening on Twitter, but your estimated guess is that everyone’s going crazy. The stream chat is unruly as well, but missing the signature Twitter spark. Most of the chaos is bravely lead by your fans. Sykkuno’s, much like the man himself, are too nice to scream so unabashedly.

Perhaps you excitement had been a bit too taxing, perhaps drinking 5 coffees and 2 energy drinks today and not enough water are to blame for the sudden drowsiness you’re feeling, but you can’t focus on the swimming chat or the abundance of cut-scenes at the starting point of the game. You steadily draw nearer and he, more composed in front of his audience, doesn’t react. About ten more minutes of hoovering by his shoulder and muttering soft commentary, and you feel yourself slipping.

The last coherent thought you have is a few choice words directed at caffeine itself for having the opposite effect of you at the worst time possible.

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You float in oblivion for perhaps ten minutes at best. Once you awake with a startle, you shower Sykkuno in shy apologies and he quickly reassures you that it’s fine and that he didn’t mind at all!

“Though,” He adds after a thoughtful pause, “not sure if it was very, uh, comfortable?”

His stream chat spams uwu and variations of similar kind. The stream continues for a few more hours before the both of you wish everyone a good night.

While you planned on wreaking absolute havoc, this sudden falling asleep was unexpected. You pondered the consequences of such an innocent, unplanned act whilst ubering home, fearing to check your phone which by now was blowing up with not only Twitter notifications but also Rae’s angry messages that vaguely read “what the fuck y/n”. Within the past two hours she had left 57 messages on all platforms collectively, including 7 calls.

Corpse’s last text was over three hours ago.

Now that’s strange. Worry festers quickly. Briefly glancing at your surroundings - the pretty glimmer of passing street lights, neon signs, familiar buildings - you decide that it’s time to check what kind of nuclear explosion you’ve caused.

Your heart drops to the bottom of your stomach as you scroll past the hundreds of tweets and mentions. Scan through Rae’s messages.

You had failed to prepare ahead. Every explosion of such kind is followed by nuclear winter. And Corpse’s lack of messages feels especially cold.

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Not you smiling like a fucking idiot reading his last message! You shrink into the backseat, afraid the driver will accidentally look into the rear-view mirror and see you a bit too happy before asking questions. Good news? Yeah, but it’s not like it’s his any beeswax! In the words of Rihanna, just shut up and drive.

This argument had not yet happened, but you’re preparing, just in case.

As you think up of potential scenarios, your eyes drill into Corpse’s goodnight text. You’ve looked at it enough. Time to turn the phone screen off. Leave the app, at the very least. When the screen dims you instantly press on it to wake it up. This is embarrassing. Maybe the deadly amount of caffeine really did mess you up, big time. Your heart races in your chest, painfully almost. You feel a bit sick. Worst of all, you can’t stop smiling.

A notification from Rae makes you snap out of it. Ah, one more demon to deal with.

However, before you talk to her, you really need to tell Twitter that you’re not with Sykkuno. And apologize to Sykkuno as well.

At least Corpse doesn’t hate you.

Fucking hell, just exit the chat you idiot!

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tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos - @fairywriter-oracle - @tsukishimawh0re - @ofstarsanddreams - @bbecc-a - @annshit - @leahh19 - @letsloveimagines - @bellomi-clarke - @wineandionysus - @guiltydols - @onephootinfrontoftheother - @liamakorn - @thirstyfangirl - @lilysdaydreams - @pan-ini - @mxqicshxp - @tanchosanke - @yoshinorecommends - @flightsandfantasy - @liljennyx3 - @slashersdream - @unknown-and-invisible - @sinister-sleep - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat - @mercury–moon - @peterparkerspjsuit - @unstableye - @simonsbluee - @shinyshimaagain - @ppopty - @siriuslystupid - @crapimahuman - @ofthedewthesunlight - @mythicalamphitrite - @artsyally - @corpsesimpp - @corpsewhitetee - @corpse-husbandsimp - @hyp-oh-critical - @roses-and-grasses - @rhyrhy462 - @sparklylandflaplawyer - @charbkgo - @airwaveee - @creativedogs - @kaitlyn2907 - @loxbbg - @afuckingunicornn - @fleurmoon - @yeolliedokai - @truly-dionysus - @multi-fandom-central707

more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙

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hottestthingalive · 4 years

Text

a storm in your eyes (lightning and dark skies)

It is then, with Virgil curled up against him, wet hair soaking Logan’s neck and the smell of hot chocolate in the air, that Logan realizes he loves a thunderstorm in human form.

His best friend.

Oh, god, Logan is in love with his best friend. And also his roommate. And also his favorite person in the whole of the universe.

(He’s pretty sure that if Virgil could hear his thoughts, and if, y’know, Virgil wasn’t the person in question, he’d roll his eyes and say, “Oh my god, they were roommates.” The idea nearly makes him laugh.)

–

Notes: Thank you so much to @snek-snacc, @smileyzs, @confused-sunflower, @xaimelarks, and all my other followers for putting up with me ranting about this story, and helping me edit. Y’all are the best!

Edit: After publishing this, I got this AMAZING piece of art from @ent-is-undecisive / @birdsongisland! Go check them out, because they’re insanely talented, and looking at this piece makes me so so so happy!

Two sequels also exist for this now!

waffles and wedding vows (promises and proof)

songs and stars and silence (of loving you)

Hope you enjoy!

Relationships: Romantic Analogical, background romantic Royaliceit, background romantic Intrusleep/rem^2, platonic drlamper

Words: 6885

Ao3

–

Logan Sanders falls in love with a thunderstorm.

Well, not a thunderstorm, exactly. As far as Logan knows (and he knows quite a lot), a tempest, no matter how powerful, cannot take the form of a human.

Still, the first time the boy with a hurricane’s eyes enters Mugnificent (the coffee shop Logan very reluctantly works at), he swears the smell of ozone fills the air.

His name is Virgil Foley, and he sweeps into Logan’s life like a summer storm, filling it with wind and chaos and unmatched wild beauty.

The first time they meet, it is 5:26 in the morning, and he’s considering revolt. Yes, he needs this job to supplement his scholarship, but being up this early is awful enough to warrant mutiny. Besides, customers are few this early in the day, and thus the tip jar is woefully empty.

The door opens with a ding

(there is a smell like lightning)

and in walks a person with dark hair tied in a bun under a black beanie, rummaging around in their backpack. Their bag is covered in pins, and Logan notes a rainbow one near the center.

“Hey,” they say, and he meets eyes the color of stormclouds, a grey bordering on purple and blue simultaneously. “Can I just get a small coffee, please? Black is fine.”

“Yeah,” Logan nods. “Name?”

They glance around the empty Mugnificent with a raised eyebrow, but reply with “Virgil,” anyways.

“Nice to meet you, Virgil,” says Logan, and he’s not normally one for small talk, but he also is sleep-deprived, and too tired to have any sort of filter. “I’m Logan.”

Virgil relaxes, and they hold out a hand for him to shake. “Nice to meet you, too. I use he/him pronouns, by the way.”

“Ah, yes,” Logan nods, returning the handshake. “He/him for me, as well, thank you.”

Virgil pays and waits by the counter as Logan goes to prepare the coffee, scrolling through his phone. There is a comfortable silence as he makes the drink, which Logan spends mentally cursing out Roman, his coworker who was supposed to arrive for work thirty minutes ago. “Here,” he says finally, holding out the cup for Virgil to take.

“Thanks.” Virgil is wearing fingerless gloves, and his nails are painted a bright purple. They shine in the fluorescent lighting. “Have a nice day, Logan.”

“You too,” he replies, and it seems too little. Logan doesn’t believe in magic, or gods, or destiny, but as he watches Virgil turn, about to walk out the door, something twangs in his chest. Despite himself, Logan opens his mouth, searching for something to say, anything that will make him stay.

He blinks, about to speak, and Virgil is gone.

A few minutes later, it begins to rain.

–

The second time he meets Virgil, it is in his psych class.

Logan has always liked psychology. It’s fascinating how the human brain works, he thinks, and even if he isn’t always so good at understanding emotions, he’s quite good at the science behind them. His appreciation for said science is the only reason he signs up for the class at all, when it has practically nothing to do with his astrophysics major.

He’s just about forgotten about the boy with eyes of a storm by the time he sits down for the first psychology class of the semester, pulling his computer and textbooks out of his own bag, and setting them before him. Logan cracks the knuckles on each hand individually, a nervous habit he’s had since he was in high school. He’s done his best to break it, but he supposes, as annoying as it is, it’s better than some of the alternatives.

Case in point, the boy from Mugnificent, who walks into the room nervously tapping his thigh while chewing at his lip. There’s a split in it, one that shines a bright red against the chapped surface, and Logan wants to wince just looking at it.

His eyes flash with recognition as he spots Logan in one of the back rows, and he pauses. “Logan, right? From the coffee place.”

“And you’re Virgil,” Logan smiles, and okay, maybe he hadn’t forgotten Virgil so much as attempted to forget him.

“Can I sit there?” he asks, nodding to the seat beside Logan.

It turns out Virgil is smart, and funny, and just a little bit snarky, and a English major minoring in psychology. He’s got all kinds of nervous habits, chewing on his lip and tapping out rhythms known only to him and drawing on every available surface, and Logan often notices a tendril of ink wrapping around one of his fingers from under his gloves.

They become fast friends, him and Virgil, bonding over a love for space and science and poetry. He starts coming to Mugnificent for coffee more often, and Roman teases Logan incessantly about it.

“You’re finally making friends!” he pretends to sob, throwing his arms around him, and he has to shove Roman away, rolling his eyes. Virgil is stifling a laugh behind one gloved hand, and Logan mouths “Traitor,” at him, though he isn’t really mad at all.

They fall into patterns -- psych and history and statistics together, always seated side by side, sometimes accompanied by Roman or Patton or Remus or Janus or any one of their expanding circle of friends. The two of them buy each other coffee, edit essays, go out for junk food (that Logan complains about but secretly loves) with their friends.

Virgil begs to paint Logan’s nails one night as they watch documentaries together in Patton and Virgil’s dorm room. His tongue sticks out of his mouth slightly as he focuses on the tiny white dots he’s adding, and Logan ends up loving the night sky that graces his fingers. In return, Logan styles Virgil’s long hair into a crown of braids.

“Your Majesty,” he bows as he leads Virgil to the mirror.

“If I’m royalty now, I demand a feast to celebrate,” Virgil grins, admiring his hair. “Sir Logan, this calls for pizza!”

“All the junk food you consume is going to kill you one day,” Logan sighs, but he’s already dialing their favorite pizza place.

They eat dinner seated on the floor, holding paper plates and drinking soda as they watch Cosmos. Patton returns to the dorm a few minutes later, accompanied by Janus and Roman both, and snags some of the pizza for himself – luckily, they’d thought to order extra, as soon Remus, Remy, and Emile all show up, too, crowding into the dorm room and around Logan’s laptop. The documentary is switched to Big Hero 6, Virgil showing off his hair and Logan his nails as the others admire them. Soon Virgil is breaking out his nail polish again, painting delicate puppies on Patton’s fingers, and Logan is teaching Roman how to do the same hairstyle on Emile’s curls.

It’s a Saturday night, so they feel comfortable all crashing in Patton and Virgil’s room, squeezing far too many young adults into one small space. Emile giggles that it reminds them of sleepovers they went to when they were in elementary school, and Remus points out that they ought to play Truth or Dare with a manic grin. Virgil quickly puts a stop to that, however, distracting Remus with conspiracy theories and carving marshmallows to look like Lovecraftian monsters, and Logan wants to laugh because Virgil is very much a mom friend, despite his protests to the contrary. Still, as he sips hot cocoa with a marshmallow Cthulhu staring up at him from the mug, he has to admit it was a good idea. They all get into the fun, carving marshmallows with whatever cutlery Patton and Virgil have in their room, and eventually Monster Mallows will become a tradition for all of their friend group.

When he falls asleep that night, lying on the floor in the blanket fort Patton and Roman had insisted on building, he dreams of rain and lightning, across dark skies that resemble Virgil’s eyes.

–

Logan realizes Virgil is his best friend in the middle of winter, when he shows up at Mugnificent at the end of his shift, ordering two coffees and taking them as Logan gets ready to leave. “Sorry, Roman,” Virgil says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all as he hands Logan one of the drinks and reaches out to hold his other hand. “C’mon, L, we’ve got to hurry if we’re going to get there in time.”

“Where are we going?” Logan raises an eyebrow, throwing on his coat and waving goodbye to Roman (who is saying something dramatic about a grievous betrayal) as he sips at the coffee. It’s perfect, his order exactly.

“Look!” Virgil grins as they leave the coffee shop, and it’s snowing, white flakes falling around them and coating the ground. Some of the cars nearby are already covered in it. “C’mon, we’ve got to get to the park.”

“Wait, why?” he asks. “Virgil, this looks rather like the makings of a blizzard. We should probably go back to our dorms so we can prepare if we get snowed in.”

“I know it’s a snowstorm,” Virgil rolls his eyes, and his stormy eyes are bluer than Logan’s ever seen them, shining with excitement. “Now, let’s go!”

Logan should probably argue more, but he’s laughing as he gets pulled along, the two half-running towards the park.

They slow down at the top of a hill already lightly coated with snow, and Virgil reaches into his bag to pull out a picnic blanket. “No,” Logan protests, but he’s cackling as Virgil yells “Snow picnic!” and spreads it over the snow.

“This is going to turn into a blizzard,” he manages to say, stifling his giggles. “We are going to be buried alive because you wanted to have a picnic in a snowstorm.”

“Oh, shush,” Virgil grins, flopping down onto the blanket and digging into his bag again to retrieve two bagels wrapped in tinfoil. “Drink your coffee and watch the snow with me, Logan Sanders.”

The bagel he hands Logan has Crofters jam instead of cream cheese spread across it, still warm from toasting, and Logan could kiss Virgil if they weren’t very platonic…

Well, it feels like they are a whole lot more than friends, at this point. There’s something about their relationship that feels different from the ones Logan has with their other companions, be it Remus or Emile, Patton or Janus, Roman or Remy.

Are they best friends?

He asks, and Virgil merely grins and says “I hope so.”

It’s amazing, lying there as they watch the sky, munching on bagels and sipping at their coffee and pointing out oddly shaped clouds. Virgil is practically covered in snowflakes by the time they have to leave, the wind picking up too much to stay, and Logan is no better. Still, he thinks it was worth it, even when he gets a cold and has to spend the weekend curled up in blankets, sneezing and coughing as he works on his essay for his cosmology class. Virgil gets a cold, too, and they end up on the phone together as they work, Virgil blasting music on his end and Logan parroting his roommate’s consistent reminders to take medicine, and drink some water!

Emile seems to think it’s cute, for some reason, and they tell Logan to say hi to Virgil for them, a smile playing on their lips that he’s too sick to interpret.

–

Logan has a crush on a boy in their shared statistics class by March, the one who sits three rows in front of him and two seats to the right, who has green hair and a cheerful grin. Virgil listens patiently about it whenever Logan brings it up, and when they have to pair up for a final project, he pushes him towards his crush, joining Remus instead.

He finds out his crush already has a romantic partner in a strictly monogamous relationship when they’re nearly done with the project, and Virgil shows up to Logan’s dorm room with ice cream and his laptop that night, pulling aside Emile as he comes in and whispering something to him. Emile leaves shortly after, and the two of them are alone.

“What did you tell Emile?” Logan asks later, when they’re sitting on his bed and watching trashy teenage romcoms, because, according to Virgil, “This way, you won’t associate any good movies with this.”

“Well, Patton invited him for a ‘sleepover,’” Virgil says, eating directly from the carton of chocolate ice cream, gaze shifting from the screen to Logan. “Did the moment he saw your text on the groupchat.”

Logan had texted that his crush has a partner when Roman had begun teasing him about it on said chat. Looking back, it may not have been the best of decisions, but all he wants to do right now is curl into the comforter and watch bad movies, while simultaneously eating unholy amounts of ice cream.

“It’s not a big deal,” he protests, pulling the blankets closer around him.

“Listen, L, you’re sad ‘cause the boy you like… well, you know. Anyways, you being sad is a big deal, at least to us.” Virgil isn’t wearing his normal clothes, only a pair of pajama pants and a sweatshirt (Logan knows he ran over in his nightwear, which makes him feel worse), so he can see the ink covering his hands, smudged in places.

“Why do you draw on yourself so much?” He leans over to look at the patterns of spirals winding their way up Virgil’s arms, tracing them with one finger. “That much ink can’t be good for your skin, pretty as it is, Vee.”

Virgil bats his hand away, blushing behind his curtains of dark hair, and Logan laughs. “It’s just a nervous habit, okay?” he exclaims, and Logan pokes his cheek, cooing.

“Aw, lookit you,” he smiles, and even though Logan’s heart hurts from what happened with his crush, he doesn’t think he would trade anything for his friendship with Virgil Foley. “So cute.”

“I’m not cute,” Virgil grumbles, pressing play on the computer. “Watch the shitty movie and shush, nerd.”

He gets over the boy from statistics eventually, and gets an A on the project, which Roman insists they celebrate with breakfast at Logan’s favorite diner on campus. (Logan’s pretty sure Roman just feels guilty about teasing him about it, but he goes anyways, pulling his friend aside later to tell him it’s fine.)

–

They return from summer vacation changed. Janus, Patton, and Roman are dating now, for one thing, and it’s disgustingly sappy. Emile comes out as asexual and aromantic a few days after they get back, and Logan helps them hang flags in their dorm room when they arrive a week later. Remy has switched majors, from biology to culinary classes, and Remus tells them excitedly that he’s managed to start a rather popular horror comic online. (Logan reads it, and learns Remus is quite adept at art, writing, and scaring the crap out of him. He never looks at door knobs the same way again.) Virgil, meanwhile, has started wearing far less baggy clothes and more makeup – in other words, people around campus start realizing that Virgil is actually hot, and not just a relatively cute bundle of sweatshirts.

Logan kind of feels weird about it. He knows how aesthetically pleasing Virgil is, of course – they’ve spent enough time together for him to have figured that out – but… well, Logan had realized while he was away how much he’d missed Virgil, even more so than his other friends. He tells himself it is because of how close they are, and ignores the ugly anger in his chest when people flirt with Virgil, or how his heart pounds and face flushes when they curl up to watch movies these days.

As for him, well, he’s dyed his hair a dark blue, a color so dark it’s almost black. Roman marvels over it, asking how he managed to not damage his hair in the process, and Logan doesn’t feel like telling him that he had meant to do a brighter shade, but hadn’t realized how hard it would be to get proper color without bleaching his normal dark hair. He does end up telling Virgil later, though, when Remy and Patton drag them and the rest of their friends to a party.

For the record, Logan tended to avoid such events. He didn’t see the point, firstly – he’d never been a fan of crowds, especially not ones where everyone was drunk off their asses, and he generally had too much work to do to bother with parties. Secondly, he simply didn’t care enough to look nice for such a thing, or to go at all. Logan would much rather spend time with his friends if he had to be up in the middle of the night, whether haunting the 24/7 diner a few miles off campus or playing stupid games in the woods or making fun of Disney movies while throwing popcorn at the screen and shushing each other so they didn’t get noise complaints.

But then there were Patton and Remy, social creatures who liked seeing other people and didn’t mind getting wasted to do so. Roman and Janus typically followed Patton wherever he went, so they were a given, and Remus had developed a raging crush on Remy by then, so he’d probably have tagged along even if Remy hadn’t grabbed his hand and said “You’ll come, right, Ree?” with a grin.

Well, Remus was lost to them after that, and that left Emile, Logan, and Virgil alone.

Which would have been fine! Except then Virgil had got dragged in by Patton (a difficulty of being his roommate, according to Logan’s best friend, was that Patton was very, very persuasive when he wanted to be) and Virgil had begged Logan to come for “Introvert solidarity, L! Introvert solidarity!”

Then Emile had sighed, said something about being the only responsible one, and appointed themself designated driver. So Logan didn’t even have that excuse to pull himself and Virgil out of it early.

He finds himself on a couch in someone’s house, sitting besides Virgil. Janus tells him that it is owned by someone who goes to their college but lives nearby, a summer home belonging to their parents or something. Janus says ze aren’t sure who the actual host is, and ze run off to go find Roman or Patton before Logan can ask why all of them are attending a party hosted by someone they don’t know.

Virgil has obviously already had something to drink, or he’s insanely sleep-deprived, as he has started playing with Logan’s hair. Logan’s willing to bet on the former (although knowing Virgil, he can’t be sure – he has an awful sleep schedule) especially since he’s never known the other to be so touchy, even when tired.

“How’d you get it like this?” Virgil asks, running his fingers through Logan’s curls. He’s perched on top of the couch, and though he would normally be concerned that Virgil might fall, Logan is just glad he doesn’t have to bend over so his friend can examine his hair.

He tells Virgil, and can’t help but smile as he laughs, perhaps a little more than the story warrants. They sit there in peace for a few minutes, Virgil humming along with any song he recognizes and Logan scanning the room for any of their friends.

“Your hair is so pretty,” Virgil eventually says, and Logan is surprised he can hear him at all over the noise of the music and other people. He slides down from the couch to sit beside him, reaching up to poke Logan’s cheek. “You’re pretty. You know that, right? You’re real, real pretty.”

“Aw,” Logan grins, hoping the dim lights and Virgil’s addled brain will hide his red cheeks. “What is it you say? Oh, right; you think I’m warm.”

“No, dummy, I think you’re hot,” Virgil sighs. “Get it right.”

“Why, thank you.”

“‘Course. You’re my best friend, Logan Sanders.”

“Same,” he replies, dodging Virgil’s attempt to flick him as he scans the room. “Have you seen Remy or Remus around recently?”

“Oh, they’ve been making out in that closet over there,” Virgil says offhandedly, pointing, and Logan nearly chokes. “You didn’t know? They’re so obvious, Remy’s been whining about it to me for weeks. ‘Oh, Virgil, I’m doomed to be alone forever!’ ‘Oh, Virgil, Remus is so hot, and I’m going to whine about it to you for hours!’ ‘Oh, Virgil, I have a crush on a trash rat man and I won’t stop talking about it ever!’”

“Did Remy actually call Remus a ‘trash rat man’?” he snickers, turning to look at Virgil, who is wringing his hands in mock despair as he imitates Remy.

“No,” Virgil pouts. “Wish he had. Remus would love that.”

“He would,” Logan agrees, rolling his eyes fondly. “Hey, do you want to leave?”

“Why, Logan Perfect-Hair Sanders, are you asking me to ditch a party with you?” he laughs.

“That isn’t my middle name and you know it.” Logan shoots off a text to Emile, standing and turning to grab Virgil’s hand, pulling him upright. “But sure. Will you, Virgil Emo-Nightmare Foley, ditch this absurd party with me?”

“Logan, I thought you’d never ask,” Virgil smirks. “Let’s bounce!”

They get lucky – Logan hasn’t had anything to drink, and due to how large their group is, Virgil had had to drive over Patton, Janus, Roman, and himself earlier. Virgil hands him the keys to the car, and Logan drives them to the nearby McDonalds, where they order fries and milkshakes. “Let’s go somewhere high,” Virgil says when they return to the car, grinning, and Logan obliges, driving them to his favorite stargazing spot near campus, partway up a mountain in a parking lot for an old playground.

Soon, he finds himself sitting on the hood of Virgil’s car, dipping his fries in a chocolate shake as the two of them stare up at the stars and the moon, pointing out constellations. “Look,” giggles Virgil, his head on Logan’s shoulder as he traces lines between stars. “It’s the glasses one!”

“There is no ‘glasses’ constellation, Virgil,” he points out, but the path his friend is etching into the sky does look rather like a pair of glasses.

“Well, there is now,” replies the other. “It’s your constellation! You deserve one, y’know, ‘cause you’re pretty, and smart, and nice, and funny, and you’re just the best, Lo, okay?”

“How much did you have to drink, exactly?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow, and his friend punches him in the arm, lightly. “Ow!”

“I’m telling the truth,” Virgil rolls his eyes, pulling the blankets they’d retrieved from the trunk closer around the two of them. “You deserve a constellation. You deserve the universe.”

“Well, now we have to find you a constellation, too,” he muses, ignoring the heat in his cheeks (he seems to be blushing quite a lot lately, talking to Virgil) as he searches the sky. It takes a few minutes, and Virgil is half-asleep on his shoulder by the time he makes his choice, but finally Logan says “I found it.”

“Well, lemme see,” Virgil mumbles, opening his eyes.

He traces lines between a series of stars. “It’s a cloud,” he explains, “and a lightning bolt. Because you’re a thunderstorm, V.”

“Isn’t that a bad thing?” He’s biting his lip, suddenly subdued, and Logan feels a surge of guilt, because no one should ever make Virgil look like that, anxious and hurt and scared all at once.

“No,” he answers, fiercely enough that Virgil jumps slightly. “You’re wild, and chaotic, and occasionally a bit destructive, but you also make people feel alive. You bring rain to help things live, you bring the sound of a storm and the beauty of lightning, you simultaneously wake me up and help me sleep. You are beautiful, and inspiring, and so amazingly you, and the best friend I could ever ask for.”

“...And I thought I was the English major,” Virgil says quietly, and his face is bright red. “You have no right to be better at words than me, Sanders.”

“Well, Foley, I’m the astrophysics major, and you’re the one who started making constellations, so turnabout’s fair play,” Logan replies, and Virgil lets out a laugh at that.

Later, when the fries and milkshakes are both gone, they get back into the car and drive back to their dorms. For Logan’s birthday that year, a month or so later, Virgil presents him with a painting of the glasses constellation. He’d commissioned Remus, he explains, staring at his feet, and Logan tells him he loves it. For Virgil’s birthday, he gets a similar art piece from Roman, of the stars making a storm, and Virgil pulls him into a tight hug.

For now, though, the two of them simply sit and gaze into space.

–

Logan goes on a few dates with someone he meets at the coffee shop, named Andy. They become boyfriends. Virgil teases him about it whenever he brings it up, and eventually he stops talking about his partner to his best friend. The two of them start to pull apart, their friendship strained.

When Logan and Andy separate, Virgil is dating a girl he’s only met a few times, who shares Virgil’s English classes and wears colorful barrettes to hold back her curls.

He hadn’t even known Virgil liked her.

–

College passes by quickly. They graduate, and Logan tumbles into a job at a rather prestigious observatory. He lives in a small apartment in the city nearby, buys coffee from the Starbucks across the street every morning, settles into a routine.

Gradually, they all start to fall out of touch. It sucks, but things have been off between Virgil and him ever since Logan had dated Andy Michaels, and at the moment Logan sees his ex-boyfriend more than his ex-best friend. Their relationship had ended amicably, but still – he misses Virgil Foley, more than he’d ever like to admit.

A year or so later, Logan receives the invitation to Remy and Remus’ wedding.

It is in the fall, and Logan isn’t surprised in the least that they plan to have it in a forest, if only because he knows that the odds of Remus wanting the guests to jump into leap piles with him are absurdly high. At least they’re at an actual wedding site, so they can be inside if needed – Logan half expected, when he found out they’d gotten engaged, for them to drag a bunch of guests to a Starbucks for the event.

What does surprise Logan is the fact that Remus has apparently sent it early, because Logan is going to be one of the wedding party attendants.

