#what happened to him anyways. did vinyl kill him straight up

[mangogator]

i think we should bully escher

#what happened to him anyways. did vinyl kill him straight up #they’ve got his ass locked up in the secret room in the hideout #brc #bomb rush cyberfunk #brc red #brc escher #art tag

[the-isolated-demon]

The Isolated Demon AU - Chapter 2

The man was stirring, high pitched ringing echoing within his ears. His vision was deeply blurred as he was rising from the candlelit summoning circle. The man was dazed, groaning softly as he lifted his hand to his forehead. He was confused.. was that all but a cruel dream? He was unsure. He dragged himself up onto his knees, looking to the his side and finding the axe placed right beside him.

Henry was hesitant as he lifted the axe from the floor. He felt the weight of the prior events within its blade. He was glad he managed to escape that thing's wrath.

Henry lifted himself up from the floor, not even bothering to brush off his pants. There wasn't a need for that, anyways. They were already ink soaked.

He made a sigh, walking towards the boarded up door, only to chop right through the planks and the door itself. Splinters had flown into the air as well. The man then made way.

Heading down the inky steps, he had found a tape recording.. huh. He did lean against the wall for a second, just to listen. "...huh.. alright.." He murmured softly in response before heading into the flooded ink that had covered the nearby hall.

As he trudged through the low ink, he heard something ahead. With that, he quickened his pace. "Hey– wait!!" He called towards the small chatter that sounded from other side. Once he erupted from the hall, he glanced down both ways, completely confused. There was no one there.. "what...? I could've sworn there was someone there.." He muttered.

He made a soft sigh, walking into the open room to the side. He looked around. It was rather open. It was clear this was the music department, considering the giant sign across the walls with the hung up vinyl records. He walked across to look at the items hung up. The ink started collecting and bubbling behind him.

Monsters of goop and sludge formed. One that finished forming had rose, swiping right across the man's back, a gurgling growl sounding from the damned thing. This had caught Mr. Stein off guard. Henry swiftly turned on his heel, slamming the axe's head straight into the inky body. Luckily that was all it took to kill them. A quick swipe. Ink had sprayed onto him more as he hacked and chopped into these things.

He had an black print on his back thanks to the one that first attacked. He was breathing heavily. He wasn't expecting these to show up.. not at all. He could've sworn that it was just another length the demon was going to at least try and end his life. Once he the inky puddles stopped bubbling, seeping back into the floorboards, the gramophone started up.

A soft, upbeat tune sounded through the halls, the recording sign nearby lighting up. That.. was odd. However it was a slight comfort, considering the tune was pretty good to listen to. He took a moment, just standing to recollect himself. He was trying to think of what he was supposed to do next.

He then chose to head towards the hall and look around. He found some doors, messing with the knobs to see if any will open.. One door happened to open. However, it only revealed an organ. He sighed. "Nothing.." He muttered softly. He then walked off further into the hall, seeing the sign for the office of Sammy Lawrence. The door was being sprayed with ink thanks to some busted pipes, though. He doubted the door could open. He then looked past the ink, spotting a tape.

"Shit..." He now had to get a mouthful of ink if he were to grab it. He sucked in a breath, walking over and just grabbing the tape before leaving the shower of sludge.

He then pressed play. "A janitor who lost his keys—"

As Henry had listened to the old tape recording, a living wolf cartoon walked up behind him, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. The man flinched, turning around with the axe he had on hand at the ready.

Eying the axe, the boris had stepped back to avoid getting hit. He had an old baseball cap on, an ear up and the other one down. He seemed to have a scar or two on him. One on the snout, one across his shoulder.

Henry stared, holding the axe as he squinted, scanning the wolf. He didn't look dangerous. "..Hello... you aren't going to cause any harm, right?" He questioned, skeptical of the wolf. The living toon nodded happily, his tail wagging. He showed up right as the tape ended. Conveniently, it was labeled with the name, 'Wally Franks.' Surely the label on the wolf's hat were a coincidence as well..

"Alright... good to know. My name is Henry. Do you mind helping me get out of here?" The man questioned. This boris thought for a second before rubbing his fingers together as if asking for what he'd get in return.