He calls Remus and Remy that night, certain they’ve mixed up things, but Remy simply laughs. “Logan, you’re still one of our best friends,” he says. “Come on, please?”

“Besides,” Remus adds, “Virge will be one too, and Patton and Roman and Jan and Emile! You can’t break up the team!”

He ends up agreeing, and no matter how much Remy teases him about it later, it was not just to see Virgil again.

The wedding rolls around. Logan has managed to avoid speaking to Virgil for more than a friendly greeting and a bit of small talk through all the preparations the two of them had had to attend, but the they both arrive early on the day of, and Logan doesn’t know anybody else, and, well, he does miss Virgil.

“Hey,” he says. Virgil is nearly as tall as him in the heels he’s wearing (Logan had managed to opt out of them, convincing Remus to let him wear flats with his dress), and his green dress offsets his stormy eyes perfectly. Logan doesn’t think he looks nearly as good in the color, but he’d decided not to argue with Remy’s puppy-dog eyes. Besides, he much prefers the dress to the suits Emile and Patton had opted for.

“Hi, Logan,” Virgil replies. The tension in the air is palpable, and Logan hates it. “How’ve you been lately?”

“I’m good,” he answers.

“Oh, good,” nods Virgil. He’s gnawing at his lip again, and Logan can see the split in it even through the lipstick. “Me too.”

“I miss you,” Logan says suddenly, because he does. “You were my best friend, and I hate not being close, because you are one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

“...I miss you too.” He smooths his dress, looking out the window at the trees, and then laughs. “I’m surprised they didn’t have their wedding in a Starbucks, honestly.”

Logan can’t help but chuckle at that, especially when he spots Remy breezing past them, a coffee cup in hand and makeup only half-done, frantically trying to catch his little brothers and sister, whom he and Remus had appointed flower children. “I thought the same thing,” he admits.

It’s easy for the two of them to talk, after that, sharing jokes and telling stories and talking about their new lives. Logan feels oddly happy when he learns Virgil is single, and when he mentions how he’s looking for a roommate and Virgil remarks that he is too, it feels as natural as breathing to ask where he’s currently living. Finding out they live in the same city makes Logan feel strangely elated.

“Help!” Remus exclaims, skidding to a stop in front of them, collapsing into Virgil’s arms and only barely being caught. “I’ve lost my husband-to-be!”

“Alright, please calm down,” Logan says, exchanging exasperated looks with Virgil, who pulls Remus back to his feet. “Have you actually lost Remy, or are you just being overly dramatic?”

“He has been stolen from me,” Remus whines. “We were kissing, and then he was dragged away by my evil brother!”

“By any chance, was he dragged away to prepare for your wedding? The event we’re attending, so you two can get married? The one that most guests are expected to arrive for in fifteen minutes?” Virgil crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed.

Remus’ eyes widen. “Fifteen minutes?” he asks, checking Logan’s watch, and groans. “Oh, drumsticks. Drumsticks torn right off a chicken. Bloody chicken legs everywhere.”

He darts off, and Logan and Virgil sigh simultaneously.

“We should go help, shouldn’t we?” Virgil asks, and Logan nods reluctantly. “Well, it was great to talk to you.”

“It was pleasant to speak with you, as well,” he agrees.

As he turns to go find Patton, Virgil grabs his arm. “Hey, L, save me a dance, okay?”

They do indeed dance together that night, after they watch Remy and Remus get married among the colorful leaves, and talk, and laugh, and by the end of the wedding they are good friends again.

Virgil and Logan move in together by the end of November.

–

They become surprisingly domestic, the two of them, moving into their large apartment that is close to both Logan’s job at the observatory and Virgil’s work at a publishing company. He’s not surprised Virgil has become an editor (he was always the best at it, when they exchanged essays to review), but he is rather impressed when he notes some of the books in Virgil’s room have his full name on the cover. “I write poetry, mostly,” he explains when Logan asks. “It’s… I used to use it like therapy, I guess, and I got some of it published. I’m not famous or anything.”

“That’s amazing,” Logan says sincerely.

The poetry becomes important, later, but then, it is simply something for Logan to admire, another flash of beautiful lightning in Virgil’s storm.

Saturdays become movie nights, and they order junk food and make popcorn and watch documentaries or horror movies or cartoons together. Occasionally, some of their friends will join them, and every so often, all eight of them cram into Logan and Virgil’s living room. Despite his love for the others, however, Logan’s favorite nights are usually the ones when the two of them are alone, when they curl up together on the couch and make fun of trashy films or contribute their own knowledge to documentaries or sing along quietly to Disney. It is peaceful and lovely and utterly perfect.

Logan doesn’t mean to fall in love with Virgil. It sneaks up on him, mornings of coffee for him and tea for Virgil and memes shared over breakfast, afternoons texting each other with reminders to get groceries and news from the office, nights of cooking together and dancing to the radio.

One day, when both of them have work off, Virgil pulls him out of bed, waits impatiently while Logan gets dressed, and drags him outside into a storm. They walk through the park together, enjoying the rain on their skin, both of them jumping into puddles and belting the title number of Singing in the Rain and getting utterly soaked.

They return home for cocoa, each taking a warm shower and then sitting together on the couch to watch old movies with small white krakens bobbing in their cups. It is then, with Virgil curled up against him, wet hair soaking Logan’s neck and the smell of hot chocolate in the air, that Logan realizes he loves a thunderstorm in human form.

His best friend.

Oh, god, Logan is in love with his best friend. And also his roommate. And also his favorite person in the whole of the universe.

Logan tries to get over his crush (and there’s no other word for it, as juvenile as it sounds). He really does. But it’s so hard, now that he knows it exists, especially when he has to see Virgil every single day. And he can’t just cut himself off, or leave their apartment, because that might ruin their friendship, and that’s the whole reason he’s trying to escape his feelings, because he loves being Virgil’s friend more than anything.

So he exists in this inbetween state, thrashing in the eyewall of a storm, so close to safety and danger simultaneously, trapped in chaos and uncertainty.

Logan isn’t quite sure whether he really wants to return to the eye, blissful quiet and the peace of oblivion, or if he can at all. But he thinks entering the storm itself, the danger of telling Virgil how he feels, the potential for a life with him, is equally impossible.

Eventually he decides that it is best to just ignore his rebellious feelings. It works, sort of – Virgil doesn’t seem to notice anything different, and Logan gets to keep his best friend. Still, every moment together is tinged with a sort of bittersweet sadness, the dancing in the kitchen and cuddling on the couch and meals together a harsh reminder that they are just friends.

He’s not sure exactly how his other friends figure it out, but they do, judging from how Remy and Janus tell him exasperatedly that he really ought to say something to Virgil, how Patton and Roman tell him how cute they would be together, how Remus does his best to shove Logan towards Virgil at any opportunity, how Emile tells him pointedly that repressing his feelings isn’t exactly healthy. Logan does decide that he’ll confess… eventually.

The problem with eventually, however, is how ambiguous it is. The others have realized as much, evidently, but they don’t force Logan to say something, or tell Virgil themselves, and he appreciates that.

It is a Saturday when eventually finally comes, a peaceful movie night interrupted by a phone call with Roman’s name flashing on the screen. He holds up a finger over his lips as he accepts the call, grimacing apologetically to Virgil as he steps into his own room. “What do you want?” he asks exasperatedly when he picks it up, and winces as the other line fills with noise.

“Logan, have you read Virgil’s latest book?” Roman practically screams, and in the background Logan can hear Patton squealing with excitement as Janus shushes them both.

He frowns, closing the door to his bedroom. “I wasn’t aware he’d been working on one.” Normally, Logan knows whenever Virgil is working on another collection of his poetry – he’s often the first person Virgil hands it to for editing.

“Get on your computer this instant, Pocket Protector,” says Roman, and Logan can hear his grin.

A quick search confirms it; a new book of poetry, just released by Virgil Foley. The revelation is almost painful (does Virgil not trust him anymore? Not like him?) until Janus’ voice comes over the line, hir voice sarcastic and concerned altogether.

“Way to go, love, he’s definitely not overthinking this,” ze sigh. “Logan, listen to me. I need you to go look at some of the reviews for the book, okay? Actually, no, if you can find a sample online, go read that.”

He’s operating in a haze, a robot in human flesh, and what do robots do but obey orders?

Logan barely understands what he’s reading at first, lines of poetry in the sample flashing past him. He checks the reviews, words of praise and admiration flowing through his mind, and it takes a second before he understands any of it.

Clicking back to the online sample, he starts to recognize the story being told. It is a tale of late nights and hot drinks in the morning, of pining and fear of destroying a friendship older than love.

It is Logan’s story, told through another’s words, a voice speaking of a scholar of the stars, of glasses and storms, of hugs and hand-holding and a cute barista, a boy in psych class, a friendship repaired at another’s wedding, of admiration and hope and love. A love for someone seen not as a storm, but as stars, as the universe in human flesh.

Virgil is in love.

Virgil is in love with Logan.

“I’ll call you back,” he hears himself say, and drops his phone on his bed in his haste to get back to the living room.

“Logan?” Virgil’s voice pierce the haze of his thoughts, his eyes

(a storm, wild beauty)

shining with concern, and he sits up from where he’s lying on the couch. “You okay? What happened?”

There are many things he wants to say, questions and explanations and promises, but in the end, all he says is “Can I kiss you?”

“What?” He doesn’t expect Virgil to look quite so flustered, but then again, Logan did just storm into the room, looking desperate and probably a tad deranged, and ask to kiss his best friend.

“Roman told me about the new book,” Logan says first, and Virgil’s eyes widen even further, and he can sense the incoming apology, but he isn’t done, not yet. He begins to crack his knuckles, a habit he’d thought he’d finally lost, full to the brim with nervous energy. “I’ve read some of it, and as far as I can tell, you are romantically attracted to me. Which is good, because I also harbor such feelings for you, and have for about a year now. So. Can I kiss you?”

“Isn’t it ‘May I kiss you’?” Virgil grins, playing off his feelings with humor, as always. Logan opens his mouth to apologize as his world comes crashing down, because oh, he’s messed up, oh no, but then his best friend’s expression softens, and he whispers “Of course, Logan Sanders.”

“Thank you, Virgil Foley,” he says, and abandons the eyewall for the storm.

They don’t watch any more movies that night. The two of them kiss, and talk, and kiss some more, and Virgil grabs his author’s edition of the new book from his room, and they read it together on the couch.

The next morning, they sit with their coffee and tea and talk some more, about labels and boundaries and dreams. Their friends come over for movies the next Saturday, and Virgil and Logan hold hands as they tell them they are dating.

(Roman choking on the popcorn in his excitement almost makes up for the money Logan spots being exchanged between Emile, Remus, and Patton.)

Eventually, Virgil’s latest book will gain fame, and they will end up with quite a bit of money between the two of them, especially after Logan gets a promotion. Eventually, they will move to a larger house, one a bit outside the city, one where they will have two cats and a dog and a son named Thomas. Eventually, they will get married in the spring, and when it starts to rain as they say their vows, the two of them just laugh.

But that is eventually. In the now, Logan Sanders is in love. In the now, Virgil Foley is in love.

They are glasses and hoodies, poetry written and spoken, dancing in the kitchen and cuddles on the couch.

They are thunderstorms, and they are stars.

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whywishesarehorses · 3 years

Text

Inside the Famous—and Deadly—Omak Stampede

This article was written by Allison Williams, published in the August 2017 issue of Seattle Met, and reformatted here for your enjoyment.

This one is text heavy and long, so it is hidden under a read more.

Thursday

Eighteen horses form an imperfect line on a hot August night, their 18 jockeys clad in jeans. Here on a sandy bluff in the small town of Omak, four hours east of Seattle and several worlds away, riders and spectators alike move with nervous energy, anxious for the race to start. One jockey wears a helmet topped with a pink mohawk, another with a GoPro camera. One horse, sponsored by a local marijuana dispensary, sports painted pot leaves on its rump. Wispy white eagle feathers hang from others, emblems of the Native American heritage the men share.

A summer carnival glows below, neon outlines of rides called the Orbiter and the Fireball, metal towers that came into town on tractor trailers. Farther into the Okanogan Highlands, a casino twinkles alone on Indian Reservation land. It’s August 11, 2016, and even an hour past sunset the air holds onto most of the heat from the 90-degree day.

A “whoooop!” erupts from the gathered crowd as the animals sidestep and bob their heads behind the chalk starting line. His race number bright across his chest, 18-year-old Scott Abrahamson eyes the sandy dirt in front of the line, groomed like a golf course sand trap. His long bubblegum-pink sleeves mean he’s easy to spot even in the shadows where floodlights don’t reach, and his helmet blinks with battery-operated toy devil horns. He’s surrounded by both champions—Loren Marchand with seven titles, Tyler Peasley with three—and nervous high schoolers in their first race.

At the crack of a gun, the horses charge. Their riders lean forward as hooves pound the sandy flat, at least for the first hundred feet. The crowd cheers as soon as the pistol sounds, cries and hoots blossoming into the dark.

Then 18 horses go off a cliff.

The riders shift in their saddles as their mounts fly down an incline steeper than a ski jump. The best jockeys, the veterans, barely lean back coming off the hill, reins clasped in the left hand and riding crops in the right. Others grasp a bar they’ve rigged on the back of their saddles they call the “oh shit handle.”

The spectators’ cries reach full pitch when the pack is halfway to the waterway at the base of the hill, a thick ribbon of black that flows left to right. The horses plunge into the inky Okanogan River en masse, hooves hitting the shallow bottom, and all but one charge across to the opposite bank. The stadium on the far side is lit up like a Friday-night football game, floodlights bright atop red, white, and blue bleachers, and Scott and his hot-pink sleeves emerge first in the dirt oval, just 45 seconds into the race. As they cross the finish line, Peasley is right on his tail.

Fifteen horses follow, minus the one that tumbled in the river. A crew attends to the downed horse from the deck of a small drift boat; while the stadium roars, a veterinarian surveys the animal and notes that it’s already gone, likely drowned.

Back atop the hill, Colville tribal elders watch through binoculars before one spots something in the sandy dirt, an eagle feather dislodged by the chaos. They circle the downed quill, addressing the spirit it represents, the eagle that travels in both worlds, before one of the elders lifts the feather to return it to its owner.

This is the World Famous Suicide Race.

There will be four races total during Omak Stampede, always the second weekend in August. Each race awards five points to the first-place finisher, four to the second, and so on; the overall winner clinches the King of the Hill title on Sunday, and $40,000 in prize money is distributed. It’s the highlight of this Central Washington town’s year, a tradition that draws thousands of spectators—and animal-rights protesters.

Omak straddles the border of the Colville Reservation, home of almost every racer, horse owner, and trainer. The contest is a rite of passage, they say, a proving ground for men—and even a few women—coming of age more than a century after actual horseback warfare. Beyond the turgid flow of the Okanogan River through town, the reservation sprawls over 1.4 million acres of highlands, brittle with brown grass in late summer. There the Native American communities are plagued by poverty and unemployment.

If the Suicide Race was a small-town Friday-night football game, teenaged Scott Abrahamson would be its star quarterback. He’s an ace student, focused and polite, with technical internships and honor rolls to his name, but this weekend he’s a jockey with a King of the Hill title to defend. All eyes are on him.

Friday

He gets sick before every big race. “Everything hits me and my body,” Scott says. “I can barely walk.” His cousin calls it good luck; Scotty puking means they’re going to do well.

In the hours before Friday’s race, the second of four, Scott’s prepping in the triangular Owners and Jockey’s paddock in the middle of the fairgrounds. By 5pm, Omak veterinarian Jai Tuttle holds court at one end of the dusty enclosure, near standing fans that muster a little manufactured breeze. As they wait to parade their horses for Doc Tuttle, owners angle water hoses over the animals’ backs.

Everyone older than Scott calls him Scotty. This year’s printed program, in the roster of winners dating back to 1935, calls him that. After he won in 2015, he became small-town famous, no longer just the good kid who excelled at basketball and wrestling. People holler, “Go Scotty” at him all weekend.

His father was famous too. That’s what happens when you win the Suicide Race; Leroy Abrahamson took the title in 2002, but was best known for his prowess in the Indian Relay, a more widespread style of racing where one jockey hops from horse to horse. Leroy, Scott has heard, would flit from one mount to the next with only a single foot brushing the ground.

Scott doesn’t remember his first time in a saddle but assumes it was before he could walk, though he largely gave it up in elementary school, when his parents split. His father was the horse guy; his mother was all about school. So he became a standout student in Coulee Dam, a reservation town in the shadow of the 50-story hydroelectric giant. When his father died in 2009, he was drawn back to horses.

“I’m sorta doing all this for him,” Scott says, hesitant. His mother wasn’t wild about the racing, but he didn’t falter at school, scoring an engineering internship with the Bureau of Reclamation. Slight and muscular, his five-foot-nine stature is too tall for a throughbred jockey but about average for this race. His hair is short and straight, spiking around his head like a halo, and he likes to hide his eyes behind sunglasses.

The summer he was 16, after his sophomore year of high school, Scott entered his first Suicide Race. Atop a small gelding named Kinky, he fell as they crested the top of the hill on the Thursday race, flipping over the horse’s shoulder. On Friday the pair wrecked in the water.

“I flipped over and everybody ran me over,” he says. “Everyone says it happens so fast, but when I was in it, it was like slow motion.” Finally, on Saturday, they made it through the entire race, galloping past the finish line in the stadium. Then Sunday the pair wrecked again.

A new horse was in order. His trainer, George Marchand, is a giant within the Suicide Race world and holder of three titles. He’d lost his own father at 14 and rode against Leroy Abrahamson 15 years ago, so he guided Scott, this time to a nighttime ride on a quarter horse–thoroughbred mix named Eagle Boy. The butterscotch-colored gelding was only about five years younger than the rider.

“It was pitch black and dusty,” remembers Scott. The hills of the reservation are dotted with brush and ponderosa pine, but he could make out little from his saddle. They were on top of a hill, he knew that, and that George had taken off.

He gave Eagle Boy his head as they sped over the uneven terrain. “We were jumping trees and dodging trees,” recalls Scott, but they moved as a unit. “I was like dang—he trusts me.” Matching horse to rider is alchemy.

In 2015, in his second year racing and only 17 years old, Scott on Eagle Boy tied for first overall with six-time victor Loren Marchand, George’s nephew. With a wide grin stretched across his face, the rising high school senior played rock-paper-scissors with his cochamp for a King of the Hill prize bridle.

The name World Famous Suicide Race might be a bit of hyperbole, but the race is nothing if not infamous. It emerged in scrappy Omak where a Great Depression population boom—all the way to 2,500 souls—launched an annual rodeo in 1933. As publicity chairman, furniture store owner Claire Pentz proposed a dramatic steeplechase to draw spectators, inspired by mountain races across the reservation at Keller, where riders charged a dry channel in the Sanpoil River. He knew how to sell it: He gave his 1935 creation a catchy name.

The World Famous Suicide Race ran every summer, the marquee event at the four-day Omak Stampede rodeo. Dynasties were born when the inaugural race’s third-place finisher, Alex Dick, won regularly through 1965. There have been seven Marchand riders over the years, six Abrahamsons, nearly a dozen named Pakootas. The unofficial motto, one that appears on winners’ belt buckles, is “Wimps Need Not Apply.”

The 210-foot hill, most say, is a 62-degree slope. Or it’s 54.7 degrees, as measured by a race official in 1993. Others say it’s more like 30. Regardless, it’s terrifying. From the top, the hill feels as steep as a hard ski run; a black diamond, but not a double black. Scrambling up on foot, you might use your hands.

The stampede and race remain intertwined, but in 1999 the Colville Tribes boycotted to protest a change to their camping space on the fairgrounds. The Stampede lost attendance and revenue, and the following year a deal was struck: The tribes got more control over the race organization, and the encampment got its park space.

Family ties bind many of the owners, trainers, and jockeys, and while a few aren’t Native American at all, they’re the exception. This is the biggest sporting event in the region, the Super Bowl of north-central Washington. “This is the only time we get to play cowboys and Indians,” jokes one organizer, Ernie Williams.

Doc Tuttle is fairly new to the race gig, but between her ease with fidgety horses and no-nonsense demeanor, the veterinarian exudes authority. One by one she clears the horses for Friday’s race, directing owners to walk each thousand-pound animal in a figure eight as her eyes stay trained on forelegs and haunches, scrutinizing for swollen tendons or joints.

No one can pretend the Suicide Race isn’t controversial. As early as 1939, the protests started; Humane Society president Glen McLeod succeeded in canceling a mountain race in nearby Hunters, then traveled to Omak and Keller hoping to do the same. “Why, even the riders call it a ‘suicide race,’ ” McLeod told The Seattle Daily Times before a similar trip in 1941.

Animal rights groups started keeping a tally of dead horses in 1983, with one count now at 22. “The reality is that the race is viewed as part of the Omak Stampede rodeo, and rodeos are protected under state law,” says Seattle Humane Society spokesman Dan Paul, but points out that rapid shifts in public sentiment swiftly made SeaWorld orca shows and circus elephant acts extinct.

People for Ethical Treatment of Animals has run letter-writing campaigns. In 1993, the Northwest’s PAWS, or Progressive Animal Welfare Society, tried a more robust tactic, filing a lawsuit that alleged organizers harm horses for profit, but a Superior Court judge threw out the case. In 1996, a PAWS member sued the Okanogan County Sheriff’s Office and the rodeo for roughing him up when he videotaped a horse being euthanized; the suit settled for $64,500.

For the organizers, the response is simple: The race is merely an extension of their horse-infused culture. Every rider points out that they ride similar hills during wild-horse roundups and cattle work.

Horses have to pass three checks before they’re allowed entry into the race: the vet examination, a swim test, and what’s called a hill test, where horses must round the top of Suicide Hill without hesitation.

Tuttle isn’t from the reservation; she isn’t originally from Omak. But even as an outsider, the one who has to put horses down if they’re hurt, she doesn’t think it’s inhumane.

“These guys use horses that love it,” she says; the horses are bred to it and run steep hills regularly on the remote corners of the reservation. She rarely has to disqualify a horse because owners who spot lameness usually scratch. “It does hold a real special place in the Native culture. It does.” And that horse Thursday night that likely drowned? She considers it. “He was doing what he loved and he had a quick and honorable death.”

Friday night’s race is classic and clean; no bad wrecks. As always, the riders reach the starting line by crossing the river on the Highway 97 bridge, closed to traffic. Hooves clomp on the asphalt as the parade passes a road sign that reads, “Tribal Code Laws Apply.” There are no rules to apply in the Suicide Race once the gun is fired; riders can whip each other, pull each other’s reins. No helmets required. No wimps.

The results echo the previous night: Scott Abrahamson and Eagle Boy come in first, Tyler Peasley on Spade in second. When Scott wins, he raises his right hand above his head, palm out, fingers outstretched. His father’s gesture.

Scott was only four when Leroy won the Suicide Race. “Everyone said he was one of the greats,” he says. “It’s kinda hard to fill his shoes.” Instead he fills his horns. He wears Leroy’s blinking red devil headpiece, the kind of bauble most 18-year-olds would don at a Halloween party.

Scott’s idols were the riders who won in the late 2000s, including the 30-year-old three-time champion who came in second to him during this weekend’s first two races. As a kid he’d run down hills playing at Suicide Race, imaginary whip flying, yelling, “I’m Tyler Peasley!” After his 2015 win, Scott noticed something: “The kids run around saying they’re me.”

It’s after 10pm when the racehorses have completed their cooldown laps and have been loaded into trailers for the ride home. Scott accompanies George Marchand to Omak Lake, 15 miles out of town, to let Eagle Boy soak before bed.

Saturday

Saturday night’s Suicide Race is the biggest. The 7,700-seat arena is packed, and lines form at every fun house and stomach-destroying ride in the carnival outside. Booths hawk curly fries, cotton candy, and foot-longs, though the longest lines are reliably at a taco truck.

But that’s not the whole Omak Stampede. On the east side of the arena, a mirror festival, maybe even larger: the Indian Encampment. Rows of teepees surround a round pavilion for dancing and drum performances, with RVs and tents beyond that. Spectators bring their own camp chairs to supplement the few bleachers. Booths sell jewelry, T-shirts, and dream catchers, and while some of the food is the same—nothing is as universal as curly fries—more signs are handwritten, and many vend Indian tacos and huckleberry lemonade.

Before the rodeo begins, the arena’s industrial speakers blast pop country songs over every acre. The festivities begin with a series of anthems and processions, recognizing the neighboring nations of Canada and the Colville Tribes. During the ride-in, dozens of rodeo queens from around the West shoot into the center oval on horseback, one by one, decked in every shade of sparkle.

The announcer introduces each event, then banters with the rodeo clown when things get slow or a bull rider needs a moment to limp off the dirt. The Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association produces the classic rodeo events, ones with more white riders than Native: bull riding, steer wrestling, team roping, barrel racing. Specialty acts bridge the competitive sports: trick riders and one blonde woman who does a kind of partner dance with an unbridled palomino horse to the blaring sounds of a country song called “Free.” It ends with the horse placing its blond head in her lap.

The Suicide Race is the final blockbuster event. Spectators wade up to their knees into the Okanogan River just upstream of the race crossing, bare feet on slimy rocks. Signs still note that video recording is prohibited, but they’re roundly ignored in the age of cell phones.

Despite the shocking name, the only rider death since anyone’s kept close records was one who drowned on his way to the starting line—though there are plenty of close calls. In 2002, the year Leroy Abrahamson took home the title, racer Naomie Peasley took a tumble so bad she fractured her skull. She recovered, but not before flatlining twice in the medic helicopter.

In its anti–Suicide Race materials, PAWS airs a common criticism of the race: its authenticity. “Organizers currently contend that the Suicide Race has roots in Native American tradition but, in fact, an Anglo conceived the race as a publicity stunt,” reads its statement. Detractors hang on that detail, its origins with furniture salesman Claire Pentz.

To riders and trainers, though, Pentz is irrelevant, and they point to the deep roots of horse culture. For Scott, the point of the race is clear: “Showing that a young man is becoming a warrior, becoming a man.”

The race, the encampment—it’s the tribes’ biggest invitation into their world. “There’s more that people don’t see behind these walls, about Indian life...sweat lodges, medicine,” adds Aaron Carden, a retired racer who now teaches Native language on the reservation. Of the borders around that world, he says, “It’s not our fence to keep people out. It’s the fence white men built to keep us out of the area they took.”

The race wasn’t the only thing “created” by a white man; the very invention of a Colville Tribes unit is recent. Long before that, before statehood, before Manifest Destiny, before Lewis and Clark white-privileged their way across the American West, the Okanogan Highlands tribes lived nomadic lives, picking berries and drawing salmon from the massive Columbia River. And racing horses.

First came the incorporation of Washington Territory, then a series of executive orders begun by president Ulysses S. Grant that roped several tribes into three million acres between the Methow Valley and the Columbia River. Others were elbowed into the reservation, linking bands that once stretched from the dusty plains of Washington to the mountains of British Columbia. One chief invited a famous Indian leader, Chief Joseph, and his Nez Perce followers in 1885. With his band, the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation—a patchwork assembly that had no single language or traditional commonality—reached their current 12-tribe size.

Over 125 years the tribes faced what so many other American Indians did—children forced into boarding schools, languages squashed. The federal government forced a cheap buyback of 1.5 million acres, lands still lamented as the lost “North Half.” The Grand Coulee Dam, erected in 1942, blocked spawning salmon with its 550-foot concrete walls; Colville tribal members mourned the loss of Kettle Falls, a historic fishing spot, with a Ceremony of Tears before it was submerged by the dam’s backup.

In the 1960s, the tribes toyed with termination, dissolving the reservation altogether and splitting the lands among its 5,000 members. Reservations had been terminated by the government before, but the Colvilles were the only ones to dare seriously consider it themselves, an unprecedented move of self-governance. Congressional hearings were held but the measure never passed, so the Colville Reservation endured.

The Suicide Race is a separate world from suicide itself, a public health crisis for the Colvilles. Whether spurred by pervasive poverty—reservation unemployment topped 50 percent in 2010—or rampant substance abuse, the suicide rate ballooned to 20 times the national average in 2006. “After that we were in a panic on what we need to do and could do,” says tribal staffer Olivia Wynecoop. Tribal leadership declared a state of emergency, and Wynecoop helped secure grants for education and designating “natural helpers” to be on call for suicide emergencies.

Scott positions Eagle Boy at the western end of the starting line for the Saturday-night race. This isn’t like the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby; horses pace and turn, and the antsy palomino next to him does a sideways prance before the starter pistol goes off. Scott is angry, though later he says he can’t remember why. Trash talk and psych-outs are regular along the starting line, older jockeys trying to ruffle the young ones still gathering their courage.

But three years and one win into the Suicide Race, Scott can ignore the chatter. He and Eagle Boy are still until the gun sounds, then fast to the crest of the hill. Aaron Carden still remembers the feeling 25 years after his first win: “You’re actually flying in the sky. Nobody can take that away from you.”

There’s a commotion, a cloud of dust to Scott’s left, but he’s well in front of the pack as they hit the water. Two strides into the dark water, Eagle Boy stumbles, flinging Scott into the river. His blinking red devil horns disappear under the white churn created by horses on either side. They’re both okay but don’t log a finish.

What Scott couldn’t see was what happened on the top of the hill, to the very first rider off the break. Tyler Peasley, whom Scott idolized as a kid, and who’d placed at Scott’s heels the past two nights, darted off the top of the hill like a raptor after its prey. Peasley’s a little taller than Scott, broader shouldered, and he rides to win. His mount, Spade, got so much air he tucked his back legs underneath him and simply sailed for the first 30 feet of the downward slope.

They were serene in that moment, flying, until Spade’s hooves finally hit the tilted ground again; Peasley pitched over Spade’s front left shoulder before the horse executed a tight somersault. The jockey disappeared under the hooves of the horses behind him and the crowd made a collective, guttural gasp. Peasley’s body didn’t come to a stop until he reached the bottom of the hill.

Sunday

The final race is also the only daytime race of the weekend; for the first time since the trials and runoff races held before the stampede, they’ll be rushing the hill in full daylight.

The mood in the O&J paddock is subdued, but word is going around that Peasley is stable at a nearby hospital. News will later spread that his injuries included a broken pelvis, hip, and ribs, and the racing community fundraises to support his care and gas money for his family to visit him.

Remarkably, Tyler’s horse, Spade, is unhurt from the tumble, ready to race again. His owner lights a bundle of sage and says a few words over the horse before a new jockey takes the saddle.

For the final time in 2016, Scott follows the parade to the top of Suicide Hill. His jeans have a gaping hole in the knee—real wear from hard riding, not a fashion statement—and his wraparound sunglasses are ’80s big. No devil horns for the daytime race, but, as ever, his name is the one most shouted by the crowds: “Come on Scotty,” over and over.

With 10 points already earned, Scott only needs to place to secure the title. Owner and trainer Marchand tells him not to go all out, and when the gun fires, he doesn’t. He holds back his whip, lets Eagle Boy run the race without extra urging. It’s the smart move, the calculated move, no doubt informed by the disastrous night before. But Scott comes to regret holding back.

Not because it doesn’t work. Scott and Eagle Boy place second, netting four more points and easily clinching his first solo all-around title. But for Scott, the kind of driven athlete who hates to give a single inch, playing it safe feels wrong. Now with two titles to his name, only three years in, he says he’ll ride “until I get broken down and can’t do it no more.”

Three days later, Scott will depart his Coulee Dam home and drive five hours to start his freshman year at Washington State University. As an engineering student he will pull a 3.8 GPA his first semester and a 3.9 the second; he’s lined up two years of scholarships so far and hopes he’ll be able to extend to the full undergrad four.

Scott won’t brag about his Suicide win at college, but he’ll drive home every fall weekend for Indian Relay races, another sport that mixes horsemanship with a touch of anarchy. Around the reservation, he doesn’t have to brag about being King of the Hill; everyone already knows. “He’s the Steph Curry of the Suicide Race,” one tribal member says. “Loren and Tyler are the Lebrons.”

The second weekend of August 2017 is already on everyone’s calendar. Scott will be back on Eagle Boy, who he now half owns with George Marchand—a 49 percent share. He now has a streak to defend. By early June, high winter snows have melted to fill the Okanogan River, and ecologists are warning of water flows two or three times normal. Scott guesses that, with the river this high, it’ll be too deep for the horses to simply wade across during the Suicide Race; they’ll have to swim for the first time since, he believes, 2002. The year his father won it all.

But on Sunday night in August 2016, after the King of the Hill awards and the pictures, he’s just a high school kid again. He wanders the Indian Encampment with friends, waits in line for fry bread.

Under the pavilion, dancers spin and step, decked in elaborate feathered headdresses and beaded robes. Some have numbers pinned to their costumes, like marathon runners, to compete. In a drum tent, the songs are a steady thrum of chants and cries, indecipherable to the visitors who stand awkwardly outside the rows of seated tribal members who are at once both audience and participant.

Picture this: a quiet mountain lake, bordered by rocky hills dotted with ponderosa pine. In daytime Omak Lake is seven miles of brilliant turquoise, but now, at night, it’s a black mirror. Two men drive a horse trailer to its shore, unloading an unsaddled Eagle Boy.

It’s one of George Marchand’s secrets to success; the lake minerals soothe the bumps and scrapes along the horse’s legs. In the midst of the annual Perseid meteor shower, the uncloudy Okanogan skies are perfect for spotting streaks of celestial light, but the men don’t look up as they dissect the day’s race.

Scott holds Eagle Boy’s halter from a dock while the horse wades into the water, breaking the lake’s calm. The water hasn’t yet cooled from baking under another 90-plus degree day, and the hills that round the lake keep the night air still. They’ve survived another madcap contest together, earned another W. They’re back on the reservation, back home. In the silence the only sound is the lapping of the lake water against a horse.

#horse racing #rodeo #native american #indian #horseblr #horse news #mine #omak stampede #the world famous suicide race

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hysterialevi · 3 years

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Hjarta | Chapter 6

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

A WHILE LATER

THE TAVERN

“Skål!” Eivor and Sigurd said in unison, knocking their tankards together before taking a swig of their drinks. It had only been a short while since they departed from the temple, but the pair of them were already knee-deep in merrymaking and storytelling, chatting away with each other as if they had been conversing for the entire afternoon.

The tavern was rather busy with numerous folks looking to have a quick break from their lives -- whether in the form of a meal or a pint -- and was filled to the brim with vibrant carousing, giving the place a nice, warm feel to it.

A bard entertained customers with a series of enchanting songs from her lute, and tamed the wildness of the tavern with her soothing tones. She plucked the strings in a manner so effortless that it seemed like second nature, and harmonized with its melody using the music of her own voice.

Meanwhile, a lone man sat in the back of the building, waiting patiently for anyone to join his quiet game of Orlog. He fidgeted with the tiny cubes in his weathered hands, and slowly made his way to the bottom of an impressively tall tankard as the light of a nearby candle kissed the wrinkles on his face.

Overall, it was a typical day in the tavern despite the handful of unfamiliar faces dotting its crowds, and there was nothing that could’ve put Eivor off his drink -- including the incident he and Sigurd experienced in the woods.

He just hoped he wouldn’t regret this later.

“So,” Sigurd said after taking a sip, “you mentioned you had a pet raven?”

“Well, Synin’s not really a pet,” Eivor corrected. “She’s more of a companion. That bird’s been at my side ever since I was just a child. She was actually the one who saved me from the wolf that gave me this mark.” He turned his head to the side, revealing the marred skin on his nape.

Sigurd seemed fascinated. “Is that so?”

The other man nodded. “Indeed. It was as if Odin himself sent Synin to rescue me. I don’t know where she came from, but she swooped in just before the beast had a chance to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she really did come at Odin’s behest. The gods seem to have their eyes on you.”

Eivor chuckled. “Our seeress would agree. She believe the gods spared me that day for a specific reason. I have yet to discover what it is, though.” He downed a portion of his drink, flipping the subject to Sigurd.

“What about you? Have you ever had any animals like that in your life? A companion that you could always trust?”

The prince shrugged. “In a way. They weren’t quite as loyal as Synin, but I befriended a wolf when I was a boy.”

Eivor couldn’t help but be amused by the irony of that statement. “A wolf, you say?”

Sigurd laughed. “I know. Out of all animals. But it’s true. I came across this pup when I was, what, roughly twelve winters old? It was alone in the woods, and nearly starving to death. I think it was abandoned. I didn’t really know what to do at the time, so I simply gave it some food and then left. The wolf must’ve followed my scent back home though, because when I woke up the next day, I found it waiting outside the longhouse, begging for more food.”

“Did you take it in?”

He sighed in disappointment. “Sadly, no. My father wouldn’t allow it. Too much trouble, he said. But that didn’t stop the little thing from visiting me everyday. It would always be waiting just by the entrance, wagging its tail like a dog greeting its owner. I’d place some meat at its feet, and it would run back into the forest to enjoy its meal. This routine carried on for a few weeks, until eventually... it just stopped showing up.”

Eivor could sense the disappointment in Sigurd’s tone. “What happened to it?”

“No idea. I remember setting some food by the door to see if that would lure it back, but the wolf never returned. It either died or just... wandered off.” A humorous glint twinkled in his eye. “...Maybe it was the same wolf that you encountered.”

The younger man smirked. “I wish. Perhaps the scar would’ve been smaller.”

The two of them snickered at that and took a moment to finish their drinks, leading their conversation to reach a temporary halt. The music of the tavern filled the gap in between their silence, and only brought more emphasis to the cluster of different voices around them.

When Eivor’s eyes landed on the flesh sitting just above Sigurd’s collar however, the man suddenly felt the need to bring up another question. He wasn’t exactly sure if this was a subject he should’ve broached, but he found himself curious nonetheless.

“Hey, Sigurd,” Eivor said, “may I ask you something?”

The prince extended a permitting hand. “Of course.”

“Well, since we’re on the topic of strange marks on our necks,” he nodded his head towards the one resting under Sigurd’s ear, “do you mind if I ask about that?”

The older man instinctively rubbed the mark upon hearing Eivor’s observation, admittedly surprised that he was able to notice it.

“Ah, you caught that? You have a keen eye. I’ve had it ever since I was born.”

“It’s a birthmark, then? It looks very unique.”

Sigurd smiled proudly. “Indeed. The seeress of our clan, Valka, believes it was put there for a reason. She says it’s a fingerprint of the gods.”

Eivor examined its intricate shape. “I can see why. It’s a peculiar design, even for a birthmark. It seems I am not the only one being watched by the Allfather. Not that I would want to be, anyway.”

“You don’t want the gods’ favor?”

The younger man let out a breath, casually leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps it sounds ungrateful, but I’ve never fancied the idea of being a chosen one. I feel perfectly content living within the confines of Midgard. If I have a place among the gods, so be it. But I don’t wish to spend my mortal life chasing it. I’d rather create my own path.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” Sigurd replied. “The life we desire is very often the same one the Nornir have chosen for us. If there is a certain path you wish to take, it’s probably because the gods placed it there for you.”

Eivor gestured to the prince. “And what about you? The gods have led you to Bjornheimr for the sake of a marriage, but... is that what you desire?”

Sigurd came to a pause, hesitant to offer any candour. “I... I don’t know, if I’m being honest. Randvi seems like a good woman, but it’s difficult for me to envision the rest of my life with her. I mean, what are we supposed to do when the wedding is complete?”

His friend shrugged. “What every prince does, I suppose.”

“What, prepare to become king? Start a family? Have children purely for the sake of ensuring that you have enough heirs?”

It didn’t take long for Eivor to pick up on Sigurd’s frustration. “I take it you don’t approve.”

The older man placed his tankard down, staring blankly at the table’s surface in discouragement.

“...No. On the contrary, I eagerly wait for the day that the crown gets passed to me. It’s the only time I’ll be able to make any difference in this world, or do some good. But... being a father? I’m not certain if that’s something I want. Or if I’m even ready for it.”

Eivor found himself intrigued. “And what do you want?”

Sigurd gestured loosely at the environment. “I wish to travel. To see the world. To bring glory to our clan. I wish to ride the seas to my heart’s content, and explore the kingdoms that lie beyond the horizon. But... I’m aware it’s an unrealistic goal. I have responsibilities, after all. And I fear my time for daydreaming has come to an end.”

The younger man took his words to heart, admittedly pitying the prince. He understood the love for adventure, and wished to sate Sigurd’s thirst for wandering.

He thought for a moment, offering a suggestion to him. “...What if I take you fishing tomorrow?”

Sigurd’s curiosity was piqued. “Fishing? Where?”

“We wouldn’t go too far from the village,” Eivor reassured. “We’d still be within arm’s reach, but it could be a nice break from all this chaos.”

A look of regret spread across the man’s face. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have a busy day tomorrow. My father is eager to set things in motion. Perhaps some other time.”

“Have no fear. We can--”

Interrupting their talk, a firm thud echoed from the tavern’s door as another customer walked in, drawing both Sigurd and Eivor’s attention. A gust of wind blasted through the open frame as the man entered the pub, and the candle standing by the Orlog game flickered sporadically.

Meanwhile, Eivor saw none other than Ulfar himself stepping into the cozy atmosphere of the tavern, allowing the warmth to settle into his chilled bones. His cheeks and nose were tinted red from spending so much time outside, but strangely enough, it didn’t look like he had any intention of staying.

Instead, his iron gaze simply landed directly on Sigurd, and he strode over to the man, speaking as forwardly as ever.

“Sigurd, there you are.” Ulfar greeted. “Your father is looking for you.”

The prince exchanged glances with Eivor, seemingly unsurprised by the summon. “Like I said, he’s eager to start.” He turned to the other man, giving him a nod. “Thank you, Ulfar. I’ll find him right away. And Eivor, thank you for the drinks. I enjoyed spending the day with you. Hopefully we can meet again soon.”

Eivor raised his tankard in a cordial manner. “Good day, Sigurd. You always know where to find me.”

Standing up from his seat, the older man parted ways with his friend despite his reluctance to do so, and made a swift exit from the tavern, leaving the Wolf-Kissed to his thoughts.

As for Ulfar, the weathered warrior stayed in place and watched as Sigurd took his leave, not even bothering to say another word. His arms were crossed in a serious fashion, and if Eivor didn’t know any better, he would’ve said that the man was annoyed.

“Ulfar?” He asked, pointing a hand to the chair across from him. “Care to join me for a drink?”

Ulfar’s expression immediately softened at the young man’s invitation, and a light chuckle fluttered from his lips.

“How could I say no?”

He took a seat at the other end of the table, filling the absence that Sigurd left behind. In the meantime, Eivor poured Ulfar a fresh cup of mead and slid it over to him, eager to get the ale flowing once again.

“Skål, my friend.” He said.

Ulfar grabbed the tankard’s handle and lifted in the air, smiling at him. “Skål, Eivor.”

Bringing the cup to his mouth, the man downed a decent fraction of his drink and let the alcohol loosen his mind, clearly worn out from all the stress that had been piled on him in the recent days.

His eyes sagged slightly with a hint of exhaustion, and the skin on his head glistened somewhat due to the beads of sweat that rested on the surface. It looked like he had just run a lap around the entire village, and the manner in which he slouched told Eivor he was in dire need of a break. Though, that didn’t stop Ulfar from striking up a conversation.

“...So, you and Sigurd seem to be growing close.” He remarked, his tone stiff with skepticism.

Eivor felt a pang of anxiety gripping him in the chest. Why did Ulfar sound so annoyed?

“I wouldn’t say that,” he disagreed. “We’ve only met twice thus far. We hardly know each other, in fact.”

“And yet... Sigurd hasn’t bothered to see Randvi at all. Meanwhile, he’s been here with you, chatting about frivolous subjects for hours on end.”

Eivor paused at that, picking up on his last words. “Hours? Has it really been that long?”

“Yes. Where else do you think I’ve been this whole time? Before I came here, I was carrying out your father’s orders and scouting the woods. Roughly three hours have passed since you returned to the longhouse.”

“I...” the young man stumbled over his thoughts, shocked by the realization, “...I didn’t even notice. It feels like mere minutes have flown by.”

The warrior’s response was painfully short. “I can imagine.”

Eivor tilted his head to the side in confusion, puzzled by the unusual shift in his friend’s mood. “...Is something wrong, Ulfar? You seem... upset.”

Ulfar let out a deep sigh and fell silent for a second, gazing out a nearby window as he spoke. His brow was crinkled with a profound sense of disapproval, and his lips remained flattened in a stern way.

“...Sigurd almost got you killed today.” He finally uttered.

The younger man instantly denied the notion, quick to defend Sigurd. “It wasn’t his fault, Ulfar. He had no way of knowing that Kjotve’s men were traipsing in the woods. There was no sign of danger when we first entered the forest.”

The raider wasn’t convinced. “One of the primary skills a leader needs is to be able to predict danger. Just because you didn’t see anything worth noting, doesn’t mean there wasn’t anything. The fact that we’re tangled in a war with Kjotve should’ve been enough to inform his decision. What Sigurd did today was careless, and it nearly cost you both your lives.”

Eivor tried to offer some perspective. “Well, look at this way. Despite not being prepared for an ambush, Sigurd still managed to get us out of there alive. Isn’t that another important trait for a leader? To be resourceful?”

“Yes, resourceful. Not reckless.”

That only confused Eivor more. “I don’t understand. Weren’t you the one who told Randvi that Sigurd was a man of great ambition and battle-prowess?”

“I was.” Ulfar confirmed. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Sigurd struck me as a cunning warrior when we first met, but his actions today make me wonder if he truly is the best option for Randvi. I’m not sure I like the idea of marrying her off to someone with such poor judgement.”

“You’re being too hard on him.” The young man replied. “Sigurd is unfamiliar with this region. He doesn’t know it as well as we do.”

“All the more reason to practice caution.”

A lighthearted smirk radiated on Eivor’s face. “You mean like you did when you charged into Geirmund’s fortress all alone? Or when you married a woman who killed someone in front of you?”

A quiet laugh scuffed Ulfar’s throat. “...Point taken.”

The Wolf-Kissed leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Listen, Ulfar. I know you’re only trying to protect me, but I mean it when I say Sigurd did nothing wrong today. He can be trusted. Just give him a second chance.”

The old warrior considered Eivor’s words, finally deciding to let go of the dispute. His temperament resembled that of a father scolding his child for their foolish behavior, but the rational side of him couldn’t deny that the young man had a point. Ulfar himself was no stranger to making risky decisions or getting caught in life-threatening circumstances, and he wondered if, perhaps, he was being too harsh with his comments.

His life in Bjornheimr was the result of a hasty choice, after all, and he turned out just fine.

“...Very well, Eivor.” Ulfar conceded, his tone free of the sharpness from before. “I’m still doubtful of Sigurd’s abilities, but if you believe he’s a man worthy of our trust... then I’ll reserve any further judgement for now. You’ve always had a talent when it came to reading people, and I’ve seen for myself that your instincts are usually correct. I just hope he doesn’t prove you wrong.”

The other man beamed at the sentiment. “Thank you, Ulfar.”

The raider took another swig from his tankard, emptying its contents entirely.

“Well, I think I should return to my duties. This old man has nagged you enough for one day, and the jarl will be waiting for my report.” Ulfar set the cup down and rose to his feet, causing the chair to emit a wooden scrape as it slid back with the man’s movement.

“Thank you for the drink, Eivor,” he said, returning to the gruff yet gentle demeanor that the young man was so familiar with. “And I apologize for being so antagonistic. I fear I was too rash with my anger.”

“It’s alright,” Eivor reassured. “You’re just trying to keep me safe. I appreciate it.”

Ulfar chuckled heartily at that. “It’s a good thing I was talking to you, then, and not Thora. I don’t think she would’ve been as understanding. My ferocity is often met on an equal level when I’m speaking to that woman.”

The warrior turned on his heel and began heading towards the door, bracing himself to collide with the icy weather once again. A muffled whistle could heard howling past the walls as the wind soared freely outside, and a subtle chill already caressed the parts of Ulfar’s flesh that remained exposed.

“Rest easy, little cub,” he told Eivor, placing his fingers on the door’s handle. “And remember to take care of that wound. You may have escaped with your life today, but I don’t want you to end up looking like me.”

“Don’t worry, Ulfar. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. We need your strength, especially these days. It’s clear to me now that Kjotve fully intends on taking advantage of the wedding, and the last thing I want is for any more of us to get hurt. So keep your guard up, and stay close to the village.” Ulfar threw a quick wave. “Good luck to you, Eivor. This is only the beginning.”

#hjarta #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #sigurd styrbjornson #eivor wolfkissed #eivor wolfsmal #eivor varinsson #male eivor #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

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jungcity · 4 years

Text

bane of the devil. | i

genre: vampire!jaehyun [ mature | angst | smut ]

pairings: jaehyun x female reader

note: bane of the devil deals with themes of physical, mental, and sexual abuse as well as toxic relationships. which may be upsetting for some readers. you are advised not to continue if you feel uncomfortable to these types of plots.

“father, i dreamt about a boy

his hands, bloodied

eyes like the shot of dawn

with the rebellion in his mouth

he tried to conquer

the moon

with the venom of his prayers

he tried to

search for a god

pray tell me father,

how do i love him

with no flesh, all blood

heaven help us,

how could he love me

if i am the sun?”

— jungcity, bane of the devil // i

Raindrops danced in the air as they fall from the clouds with the squalling winds intensifying the impact of it against the glass window panes. The murmurs and complaints filled the whole room, your classmates begging your professor to turn off the air conditioner. Your mechanical pencil lay forgotten above your table as you stare at the horizon from your seat beside the window. Oh, how you longed for your bed in this cozy weather.

Seven a.m. to seven p.m. class should be classified as a mortal sin— you could not, in the life of you, understand that type of abomination. It is cruel beyond reckoning. Especially when you sit on a room of thirty people, doing nothing as the heavy drops of rain and the cool atmosphere it provides slowly lulls you to slumber.

The only thing that prevented you from doing so was the loud slap of your professor’s hands on table, his voice echoing off the walls of the room. “Alright! Stop chattering!” He yelled as he raised a piece of paper in the air.

You slumped back in your seat. Here we go again. Every time your professors raise their hands while holding papers, you could not help but release a groan.

“Here is the plan for your next plate,” he started. “Photocopy it, take a picture of it, it’s up to you.” He then handed the papers to the student in front. You stared as your classmate’s face crumpled into a grimace while he skimmed the document. That— without a doubt— would also be your face once you get a hold of the plan.

“Just like the last time, bind your A3 papers with two fasteners. There must be a separate sheet for the front page. And please,” the professor exhaled, “Please don’t forget your names! How would I give you a failing grade if I don’t know who you are.” The groans rose up again from the students, your own commixing with the chaos of curses and prayers and the laugh of your professor.

“Hey, hey! Haechan!” You grabbed your friend’s shirt as he scurried off to your classmate in the front row. “Take a picture and send it to the group chat.”

He snatched his shirt away from your grasp while glaring at you, “I know! I know! Wait here.” Then he pulled out his phone, waving it onto your face before dashing to your classmate who has the plan.

You fished for your own phone inside your bag when a boy sat in front of you. He rested his arm on your table and propped his chin on his palm. “Damn, I’m surely gonna die before this semester ends.” Mark groaned, his eyes looking at your table.

You chuckled from your seat, “Three major plates to go, buddy.”

“I’m gonna sell my soul to Satan so I don’t have to do any of this bullcrap.” Haechan threw his phone on to the table. Luckily, you caught it before it slid down and shattered on the hard floors. He let out an infuriated sigh before grabbing one of the chairs and sitting on it beside your table.

“It’s that bad?” Mark grimaced as he pressed the power button of Haechan’s phone. The light of the screen illuminated his soft features in an instant, “Wow. Your phone’s brightness could blind a person,” Mark stated while blinking rapidly.

Haechan said nothing as he leaned his head on your table. You peek at the phone yourself, Mark slowing down his scrolling as you leaned closer.

“Five-storey residential? What?!” You exclaimed. Tons of plates are slowly piling up to you bedroom. Your drafting table could not even hold them anymore, they are littered all over the mattress and the whole place. As your eyes scrutinized the image of the plan, Mark let out a curse as he read the requirements of the residential building.

“Oh, no. The measurements are given,” Mark exchanged glances with you. “I won’t do this shit.” Then the phone toppled over the table again after Mark threw it. Haechan snatched his phone back with a special glare meant only for Mark before laying his head back on the table.

The rain continued to ravage the roof and the ground as the three of you rested your heads on your desk. Chatters and the shuffling of drafting materials once again dominated the whole room, with a few of your classmates cursing at the back as they play their online games.

“I had at least thirty-minutes of sleep today,” you declared. Your eyes feels heavy and your body seemed to be softening and turning into jelly by the sleep deprivation.

“Wow. I didn’t even have a blink of sleep myself.” Haechan mumbled, face still covered by his arms.

After your heavy nap, the three of you woke up with red-rimmed eyes. If you could continue sleeping in your room until tomorrow, you would. But of course, that is not possible.

Your classmates started to pack their things as the professor came back and dismissed the whole class. It has always been like that; your prof giving yet another plan and then dismissing the whole class two or three hours earlier than the scheduled time. You would have not attended today’s class if not for the other plates that needed to be submitted.

Despite the sullenness of your house because of your brother’s absence, you still wanted to go home and nap. It does not matter if you have mountains of plates to do, what truly matters is you, going home to the tranquility and safety of your house before midnight. It was a habit you’ve grown accustomed to since the untimely death of your parents.

Your path goes different ways from Mark and Haechan. That’s why you sat alone in the bus as they stand in the waiting shed while waiting for theirs. Both of them waved at you, mouthing the words ‘take care’. You answered them with a slight wave of your hand before putting on your earbuds.

The rain has calmed down already, leaving the stores drenched, the highway splotched with circles of rainwater. Yet the lightning still dominated the skies, white lights flashing like roots reflected in your irises as you stare at the bleakness of the heavens through the bus’ windows. The speed of the vehicle made everything blurry; from the blustery wind slapping against the trees to the lights from different stores. They filled your sight as the music continued to blast in your ear.

Your phone vibrated against your hand, stopping the music. You glanced at the screen and saw your brother’s caller ID. Johnny. Automatically, your brow shot up to your forehead. He has been away for two weeks now, doing God only knows what on the other side of the ocean. Of course, your big brother calls every night to check up on you. But tonight, he called earlier than usual.