"What do you want to get in return?? Food?" That was met with a quick nod. Boris then pointed at the label on the tape recorder before pointing at himself. "Oh...? You're.. Wally Franks? Alright then.." He hummed. "Alright, Wally... lead the way." He spoke, sighing lightly.

With that, Wally immediately marched away, glancing back at Henry to be sure he was following after the wolf. He'd survived these studios for quite some time, having avoided driving himself insane. He happened to have his keys stuffed into his overalls front pocket so it was an easy task to get into his old closet. The wolf didn't remember why he had the music director's old tape in his closet though.

Henry looked at the tape, then back at Wally before he just pressed play. "Oh... it's a riddle...?" He glanced at Wally, a tad confused. The wolf looked back, his ear twitching as he listened to the tape.

Wally looked back at the tape, mentally noting the instruments. First, the banjo... next, the drum. Then the bass fiddle.. also known as a cello.. and finally, the violin. Considering his toony hands, he looked at Henry. Maybe he should do this.. it should be easy enough, anyways.

Henry got the memo, and sighed. "Alright, let's go."

The temporary duo had then made their way towards the recording area, finding the instruments. However, along with the instruments, they found oddly placed bendy cut outs.

"Uh.. did you put them here?" Wally looked at Henry, confused. How the hell could the wolf do this if he's been by your side the entire time?? He made a small snort, going up into the projectors booth as well.

Henry then made his way around the chairs and cut outs, playing the song in the correct way. The first few times, the projector had gone out before he could finish. But after moving the musical instruments closer together, he had gotten it. The large garage door opened with loud shrieks. God damn, that was loud. Wally clapped his hands together happily, his tail wagging now that that was settled. Though, as it went up, the human was then surrounded by more blobish creatures.

He was now focused, picking up the nearest instrument— the banjo, only to swipe it and hit the searchers in their heads and shoulders. Luckily it worked.. however, it did ruin the item he used. Henry didn't exactly care about it, though.

"Shit... YOU ALRIGHT UP THERE, WALLY?" He called, however.. Wally was gone from the projectors stand.. that.. was odd. Maybe he decided to come down..? But. He hasn't entered the room.

Henry decided to take this as a sign to just finish what they were here for so it'd be done with.

Trudging on down the hall, he came across the small room.. huh. Odd how there was a random toilet in this room. He did find a valve. "Huh.. I wonder what this'll do.." He muttered. He turned the valve, expecting nothing to happen. To his surprise, he was correct. He hummed, walking back. "Well... that was a waste," or so he thought. As he passed by it, he luckily hadn't been attacked by anymore searchers when he passed by. That was a relief.

Exiting the room, he headed down the hall where he first met Wally.. huh. Wally isn't here either?? Weird. He saw that the infirmary was drained of ink. One of the busted pipes wasn't spraying everywhere by the office, either. "Oh. So something did happen.. great to know."

He looked around, humming before just wandering down to the medical area. Maybe he was actually getting closer to getting out of this place now..

Putting a few more searchers down, he discovered a pipe with a missing valve. "What the... well where is it..—" That was right where he saw the blobby searcher with a bowtie and bowler hat on. He had the valve in hand. Henry just stared, sighing in annoyance. "–really? Alright hand it over–" He was interrupted by the odd creature just disappearing in the ink with the item and going further down the ink covered... hall? Sewer?? He didn't even know what it was.

"God damn it.." Henry groaned in slight annoyance.

He then just followed after the blobby man. The guy in the hat even seemed to be teasing him— are you serious right now?? Henry just started running after the man. "GET BACK HERE!! I need the wheel!!" There were gurgles that sounded like laughter from the rather dapper ink man as he ran.

Sadly, the inky man was now cornered. Knowing this, the mystery man just dropped the turnwheel before just disappearing to go elsewhere.. what..? Henry was just left confused, stepping forward to take it. "Jeez... didn't have to make me chase you for it.." He muttered, sighing as he then turned heel and headed back. He was getting tired of some of the creatures around here. He was just glad to be finding the few that were actually peaceful.

As he headed off, returning the wheel to the pipe. He turned it. Finally. He was about done. He was about to be home free. He was happy about that.