You attempted to slide the green button when your cell phone flew away from your grasp, your head hitting the seat in front of you, eliciting a loud groan to escape from your lips. Loud protestations echoed from the students and elders alike, their own faces bedraggled as they recover themselves from the impact of the bus drawing to a halt.

“What happened?” An elderly woman asked, her hand on the middle of her chest while breathing heavily.

“There’s a person who crossed the road.” The conductor explained, but his words sounded unsure.

The woman’s eyes widened, “Is the person alright?” She stood up from her seat, one hand grabbing the railings in front of her.

“That’s what we’re confused about, Ma’am. The person is nowhere on the asphalt. He ran with a dashing speed… it’s impossible.” You didn’t know if it was amazement or fear that was laced with the conductor’s voice, but his statement caught your attention nonetheless.

The nagging curiosity inside your chest spreads like wild fire. If ever your intuition is right, you have to find that person or whatever that is. A speed like that could only be achieved by one creature. Your brother might call you a freak or a delusional little girl again, but it might be the only way to get answers. Answers that he did not bother to find when your parents died.

The truth is, years ago, your parents had their inopportune death. But the authorities has not yet to find the murderer. How could they? When there was no DNA in the crime scene but your parents’. How could they? If the murderer was not even a person to begin with.

Deep in your heart, you know. You know the world is enfolded with mysteries that a human mind would not be able to perceive. Cloak-and-dagger as it is, you understood that reality the moment you saw the two dots that were obviously from a penetration of fangs embedded in your parents’ necks.

‘Vampire! Vampire!’ was your unending scream at the morgue. Since you were only a little girl back then, no one paid attention to you. Not the policemen, not even your brother.

It did not surprise you when everyone called it a hopeless case. In their eyes, it was. But in yours, it’s not. Ever since your parents were murdered, you have been drinking the myths and lore of vampires. Day and night you devoured books, watched vampire sightings, studied their strengths as well as their weaknesses. It simply was a thirst you could not quench.

It was like that until you started college. You could not simply search for a free time to indulge yourself about those undead, blood-sucking creatures any longer. But every articles, every information, were still plastered to a blackboard inside your bedroom. A reminder of what you have been sleuthing for all your life.

Yellow lights illuminated the pool of waters on the asphalt road. You tiptoed as to prevent your shoes from getting soaked. Plastics, styrofoams, as well as vegetables skins from the uncollected drenched trash bins littered all over the street.

At long last, the shadow of your apartment appeared. Darkness invaded the vicinity, a quiet reminder that there isn’t any person present inside. You pulled out your phone from the back pocket of your jeans, ten missed calls from Johnny were displayed in the notifications. Frustrated from what happened inside the bus, you continued to ignore his calls earlier, despite your phone vibrating continuously.

Your phone’s flashlight casted a white light upon the dimness. Keys in your left hand, and your phone in your right, you struggled to jam the keys into the hole. When the gates finally opened, you sent Johnny a text that says you’re already home.

“At long fucking last.”

Your phone went flying to the grass yet again as you saw a figure looming in the shadows. A silent curse slid past your lips as you hurriedly picked it up, dead and wet grass sticking onto the screen. Once again, you pressed the flashlight button to see through the darkness.

And there, in the corner near the door, a man with a bloodied face stares at you with a cigar in between his lips. Spontaneously, your heart thudded frantically in your chest. You wanted to shout, but the scream bubbled out in your mouth and then nothing came out.

“Who are you?” You managed to ask.

The man didn’t answer. He pulled something out of his pockets. You took a step back. Only when he struggled to light his cigarette you realized it was only a lighter. His hands continued to shake, and you have no idea why haven’t you screamed for help yet. They say curiosity killed the cat. Right now, you do not doubt the saying as your curiosity ascended your fear.

“Care to light this for me, kitten?” He stretched out his hand to offer you the lighter. His endearment catching you like a deer in the headlights.

“Who are you and what are you doing here? All bloodied?”

The man sighed and started to light his cigar again. “The name’s Jaehyun. I’m friends with your brother, Johnny.” He offered you the lighter once more, “Now, will you light this up for me? As you can see, I’m shaking and bleeding.”

After his last word, you glanced up and down his body, the light of your phone following your action. And then you saw as blood poured out from a wound on his side. You hadn’t noticed it earlier because of his black shirt.

“What— I don’t— are you alright?” What stupid, stupid question. You shut your eyes and took a deep breath. Is this why your brother were so eager to call you? Because apparently, his friend stands bloodied in front of your doorstep.

“I feel like shit but I’m alright.” Smoke puffed out of his lips as he succeeded in lighting his cigarette after numerous attempts. “Won’t you open the door?” He nudged his head to the direction of the door. You blinked and felt the keys in your palms again.

“Tell me what’s happening first.”

It’s cruel, but if he manages to stay alive while blood gushes out of his stomach, you believed he could concisely explain to you what’s going on.

“Women are so fucking difficult,” he mumbled. “I will tell you everything once we’re inside and you’re stitching up my goddamned wound.”

“What?!” It was a scream more than a word. “Listen, I don’t know how to stitch up—”

He cut you off, “Well that’s a pity.” Then he threw away the bud of the cigarette to the ground. “Listen, I’m going to pass out anytime soon,” then he licked his lips, “Better open this door so we could get to business.”

“Promise me you won’t do anything to me.” It’s childish and you feel pathetic, but you said it anyways. Perhaps this man in front of you has a bottle of conscience in his system despite his unkempt look.

Jaehyun only looked at you, face impassive. “You’re not my type.”

You choked on your own saliva. “You’re unbelievable.” You ignored his smirk as you sauntered up to the door. Both of you were enveloped in a silence, the only noise coming from the keys jamming into the keyhole.

Another darkness greeted you as you opened the door, you searched for the switch with your sweaty hand. The metal tang the keys left on your palm wafted your nose, making you feel gross and dirty.

You wrenched the keys out of the hole as the light finally infiltrated the living room. Your brow shot up when Jaehyun made no move to enter the house.

“Invite me first,” he stated.

If you could raise your brow higher, you would. His question was unexpected for someone itching to enter your house mere minutes earlier.

“Come… in?” You reluctantly offered.

There was mischief and bad news in his eyes as he stepped inside the house. “So the authorities would say that you invited me willingly.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” You demanded, gripping the doorknob tightly.

He only winked at you. But you are not having any of it. It was a bad idea inviting this stranger inside.

“Get out.” You ordered. Jaehyun attempted to say something but you repeated the words with enough ferocity. “Get out!”

He held up his hand, his right pulling out something from his pockets again. A paper.

“Here.”

You stared at the paper for a good two minutes before you snatched it away from his hand.

This is to certify that the apartment owned by Johnny and Y/N Y/L/N has been sold and therefore owned by Mr. Jung Jaehyun.

No. No, no, no. The paper must be a trick. It’s probably a forged paper made by this man in front of you to take his advantage and trick you.

“This is forged.” You balled the paper and threw it his way. Jaehyun picked it up with bloodied fingers. His shirt was now saturated with his blood. But you could not bring yourself to care now that he poses a threat to your safety.

“Forged? Do you not recognize the lawyer who signed this paper?” He started to flatten out the paper again. “The best in town. You could go to his office right now to inquire about this. But I won’t waste money if I were you.”

For the second time that night, you snatched away the paper from him. It was completely crumpled, but the texts printed out were still glaring at you. You skimmed the printed letters with your head spinning, eyes only stopping when you see three signatures below. One for your brother, one for Jaehyun, one for the attorney. It was signed by a pen, that much you’re sure of. Being an architecture student familiarized you to different type of pens. You’re certain they had used a ballpoint pen to sign the contract.

Still, you went dumbfounded as you let the realization hit you. Your brother, Johnny, just sold your apartment for this blood soaked guy in front of you.

“Since when?” You asked through gritted teeth, not looking up from the papers.

Jaehyun let out a frustrated sigh, his hand clamping his wound. “Since last week.”

“Will you…” You sighed, it was so difficult to get the words come out, “… will you let me stay the night? I promise I’ll go first thing in the morning.” Your hand which is holding the paper shook. Mixed feelings of anger, shame, and confusion swirled in your head.

Jaehyun waved his hand before sitting on the sofa, his bloodied hands imprinting the arms of it red. You bit back the anger as you realized that you have no rights to be angry.

“You could stay the night, of course.” He reclined his head, “But stitch me up first before you go packing.”

How had he managed to stay alive with the loss of too much blood, you have no idea. But you shook your head and declined him again, “I don’t know how. You might get an infection.”

“Needle… I need a needle,” He breathed and shut his eyes, you panicked as you thought he passed out already. But then he opened his one eye and fixed it to you, “I’ll do it myself.”

“Why don’t we just go to the hospital?”

It was embarrassing that you only thought of the idea now. But Jaehyun only snorted, “Trust me, that’s the last resort you’d think of if you truly knew me.”

There is no point talking to him. His mouth pours metaphors you could not be bothered to comprehend. So you trudged the distance to the small drawer laying just below the television and grabbed the sewing kit inside.

You laid it on the table. Jaehyun groaned before grabbing the needle and the thread. He does not look pained. He looks more tired. And only when you were sitting beside him you noticed how pale he appeared to be. His lips looked wan, his face pallid.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hos—”

“No,” was his monosyllabic reply. You didn’t press any further.

Jaehyun started to insert the thread through the needle, but like his dreaded attempts to lit his cigarette earlier, his aim to get the thread through the little hole went in complete vain. “Fuck,” he muttered as the pin dropped on the floors.

“Let me.” You finally offered before picking up the needle and seizing the thread from his grasp. With your one eye shut close, you dampened the needle with your tongue before thrusting it through the hole. In a blink, you succeeded.

“Here—” You were cut off once again when Jaehyun’s body fell back on the sofa. His eyes closed. The nervous and shock kicked in your stomach as you leaned closer to him but felt nothing in his chest. He doesn’t look like he is breathing, too.

“Oh my God, don’t fucking die.” You repeated the words as you grabbed your phone and dialed nine-one-one. Sweats started to form in your forehead, your own heart beating in a panic-stricken rhythm.

The ringing stopped, and the voice of the person from the other side greeted you calmly.

“I— there’s— I—” Your words are incoherent from the panic that is vibrating from your head to your toes. The person tried to calm you down but to no avail. You inhaled and exhaled, mind blank. “I—” Then a hand grabbed your wrist. You jumped in your seat, only to see Jaehyun, wide-eyed looking at you.

“I told you, no doctors.”

“But— how— what?” How is he alive?

“I am fine. Just really need to stitch this up so I could recover easily.” Then his eyes started to lose their life again.

“Don’t! Don’t sleep! Stay awake!” You screamed at him. Jaehyun began to lose consciousness again. The forgotten thread and needle was back on your hands in an instant. Loud sets of profanities reverberated from your mouth as you lifted his shirt. You exhaled as you saw the long laceration starting from beside his navel to his waist.

“I can’t do this alone, I just can’t.” You swallowed, praying that his innards won’t slide out of his stomach. Where did he get this wound?

“You have no other choice, have you?” He whispered, voice straining. “Just close it and stitch it. I won’t scream,” he expressed.

“That’s not my problem! What if.. what if I’ll make it worse?”

“You won’t.” Jaehyun looked at you with hooded eyes.

This is not what you’ve expected to come home to. The schedule was to go home, eat, shower, and start your plates. Stitching up a long god-forsaken wound wasn’t on your to-do list.

You closed your eyes, trying to inhale and exhale. When you felt like your mind was clear of worries, you finally opened your eyes and started to hold Jaehyun’s skin. The tang of blood filled the whole room, your fingers sliding as it touched his bloodied skin. You let out a breath before clamping the open wound with your fingers, your other hand working its way to pierce the needle into his skin.

Goosebumps ran down your spine as you felt the needle pierced his flesh. White thread came out red as you pulled it to fasten his skin back together. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand as you pushed on with your work. With each pierce and puncture, your tension and the shaking of your hands lessened.

“Are you okay?” You asked Jaehyun when you were finally in the middle of the wound. He did not utter a word ever since you started; not a protest nor a painful scream.

“Yes… it does not hurt.” His voice came out as a whisper that you doubted his answer.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“If I am in your position right now, I would’ve screamed like hell. Imagine, we didn’t use any anesthesia, but you still managed to look comfortable and calm,” you mumbled, trying to keep Jaehyun awake.

“Do you wanna know why?”

“Why?” A small chuckle resonated from your throat then. Jaehyun popped an eye open, and you waited for some dramatic lines like ‘I’m used to the pain’ to escape his lips, but his answer drew you to a sudden halt instead.

“Because I am a vampire.”

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#jung jaehyun au #jung jaehyun imagines #jung jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun au #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun scenarios #nct au #nct imagines #nct fic #nct scenarios #nct 127 au #nct smut

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pocketfulofrogers · 4 years

Text

To New Beginnings

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader

Summary: You earned your way to Intelligence, but suddenly Jay begins to question your every more. Or, Jay’s an ass and it takes him just a minute to figure how bad he’s messing up.

Request: Reader likes Jay, but he’s very cold and distant. When the reader gets tired of it, she blows up on him in front of the team with a cute ending. @fofisstilinski

Notes: No warnings, really, few cuss words. Requests are always open!

It happened so quickly- these things usually do.

Kevin had just breached the front door when he called out a runner near your position and suddenly you regretted skipping the gym this past week. A man in his late 20s, brown hair, average height - was that a scar on his right cheek? The chaos from your ear piece momentarily distracted you. Local gang tattoo on this left forearm

Adam called out an additional pair that sent him and Kim East on Cedar, hopefully away from other civilians.

You however, were not as lucky. Loud music perked your ears from what you had hoped was only a backyard get together, but the familiar nostalgic dinging from a carnival game made that unlikely.

There are aren’t many things better than a good block party, though you had wished they’d picked another day.

You had him- you swear you did. Feet pounding the pavement- reverberating in your teeth, breath heavy in your chest. The scrapes on your wrist from the chain link fence you had just jumped were barely an afterthought in the back of your mind.

You were closing in by the second.

Then he rounded a corner, cut through an alley and disappeared in the crowd, his sweatshirt left in a puddle near a trash can on the street. His Glock most likely tucked in his waistband. There were far too many people, but still you tried to scan the crowd.

That’s when you heard the gunshots.

Kevin’s voice bellowed out over the radio.

“Officer down.” Cut through the ringing.

In that moment you decided to turn back for your partner rather than look for a man you’re not sure you could even find, let alone get down safely, without traumatizing and endangering a neighborhood of unsuspecting civilians.

Had your instructor from the academy been there to time your sprint, you’re sure you would’ve broken some kind of record somewhere.

When you approach the back door, there’s glass everywhere and a few chunks blown out of the walls giving way to half rotted wall bearings. The smell of gunpowder mixed with something… unpleasant hangs in the air, but you continue forward. Your weight shifts to the balls of your feet and you keep your gun drawn, body low as you search the house.

Harsh voices draw you towards the front of the house. Peaking around the corner of the kitchen, there’s a suspect in the living room with a gun by his side, clutched tightly in his grip, standing before Kevin. Jay is laying a few feet away from him, still, and you feel sick.

“Put the gun down.” You order.

“Y/N, we’re good, you can go. Me and my friend are just talking some things out.” Kevin’s voice is tight, his jaw taught and pupils wide.

“Sorry, Kev, can’t do that.” You tell him and turn your gaze towards the man. “Let’s get that gun on the ground and then get you out of here.” His hand twitches and you steady your aim in response. “It’s not worth it, man. Come one, we got SWAT five minutes out and they’re not going to be as nice as we are. So, let’s just…”

You reach a hand out to try and take the gun, but he raises it towards you instead, his eyes wild and darting between you and the door behind you.

“Don’t come any closer!” He yells.

“Hey man, if your gonna point a gun, point it at me.” Kevin shifts his weight to draw attention and you take the small distraction to get closer.

He’s able to talk the man into lowering the weapon at least to his side, a small compromise that still leaves you both unnerved, but the sound of leaves crunching under the boot of a uniformed officer outside spooks him into raising his gun again. This time with the intent of pulling the trigger.

You put two in his back before he gets the chance.

A superior takes your statement and you are promised that today will be ruled a clean shoot. Adam and Kim return with their runners and you can’t help but feel guilty for losing yours. Kevin raises a brow and wordlessly conveys that there’s no use in falling down that rabbit hole, but it’s hard not to.

You take a deep breath and try to shake it off before meeting him by the patrol car he’s leaned against. Jay’s voice carries in behind you and you have to bite your lip to not laugh at the sight of him swatting at the medics just trying to do their jobs.

“He gonna make it?” You scrounge up an ounce of humor.

Kevin turns his gaze back to you and smiles. “Bullet hit the vest, few bruised ribs. I’m sure-“

“What the hell was that?” Jay comes charging up, slightly less intimidating as he winces when he breathes. “You came back here when there was an armed suspect loose?” He yells.

You’re stunned, mouth slack and eyebrows drawn together. “I’m sorry, what-“

“We called out a runner and it was your job to get him. Not come back here and play superhero.” He bites.

“Don’t talk to my partner like that, Jay, she just saved out asses.” Kevin defends you.

“Yeah, how about a ‘thank you’ or a ‘nice work’?” You add.

“Oh, I’m supposed to congratulate you for failing to do your job? Who knows what that suspect will do now? That’s on you.”

“He got away. Yeah that blows. But you and my partner were taking fire with no back up. I came back to, yes, save you rather than aimlessly look for a man who disappeared, risking the lives of about a hundred people. That’s what I’m trained to do.” You’re fuming now, Kevin’s assurances that you had made the right call are doing nothing to soothe you.

“This is Intelligence, Y/N, not patrol. If you feel like you’re out of your depth or that you were moved up too quickly, talk to Voight.” He leaves you there, both you and Kevin’s mouths agape.

“I don’t know where he gets off coming at me like that!” You yell, again, but Kevin still voices his agreeance. “I mean, he’s not the sergeant, he wasn’t even lead. That was you!”

Kevin says something he hopes is supportive, but it borders on patronizing. Yesterday’s blow up was not the first and he’s become increasingly convinced it will not be the last. You plop back down on his couch, your beer sloshing with you, and sigh. He smiles, again, a little patronizingly, at you as you thread your fingers through a blanket and you pout.

“Things were going so well.” You say softly.

That was news to Kevin. Save the last two weeks, the only interactions he had seen between you and Jay didn’t go past a bit of witty banter. Did he know you had a thing for him? Of course, he’s your partner, but Jay has always been harder to read.

He waits patiently for you to elaborate and when you don’t, he rolls his eyes. “Are you really going to make me ask, Y/L/N?”

You groan obnoxiously and throw yourself back. “We weren’t dating or anything, but we were kind of seeing each other?” You can feel his eyes burning into you and can almost feel the ‘partners tell each other everything’ speech encroaching, but you continue before he has the chance. “We were waiting to see where it would lead before telling anyone.”

Kevin huffs. “And where did it lead?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “To my place. A few weeks ago.”

“For?”

You throw a pillow at him. “No details, Kev, don’t be a perv. I fell asleep and when I woke up a few hours later, he was gone. Now he won’t return my texts and he’s being an absolute ass.” Kevin is uncharacteristically quiet. “I don’t really know what to do.” You add quietly.

“We’ve got analysts combing through his GPS history, but, so far, no leads on where he might be keeping Mia.” Adam’s face drops as he looks towards a picture of a young woman, graduation cap tilted to the side, smile as bright as the sun shining behind her.

Of the four girls who had gone missing, three had turned up dead. Mia Edwards, a recent engineering graduate, was the most recent and she was quickly running out of time.

You place a hand of support on his arm as you move past him to get a closer look at the board. Jay makes some kind of comment, but you’ve learned to tune him out these days. There’s something within the information delicately placed in front of you that is screaming for you to see it.

“Three isn’t enough to confirm a definite pattern, but these abduction sites,” You run your finger along the addresses, “fall within 5 miles of Little Italy. And if you…” You trail off for a moment and grab a city map, placing a dot for each location where a body was found. The math is messy, but you draw a circle “If you take the crime scenes, that narrows it down to here, around Roosevelt.”

“Oh, did your years on patrol teach you this?” Jay asks sarcastically.

“No, the FBI from that seminar you skipped did.” You shoot back and he glares in response.

“There’s a low-income housing unit that was condemned six months back in the same area.” Adam announces from behind his computer. “Fits the area and there’s been calls about squatters.”

“Because it’s empty houses.” Jay interjects. “Everything about this guy says he keeps it close to home. On the other side of town. What if you’re wrong?” He presses. “If you are, and we bust down those doors, we waste hours of her life. That’s on you.”

You’re not sure what it is. Jay had been coming for you the last handful of weeks, second guessing your every move, being an over obnoxious, hard headed, sanctimonious ass hat and you had yet to let it shake you. But something about the way he’s looking at you right now in this moment has your blood boiling for the first time in weeks.

It’s as if he truly believed you would endanger an innocent woman in an act of showing off. As if you didn’t really care about doing your job and saving her. For you, that’s the last straw.

“I’m right.” You start slowly, darkly. The calmness in your voice a thin veil for the daggers hidden within. “Just like I was right about last weeks suspect being a woman, that cop being dirty, that kid being innocent, that mother still being alive, and coming back for you and Kev.” You slowly take a few steps forward and Kevin can’t get the image of a tiger about to kill it’s prey out of his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, or why you seem to think wasting this teams time by nit picking my every suggestion rather than doing your job is a good call, but if you don’t stop coming at me like this,” You take the final step that places you directly in front of him and pull your shoulders back. “We’re gonna have a problem.”

He matches the intensity in your eyes and you wonder for a second if you’ll have to really lay him out in front of everyone.

You lower your voice to barely above a whisper. “You want me gone, Jay? You want me to transfer units? You’re about to get it.”

“Enough!” Voight bellows. “I’ve had it. You two used to push each other to be better, but now you’re just wasting our time. We will go sit on that development while you figure out how to either work together and stay in Intelligence, or if I do need to start a transfer.”

“I’m not leaving.” Jay says defiantly.

The team had left in a rush leaving you and Jay sitting in unbridled tension from your respective desks. Your jaw was clenched, his arms were crossed, fists balled at his elbows.

You roll your eyes. “You sound like a petulant child.”

“Says the girl who got us kicked of the case.” He mumbles.

“Are you serious right now? I- god- what is with you?!” You explode, rising up to pace the walkway. “I mean, Jesus Jay, what? What could I possibly be doing better right now? Please tell me because I honestly cannot do this anymore. What did I do to make you not trust my judgement or my skills? Because you certainly didn’t have a problem before we slept together.”

For the first time in weeks, Jay Halstead is speechless.

“Yeah, go ahead and do some inner soul searching for an answer. I have done nothing, nothing, but support this team and do the best job I can.”

He’s silent still and you can’t tell if his lack of words is more or less infuriating.

He stares at his hands for almost two hours before he says anything.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s barely above a whisper. In fact, you can’t really tell if you heard him correctly over the paper balls you were shooting into the trash. When you look over at him and he’s still watching his fingers, you chalk it up to your bored and desperate brain making up something.

“I’m sorry.” He says again, louder. This time he’s looking at you, really seeing you, and it’s hard not to feel exposed under his gaze. “You were right.”

A phrase you thought you’d never hear him say.

“What do you know of the detective who had your desk before?” He asks. He’s calmer now, yet still poised as if he’s guarding something.

“Erin Lindsey? Not much, really. Heard she was a great cop. Good instincts, even better in a fight. What? You think I don’t deserve her spot or something?”

He shakes his head with a small smile before it fades. “You’re just as good, if not better.”

“Then what is it?” There are no harsh tones in your voice, no clipped vowels, just simply the need for some kind of answer.

“I almost proposed to her.” He says simply. That was definitely not what you were expecting. “We started dating, things got serious and I got my mother’s ring, but before I got to ask her, she left. Just packed her stuff and left Chicago. It just left me with a lot of questions.”

You’re stunned into silence and Jay smiles sadly.

“I guess it gave me more problems than I thought, things I never dealt with. So that night, with you, it came back.”

“What did?” You ask softly, moving closer to him.

“That fear and sadness I felt after she left. I guess it was easier for me to channel it into anger, and, in turn, direct it towards you. For that, I am sorry and I swear to never let it happen again.”

“It was one night, Jay, I wasn’t professing my love.” You try to stay soft in your approach.

“But I felt something I hadn’t felt since then.”

When he meets your eyes, that’s when you see it. The hurt man scared of love and willing to do what he has to protect himself.

“So, you started to push me away.” You add for him. It’s not an accusation, rather an observation.

He nods. “But you’re too good, too kind to let even a dick you hate get left behind by you.” He wipes the corner of his eye, catching a tear you had missed.

To his surprise, you grab his hand and sigh. “I’m not her, Jay, you cannot punish me for things she did. And I don’t hate you, I actually don’t think I can. I care about you and while I can’t promise you that we won’t break each other’s hearts, I can promise you that. I truly, deeply care for you.”

“So, we just pick up like the last few weeks haven’t happened? Y/N, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. If you are willing, though, I think there are some things that you and I can work through.” His eyes perk up and he radiates hope. “But you have to put in the work.” He begins to nod eagerly. “I’m serious, Jay. You cannot hold her against me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He grips your hand in his tighter, thumbing the back of your hand.

“Okay.” You say softly

“Okay?”

You raise a brow. “Yeah, if you’re done being an ass.”

He eyes you carefully until you burst into laughter, a loud, contagious sound he can’t help but join in with.

“Oh, thank god.” Kevin sounds from behind you.

Adam joins him. “I thought we were going to have to start picking sides.”

“Alright, alright, enough. Tell me, was I right?” You ask.

Kim smiles at the sight before them, you and Jay’s hands still intertwined. “Mia is on her way to Med. She’s going to be okay.”

“You’re amazing.” You hear jay whisper from behind you.

“I know.” You quip, turning back to him with the brightest smile he’s ever seen.

#jay halstead #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead imagine #Chicago PD #kevin atwater #hank voight #Adam Ruzek #Kim Burges

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beophota · 4 years

Text

State Morrigan: Mallory’s Loss Part 1.

[I wanted to draw scenes with this but I’m so tired ;v; I don’t know when I’ll finish the next part but I’ll do my best to make it soon!]

Keep running.

Keep going.

The thoughts were like lightning in her mind, her lungs burned with the need for rest, but Bo pushed on, the terror and adrenaline coursing in her veins like white fire.

Every wave of destruction that tore through brick and wood, sending splinters and shards of glass ahead of her pushed her forward.

Don’t let her catch you, find something, anything that may help you.

Kingmaster’s voice, filled with rage, echoed through the destroyed halls of her school behind. It bounced of the walls, and Bo couldn’t help but compare it to the call of death as she burst through a set of double doors.

The mess hall.

Bo kept running, but her blood turned to ice as familiar bright green scales entered her peripheral. Mallory.

“Mallory!” Bo screamed, her voice like sandpaper, broken and torn. “RUN!”

Her classmate looked up, red eyes bright and filled with shock. Her hands were stained in red up to her elbows, but Bo couldn’t stand to think of who it came from.

Mallory took off and met Bo in the middle, intercepting her exhausted form as that one moment of stillness offered her legs reprieve.

“Bo? Bo talk to me!” Mallory held her close, trying not to scratch her as she took Bo’s face in her hands.

She was absolutely exhausted, and the relief of Mallory’s arms around her was enough to nearly make her pass out. “We’ve got to go, now-!”

But then, an ear-piercing crack broke the stuttering silence inside the mess hall.

One, two, then three clean waves of trilling red energy cleaved through the doors, shattering them.

Pieces of the door and drywall flew past the two, sending chairs flying and upending tables. Bo screamed, suddenly pushing against Mallory, begging with a hoarse throat; “Run! RUN MALLORY PLEASE!”

But Mallory wasn’t listening.

Mallory’s eyes were hyper-focused on the blackened silhouette moving through the dust and debris towards them.

Pitch black eyes, two red pinpricks filled with savage anger. Her arms, tense and with fists clenched tight at her sides, were covered in vivid red cracks that disappeared under torn short sleeves.

Kingmaster stood silent, staring the draconic girl down. Or more so, the trembling girl in her arms.

Mallory’s eyes flashed down at Bo, then back to Kingmaster. It clicked then, like the flash of a radio switching stations- who this monster was after.

Bubbling up from her stomach, then to her lungs, Mallory felt anger roar into a bright fury that curled and thundered up her throat.

Bo kept begging, pleading for her to run, to escape, but she knew Mallory would not abide. Against her shoulder and side, she could fire the fire rising up through Mallory’s torso.

“Look,” Kingmaster’s voice severed the tense silence. “I don’t want anyone,” one gloved finger aimed at Bo, black leather worn and corroded. “But her. Hand her over, and you don’t have to die.”

Smoke escaped Mallory’s lips in billows as she grinned. Not kind, not a grin of glee.

The grin on her face told Bo all she needed to know.

“Where are my siblings, huh? Where are they,” Mallory pushed Bo behind her, but the smaller girl held on, desperate to keep her from harm. “And why are you so adamant on killing a kid?!”

Kingmaster stared at her for a moment, crossing her arms. In any other setting, Bo would have looked at her and thought of how that was so very like her.

It hurt her head trying to think of why Abigail King wanted her dead, but nonetheless it felt like being submerged in a vast, bottomless ocean.

The woman clucked almost mockingly, sucking at her teeth.

Then, with a sharp cock of her head, she fixed Mallory with a steely glare. “That’s none of your fuckin’ business. And I don’t know, and I don’t care,” a wild grin split her across her face, teeth bared. “Where your siblings are.”

As the two kept each other's fierce gaze, Bo watched as Mallory began stalking slowly towards Kingmaster. The tall woman began to mimic, heavy footfalls ringing loud in Bo’s ears.

With each step, Mallory was drawing closer and closer to the danger Bo had spent the last twenty minutes trying to escape.

“Mallory!” Bo yelled, her throat giving in at the last syllable. She sounded pathetic, and felt even more so. Wide, sun dotted blue eyes watch through hot tears as her classmate put herself between her and the Villain.

She could see them talking, but her ears began to ring at the rising panic that clambered up her spine.

The dust was thick, lit with the thick sheets of setting sun pouring through shattered windows. It tasted like sand, the air was hot and smoke began to build within the hall.

Her heartbeat vibrated in her eardrums, as she watched Mallory’s flames erupt into a concentrated spiral towards Kingsmaster.

A hateful snarl twisted her face and she leapt to the left, raising her elbow past her jaw, and in the next second her body twisted.

Bo had to brace herself against the after-shocks of Kingmaster’s quirk destroying nearly the entire left-side of the hall.

The action cushioned Kingmaster’s harsh shoulder-roll back onto her feet, narrowly avoiding a sweltering wave of dragon-fire.

Mallory was quick, wings flaring and took off upwards.

Bo cursed. She may have a vantage point from up there, but so did Kingmaster. There was nothing in the air to absorb the brunt of Kingmaster’s destructive waves.

Two seconds passed and suddenly time slowed, it seemed, as Kingmaster completely disregarded Mallory’s new position and in a flash of black and crackling red, bolted towards Bo.

Bo screamed, knees nearly buckling as her moonside flared on instinct. Her right arm flying upwards as lunar energy coursed through her and up into a swirling barrier. “No!”

She felt her insides burn at the strain, felt the lunar energy tear into her blood.

Kingmaster had forgotten about her other opponent though, so blind to her goal, too eager to end Bo where she stood.

Mallory came spinning towards them, wings tucked in around her. At the last second, they shot outwards, parachuting Mallory into a dead stop. With this force, she made a concussive impact at the heels into Kingmaster’s side.

A scream of exertion was ripped from Kingmaster’s lungs as she was sent skidding into chairs and tables.

The sounds of scraping metal and crashing, the walls around them threatening to fall with each swipe of the Villian’s hand, Bo’s temples throbbed.

Her right hand fell aching at her side. She had one, maybe two more shots at using her moonside before she couldn’t anymore. If she used it past her limit, she might boil herself from the inside out.

Her left hand twitched in tandem to the pulse thundering in every nerve in Bo’s body. Kingmaster wasted no time hauling back to her feet.

A cool rush of air ruffled through Bo’s hair as Mallory took off once more.

“Oh no you don’t!”

Mallory refused to allow Kingmaster another chance. She threw a right hook strong enough the fold a man twice her weight, but Kingmaster ducked quickly, merely managing to escape the blow. Mallory hissed, smoke pouring from heated lungs. Kingmaster smirked, throwing one hand outwards.

Mallory’s eyes followed her hand and that was all she needed, angry red cracks rippling up her arm as she reeled back with her other fist.

Bo knew she had screamed. She could feel it, the way it hollowed out her lungs and shredded the already sore flesh of her throat.

But all she heard was ringing, like the flat-line of a heart-monitor.

Move…

MOVE!!

Bo’s left arm recurred into a light pink as the solar current fed throughout the limb. It felt like hours but in the next second everything detonated into chaos.

Bo let loose a flurry of solar bullets. Three out of five hit their mark, allowing Mallory time to avoid the lethal blow. Mallory beat her wings, hovering as she carried out three punches to Kingmaster’s head in rapid succession.

This should have been enough to put her out, even enough to kill her. But Mallory was slowly exhausting, and her lungs screamed for oxygen. Smoke twisted uncomfortably in her lungs and Mallory leapt backwards. Landing, her knee came down roughly to steady herself.

She heaved a breath, dark smoke curling into the air.

Mallory glanced at Bo, sweat soaking the strands of her black hair to her cheeks. Kingmaster lay on the ground, still. But the two couldn’t relax until they knew the rest of their classmates were safe.

Bo ran to Mallory, hands trembling with fatigue. Her scaly skin was hot to the touch, and Bo could hear her holding back hacks of smoke.

“Mallory, are you okay?” she whispered, afraid that if she even spoke too loud, Kingmaster would be back on her feet.

Mallory sniffed, panting as she wiped her nose. Glancing at the crumpled body of the Villian, she nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I need to find Thomas and Mia-Jo, would you help me?”

Bo suddenly felt her heart skip a couple beats as she remembered Jomei, lying on the floor amongst rubble and overturned furniture. “J-Jomei’s passed out in a hall over that way,” she pointed. “By the gym!”

Mallory’s brow creased and she nodded again. As she stood, Bo became keenly aware of how her torso bent slightly to the side.

Was she injured? Had she been too late?

“If Thomas and Mia-jo are hiding, the gym is where they’d go. We’ll get Jomei on the way, okay?” Mallory began to walk towards the ruined double doors.

That was another mistake, taking their eyes off the enemy.

As Bo nodded, and turned to move forward, there was the sound of trilling energy. Dread soaked Bo to the bone as she turned just in time to see Mallory sent flying to her right, crashing into multiple chairs and tables.

“Mallory!”

“You.”

Bo’s breath stalled in her lungs as coarse leather closed tightly around her throat. Instinctively, her hands shot up to grasp at her arm, but Kingmaster’s livid glare and warning sneer kept Bo from using her sunside to burn her off.

“You move, she dies,” Kingmaster pointed harshly at Mallory, who laid unconscious on the floor. Blood could be seen clearly making a trail down Mallory’s snout, and fresh tears began to bubble over Bo’s eyelids. If Kingmaster so desired, she could kill both of them right there.

“W-Why?” Bo’s voice came out as a strangled squeak, her toes leaving the ground and Kingmaster rose her higher.

She observed her with what appeared as unremorseful pity. “Why?” Kingmaster began to chuckle, that rolled into full blown, sarcastic laughter. It boomed inside that hall, reverberating inside Bo’s pounding skull.

“Why?! Are you seriously,” she squeezed tighter. “That fucking dumb? What, did your murderer of a father scoop your brains out with that silver spoon?” she hissed, suddenly throwing Bo to the ground, seemingly unable to stand touching her anymore.

Bo fought the urge to vomit, cradling her neck with one hand as the other posted to keep her sitting up. The hall filled with coughing and heavy pants as her body tried desperately to recover from the assault.

“SHUT. UP.”

Bo jerked and yelped as the thick sole of Kingmaster’s boot made solid contact with her stomach.

Kingmaster let out a wry giggle, it sounded strained. Like this was offering some sick catharsis.

“Y’know, with how much dad talked about how cool you were, and how powerful you were going to be with all his inventions,” another giggle. “I really thought you were gonna put up more of a fight.”

She sighed, head bent, glancing at Mallory. “Then again I did tell I was gonna kill that one if you did soo,” she shrugged, taking three large steps towards Bo. “Anyways, can’t dilly or dally and whatever the shit, time to die kid.”

The younger girl scrambled backwards in fear as Kingmaster rose her hand, face hardening into something akin to cold stone.

“Wait- stop! Please I don’t understand!” Bo cried out, hands shielding herself as tears soaked her cheeks. Kingmaster clicked her tongue and gave her a mock sympathetic shake of her head. “I’ll make sure he knows that after you’re dead.”

She swung, Bo screamed and what sounded like thunder directly above them joined in a cacophony of blind noise.

Bo sat trembling violently, staring wide-eyed through her parted fingers as a large, horned figure threw Kingmaster off themselves now twenty feet away.

As the stood up straight, Bo recognized the broad shoulders and plaited green arrows up the sides of his armor.

Reptosaur, it was Pro Hero Reptosaur, an angry grimace on his face. When his eyes caught sight of Mallory stirring on the ground, it twisted into an expression Bo could only assume was pure fatherly rage.

“Surrender now, Abigail King,” his baritone voice filled the hall sonorously, and Bo nearly passed out with relief.

Kingmaster’s black eyes flash and her pupils shrunk in rage. “Don’t fucking call me that! No one will call me that ever again.”

#Bo Parry #Mallory Harbinger #Arlo Harbinger #Kingmaster #my hero academia #my ocs #my writing #my bnha oc

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solalunar-eclipse · 4 years

Text

Scars You Can’t See - Chapter 5

Chapter title: Ready to explode

Word count: about 3800 words (whoa)

Author’s Note: I think it’s about time I gave a shoutout to @teamxdark! Their comments have gotten me to start planning out some of the later chapters (and giving me a lot of inspiration), so I figured they deserved some credit!

And thank you to everyone who’s read this fic so far- every note I get is incredible and I hope you’re all enjoying the ride :)

First | Previous | Next

Sonic stared blankly at his phone screen for the fifth time this morning. The old texts and the name at the top of the messaging app blurred slightly as his eyes unfocused. He was waiting for...something. What, he wasn’t sure.

That was a lie.

Truthfully, he was hoping that the three little dots showing that someone was typing would appear like a miracle. He knew that wouldn’t happen, though. The hedgehog on the other end of the messages had turned off his phone entirely. Heck, Shadow was literally in hiding. There had been exactly one post on Chatter (which he and Tails totally hadn’t read over and over searching for hidden messages) and that was from Omega.

But chaos, how Sonic wished for just five minutes to talk to him. He hadn’t even realized before now how much he normally texted the hybrid in a day. The hero honestly just messaged whenever he saw something or found a funny joke that he thought Shadow would like. In dealing with his new absence, though, Sonic had come up with an idea to write down whatever it was he’d seen that he figured Shadow would enjoy and save it for later.

He was forced to stop this when he wrote nearly two thousand words’ worth of moments in half an hour.

Sonic cursed all the times he’d taken Shadow’s near-constant presence for granted. The hybrid had always been a punctual texter, despite Rouge’s repeated attempts to convince him that he didn’t have to answer right away. Even when the other hedgehog had been off on a mission, Sonic still had an idea of how long he needed to wait before he could start texting. But now, it could be days, weeks, or even months before he could talk to Shadow freely again.

What if you’ll never hear from him again? a nasty inner voice whispered. What if that call was the last time you got to hear his voice?

Sonic felt his stomach fall through the floor at that idea, before swallowing the sensation and shaking his head. He couldn’t doubt Team Dark like that! They were guaranteed to pull through, and kick G.U.N.’s butt in the process.

Speaking of which…

The hero was pretty angry at G.U.N., and that was actually a big deal for him. Sonic didn’t get angry, except sometimes at Eggman. Even when a bitter detractor had posted a lengthy essay on Chatter explaining exactly why Sonic was (supposedly) a terrible person, he hadn’t reacted in fury- or even close. He’d had his friends’ support, and honestly? He’d pitied the person more than anything. Anyone who was trying to tear others down had probably been hurt pretty badly themselves.

Sonic had even made a meme out of their misspelling of his name- “Sanic” was now a worldwide joke with a hilarious drawing to match.

But now, all he really wanted to do was beat someone up- some robots, some evil agents, whatever- and trash the whole organization until they were all falling over themselves to apologize. The fact that G.U.N. had dared to treat Shadow’s obviously painful past with no kindness whatsoever really got on his nerves. The hybrid had suffered a hundred times over, lost his memory, and even died to save the world, yet he still didn’t get the respect he deserved.

“Uhhh, Sonic? Is everything okay?”

The blue blur jumped, startled out of his spiraling thoughts. He heard a growling noise, and his eyes widened when he realized it was coming from him. Sonic could feel his lips curled back into a snarl and quickly straightened his face out, blinking and clearing his throat. “Yeah! Sorry, Tails…” he said, embarrassed at having been caught in that kind of state. The fox eyed him skeptically. “Really, I’m fine!”

“Are you su-”

“Yeah!” Sonic exclaimed, grinning reassuringly. No point in upsetting others with his own problems, after all. “Everything’s good here, buddy!”

“If you say so…” Tails muttered. He didn’t seem convinced, but accepted it despite this. “Anyway, what I came over to say was: we’re out of groceries- can you head out and get some? I made a list of everything we need, it’s right here!”

Ordinarily, Sonic would’ve complained loudly and with much drama about having to do something so menial as a grocery run when he was a hero, for chaos’ sake. But that wasn’t the case these days. “Sure thing!” Sonic agreed, feeling better already. With a distraction to keep his worries and negative thoughts away, he’d be back to normal in no time. “See ya soon!”

The blue blur dashed out the door- before returning a second later, a sheepish grin on his face. “Forgot the list,” he explained, rushing out again.

With the wind in his quills, it was almost too easy to forget everything that he’d been thinking about just moments before. Sonic grinned properly as he raced across fields and through side streets. This was his element, after all! He made his way to his and Tails’ favorite grocery store, bounding over obstacles and pulling a few awesome parkour tricks he’d picked up over the years. Shadow had always gotten on their case for not supporting a more local store- this one was a big name, after all- but Sonic had--

He shook his head, walking into the building. No more thoughts like that! There was only so much ruminating on bittersweet memories a guy could do in a day.

His presence here was relatively common, so he didn’t do much more than turn a few heads as he stepped through the automatic doors into the air-conditioned halls of the large grocery store. Sonic forced himself to walk through the aisles (instead of sprinting through them and accidentally whipping half the items off the shelves in his wake). As he did so, though, he began to hear people talking. And they weren’t just talking about the latest viral video, or boring politics, or any of those things, either.

They were talking about them.

Of course, everyone would always change the subject when he walked by, chatting loudly about their dog or their kids or whatever. It was almost as though they were saying, “Don’t look at me! I didn’t say anything about your friends! I’m just here, minding my own business!” But of course none of them really had been.

He recognized that he was spiraling down the path of thinking about it again, even though there was nothing he could do. And now no matter what, the thoughts of some of his closest friends were tainted. Which totally didn’t frustrate him at all.

It didn’t help, he thought irritably (not noticing the mild scowl that had appeared on his face), that G.U.N. was basically screaming in all the op-eds and information releases the organization could get their hands on that they weren’t in the wrong. They didn’t say that specifically, of course- that would be too obvious. Instead, they just published the same old news over and over again: Team Dark had stolen classified files and then run away.

This had all begun to grate on Sonic’s nerves a little, particularly when pundits and newspaper writers alike began to spout wild conspiracy theories about Team Dark having been spies for ‘the enemy’- whoever that was- or that one of them had finally lost it...or even all three at once. The most frustrating, however, was when once avid supporters of the former G.U.N. agents completely disavowed them and distanced themselves from the team as much as possible. It made him want to pull a Knuckles and punch a wall- how could people turn on the team so easily?

The hero pulled himself back to reality to realize that he’d been staring at a can of soup for the past few minutes. And were those dents where his fingers had been? He put the can in his shopping cart, took a deep breath, and continued on, giving himself a little ride on the back of the cart as a treat. Normally, he’d remember his various accidents and restrain himself, but lately the hero had needed to clear his head. He deserved this.

A few minutes later, a chime on his phone let him know that Tails had sent him a message. Sonic opened it up and read the text:

milesperhour: Sonic, I think you need to see this. Take a close look at paragraph 5. https://www.centralcitynews.com/team-dark-update

Sonic clicked the link, sighing, and began to scan the article. Another one? Really, he’d had enough of-

Oh boy. Oh wow. Okay.

They’d made a move. G.U.N. didn’t release much in the way of information- all they’d done was declare an official alert asking people to keep a lookout for Rouge, Shadow and Omega. And to tip G.U.N. off at a hotline that they’d provided for this purpose.

Sonic had learned how to read between the lines over the last few days, though, and on his second read-through, he saw what most would not.

...are in possession of multiple classified files…

So they’d stolen more info? That must’ve been what Omega’s post was about! Sonic began to squeeze his phone hopefully. Maybe this was it, maybe soon this whole nightmare would be over!

He practically flew through the rest of the store at the thought. Team Dark would give G.U.N. what for, the organization would apologize, and then everything would be fine!

Sonic checked out in a hurry, rushing home as fast as he could. Slamming open the door, he yelled out, “Tails! Did you see- oh right, you sent me the article. But still! Things are looking up, buddy!”

Tails had a slightly lopsided grin on his face, making the hero’s heart sink. “What’s that look all about?”

“I don’t know- it’s probably nothing! After all, Team Dark can handle any situation they come up against...just, G.U.N. has a lot of resources, you know?”

Sonic’s smile returned in full force. “Sure they do, but they also owe me for saving the world, like, a million times over! Once we’ve got the Edge Gang back with us, I’ll go talk with the commander and get them to straighten everything out!”

“That sounds like corruption, Sonic…” Tails said, a wicked smirk appearing on his face.

“Dude, what?! No! I’d never-! I just meant I was gonna see if I could talk some sense into them- hey, get back here!” Sonic screeched, seeing Tails run off with the groceries...including the donut he’d bought for himself.

…

Later that afternoon, Sonic was in the middle of finally enjoying said donut after wrestling it from Tails’s (evil terrible Sonic-and-sugar-hating) claws. It was a little squished, but it was still great- he wasn’t complaining!

That was, of course, when he heard a loud, sharp knock on the door.

He jumped up and zipped over to the entry hall, pastry still in hand. Whipping open the door, a shocking sight greeted him- one that made all of his battle-honed senses immediately scream danger danger danger. Two impeccably dressed G.U.N. agents stood before him, a human and a barn owl. The human seemed pretty awkward, wearing slightly rumpled slacks and overall looking a little messy. The owl, however, despite being about the same height as the blue blur, exuded an air of steely discipline that would make everyone she faced feel about two inches tall.

Everyone except Sonic, that was. He was secure in the knowledge that his friends were not wrong, and he maintained his usual relaxed demeanor without a hitch. The hero smiled fake-pleasantly at the two agents, ignoring the fact that he had sugar glaze at the corners of his mouth and all over his glove. “Sorry, guys, I wasn't really expecting guests.” He gestured to himself as an obvious example. “Anything I can do for ya?”

He didn’t offer to let them inside, though. These agents were hunting down his friends, he was absolutely sure of that. Sonic refused to help them in any way, not when Team Dark was still out there and being threatened by their organization.

The barn owl gave him a look that nearly pierced through his very soul. “Sonic the Hedgehog. I am Agent Toya, and this is my colleague, Agent Jones. We have a few questions that we would like to ask you. Inside.” Her voice was cold and clear, with no trace of an accent.

Sonic felt a chill run down his spine, but kept his smile up regardless. “Sure thing!” he chirped, despite very much not wanting to let them in. “The living room’s right this way- make yourselves comfortable, I’ll be back there in a sec.” He honestly didn’t think he could have refused them entry without...complications.

The hero zipped over to Tails’s workshop, flinging open the door with a little more force than he’d intended. The fox jumped up in a fright when it smacked against the wall, staring at Sonic. “G.U.N. is here. Two agents.” he said quickly. The imminent sense of danger in the back of his head wouldn't leave him be, despite the fact that he was one of the most powerful people alive.

...Despite this, don’t let G.U.N. take you or anyone else anywhere. You might not come back…

...These people aren’t crazy geniuses- they’re ruthless destroyers…

“Oh, chaos.” Tails breathed. “I’ll wait nearby, okay? Then I can do something if they start getting too intense.”

Sonic nodded, before speeding back down to see the agents sitting on his couch. “Hi! So whatcha guys want?” he asked perkily, burying his thoughts for now.

“Hello to you too, Sonic.” Jones said politely. “How are you?”

The hero tugged slightly at the cuff of his glove. “Pretty good!” he lied through his grin. “Been chilling around the house for most of the day- how ‘bout you?”

“Not bad,” the human answered. “Work is work though, you know?”

“Yeah, sounds pretty rough.” Sonic said, a little unconvincingly. Before he could stop himself, he thought of all the late nights Shadow and Omega had spent working on paperwork and various odd jobs for G.U.N., and the times when Rouge had to cancel her dates with Knuckles because she was just too exhausted from work to do much of anything. His smile became slightly strained as he worked to keep his frustration on Team Dark’s behalf under wraps.

The owl gazed at him silently for a moment, having watched this whole awkward transaction with a calculating look in her eye. Then she spoke. “I’m certain you have seen the news lately.”

“Uhhh...kinda, I’m not big on newspapers, but I try to keep up, yeah! Always nice to see an article about yours truly, hah.” He played it off, deciding to act dumb for now.

Agent Jones shifted in his seat, looking cautious. “Yeah…” he said, offering up an incredibly fake smile. “I’m a bit of a fan, myself.”

Sonic knew exactly what was going on. It was almost so classic he had to laugh- the old good cop/bad cop scenario. The human was clearly trying to play the good cop, and not enjoying it either. The hedgehog had to wonder, though, was he just a better bad cop or uncomfortable because he was helping grill a hero?

Oh, right- Agent Toya was talking again. “We know that you have seen the articles published about the betrayal of Team Dark. Even if you do not read the news, one of your friends will have told you by now.”

The hedgehog’s eyes narrowed a little. “And what’s that supposed to mean? What do you want outta me?”

“You. Know. Something.” she said sharply. “That team- in particular Shadow the Hedgehog-” He tensed at her flippant use of his name, as if they weren’t hunting him down like he had legitimately gone bad. “-trust you. You are very close with them. They would not have left you with nothing.”

Sonic shook his head, trying one last time. “I don’t think so, lady. I know about as much as you- if that. It’s not like we’re besties or anything.”

Agent Jones shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know- it looks like you guys are pretty close to me. Not that that’s bad, I mean-!!” he amended rapidly, realizing his mistake. In addition to having blown his role as the ‘good cop’, he was now being stared down by a very irritated pair of green eyes. The look he was being given contrasted sharply with the grin plastered across the hero’s face, and the agent began to sweat slightly and avoid his stare.

Meanwhile, Sonic turned his attention back to Agent Toya, sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders in preparation for more. He was a fighter, after all.

It seemed that the barn owl came here ready for a fight as well, because her own eyes flashed and she straightened her G.U.N. uniform. “Sonic. We need information. Our organization has been compromised. Twice. We are in a crisis and we are ordering you to tell us what you know.”

That did it.

“As if!” the hero exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “You think I’m the kind of guy who’d sell his friends out and watch them get carted off to jail- or worse?! I don’t know as much as you think I do, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you!” He had probably blown any semblance of ignorance up now, but Sonic couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The owl agent stood as well, glaring at him. “If that is the attitude you are going to take, then we have no choice but to take you into custody.” She began to reach for the Taser on her belt at the same time as Jones grabbed the gun from his holster. Sonic’s eyes flickered between them both- the human he could take on, but he wasn’t completely sure about Toya’s skill with the Taser.

Could he get around them? Sure, but not without breaking something...and he hated to bust up his house just because a couple of agents showed up on his doorstep and pulled weapons on him. He’d handled worse odds, hadn’t he? But then he and Tails would constantly be on the run, and that was no way for a nine-year-old to live…

A loud crash resounded in the kitchen. Jones shouted and jumped up, Sonic’s head snapped around so fast he tweaked his neck, and Toya took a step backwards.

Rubbing his neck and wincing, Sonic yelled out, “Everything okay in there?”

Tails dashed into the room out of nowhere, crying out, “Sorry! Sorry! I was just working and wanted a drink- and I heard- I heard-”

The fox then began to cry, sobbing and clinging to Sonic’s chest. “You’re not gonna take him away, are you? I need my big brother…” he sniffled. “Sonic, everything’s gonna be okay, right?”

The hero was trying his very hardest, meanwhile, to keep his jaw from hitting the floor as he watched his brother, a brave, intelligent sidekick and someone he was proud to fight beside, put on the most incredible show he’d ever seen. “I…I dunno, buddy…” he said honestly, uncertain about how to react.

This seemed to be a pretty good move, as Tails immediately began to bawl harder and gasped, in between sobs, “Please don’t take him away from me!”

It appeared that Toya would not feel comfortable using force against Sonic (or even resuming her interrogation) when the young fox was around. Instead, she gave him a very pointed, piercing look, before declaring, “We will be back at a later date to continue this conversation.”

She stalked out the door, Jones shoving his gun back onto his belt and following sulkily behind her. As soon as she had gotten into her car and driven off, the hero sagged into the couch and let out a loud sigh. “Welp.”

Tails flew out of the room immediately afterwards, whispering a quick “Wait there and chill for a second I’ll be right back” before he exited. Once he returned, the fox crawled around on the couch next to Sonic before letting out an “Aha!” and holding up what appeared to be a tiny piece of metal.

“It’s a shame to have to do this, but…” he muttered, before vanishing with it. A couple minutes later, a very loud noise boomed from Tails’s workshop and made Sonic panic before blasting in there at top speed.

“What was that?!” he shrieked.

“Just destroying this camera that human agent left in our couch.” the engineer replied lightly.

“Wait- what??” Sonic gasped. “He did what?”

“I thought they’d be crazy to leave without planting one, so I checked the camera feed, and it was pretty obvious! He must be a new recruit.”

“Wait- you have a camera? In our living room?” the hero asked, feeling slightly creeped out.

Tails shrugged. “Well, I didn’t until recently, but I figured that G.U.N. would have to show up at our place eventually, so yeah.”

They both stayed there in silence for a minute, before making their way back down to the main house.

“Well, what do we do now?” Tails wondered.

“I dunno- you’re the smart guy, pal.” Sonic replied quickly. “I just don’t want to have to escape from them! I like running, but not away from people. Especially bad people.”

“Well...does it count as running if we’re hanging out with Knuckles?” the fox suggested hopefully.

Sonic sighed. “I guess not...it’d be cool with him, too, since Angel Island is a pretty safe place and all. I still hate the idea of hiding from them, though.”

“Maybe you won’t have to!” Tails said, trying to be cheerful. “After all, I don’t think people will buy it if G.U.N. says you’re a...traitor…” He trailed off, remembering a particularly eventful moment from their past.

“Yyyeah.” the hedgehog said dryly, having thought of the same thing. “That’s exactly why I didn’t have to ride through the streets of Central City on a piece of helicopter.”

“Let’s not think about that for now though, okay?” Sonic asked. “ I don’t like the idea of being scared all the time.”

Tails nodded in agreement. “Besides, we’ve handled them before! We can cross that bridge when we come to it anyway.”

Sonic grinned. “How about we watch some TV for now, take our minds off things?”

“Sure! But I’m definitely gonna tell Omega- or whoever calls us next- about this. They deserve to know.” the fox answered.

“Okay…” the blue blur said. He felt a little guilty that he could just turn on a movie and forget about G.U.N. for a while- Team Dark didn’t have that luxury. Quickly, though, he added, “Anything on there you’ve been dying to watch?”

Tails smiled happily, and Sonic decided that this was totally worth it. “Well, there is this one documentary…”

#scars you can't see #sycs #team dark #sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #*eggman voice* it's time for a change of pace!#i had to look up sonic characterization posts right before the final edit #i want to write him well!!#btw just to clarify #gun received word about the second heist directly after the end of chapter 4 #i can't believe we're at chapter 5 already!#wow #sol’s fanfiction

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notgonnarememberthis · 3 years

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find your way (back to me) - chapter six

Happy New Year!! Hope y’all are starting off the new year with health and safety for you and your families. Less than 2 weeks away from season 2 and I’m so fucking excited/anxious. Weird note, this chapter is actually the first thing I wrote for the entire story. I had the first part stuck in my head for a little over a month and threw out the concept to my best friend Em. They encouraged me to build the story and so far I’ve been so pleased with it and the reactions y’all have given. Thank you so much for reading and commenting. It really means the world to me.

Three days wears on the psyche, Gil notes in yet another confrontation report. It’d been three days since they’d found the car with Jessica’s phone inside and no sign of her except for her blood on the back window. Malcolm was quickly unraveling, it’s not hard to see. He’d slammed a reporter up against a wall for even suggesting that maybe the world was better off with another Whitly gone. With him visiting Martin the reporter got too close. It didn’t take much more for Malcolm to throw a punch.

He has two of his best cops tailing her children, taking much needed focus away. JT took on Ainsley almost immediately, after her snap with Endicott it’d become an unspoken agreement that she be kept an eye on. He has to bury his feelings every time he sees Malcolm’s hand shake uncontrollably, or when Ainsley comes back from the bathroom with her makeup absolutely perfect but her eyes still red and puffy from the tears she shed in private. It takes all of his power not to go to them and hold them close to his chest.

Every part of him aches.

Two bodies dropped since Jessica’s disappearance. Both had gunshot wounds to the back of the head. Malcolm had made the connection with the information from Martin, thank god. It didn’t take much more to connect the dots after that. They’re lucky Colette even considered it, but they were all desperate. Their time frame was 48 hours. They’re now at 56.

God, where is she?

“Oh my god!” He’s on immediate alert when he hears Ainsley’s scream followed by shouts of other officers. With his hand on his gun he races to where he’d left her and Malcolm earlier.

The room is in absolute chaos, JT is barely holding back Ainsley, her face red while she screams in protest. Several officers have their weapons drawn, Dani included. In the center of it all Malcolm stands with his hands extended, as if reaching for something.

And then he sees her. Her hair is disheveled; dirt and blood are smeared across her face. She’s barefoot, she likely lost her heels long ago. Her once white blouse is also caked in muck and grime. There’s a cloth wrapped around her thigh and one hand is cradling her side. Most startling, though, in her other hand is a knife stained crimson.

“Where is he?” She shouts, her eyes are wild. Gil’s not all that certain she even knows where she is.

“Mom, it’s me.” Malcolm steps a little closer.

“Bright, stand down.” Dani’s voice is a warning.

“It’s ok. She’s not gonna hurt me.” He breathes out slowly, as if trying to calm the entire room at once. “Give me the knife and I’ll find Gil for you. Okay?”

“No!” She springs back and the shouts erupt again.

“Lower your weapons.” Gil barks above the noise. All eyes turn to him, even Jessica’s. They’re reluctant but they obey.

“Mom.” Malcolm steps closer again, drawing her attention back to him. Her face crumples, truly seeing him now for the first time.

“Malcolm.” She sobs, the knife clattering to the floor. She pulls him into a tight hug, her voice barely carrying, “You’re ok. Thank god you’re ok.”

“I’m ok?” Malcolm chuckles humorlessly. The hug is enough for all of the weight that had been on him to crash all at once. He buries his face into her shoulder his whole frame now shaking with the sorrow he kept so tightly wrapped for days.

Once the knife is removed and bagged as evidence JT releases Ainsley and she crashes into the hug too. “Ainsley, baby.” Jessica’s voice carries as she recognizes the touch of her daughter. Her crimson stained fingers tangle in the blonde curls. He puts his gun back in his belt allowing himself to relax. He aches to join the embrace. Jessica lifts her chin and meets his eyes feeling his gaze upon them. Her face slackens, and he realizes just how pale she looks.

“Mom?” His heart drops at Ainsley’s tone, the two younger Whitly’s stumbling backwards with sudden weight. He’s on them in seconds, helping to settle Jessica gently onto the ground. The spot where she had been cradling with her free hand was spreading quickly staining her blouse red. In the embrace the cloth the she’d been holding to her fell as well.

“Call a paramedic.” He orders shucking his coat off to press against the wound. She groans in pain, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, I know.”

“What’s happening?” Malcolm’s arms come around Ainsley, stopping her from coming closer. His hands shake, he’s closed himself off again holding him and his sister together at once. His eyes are glued to his mother, his face as red as Ainsley’s.

“Where is he?” Jessica asks again, this time pleading. His eyes flash to Malcolm, confused. “Please Gil you have to find him. I tried to get him out, I tried.” He shushes her trying to get her to relax.

“Who Jess?” Her fingers grip the front of his sweater, looking around terrified. “Hey, focus. Jess, who do I need to find?” It was too late, however, her eyes slid shut and her body slumped completely against him. He holds his breath until he feels her pulse against his fingertips, strong and steady.

“She just passed out.” Malcolm assures his sister after he likely saw the look of relief cross Gil’s face. The precinct seems to remain still until the paramedics arrive and take her away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“We collected three different sources of blood on Ms. Whitly.” Edrisa remarks, though slowly, her eyes on Malcolm the entire time. She’s worried about him being there, they all are. His insistence was to stay. With Jessica in surgery, it would be a few hours before she was released. “Her own, obviously being the first. But the spots on her face and blouse were of our fourth and fifth victims, Tommy Moore and Andrew Rankin. She was likely sitting in front of them when…”

“What about the knife?” Dani asks, she’s biting the inside of her cheek, almost regretting having to ask the question. Malcolm shifts, Gil knows all too well the scene flashing through his memory.

“The blood on the knife was Ms. Whitly’s. With the help of Dr. Garcia, who is the trauma surgeon who I met in the hospital, we determined a loose thread of events.” She looks to Gil and he nods for her to continue. “We are aware of the wreck, Ms. Whitly was showing signs of a concussion upon arrival at the station and in the hospital when she briefly regained consciousness before being sedated. She likely hit her head off the window during the wreck. This is conducive with the bruising and dried blood on her right temple.” Edrisa turns back to the board she was using to present her information swallowing.

It wasn’t often that she presented the injuries of a victim who survived but after the events of today he’s exercising caution. He makes a brief note to check on her and maybe buy her lunch for her work. He knows none of this is easy but Edrisa is close to Malcolm. She understands him in a way that doesn’t quite make sense to the rest of them. She deserves to know that she’s appreciated.

“Then there’s the gunshot wound. It was likely received two days ago but opened up again when she escaped.” Gil bites the inside of his cheek thinking privately to himself. She’s lucky she didn’t bleed out. The old stab would on his own abdomen aches with the sympathy of that pain. One he wishes she never knew. “Next we have some yellowed bruising across her cheekbone and under her left eye. It suggests that she was hit. With the scrape on her cheek I would assume the perpetrator wore a ring when doing so.” She checks her notes again adjusting the glasses that slid down the bridge of her nose. “The large bruise on her forehead suggests that she hit her attacker. With her wrists and legs bound I would assume she headbutt him.”

Malcolm’s laugh catches them all by surprise. He shouldn’t get as much glee out of the moment as he does; but imagining prim and proper Jessica Whitly slamming her head against her captor is more satisfying than anything. “Sorry.” He mutters muffling a further laugh with his palm.

Edrisa relaxes slightly at that. “Finally we have the wound in her leg. She was stabbed, obviously. But the wound pattern along with some small cuts on her wrist suggest that she pulled it out herself.”

“She saw her opportunity. Her captor left the knife and she cut the ties around her wrists and ankles to escape.” Malcolm nods in agreement with Edrisa’s assessment.

“Holy shit.” JT mutters. “How the hell did she get back here without anyone taking her to the hospital or calling the cops?”

“That we won’t know. The doctors have my mother under sedation, for now. She’s undergoing her second surgery now, she’s severely dehydrated, and was delirious when she woke up in the hospital.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Ainsley?” Dani asks slowly. “Your mom needs you.”

“My mother needs me to find who did this to her before he strikes again.” Malcolm snaps. Dani grits her teeth but nods.

“What about the guy Ms. Whitly was talking about before she lost consciousness?” JT shifts, eyes combing over the file in front of him. “Do we have any idea who it could be?”

“We can only assume it is another missing person. Until she’s coherent enough to talk to us, we won’t know for certainty. Until we find the guys we are looking for I want detail on all of the Whitly’s until further notice. With her reaction earlier we can only assume that Malcolm and Ainsley were the next targets if Jess didn’t participate in what the killers wanted.” He turns to Edrisa, “Thank you Dr. Tanaka. Keep us updated if Dr. Garcia contacts you with any more information.”

“Yes sir.”

“Colette and her team are canvassing the area now. She couldn’t have made it far without being noticed by a concerned stranger. Dani, I want you and JT looking through missing persons. See if there’s any new disappearances that could be our missing man.”

“What do you want me to do?” Malcolm sits up straight, alert.

“We’re going back to the hospital.” He holds up his hand when Malcolm stammers to protest. “Ainsley needs you right now, more than anything. Not to mention once your mother wakes up she’ll need a face she can trust. Something scared her into coming here with a knife. I have a bad feeling.” Malcolm nods in agreement, though he still doesn’t look too pleased with the information.

He can’t shake the feeling in his gut that they’re missing some key information. He only hopes that Jessica will wake and tell them before it is too late.

#jessica whitly x gil arroyo #gil arroyo x jessica whitly #prodigal son #jessica whitly #gil arroyo #prodigal son AU #fanfic #kidnapping au #notgonnarememberthis fics #malcolm bright #Ainsley Whitly

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vagrantblvrd · 5 years

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Lay Your Bones Down (1/1)

Summary: When it comes to soulmates people tend to fall into two camps of thought.

Notes: Prompt fill for the wonderful @ahwuum who has been super patient and supportive. <333!

(Read on AO3)

When it comes to soulmates people tend to fall into two camps of thought.

The ones who go all-out looking for their soulmate. Buy into what Vinewood and other “experts” have to say on the mater. Read all the books on how to recognize the signs or whatever, watch the television specials and pay close attention to their horoscopes and magazines aimed at helping people find them.

Sign up for the websites and download the apps once they become available because it’s a driving force for them, part of their pursuit of happiness and everything.

Sometimes it works, they find their soulmate and live happy fulfilling lives with them.

Other times it doesn’t, and they make themselves miserable looking for a needle in a haystack all their lives and let every other chance for happiness pass them by and it’s. It’s just sad, is what it is.

Then you have the ones like Jeremy who – he’s not going to lie, okay.

He’s curious who his soulmate is. What kind of person they are, if they’d even like each other, get along like a house on fire or hate one another at first sight. (A different way of getting along like a house on fire, and to be honest saying’s always bothered him but that’s a conversation for another day, or something. Whatever.)

He used to think about it a lot more when he was a kid, bright future ahead of him and all these possibilities, right? Smart kid like him? Could have done anything.

And he did.

For a while.

Then one of his buddies got caught up in some trouble of his own making, and stupid idiot Jeremy thought he could help get him out. Only got dragged into the same kind of trouble and into a literal pit facing off against guys twice his size trying to get back out again.

Stopped wondering who his soulmate was when his primary concern was not getting his face beaten in, and then things escalated to the point all of that slipped to the back of his mind.

Soulmates and the criminal life don’t go so well together, puts a crimp in things. (He figured if he did meet his soulmate doing the things he does now, it wouldn’t be a ringing endorsement for either of them.)

So, yeah.

Jeremy pulls himself out of the fighting rings in Boston, but doesn’t do it clean. Has people who’d be glad to put him down, so he decides it would be a good idea to get the hell out while he still can.

Goes from city to city doing what he can to get by. Realizes he’s in a goddamned ridiculous line of work and figures if he can’t beat them he might as well join them (something like that) and goes all-in.

Picks up the Rimmy Tim thing somewhere along the east coast. Browsing through the offerings in a thrift store where he finds these hideous yellow suit pants. Catch his eye, have him cackling like an idiot, but that might be more the painkillers blunting the ache of a stab wound in his shoulder.

Finds a purple suit jacket a few cities over and something about it hits him just right.

It isn’t until he’s somewhere in Texas he spots the cowboy hat. Gas station with a tired looking woman on the register and news on the television talking about something going on in a city named Los Santos.

Jeremy gives her a bright grin, all nice and friendly because he’s just passing through, ma’am, no trouble here. Watches the footage of another gang war in progress play on the television as the woman rings his purchases up.

He’s been seeing more and more about Los Santos the closer he gets, figures it’s a big deal in this part of the country. (Liberty city’s got the east coast locked down for chaos and carnage.)

Gets this little itch going in the palms of his hands because everything he’s seen tells him it would be smarter to stay the hell away from a city like that, but.

Jeremy’s kind of an idiot.

And, you know.

There are still people out there with a grudge to bear against him and a city as big as Los Santos seems like a good place to get lost in.

Can’t possibly get caught up in anything big enough to make the news like half the things he’s seen so far anyway, right?

========

There are books out there that have a lot to say about the placement of people’s Names. Conflicting information based on what old wives tale the author grew up on, their region of the country.

All of them agree on one thing, though. Names closest to the heart mean you’re bound for a happy match once you find your soulmate, get that happily ever after everyone’s running towards.

Jeremy’s Name is on his back, running along his spine, and the one book he read about Name placements had nothing to say on the matter. Didn’t look further into things because he was afraid of what he’d find.

Awkward placement for him to get a good look at it, but he’d tried when he thought he had a chance to find his soulmate. (When it would have been a good thing.)

Did all sorts of crazy things to get a picture.

Tried taking a picture using the bathroom mirror but he only got parts of it in the frame. Set up a series of mirrors like an idiot and got better pictures out of it he played around in the edit mode to flip it.

Other things like that.

Realized his soulmate has the shittiest handwriting known to man or maybe something was wrong with his eyes because even now he can barely make out what it’s supposed to be.

A signature for sure, the way most of them are.

Starts with a big looping letter and ends in this indecipherable scrawl like whoever they are they either gave up along the way or couldn’t be bothered with the rest.

Sometimes he’ll catch sight of it in a bathroom mirror of whatever shitty motel or apartment he’s staying in, wonder what could have been.

========

Jeremy’s supposed to be watching this hacker.

Keep an eye on him to make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing, or keep him safe, his current boss didn’t specify.

Squirrely little bastard, though.

Scrawny.

Looks like a twig with a wild tuft of hair and this nose that got him picked on as a kid. (If the way the rest of the crew treats him is any indication, that never stopped.

Jeremy might feel bad about how the others treat the guy, if he wasn’t such an asshole.

And anyways, it’s his first job in Los Santos. Some dirty little gang that’s been outsourced to do a job for an ally of theirs.

He’s hired muscle here and so low down in the pecking order he might as well not even have a name.

Just Goon #2 or something.

“What kind of name is Rimmy Tim?” the hacker asks out of the blue, not bothering to look up from his work. “Did your parents draw it out of a hat like a raffle?”

The two of them are alone in the warehouse the gang operates out of. It would be real easy to kill him and pretend he didn’t know how it happened.

Just.

So easy.

The thing that stops Jeremy from doing it is that murder is a bit of an overreaction to the annoying bastard. And, he’s being paid to watch the guy so he’d be shooting himself in the foot. Also, it’s clear he’s not thinking about the words coming out of his mouth.

Some idle thought floating around in his head while he focuses on his work and no brain-to-mouth filter.

“Yeah,” Jeremy drawls. “They used this hat to do it to. Gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday to commemorate the occasion. Even gave me a lasso so I could catch my first horse.”

The hacker keeps tap-tap-tapping away on his laptop for a few moments afterward before he processes what Jeremy said.

Slowly lifts his head to squint at Jeremy like he’s sure he’s being fucked with, but also maybe not?

“Wait, what?”

Jeremy smiles and tips his hat at the asshole as he gets up to grab a beer out of the fridge.

========

As much as Jeremy tries not to think about the Name on his back, the rest of the world makes that impossible.

Television shows and movies. Best-sellers at the store. Songs on the radio. Marketing campaigns every-fucking-where and shoved down people’s throats at every turn.

No wonder so many obsess over their Name when they’re made so aware of it every waking moment.

It’s still kind of weird, though, listening to the guys he works with gossiping about them. Doesn’t matter who he’s working for, where he is, there’s always someone like that.

Stone-cold killers and no remorse to them, and they’ll kick back for a poker game and someone will start up a conversation about the Name on their shoulder.

Curling script and little hearts dotting the ‘i’ and wondering what they have to think about their own rough scribble of a name. (Good penmanship isn’t a requirement for their line of work.)

It’s enough to make Jeremy wonder what it is about Los Santos that people like them think about their soulmates like that. Hope they’ll get the chance to meet them even though they’re on the wrong side of the law and the odds of them getting something good out of it are so damn low.

========

Jeremy’s been in Los Santos for about a year, two, before his name gets put out there as someone people might want to watch out for.

Well, one of his names, anyway.

He still gets strange looks when he introduces himself as Rimmy Tim, but considering Los Santos is the kind of city where everyone’s scared of some idiot in a rubber mask calling himself the Vagabond, he figures he's doing alright for himself.

He’s been hired on by a crew that hasn’t tried to fuck him over since they brought him on to be an extra gun for them. (Yet.)

Decent pay that helps with the rent for the place he shares with a couple of idiots he’s fallen in with in Matt and Trevor, and until recently they were playing it smart.

Did nothing to attract the notice of the bigger crews in town, but that’s changed the last few weeks. His boss with his eyes set on moving up in the pecking order which means coming up against those same crews who could squash them flat with barely a thought.

Trevor keeps harping on him to get the fuck out, fake his death if he has to and have Matt gimmick him up a new identity, the whole works, because.

Fuck, because his boss is taking swipes at the Fake AH Crew.

Just about the worst crew to mess with, what with their reputation for not taking kindly to that kind of thing and all.

The crew Jeremy’s working for keeps bringing in new blood because they’re dropping likes flies with every skirmish they get into with the Fakes.

No mercy to the Fakes when one of theirs gets hurt, just this single-minded anger snapping back around on whoever is stupid enough to go after them.

If Jeremy was smarter, he’d listen to Trevor, he would. But Matt’s got these debts and smart as Trevor is he hasn’t been able to find a way to get him out of them other than paying them off. Jeremy does his part to help, which means being the kind of idiot out there tempting fate working for a certified moron with a death wish.

It’s how you say, not great.

Jeremy’s boss knows he wants out, but he also knows Jeremy doesn’t have a lot of say about it, so he keeps giving Jeremy the worst jobs. Sends him out with the other expendables on what amount to suicide missions and no skin off his nose if they don’t come back.

Which is how Jeremy ends up being partnered with some other disgraced bastard in the crew to put a little pressure on a weapons dealer looking to side with the Fakes. Convince him he’d do well to stick with them, but they pick a bad (good?) time to do with, what with the Fake AH crew members they run into there.

Guy in a leather jacket with a snarling wolf’s head on the back, the goddamned Vagabond, and some pretentious asshole with gold-framed sunglasses and stupid hair.

There’s a moment where they all stare at one another in shock, and then at the scumbag weapons dealer has the temerity to hiccup nervously before the shooting starts.

Jeremy’s not sure who fires the first round, but the moment they do it’s a free-for-all. Bad lighting and not the best anything and it’s confusing as hell.

Bullets flying and enough yelling to almost drown out the gunshots.

He hears one of the Fakes yell something about bringing the car around when things get bad. Sees a figure go pelting out a side door like a bat out of hell. The remaining Fakes doubling down to push Jeremy and his partner back, buy time or just put an end to things.

Jeremy drops behind cover, pops off a few shots and watches his partner – stupid asshole, stubborn as hell and just plain dumb – go down without a sound.

Swears under his breath and returns fire, with the realization he can get the hell out of there or die, and he knows which one he prefers. Cuts and runs like a coward, or just someone with a brain who doesn’t need to run the numbers to know he’s facing shitty odds, whichever.

He finds a door that leads to an alley and runs like hell until he hits a side street. Glimpses an ugly little purple car puttering down the street towards him from the corner of his eye and jumps in front of it to get the driver to stop.

Thanks God the idiot didn’t think to lock their door before he’s ripping it open and forcing them into the passenger seat, means to kick them out entirely but the Fakes find them before he can, spilling into the street.

“Fuck it,” Jeremy says, and “sorry, pal, but you’re probably safer in here than out there,” and then his foot is on the gas and they’re zooming out of the alley to...somewhere.

Jeremy doesn’t fucking know, okay.

He’s shot and bleeding and apparently a kidnapper now?

So.

Yeah.

He drives for God knows how long until he hears this quiet little laugh next to him. Incredulous, disbelieving, and -

“I can’t believe you still have the damn cowboy hat.”

Jeremy almost slams on the brakes because that voice.

British accent and infuriating as hell and what are the odds?

But, the part where he’s running from the Fakes and can’t do that – traffic and all – and just, it would be bad if he slammed on the brakes.

Instead he slows down a bit to keep from plowing into the car in front of them as it slows down to make a turn, and then whips around it the moment he can and keeps on going. Waves his gun in the hacker’s direction to shut him up, intimidate him, who knows, and heads to a safehouse he knows.

Only, the gun doesn’t shut the little idiot up, no.

“You’re bleeding,” Jeremy hears, which is not news to him.

He also hears, “That looks nasty,” which, he imagines it would. Bullet plus squishy human flesh and he’s not great at math, but even he can figure that one out.

Also?

“This is going to be so difficult to explain later.”

That makes no sense at all to Jeremy, but then the hacker’s reaching for his arm and Jeremy sends him a sharp look, because maybe don’t fucking do that when he’s got a gun sort of kind of aimed at him?

Takes a chance by taking his eyes off the road and almost swallows his tongue as he goes to tell him to very fucking politely not because -

“Oh, fuck me,” Jeremy mutters, because.

Stupid hair and gold-framed sunglasses, and Jeremy's kidnapped the Fake AH Crew’s Golden Boy by accident.

Accident.

There are people in Los Santos who’d pay an obscene amount of money for someone to do it on purpose and Jeremy did it by accident.

Awesome.

========

The Golden Boy plays it smart, in his own way.

Doesn’t shut up, no, but realizes Jeremy doesn’t appreciate him trying to stop him from bleeding all over the interior of his car (not so much the bleeding part as the potential risks of what he could do to Jeremy instead, so yeah) and keeps his damn hands to himself.

Babbles as Jeremy navigates backstreets and alleys to get to the shitty little safehouse Trevor scouted out for the three of them a few months back. Paranoid as hell, Trevor, and smart enough to know things would go to hell on them sooner or later.

Either Matt’s debts or the mess Jeremy’s trapped in, who the hell knows.

Trevor’s good about planning ahead, and Jeremy trusts him like no one else he’s met in this shithole city. (He trusts Matt, don’t get him wrong on that. But Matt is the same kind of dumb as Jeremy and it’s just. Better to look to Trevor for shit like this.)

Safe enough to hide out here to patch himself up, figure out what to do from there.

He parks the car a few streets over because you can never be too paranoid in this city. Pushes the Golden Boy ahead of him while they keep to the shadows and the gun ins his jacket pocket as incentive to go along with things for now.

No damn idea what he’s going to do with the little idiot, not that it matters because Jeremy’s fucked any way you look at it.

The Fakes will tear the city apart looking for him, and they know where to start looking. His own crew would sell him out in a heartbeat to save their own skins.

The only good part about this, if it can be called that, is that Trevor will figure out something went wrong when Jeremy doesn’t go back to their crappy little apartment and want to know what happened.

(Hell, now might not be a bad time to listen to him about faking his death before the Fakes find him.)

So until then...yeah.

It’s a mess.

Jeremy’s a mess, suit jacket ruined along with the shirt underneath. Something more than a simple graze that turns his stomach and hands nowhere near steady enough to stitch himself up.

“Fuck,” he says, and again a little stronger as he stares at the his wound, still bleeding sluggishly, ”fuck.”

The Golden Boy shifts. Nervous? Anxious? Who knows.

Says, quiet, careful, “I could help?” like he’s not sure how Jeremy will take it after the whole thing in the car with the glaring and everything that followed.

He shrugs when Jeremy looks up at him, pushes his stupid sunglasses up into his stupid hair. Looks tired without them hiding his eyes. Dark bags and under his eyes and this crooked little smile Jeremy doesn’t remember seeing before.

“I’ve done my share of stitching people up.”

There’s something to the way he says it that makes Jeremy believe it. Him. Whatever.

(The Fakes are known for being vicious about protecting their own, hurt one of them and you’re fucked and he’s never thought much about it before, but. There’s got to be a reason for it beyond not looking weak to their enemies, rivals.)

Jeremy’s out of options, knows he’s probably making a mistake here, but that part about being fucked anyway, so.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and pushes the first-aide kit towards the Golden Boy.

Watches him like a hawk as he picks through the thing making these little tutting noises as he does because Jeremy may or may not have forgotten to restock it after the last time.

Rolls up his sleeves and Jeremy follows the motion without thought. Eyes going to the line of letters he can see just on the Golden Boy’s his inner forearm. Something familiar about them, but then the Golden Boy notices Jeremy staring.

Clears his throat and pulls his sleeve down to hide the Name inked on his skin. They’re a liability in this business, get people killed, and Jeremy pulls his gaze away guiltily.

“Sorry,” he says, because he’s an asshole and a ruthless criminal as these things go, but even he’s not that far gone. Not the kind of monster who’d take advantage of knowing who the Golden Boy’s soulmate is, use that against him. Not like he can say that and expected to be believed, but still. “It’s...sorry.”

He can feel eyes on him, knows the Golden Boy is watching him, judging him, and then there’s a little sigh.

“No worries, love,” he says, striving for bright and cheerful, just this hint of uncertainty, maybe even fear to it. “Not your fault, now is it?”

(Is it?)

Jeremy remains silent, winces as the Golden Boy sighs again before he picks up a washcloth Jeremy scrounged out of a cabinet to clean away the blood. He works quickly and efficiently, murmurs an apology when Jeremy hisses in pain as he plucks out cloth fibers and whatever else have gotten into the wound before he starts on the stitches.

Neat, even things, and a little laugh afterward when he says it might not scar noticeably.

Not a major concern for Jeremy, but still nice to know.

“Thanks,” he says, as the Golden Boy tapes off the bandage covering the stitches. “Just, uh. Thanks.”

Awkward as hell, thanking the guy you’ve kidnapped (accidentally, and he’s never going to get over that) for patching him up, but hey.

That’s Jeremy’s life in a nutshell.

(Or...something.)

He watches the Golden Boy pack the first-aide kit up nice and neat, reach for a stay bit of trash from the supplies he used, sleeve riding up again and this time Jeremy gets a good look at the Name on his arm.

Realizes why it had seemed so familiar from the glimpse he caught, and reacts without thinking.

Grabs the Golden Boy’s wrist with his good hand, painfully aware of the way the Golden Boy freezes like a deer in the headlights because Jeremy’s still got his gun and the whole being kidnapped thing.

Ignores the pain ins his bad arm as he pushes the Golden Boy’s sleeve up to reveal the Name on his inner forearm.

Jeremy’s name.

Knows his signature after years of using it, every upward sweep and downward loop, and his heart drops because this, this is how he meets his soulmate, of course it is.

“Jesus Christ,” Jeremy mutters, releasing the Golden Boy’s wrist, aware of the way he recoils away from him like he’s been burned. Holds his arm close to himself, hiding the Name on his skin from Jeremy, and he feels sick about his reaction.

(How could he? Why would he?)

Probably thinks Jeremy’s like all the other sick fucks in this city who’d pay anything to know whose Name someone has on their skin. Use it against them and do it happily because it gives them power over them, and fucking hell.

“I - “ Jeremy’s voice fails him and he thinks about just whipping his shirt off to show him why, but that’s.

Gonna send a bad message if he can’t explain himself first, and he can feel himself on the verge of laughing like a lunatic because this is not now he saw today going at all.

He looks up to see the Golden Boy watching him. Wary, as Jeremy would expect him to be after watching Jeremy act like the aforementioned lunatic.

“What,” the Golden Boy asks, voice cracking a little. “What was that all about?”

Jeremy stares at him, because he looks scared, sure, but also?

Angry.

Like he’d kill Jeremy rather than let him use his Name as a weapon or a threat against him. Willing to protect the idiot whose name is indelibly inked on his skin with everything he has because that’s what you do for your soulmate if you give even the tiniest of fucks about them. (Even without their unique situation.)

People are so stupid that way, and it’s both the funniest and saddest things about them to Jeremy.

Because.

He’s got a name running along his spine and he may not know a hundred percent what it is, what with the horrible handwriting, but he knows without a doubt it’s this little idiot’s.

Knows it like he knows every other important thing in his life, and this just complicates things even further, doesn’t it?

Rival crews and a carjacking that led to an (accidental) kidnapping. A soulmate that looks like he’s trying to decide the best way to kill him to keep Jeremy from using himself against him, and it’s getting real confusing in Jeremy’s head.

One thing he does know, though. He can’t let his soulmate (Jesus, Trevor will never let him live this down and neither will Matt) think he’s one of those scumbags who’d use his Name against him.

“Rimmy Tim isn’t my real name,” he says, which should be obvious by now because no self-respecting human being would go through life with it as a name and not have it legally changed at some point.

Just, no.

The Golden Boy’s still watching him. Cocks his head at Jeremy’s admission, eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out where Jeremy’s going with this.

“This is...” Jeremy trails off, knows if he just tells him his name is Jeremy it’s not going to come off well, given the current situation, so. “Uh, this is going to seem weird, but bear with me, okay?”

It’s a bit of a risk, what he’s about to do.

Turn his back on someone with every reason to use the opportunity to attack him, kill him, but he can’t think of a better idea. Just. No better idea and sure as hell doesn’t want his soulmate to think he’s in a situation where his Name is something to be used against him, that fear, even if it backfires on Jeremy.

He twists around and pulls his shirt up, hears the Golden Boy’s confused ”What?” and ”Oh, God, what?” and then this sharp inhale followed by silence.

A long, long moment of silence and this shuddery exhale, cool fingers on Jeremy’s back tracing the letters running along his spine.

Quiet laugh, shaky, and, “Bloody hell,” he hears, followed by, “I knew that couldn’t be your real name,” and another laugh that just sounds tired.

Which, yeah.

Jeremy gets that, he does.

He pulls his shirt back down and turns around to find the Golden Boy watching him again, but there’s a thoughtful quality to it this time.

“So,” he says like he still can’t believe it. “You’re my soulmate, are you?”

Hard to get a bead on how he feels about that, what with the being carjacked and kidnapped at gunpoint thing they have going for them. The way things are a little too Romeo and Juliet for Jeremy’s tastes seeing how well that went for all parties involved in that little disaster.

“Uh, yeah,” Jeremy says, for whatever it’s worth. “I guess I am.”

========

The mirror in the safehouse’s bathroom is dirty as hell, has this crack running straight down the middle of it like the fault lines under Los Santos.

Good enough to get a decent picture of his back at least, have Jeremy frowning at all the scars he’s picked up since the last time he did this. (Five, six years ago? Maybe longer.)

It’s late now, few hours past midnight and the Golden Boy’s sacked out in the bedroom. Tired after a long day and what seems to have been an even longer week for him. Put up a fight because he wasn’t the one with a bullet wound, but Jeremy had overruled him on the basis of 1.) being carjacked, and 2.) being kidnapped after being carjacked.

Not to mention the reason for the carjacking and subsequent kidnapping and just...everything else on top of that they haven’t addressed properly.

More like stared at one another for a long moment trying to process before the Golden Boy yawned, reminding them both of the late hour, and they decided it would be better to pick things back up in the morning.

Sleep on all of it and figure things out then and Jesus if that’s not reason for Jeremy to grab his stuff and get the fuck out. Run off with his tail between his legs before his soulmate tells him thanks for the terrifying day and all, but he just doesn’t see things working out between them – carjackings and kidnappings do not a good relationship make – but do take care.

But he hasn’t, has he. Is creeping around the safehouse being an idiot instead.

Jeremy sighs as he fiddles with the limited photo editor app on his phone, flips the picture he just took so he can read the Name on his back.

Everyone in Los Santos calls him the Golden Boy, sometimes though they refer to him as the Fake AH Crew’s Golden Boy, sometimes he’s Ramsey’s Golden Boy, but his name’s not a secret.

That first letter on Jeremy’s back is definitely a ‘G’, and knowing what he knows now, he can see the rest.

And now that he knows, he’s afraid to say it out loud because there are -

Just.

A lot of unknowns in their future.

Or, not.

At the very least, he knows who his soulmate is now, won’t have to wonder about it anymore, and that. Well, it has to count for something, doesn’t it?

========

“So now what?”

The Golden Boy – no, Gavin – is watching Jeremy closely. Head cocked to the side and so very careful.

Looking at him, Jeremy realizes he never searched him for weapons when they got the safehouse. Wasn’t in the frame of mind to think of it with the chaos of the shootout, pain from his injury and everything that followed. World-changing realizations and all.

Can spot at least one gun on him. A few knives. Who the hell knows what else because rumors say he worked with the Vagabond for a while before the Fakes snatched him up and he’s picked up a few habits of his along the way.

Good news, no immediate rejection regarding the soulmate situation. Bad news, he’s still not indicating how he feels about the fact Jeremy’s his soulmate.

Playing it safe, smart, given the everything else that’s happened or something else, Jeremy doesn’t know.

“What do you mean?” Jeremy asks, because what does that even mean?

Gavin gives him this look, and gestures at himself.

Ego aside, he makes for one hell of a prize.

Any of the Fakes would be to be fair, but the Golden Boy?

Jesus, what stroke of luck to catch him.

Hit the Fakes where it would hurt the most because he’s always been considered untouchable, all these attack dogs keeping him from harm and poster boy for the crew, more so than Ramsey ever was.

Silver-tongued negotiator with an impressive string of successes behind him in the allies the Fakes have won over to their side since they clawed their way to the top.

That whole thing where he’s got a price on his head in the city only the craziest bastards would even think about cashing in on. Catch him and sell him to the highest bidder and live a life of luxury. (Until the Fakes found out who’d managed it and went hunting.)

Jeremy stares at him because 1.), no, and 2.)? Also no.

“How about this,” Jeremy says slowly. “You take that piece of shit car of yours and go back to your crew and I go back to mine and we pretend you did not just suggest what I think you did.”

Because, and Jeremy cannot emphasize this enough, no.

Even if he wasn’t Jeremy’s soulmate the answer would be the same. Jeremy’s an asshole, but he’s got limits. Lines he won’t cross and something like that?

No.

If he did have a personal grudge against the Fakes, well.

Honestly, there are only two things that would be part of that, and they’re both idiots. If something happened to them and the Fakes were involved...

Jeremy can’t say what he’d do then, but he likes to think he wouldn’t sink so low as to do something like that. (You never know what you’d do until you’re in that situation though, do you.)

There’s a long, long moment where they stare at one another, Jeremy’s heart beating double-quick time in his chest because Jesus fucking Christ. Also this sudden, violent urge to throw up because the whole soulmate thing on top of everything and how repugnant the matter of selling him out is with that factoring in?

Yeah.

Gavin laughs, tension seeping out of him as he regards Jeremy.

“Well,” he says, “that’s good to know.”

Like he really thought Jeremy could – would – sell him off like that even without the soulmate thing, Jesus.

“Yeah, sure.” Jeremy scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re welcome?”

Gavin hums, and then Jeremy feels a touch to the back of his hand and looks up to see him watching him.

“I never would have thought,” he says, and laughs like he’s still processing the whole soulmate thing. “I never would have thought you’d be the one.”

There’s...Jeremy swallows because there’s this note of wonder in his voice, the way he’s looking at Jeremy.

“Thought for sure I’d annoyed you past all reason.”

Not...not quite.

Annoying as hell, sure, but there was a part of him that appreciated watching a fellow horrible little bastard at work. Amused as hell at the way Gavin got under the skin of the others they were working with just because he could.

Yeah.

He should have known something was up then, but it was just a job at the time. Jeremy scrabbling to get by and just another job to put money in his pocket and all kinds of excuses that fall flat when he looks back on it.

“Nah,” Jeremy says, and smiles. “I mean, I wouldn’t say past all reason.”

He laughs to soften things, and is rewarded with a quiet laugh and then...it’s not awkward between them, just.

There’s.

“I should contact the others,” Gavin says, reluctant about it. “They’re sure to be worried by now.”

As if they wouldn’t have been the moment they realized something was wrong with a crew known to be as close-knit as theirs.

Trevor and Matt have to be worried about him as well by now, and the two of them can’t just hide away here forever no matter how tempting it is.

Should have gone their own ways the night before everything got complicated on them. Kicked Gavin out of the car somewhere his crew would be sure to pick him up before continuing on to the safehouse, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly.

Too late for that now, though.

“I - “ Jeremy sighs, because there’s no putting things off any longer. They’ve done enough of that as it is. “Yeah, okay.”

========

There’s not much for Jeremy to do as Gavin makes his phone call, but he finds reasons to be out of the room. Give him some privacy.

Wanders around straightening up for the next time someone needs to use the safehouse. Make a list of things he needs to get to restock the first-aide kit. Sends Matt a text letting him know he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere and he’ll tell them everything when he gets back home because he’d rather avoid Trevor’s heavy judgment for the time being.

He laughs when he gets a thumb’s up emoji from Matt, and then a few moments later a succinct Fuck you, man, that’s sure to result from Trevor expressing his disappointment in Matt for not pressing Jeremy for details.

Jeremy makes his way back to the living room just in time to catch the end of the conversation the Gavin’s having with whoever he called. All this exasperation to it and dumb little smile and he just.

Watches him for a long moment since Gavin doesn’t seem to know he’s there yet.

No telling what will happen once they leave the safehouse.

Jeremy’s got to be high on the Fakes’ most wanted list by now, and the smart thing for him to do is stay under the radar until that changes, if it will.

So. Yeah.

Gavin finishes his call and looks up to catch Jeremy’s eye, amused smile playing on his lips so so much for going unnoticed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, just,” Jeremy shrugs. The safehouse isn’t big, not a lot of places for him to putter about while Gavin was on the phone.

Thankfully Gavin seems to understand that because he laughs, and Jeremy.

God.

He’s heard the stories, you know?

From his parents, other people who found their soulmates and had things work out. The way you just. It’s not some magical thing where everything’s suddenly easy, everything nice and clear and simple, but.

There’s a difference.

This thing where you look at your soulmate and you know.

Their smile seems brighter than anyone else’s, fills you with this. Love, warmth, whatever the hell that can help flip a shitty day over into one that’s a little more bearable. Small things that make life better in a million little ways, make you feel less alone in the world.

Not easy, and shit still happens, but it’s not. Not overwhelming anymore, like you know you can make it through a bad day and any others that come after it because someone’s there to help you through them.

Jeremy sits down next to him and reaches for his hand, feels stupidly relieved when Gavin reaches back.

========

In the end, Gavin gets in his Blista and drives back to his crew, and Jeremy watches him until he’s out of view.

Out of the two of them, he’s the one with the target painted on his back, and while Jeremy’s not delighted about letting him go alone, it’s the smart thing to do.

Jeremy’s a nobody compared to him, can find his own way home without worrying about running into trouble, and he does.

Gets an earful from Trevor who’s doing a good job of looking his usual put-together self, but Jeremy knows him too well by now to miss the signs of Trevor in full-on Deeply Concerned mode.

“Trevor,” he says, because goddamn they’re all kind of dumb. “Shut up.”

He drags Trevor into a hug despite his half-hearted protests – he is lecturing, Jeremy, and hugs are illegal you fiend. And then he does the same to Matt who’s off the side nibbling on a breadstick and trying to look bored and disinterested like he’s not just as worried.

“Where the hell were you?” Trevor demands, hands on his hips and ridiculous as ever. “We heard about what what happened, and then you didn’t come home and - “

Jeremy winces at the fear he can hear plain as day in Trevor’s voice even with the dramatics he’s throwing in to cover for it. The dark circles under his eyes and bloodshot eyes from a lack of sleep and just. Everything he can see mirrored in Matt.

“It’s a long story,” Jeremy says, which is the wrong thing to say even if it’s the truth because it sets Trevor off all over again with his own side of things.

Because Matt keeps tabs on Jeremy, on Trevor. Might as well have animal tracking collars on them or gone and microchipped them in their sleep. No way to hide from him even if they wanted to. (A lie, because they’d find ways around it, but what would be the point when he does it to look after them in his own Matt Bragg way?)

And when Jeremy dropped off the radar after the shootout with all the “extra touches” at the safehouse to prevent them from being tracked there...yeah.

“I, uh.” Jeremy doesn’t know how to put this gently, so he just goes for it. “I carjacked the Golden Boy and found out he’s my soulmate?”

There.

Perfect.

Good job all around, well done him.

Jeremy turns on his heel and power walks to the kitchen to grab something strong to drink while Trevor’s brain tries to process that and Matt stops choking on his breadstick.

While he’s there he decides to be civilized and grabs glasses for Trevor and Matt because he gets the feeling they’re going to need them.

========

Trevor can’t actually ground Jeremy, because for one, Jeremy’s a fucking adult? And two, he’s not the boss of him. (Something Jeremy thinks in the safety and privacy of his own mind lest he give Trevor ideas.)

But.

The three of them are in agreement it would be safest for Jeremy if he kept a low profile for the time being, which means he is more or less grounded.

Sits around the apartment pestering Matt while he works on whatever Matt does. Offering unhelpful suggestions until even Matt has enough of his bullshit and kicks him out of his nerd lair so he can work in peace.

Thinks about doing the same to Trevor, but Trevor is by far the smartest one out of them and voted most likely to plot intricate, painful revenge Jeremy will never see coming, so he doesn’t pester him.

Watches a lot of daytime dramas and talk shows instead. Some DIY videos from the internet on his laptop which is great, because he finds this one channel of a guy who helps him expand on his homemade explosives repertoire.

Also?

Picks up a few delicious recipes and other things from people not out to topple governments or just make really, really, questionable life choices involving explosives.

And then one day Trevor comes up to him with a package bearing the logo of a small delivery company.

He looks conflicted, like he’s not sure what he’s doing is a good thing.

“This came for you the other day,” he says, and holds it just out of reach. “I had Matt check it over first, just in case.”

Jeremy sets his game controller aside, because Trevor has a shifty look on his face. Is having a hard time looking Jeremy in the eye.

“Trevor?”

Trevor clears his throat, fidgets in a way that is very, very alarming coming from him.

“I realize I may not have come across as happy for you as I should have,” he says, waving a hand at Jeremy and his everything. “About this whole. Soulmate thing of yours, and I apologize. For that.”

Jeremy cocks his head.

While Trevor’s not wrong, he’s not. Jeremy knows him, okay. Knows Trevor’s glad he found his soulmate, but there was the matter of everything else to deal with too because Jeremy’s a damn idiot who can’t do anything the easy way.

“You really don’t need to - “ Jeremy starts to say, and snaps his mouth shut when Trevor levels him with a look. “But, ah. Thank you?”

Trevor harrumphs, scowl slowly lightening to a rueful smile as he holds the package out to Jeremy.

“Anyway, this came for you the other day and Matt says it’s not going to kill you. Or, it might, but if it does it will be from cancer due to long-term exposure to radiofreqeuncy radiation and not explosives or what have you.” Trevor pauses for a breath. “But as we both know, that won’t happen for decades if there really is a link between cell phone usage and cancer, so, uh. Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

Jeremy doesn’t know what to say to any of that, so he accepts the package with a simple thanks and scurries off to his room before he catches whatever the hell Trevor has.

(Too late to avoid the insanity, but he already knew that.)

========

There’s a cell phone in the package, but Trevor gave that away with his unsettling warning about the hazards of cell phones or whatever that was.

There’s also a note.

From Gavin.

Awkward and sweet, and Jeremy laughs as he reads if for the third time because he’s an idiot and a sap.

It’s a chance to get to know Gavin better and a burner phone to make that possible.

Side note about this being for the best until Gavin can talk sense into his crew regarding Jeremy and this rambling tangent that has nothing to do with anything, but still makes Jeremy smile.

They’re getting further and further away from the bizarre Romeo and Juliet situation they were in at first, but everything’s still unbelievably stupid and ridiculous in their own way.

Still.

Jeremy sets the note aside and unlocks the phone and brings up the contacts. Stares at the only one saved for a long moment, nerves and whatever else getting the best of him for a moment before he shoves all of that aside and presses the send button before he can think better of it.

========

A month goes by before Trevor deems it safe to let Jeremy out on his own unsupervised, which is just as insulting as it sounds.

To be fair, it’s taken that long for his bullet wound to heal to a point he can take on work again without making things worse, so it works out.

He’s been talking to Gavin every chance he can get, gone from once or twice a week to three to four to every day thy better they got to know one another. Realizing they might be among the lucky ones to find their soulmate and someone they could stand to share the rest of their lives together with.

He’s been itching at the chance to see him in person again, and Gavin feels the same because he texts Jeremy the name of a cafe along with a time and date, and Jeremy -

“Good God man, you can’t wear that abomination on your little lunch date!” Trevor looks personally offended because Jeremy’s dressed in his finest Rimmy Tim ensemble, complete with a new hat to replace the one he lost in the shootout with the Fakes.

All shiny and white because he felt like a change was in order, and also they were out of brown.

Jeremy keeps a straight face by sheer strength of will, something not helped by the thumb’s up Matt’s shooting him over Trevor’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jeremy asks, looking down at himself like he’s looking for a stray piece of lint or wrinkled fabric. A loose button, something along those lines. And, “You don’t like it?”

Trevor makes this...this noise in the back of his throat that somehow conveys frustration, disgust, and barest touch of rage as he throws his hands up.

“You march right back into your room and find something to wear that isn’t both horrendous and garish right now, young man!”

There’s a delicate silence in the moment after his outburst.

And then Jeremy makes the mistake of looking at Matt, and that’s the end of that. The two of them crack up laughing while Trevor heaves this sigh of utmost suffering that comes from having to deal with idiots like them.

========

Jeremy changes into clothes Trevor deems far more reasonable than Jeremy’s Rimmy Tim getup and makes it to the cafe with time to spare.

Follows the hostess out to an outside seating area and can’t help the goofy smile on his face when he spots Gavin waiting for him at one of the tables.

He looks.

Well.

He looks nervous, fussing with this coin he’s rolling over his knuckles in an obvious nervous habit, but he also looks good.

Button-down shirt that makes his eyes stand out. Pressed slacks and dress shoes, hair – still an unruly mess but it’s more artfully messy rather than all-out disastrous. Those ridiculously expensive sunglasses of his hooked into the collar of his shirt and best of all, he looks rested. Like he’s finally managed to get enough sleep, and the smile that crosses his face when he catches sight of Jeremy -

Blinding.

“Jeremy!” he gets to his feet and pulls Jeremy into a hug, and the last of Jeremy’s nervousness vanishes in the face of his clear excitement at seeing him again after so long.

Jeremy closes his eyes and breathes out a sigh of relief as he hugs Gavin, because nerves and this...he doesn’t even know.

Like part of him somehow thought he’d imagined it all from the shootout to the carjacking (Jesus Christ, that’s going to make the story of how they discovered they were soulmates a tricky one to tell people) to the events at the safehouse.

The phone calls that had spilled over from one burner phone to the next until Jeremy had decided the hell with things and started using his own instead. (A risk, sure, of the Fakes finding him to “have a little chat with him” Gavin had warned him about when he told him, but more than worth it.)

Everything.

This ache in his chest at being so close and so far after all these years of wondering. Maybe there is something to the soulmates thing science can’t explain because it feels like Jeremy’s taking his first full breath in far too long.

The world feels a little more real, brighter when he opens his eyes to look at Gavin.

Something.

Gavin laughs again and they untangle themselves, sit down at the table Gavin’s gotten for them and stare at one another like idiots for a moment.

It’s a beautiful day, sunny and bright and the people of Los Santos are making the most of it. Pedestrians out for a walk for the hell of it or out and about on errands or other business talking on their cell phones or enjoying the break in weather from the spate of rain they’ve had the last week.

Dogs barking, birds singing. People laughing.

All of it paints a different picture of the city than Jeremy’s used to seeing and for a moment he can almost pretend it’s any other city.

Almost.

“Uh,” Jeremy says, because pretty as things are right now, Los Santos is certainly not any other city. “Did you know - “

Gavin rolls his eyes, mouth quirking as he leans towards Jeremy. Drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Ignore them,” he says, gleam of amusement in his eye. “It’ll drive them mental.”

Jeremy raises his eyebrows at that because Gavin knows his crew best, of course, but still.

There’s a car idling at the curb just beyond the patio they’re seated at.

Shiny chrome number and the guy with the wolf on the back of his jacket Jeremy remembers seeing from the shootout behind the wheel.

Glaring at Jeremy.

Another car is parked across the street opposite him. Sleek black number with bright green accents. Too far to make out more than an outline of the driver, but Jeremy’s sure he’s wearing a skull mask. (He’s seen that car on the news too often not to know its owner.)

Not even two tables away from them are a pair of people in the absolute worst disguises Jeremy’s seen outside of a spy parody movie.

Dark sunglasses, fake mustaches and beards, and holes cut out of the newspaper one of them is reading along with oversize trench coats on a beautiful early summer afternoon in sunny Los Santos.

“...Okay?” Jeremy says, because okay.

And...he gets it, he does.

The Fakes are a close-knit crew and he and Gavin didn’t kick off this whole...soulmates thing between them in the traditional way.

At all.

To be honest, there’s a part of him that’s relieved they’re being this overprotective of Gavin. Watching out for him in an admittedly creepy way.

It’s just.

Weird as hell, too.

“Jeremy,” Gavin says, and gives him this look like he knows, but better to go along with it than fight it at this point, which.

Again, yeah, okay.

He can handle dealing with Gavin’s crew if it means he gets to have this...chance with Gavin. (Besides, he hasn’t even met Trevor or Matt, and God knows they’re going to be as terrible in their own ways, idiots that they are.)

They chat for a bit as they look over the menu, knot of worry and doubt in Jeremy’s chest unraveling as Gavin laughs at Jeremy’s stupid jokes. Smiles at the truly awful ones like he can’t help himself even though they both know how terrible they are.

Jeremy doing the same as Gavin tells him about his recent exploits with the Fakes, little adventures he got up to on his own when he managed to slip away from his minders. (Paranoid after the incident where some inconsiderate bloke carjacked Gavin.)

“Are you ready to order?”

Jeremy freezes.

Looks over to see a man dressed like one of the cafe’s waiters standing next to their table. Impressive mustache and tattoos he can see peeking over the collar of his shirt. More on his hands holding a notepad and pencil and this glint in his eye as he ignores Gavin to stare Jeremy down.

He’s seen the Kingpin on the news. Heard all kinds of wild stories about him, the things he did with the Roosters before coming to Los Santos to start his own crew.

Ruthless.

Merciless.

Only man in all of Los Santos who could get the Vagabond to join a crew and all the other rumors out there making him to be this terrifying figure in his own right, and for good reason.

And now he’s in a waiter’s uniform waiting to take their lunch order and Jeremy has no idea how to proceed, because his brain is having difficulty processing the situation.

Jesus.

He feels a sharp pain on his shin and snaps out of his daze or whatever the hell he’s fallen into to look at Gavin.

Gavin, who just kicked him under the table and is now giving him this look. All remember what I told you, and follow my lead and God’s sakes, Jeremy, don’t let them get to you, they can smell fear.

A lot to convey with a single look, but somehow Gavin pulls it off

“Actually,” Gavin says, looking back at his menu. “I was wondering if there’s any shellfish in the shellfish cioppino? I’m allergic, and it would absolutely ruin my day if I had even the smallest bite.”

That’s a blatant lie. They were just talking about Gavin’s love for shellfish after they got onto the topic of the east coast and Jeremy’s hometown of Boston in particular, but alright.

Jeremy stares at Gavin who lifts his eyes from his menu to wink at Jeremy before gifting their waiter with an arch look.

The Kingpin glares at him.

Takes a deep breath and in a voice that says he’s going to have words with Gavin later, and says, ”Yes, sir. Unfortunately there is shellfish in the shellfish cioppino as the name implies. Perhaps something else on the menu appeals to you?”

“Oh,” Gavin says, crestfallen that his first choice might kill him if he was in fact allergic as he’s claiming to be. “That’s a shame. What about the steamed mussels?”

It goes on like that for a while as Gavin asks about every dish on the menu where shellfish is a key ingredient and several where no seafood is involved at all.

The Kingpin goes from being annoyed to resigned and defeated, staring off into the middle distance as he answers Gavin’s questions.

“Well then,” Gavin says, when he’s done torturing one of the most feared men in Los Santos. “I suppose I’ll have the shellfish cioppino.”

There’s no reaction at first, but when the Kingpin realizes Gavin’s done tormenting him he snaps back to himself. Draws himself up to his full height and scowls down at Gavin as he angrily scribbles down his order to keep up the pretense as their waiter.

Gavin beams at him, hands folded neatly in front of him on the table.

The Kingpin snorts, corner of his mouth twitching before he turns his attention on Jeremy.

“And what would you like to order?”

He’s not glaring at Jeremy now, but it’s close enough to count.

“Hmm,” Jeremy says, mimicking the posh accent Gavin had slipped into. “Are there any mushrooms in your smoked mushroom ravioli? I have this allergy to them.”

No doubt he’ll regret it in the long run, but when he hears Gavin laugh figures it’s another one of those things he can deal with just for that.

========

They go for a walk along the beach after lunch, a nice leisurely stroll.

Sure, they’re being watched by members of Gavin’s crew, but Jeremy barely notices it anymore with Gavin laughing next to him.

“Oh, God, did you see his face?” Gavin’s giggling, all lit up with it, and Jeremy’s heart does that little flippy thing it started doing halfway through lunch with Gavin laughing and smiling and happy. “Geoff will make me pay for it, but his face.”

Gavin won’t be the only one paying for what they did, but that’s a future worry.

Right now it’s the two of them enjoying a nice day and being the horrible little bastards they are.

Amazing.

Their shoulders bump every so often, shifting sand under their feet and wandering along aimlessly as people are wont to do like this. Their hands do too, and after a while it gets to be a problem, so Jeremy has no choice but to tangle his fingers with Gavin to put an end to that.

Heart in his throat as he reaches for his hand, and that flippy sensation in his chest when Gavin slides a look at him, crooked grin on his face as he slides his fingers through Jeremy’s.

========

All good things end, or something like that, and Jeremy and Gavin find their way back up to the street next to the beach.

Gavin leads them to a pretty little thing parked next to the curb. Matte black and low-slung. Looks like it could go from zero to sixty in no time flat and Jeremy would love to see that happen one day.

He laughs when he notices Jeremy admiring it, hint of a blush on his cheeks as he gives it a fond pat on the hood.

“It was in the shop at the time,” he says, and shrugs, a story behind it he’s not telling Jeremy just yet. “That’s why I was driving my Blista.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow because those stories Gavin told him earlier and his far from spotless driving record. Gavin coughs, gaze sliding away.

They lean against Gavin’s car and watch the waves roll in below them, sun starting to sink towards the horizon. They’ve shed their escort in Gavin’s crew, one by one until it’s just the two of them now.

Jeremy passing a test he wasn’t aware of or them getting bored enough to go off to wreak havoc in another part of the city, who the hell knows.

“We should do this again sometime,” Gavin says, light and casual, like he’s not holding on to Jeremy’s hand as though it’s a lifeline. “I had fun.”

Jeremy could do that. He could. Spend hours with Gavin without keeping an eye on the time.

“Me too,” Jeremy says, and squeezes Gavin’s hand. “I’d like that.”

Gavin ducks his head, and Jeremy laughs because.

Yeah.

The whole soulmate thing isn’t a guarantee you’ll fall in love the moment you meet yours, or that you’ll even like them, but goddamn is it nice when you do. (Amazing.)

After a moment Gavin looks up at him, expression on his face like he’s thinking hard on something, and then he breaths out this sigh. Annoyed at himself for something as he straightens.

“Jeremy,” he says, and he sounds determined. Focused. About to take a risk and intent on following through. “I think I’d like to kiss you.”

Jeremy bites back a laugh because it’s so formal of him. Right and proper and all that. Very British sounding.

“Yeah?” he asks, grinning at the annoyed huff from Gavin. “I think I’d like it if you did.”

Gavin’s eyes narrow because he knows Jeremy’s laughing at him, and try as he might he can’t hide his own amusement at their ridiculousness.

“Jeremy,” Gavin says, because this is no joking matter.

Jeremy tries to wipe the grin off his face, he does, but he can’t with the way Gavin’s looking at him and the way his heart is doing that flippy thing again.

Good thing, then, that Gavin does it for him when he leans in for that kiss of his.

========

Jeremy’s life isn’t all kittens and sunshine now, no.

Matt still has those debts of his that Jeremy and Trevor are helping him with because God knows he’s an idiot and things are getting better on that front.

Los Santos is still the same shithole it’s always been.

He’s still at the top of the Fake AH Crew’s most wanted list, albeit for a very different reason now.

But.

Jeremy’s found his soulmate and while the two of them have to deal with a few more hurdles in their path than most people do, they manage just fine for themselves.

“Gavin - “

Gavin laughs, pecks Jeremy on the cheek to shush him as the lights go down in the movie theater around them.

“Ignore them,” he he whispers, like Ryan and Michael aren’t a few rows behind them making sure Jeremy doesn’t kidnap Gavin (intentionally) under cover of darkness. “They’re just being ridiculous.”

“I - “Jeremy sighs, because Gavin’s got a point. “Okay.”

The Fakes like to show up on their dates from time to time, scowl and glare at Jeremy because they’re just “like that” according to Gavin, but they disappear after a while to let them have time to themselves.

More of a running gag by now than actual threat, even if Ryan still wears the mask half the time.

It’s weird as hell and definitely not the way Jeremy imagined what finding his soulmate would be like back when he used to think about it, but it works for them and that’s the only thing that matters.

#jerevin #ragehappy #fahc au #soulmates au #ahwuum #Prompt Fills #Kings of Nowhere #vagrant fic #thank you so much for supporting me friend!!!#<333333333333!#(...this is kind of what you asked for???#also it got out of hand on me #so there's that???#:D???)

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rallis-fatalis · 4 years

Text

The Bookman’s Book

While cleaning up after his rambunctious student Rallis, Reldo stumbles upon a secret project she had been hiding from him.

The door to the Varrock palace library quietly creaked open as the resident librarian Reldo slid inside. He just as quietly shut the door and leaned against it with a sigh of relief. He finally had peace and quiet, even if only for a little while. He had just dropped Rallis off at Thessalia’s shop for more sewing practice. She was getting far too bored and cooped up to pay attention to his lessons and jumped at the idea to get out of the stuffy library to practice something she actually enjoyed. And so here Reldo was, taking in his sweet freedom in the peace and quiet of his library without a bouncy blue dragon getting underfoot. He was ready to pour himself a drink and relax, but unfortunately it seemed the world didn’t think he had earned a break just yet.

Books were strewn about all across the floor, some stacked in precariously wobbly piles that were just begging to fall over, and others left open and waiting for one wrong step to shred the open pages. Rallis’ corner of the floor was littered with writing practice, crumpled papers, and leagues of broken pencil bits. Unfinished drawings spilled out of her drawing folder and broken tips of colored pencils were ground into the floor. The library looked as if a storm tore through and ransacked the place.

Reldo groaned and got to work cleaning his student’s mess.

A good while passed and the library was tidy once more. It wasn’t a difficult task by any means, but it was a tedium he hadn’t wanted and shouldn’t have needed to do. “Next time I’m not letting her leave until she cleans her mess,” Reldo grumpily muttered. He held the last few books that needed to be filed away, the final remnants of the mess Rallis made. He quickly found their spots on the shelf and tried to put them away only to find they wouldn’t all fit. Something that shouldn’t have been there was getting in the way. He huffed and put down the books to get rid of whatever was getting in the way of his relaxation time. Awkwardly wedged in the empty space on the bookshelf was a book, but it was no book he had ever laid eyes on before. It wasn’t uniformly cut like the rest, nor did it even have a hard durable cover. It was rather bent from being scrunched in its hidey hole between the books. He straightened it out and looked it over.

“‘My Advenchurs With Bookman,’” he read the title aloud. “What on Gielinor?” He flipped open the cover, a series of miscut papers pasted together to try and make something thicker than a regular page. What greeted him was an assault on the senses, crude drawings colored in with saturated bright splotches and penmanship quality akin to that of a five year old’s. The child-like doodles and chicken scratch writing gave away the book’s creator instantly.

“I can’t believe Rallis tried to make a book.” Reldo flipped through and saw it actually had a decent amount of writing content inside, quite a surprise given how much she hated even the simple act of holding a pencil. His curiosity got the better of him and he took the book over to his chair to sit down and have a peek. He opened to the first page to find what he assumed was supposed to be a drawing of himself. It was a cartoonish depiction with an equally cartoonish frown. The colors bled out from their confines of the drawing lines and smudged across parts of the paper.

“This iz bookman,” the book said. “His nam iz Reldo but I coll him bookman.”

Rallis had a habit of writing her letters far too large, so that was all that could fit on the first page. Reldo turned the page and noticed the drawing was a bit smaller this time to give more room for the words.

“He teechs me how to spell and rit and reed but I am not varee gud.” The book showed a drawing of a still rather grumpy-looking Reldo holding a book up to a very unhappy-looking blue dragon-shaped splotch. Even in drawn blob form the librarian could recognize Rallis easily. Even in her book she looked antsy and bored of his teachings. He turned to the next page.

“I doo not lik riteng but I lik it wen wee reed. Bookman haz gud storees. I lik too lissin.” The writing was accompanied by a rather adorable picture of Reldo reading to Rallis. Above them were pictures of some of the things he would tell her about. There was some kind of armored bird, which he presumed to be an aviansie, fighting a demon, obviously meant to be part of the God Wars. There was a human figure with a big blue circle in their hands. Arrav with his shield perhaps? There were other drawings on the page but he couldn’t decipher their meaning. Even still, he found the beginning of a smile form, knowing that she at least remembered some of the things he talked about, even if it didn’t seem so at the time.

The next page held a scene he still dreaded to this day: the day he took Rallis to the Varrock museum for the first time. There she was, perched on the glass case of the mole exhibit trying to chase and play with the mechanical mole inside. Gods, he remembered her reaction to the dragon exhibits that came next and had to physically hold her back from smashing the displays open to free the animatronic beasts. The poor librarian received quite the talking to by the museum staff and palace royals alike from the event. He banned her from visiting the place again until she learned to behave and they had a long lesson about mechanical and stuffed creatures. It wouldn’t do for her to freak out over every stuffed dragon head in a tavern in the world after all. He forgot to read what she had written. He was so eager to turn the page and cease reliving the memory.

The next page had substantially better writing than the previous. The art style was also slightly cleaner, though still very amateurish and cartoony. The drawing was mostly different shades of brown, but Reldo could make out the crude depiction well enough. It was the Varrock Digsite! Rallis loved that place more than anything, always eager to help dig up artifacts and have an excuse to get covered in dirt and mud ‘in the name of learning.’

“Bookman takes me too the dig spot a lot and I like it a lot. I like too dig and lern. Wen he teechs me thair I am veree happee and hee is too.” The next page had no words, just pictures of the two of them with their interesting finds at the Digsite and of some of the things she remembered him teaching her. There was a whole page reserved for all the Zarosian things they had found. She had been so excited to find the shrine beneath the Digsite, or the ‘underground god circle’ as she kept calling it, and her excitement was apparent in the drawing. Her lines were more shaky that usual. His smile grew a bit wider as he continued on.

The book continued with more adventures the two of them had, from simple things he taught her to exciting trips in town or events in the nearby areas. Reldo couldn’t help but smile and even laugh at some of the things she kept track of, like the time she decided hopping the Varrock rooftops was a good idea and slipped on someone’s clothesline and into an ill-fitting set of clothing she couldn’t get off, making her look like a fluffed up polka-dotted hen. Or like the time she learned what catnip was and covered herself in it, hoping to make friends with all the strays in Varrock. She did in fact accomplish that, but at the cost of hundreds of cats running wild in the Varrock palace. The two of them spent the rest of the day herding the cats outside and cleaning all the fur, lest the king’s allergies act up too much.

Reldo turned to the next page to find a picture of the two of them holding hands and smiling. It was a simple piece, but it was very sweet. “I want to hav moar advenchurs with my bookman,” the caption said. And then the story ended. There were a handful of pages left after that one, but they all appeared to be blank. Waiting for a good story, perhaps. Reldo closed the book and gave the cover an affectionate pat before placing it under some larger heavier books. It had gotten rather bent from being stuffed in the bookshelf, he might as well do the courtesy of straightening the thing out. With that, he dimmed the lights and leaned back in his chair to get some rest before he needed to pick Rallis up from across town.

A few days had passed since Reldo had found Rallis’ handmade book. He had forgotten all about it amidst the chaos of trying to teach the dragon while Varrock was preparing for a festival. Eventually the day of the festival proper came and the two went out for a day of snacks and fun. When they returned to the library, thoroughly exhausted from an entire day of play, Reldo helped find an out-of-the way place for Rallis to keep her new things. While he was occupied with that, Rallis stealthily crept over to one of the bookcases and reached her hand behind some of the books. She felt around for something, but she could not feel what she was looking for. She chirped in confusion and pulled some of the books away. There was nothing behind them but the wood of the bookcase. Rallis squawked in horror and began to frantically tear apart the shelf, tossing books every which way.

Reldo ran over at the commotion and sputtered in horror. “Rallis what are you doing?! Stop!” He pried her away from the bookcase and stood between it and her. She was very clearly upset about something, her ears drooped and her eyes were about to go red from tears. “What in the name of the gods has gotten into you?! Don’t destroy my library!”

“Something is gone!” Rallis cried. “Something that I put there! I need it!”

“What is it?” Reldo asked.

Rallis’ face dusted pink and she looked at the floor. “It’s something of mine.” She didn’t elaborate.

Reldo walked over to his desk and lifted the pile of heavy books. He slid her handwritten book out from underneath and held it out to her. “Is it this?”

Rallis screeched and her entire face went red. She snatched it from his hands and hugged it against her chest and turned around. She gave the book a once over to make sure it was okay and was thankful to find it alright. She then glared at the librarian. “Why do you have this?!”

“I found it a few days ago,” he explained. “It was wedged in the bookshelf and I couldn’t put my books away. You really should be thanking me for finding it, the poor thing was curled and creased from the abuse it received on its perch upon my shelf. I flattened it out, good as new.” Rallis still wasn’t happy, continuing her glare. “You know, I wouldn’t have found that if you had only cleaned up after yourself. May this be a lesson to keep your things cleaned and sorted if you wish to hide a secret!”

Rallis ducked her head in shame and sat down in a huff on the floor. She brushed her hand across the cover of her book. “You didn’t read it, did you?”

“What if I did?”

Rallis groaned in embarrassment. She let out a long upset whine. “It was gonna be a sir-prize! When it was done! But you found it early!”

“A surprise?”

“Yeah! For you, dummy! Like a thank you for teaching me. But it’s not done and you’re not s’post to see it yet!”

“O-Oh,” Reldo stammered. “It’s a present?” Rallis nodded angrily and huffed again. Now he felt bad. No one ever deigned to give him anything resembling a present as it was, and this one seemed to be very special to Rallis. It obviously meant a lot to her and he had messed up rather royally. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I could pretend I never found it?”

Rallis frowned at his suggestion. It seemed lying like that wouldn’t sit well with her.

“Well, if I can’t unread it, and if I can’t pretend to unread it, would you like me to help you with it? I could help you spell some things, if you’d like.”

She thought his idea over and flipped through her book. She gave the book a small smile once she reached the end and rose from the floor. “Okay. You can help. That way it’s like another adventure! I was gonna write about today, but there’s so much to write about I don’t know what to pick!”

“Why don’t we think about it while cleaning up the mess you just made,” Reldo said and motioned to the books scattered across the floor. Rallis smiled in embarrassment and began to stack the books for sorting. The two talked about what to write while they put the shelf back in order and spent the rest of the evening writing about the day. Eventually, Reldo bid her a good night and shuffled off to his own room within the castle, leaving Rallis to continue her drawing in peace.

She looked over her shoulder to make sure he was actually gone before flipping to the last page, her current one unfinished, and began to write. “Thank yoo for beeng the best bookman,” she wrote. “And for beeng my frend.” She signed the page with a “Love, Rallis,” and closed the book. She gave a huge yawn and bunched her pencils together to put them away. She would have to finish the adventure of the day some other time. She was far too tired from the excitement of today to focus any longer. She went over to her box in the corner of the room and fished out her pillow and blanket and curled under the desk with them to go to sleep, her handmade book in her arms held close like a toy to sleep with. She fell asleep with a smile, eager to see what adventures she would have with her bookman tomorrow.

#oc tag #my writes #osrs #runescape

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hearteyes-for-killmonger · 5 years

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Open Auditions

It's time for Kiwonna to lose her virginity (an outdated concept, but regardless). She must choose between a handful of prescreened guys chosen by her friends. One of them will get the job done. LIGHT Smut included.

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In the rented hotel conference room, Kiwonna East sat front and center on a panel consisting of the most precious and valued opinions in her life. Four women surrounded her in a semicircle: Tera, Nikki, Gericka, and Ash, each dressed immaculately to their own taste and aesthetic. Kiwonna, herself, sat casually in a black tube top, tight leather leggings and Nike SF Air Force 1’s.. black and green. She slouched in her chair, elbows resting on her thighs. Her anxiety as the center of attention was cautiously hidden in a facade of disinterest.

“You'll be fine, Ki,” Tera soothed with an earnest expression. She sat at the right hand, close enough to rub the relaxed tension from Kiwonna's back. “It's not like you're auditioning a husband, just a guy to lose your virginity to. We've done the screening and the health tests, you just say yes if he's cute or no if he's ugly.”

“If I see a cute one and we make eyes, I'm taking him.. If you pass. Just so everyone knows,” Nikki added from Kiwonna's left hand before waving to her door, her golden bangles clinking together. “Tiff! Send in the penis parade.” The door opened and a sixth woman with a tall mass of bountiful curls opened the door letting in the first man.

Bosso

He was about 6'2 with deep and clear skin, close cut hair, and striking high cheekbones. His septum piercing added to his appeal. "This is my choice," Nikki announced proudly.

“What’s your name, where are you from, and are you a model,” Gericka asked clicking her pen, clipboard in hand.

“Bosso from Canada and yes, I am,” he spoke with confidence.

“Why should we choose you,” Tera glared, her own clipboard in hand.

“Why not? I'm a decent guy, respectful and honest. I wouldn't dip Immediately after and I'm actually very interesting.”

“None of what you said relates to our precious Kiwonna, but let us deliberate.” Tera turned toward the panel who leaned in closer together.

“What do you think," Gericka whispered looking to Kiwonna. She shook her head, no. That was all the deliberation they needed. Bosso had to go.

"NEXT," Ash yelled pointing to the door as Tiff escorted Bosso out, ushering in man #2.

Glory

"Oh hell no," Nikki deadpanned when the older gentleman strolled in. He was attractive for a man his age, but he must've been on the tail-end of his 50s... at least. "Who let this nigga in.. Tiff? Sis?"

"Don't blame me, blame Ash," Tiff flailed pointing at the the shifty-eyed woman with the wavy high ponytail.

"WHAT? An older guy will know what he's doing and make sure she gets hers! It's ONE TIME! Besides, he's cute. I don't care 'bout no salt n' pepper." Ash crossed her arms in a pout causing the others to sigh.

Kiwonna cackled. "What's your name, sir," she asked the older man who stood patiently, confident and unphased by the jokes.

"They call me many names, sweetheart, but Glory is what I prefer. My lovemaking might make you shed a tear. Get ready because King Kong ain't got shit on me." His lip quivered when Ash winked in his direction with a lustful eye. Kiwonna was nearly on the floor, her features twisted in heaving laughter. Nikki and Gericka weren't much better, slapping their knees obnoxiously. "Tick tock, tick tock," the man said. "I'm putting dick into all. you. bitches." The room was sputtering chaos.

"No deliberation necessary, issa NO," Tera spoke over the laughter. "He goes to Ash. Take him out! Tiff. NEXT," she yelled.

T'Challa

A tall 6'0 man entered the room with facial hair, a black and white striped shirt, and black pants tucked into clunky black boots. There was a subtle flash from the studs in his ears and the small diamond bracelet on his arm. There was also a dip in his walk that only the realest of niggas possessed. He stood in the center of the room with relaxed shoulders and a quiet cockiness. His posture read arrogance and pride, but his gentle eyes moved over each woman in humble greeting. "Greetings, I am T'Challa and I'd be honored to assist your friend in her sexual debut.. I have much experience and I've yet to disappoint..," he smiled. "I assure you, she will be in sturdy hands."

Gericka swooned, her clipboard forgotten. "This is my choice. He'd be perfect. I mean.. look at him. And that accent! Please pick him. T'Challa, if she doesn't pick you, I'll pick you myself!" He shrugged with a humble grin.

"Let's deliberate," Tera said leaning in closer to the group. "Best one so far. I like him," she whispered.

"Yeah, I like him," Nikki agreed.

Ash pursed her lips. "I don't know, I don't think he's Ki's type. He's way too cleancut. I wanna slip him a dibba-dab of cocaine and maybe--"

"NO," Tera and Nikki yelled in unison causing Ash to pout again.

"..It's like Ash said, he's just missing something," Kiwonna shrugged.

"We'll hold on to you, T'Challa. You definitely have one admirer," Tera spoke and Tiff escorted him out. "Tiffany?... Bring my guy," Tera smiled suspiciously causing the other women to carefully watch her and the door.

Erik

A 6'0 dread-headed man sauntered into the room with a dip intriguingly similar the previous bachelor. He wore retro Jordan 12s with grey sweatpants, a white tee, and a lightwash denim jacket. He also held a red solo cup that he sipped from, his wild locs pointing in every direction, standing as if starched. A low-swinging print pressing through the sweats drew every eye in the room.

"HEEELLL NO THE FUCK NOT! NOT HIM, HE'LL KILL HER! SEND HIM BACK," Ash screeched standing to walk toward the man and push him back to the door herself.

"SO! MAYBE SHE NEED HER SPINE BROKE," Tiff combated blocking the exit. As Ash pushed Erik with all her might, Tiff pushed back. The man easily turned, sliding Ash to the side before he walked back to the center of the room and drained his cup with a finishing belch, holding the cup out for anyone to take. Tiff stepped forward, giving it a tentative sniff before taking it to a trash can outside of the room. Straight Hennessy. Kiwonna shifted in her seat, her eyes glued to the man before her. She sat up straight, adjusting her posture to something she hoped was more appealing.

"Uh oh," Tera grinned. This was the one.

"What's your name, where are you from, and why should we choose you," Nikki grilled, her eyes intense. He was undoubtedly handsome, but that didn't impress her.

He looked at an imaginary presence as if there was a joke that no one else was comprehending. His sharp eyes penetrated directly through Nikki's venom. "You ain't gotta choose me. She already chose."

"That doesn't tell us what your name is and where you're from," Nikki pressed.

"Yeah! Buff ass.. plantain dick nigga! Answer the question," Ash snapped pushing up on him. He scoffed, not budging a centimeter despite Ash's energy.

"Fuck that shit," he said speaking directly to Kiwonna as she sat enamored. "You. Come here," he pointed to the empty spot in front of him. Kiwonna moved without a second thought causing Tera to clap and cackle.

"Yes, Ki! See, I know my baby," she bragged sticking her tongue out gleefully at the others.

Erik's arm snapped around Kiwonna's waist pulling her nearer as he examined her more closely, his forehead lowering to hers to search her dark orbs for answers. "What you like? You into specific shit or you want me to handle it how I see fit?"

"It's all you, just be easy because I haven't done this before," she said simply, leaving it open and in his hands. His arm moved around her shoulder as he began walking her to the door, eyes on Tiff. She stepped aside. "We got a room," Kiwonna said leading Erik to the elevator. He followed her lead silently. She couldn't keep her eyes off of him and he was definitely eye-fucking her as the elevator rose to the 12th floor. Leading him by the hand to the door, she appreciated his rough hands with her fingertips. Finally, they crossed the threshold into the room and door clicked closed. Erik didn't move, waiting for Kiwonna to initiate. "Sooo," she drawled stepping closer to him.

"Just making sure you still with the shits," she shrugged meeting her action. He stripped off his shirt exposing the pattern of small dotted keloids covering his entire torso and toed off his Jordans leaving them and his sweats on the floor, squaring his broad shoulders in wait. He'd came with no draws, just free-hanging dick. When Ki didn't get the memo, he pointed. "You not gone fuck me with clothes on."

Snapped from her daze of admiration, she sat on the bed pulling off her Nike boots before standing to wriggle out of her skintight leather leggings. The tube top was next, followed by her socks and underwear. "I'm ready," she perked.

"You one of them goofy bitches ain't you," he smiled raising a brow. "Lay down on your back and get comfortable."

"You just got a bigass dick and I'm nervous," she admitted, settling on the bed with her legs parted. He immediately began stroking himself to the sight of her body, moving to the foot of the bed.

"I know what I'm doing... Alright?... Let me do me." Wrapping his hands around her ankles, he yanked her ass to the foot of the bed where his pelvis was. "Hold your legs back.. higher. That's as far back as they go? Aight, we'll work with that." He dropped to his knees and separated her lower lips to peer inside and study his target. The air and manipulation stimulated her. His fingers started getting wet and sticky just from the inspection and he trailed his index through her wetness, collecting it and briefly sniffing it before plopping it into his mouth.

The sniff test didn't bother Ki because she was good.. and as she felt his long tongue sliding over her folds, she could attest that his tongue was just as good. She could hear Tera's voice in her mind cheering her on as she laid on the bed, legs splayed wide. His head bobbed, his tongue dipping in and out of her entrance before flattening and dragging up to her clit where he sucked a soft moan out it. She was already slipping under the spell of his tongue.

🍒

"Y'all think she's okay," Gericka asked waking up her phone. It'd been an hour and no one had gone to check on her.. yet.

"Give them another ten minutes and we'll check," Tiff said biting a hot wing from one of the boxes they were sharing."

"Then I'll go check," Tera stressed territorially. No one argued.

🍒

"Ki, you okay hun," Tera asked rapping at the door. When she didn't answer, Tera grabbed her room key seconds away from sliding it. The door popped open before she could and it was Erik, still butt naked, his dick semi-hard. "Shh," he mouthed and Tera treaded slowly to the bed when she saw the sleeping Kiwonna, passed out on her stomach with her bare rear still in the air. To be safe, Tera checked her pulse. It was normal, but the girl didn't move. "Poor baby tuckered out. What happened?"

"Watchu mean what happened? I fucked her to sleep," he whispered.

"How many rounds did y'all go? Did she cu--" Tera stopped short noticing the large puddle on the bed and the slight muscle spasm in Kiwonna's thigh.

"Like I said," Erik nodded unwilling to give anymore information. He wiped his dick on a washcloth snatched from the bathroom and bent to pick up his clothes to redress. "Ask her if you need to know the details. I don't discuss shit like that," he said adjusting his denim jacket on his shoulders. Walking out into the hall, he looked back catching Tera's attention. "...You... might wanna.. wipe her down... She still got some of my nut dripping out on her leg."

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