Heading up to the office of the music director, he just got through the ink, just to get the lever pulled so he could drain the stairs and leave.

Henry was smiling quite a bit now, thanks to it. He then left the office, immediately going for the stairs.

As he heading to leave, he was knocked out. He hadn't caught a single glance of it.. he fell to the floor with a thud.

Henry had slowly regained consciousness. Vision fuzzy as he glanced around the room, slowly processing what happened.

Currently, the man was now tied up to a pole. The cartoon wolf already melting into a puddle on the floor beside him. Henry could feel his heart in his mouth as he stared at the poor thing. Ink was oozing from different parts of his body. The baseball bat had been tossed to the other side of the room, the hat on the ground in a depressing memorial.. thanks to Henry previously listening to a certain tape, he found out who this wolf was. Wally... whoever this man was... he was wanting to try and save him. However, that didn't happen. It couldn't happen. Not anymore.

Henry looked up at the man that had now walked into view. A psychotic grin was painting his lips behind that mask. "Great..." the masked man spoke, "you're awake.. very pleasing to know." Henry was panicked. Did this man do this to that poor boris?? He wanted to say something, but he couldn't get it out.. "Shhh... shh... it is alright, my little sheep..." a small purr rumbled from the ink covered man. Apparently he could tell the sacrifice to be was nervous and confused.

"It is better that you do not question. . . You will not have to worry any longer, after all." He hadn't really given a single second to try and acknowledge who it was... he seemed like a broken man, anyways.

Henry wasn't enjoying this. He forced the words out of his throat— "Untie me!! You sick bastard! You killed that poor ma—" He was immediately interrupted.

"Tsk tsk tsk. It was not an unreasonable sacrifice. It was for him. All.. of what we do... is for him." He spoke in a soft menacing tone. This situation unsettled the tied man. The masked man had slowly pressed his finger to Henry's lips with a soft shushing sound. "..it is time, little sheep.." the man spoke.

Stepping back, the man in the bendy mask had clasped his hands before his face. "My lord. Bendy. Hear me. I have a duo of sheep for your honor. I pray that this reaches you. I PRAY YOU HEAR ME."

The man started to preach, his voice crescendoing. He needed his lord to hear him. He must be heard. He wouldn't let this sacrificial ritual go wrong. He couldn't. As the man shouted, Henry could see the room darkening and ink slowly dripping from the ceiling. He bit his tongue at this. Whatever he was chased by previously... was about to be here. Before he knew it, the beast had run into the area, a loud shrieking erupting from the ink demon's sludge filled throat.

Sammy smiled wider behind the mask. "YES, MY LORD!!! COME AND TAKE THESE OFFERINGS!!!—" As he continued to exclaim, pressing his arms out above him in his worship, the masked man had been swiped aside. He was practically tossed by the beasts tail. He hit the wall immediately, groans coming from him.

While the demon was busy, Henry immediately took this as his chance to escape. He squirmed a bit, another booming call from the damned thing to his right had caused the building to shake with rumbles like an earthquake. Mr. Stein caught this as his chance and pushed til he was freed from those restraints. He ran over to the axe nearby to snatch, noticing the hat that was still on the floor. He was hesitant, but he grabbed it and attached it to the belt loop on his trousers. He'd rather honor the man who wore it. He was helpful during this, anyways.

Henry then immediately bolted across the room with the axe. He was hoping the demon wouldn't notice him. To his misfortune.. that didn't happen. The creature sensed his movements thanks to the overflowing ink and turned with growls rumbling in its throat. It turned from the ink man that had his guts torn out, only to chase.

Booming roars and growls followed after as Henry turned another direction. He was haphazardly chopping through any planks that were in his way so he could escape. After a while of the chase, he made it. He dove for a closing door, panting hard from that long run. He didn't ever run this much when he wasn't here. Not even when he worked here.

The gate like door shut fully once he made it into the room it hid. The beast had slammed into the door once it was closed, scraping at it with his claws with growls and shouts. Henry didn't even know why the creature was so angry with him specifically.. It was a huge question he had.. He wished it could be answered sometime..

The man's thoughts ended with the sound of metal running across wood. He looked over, seeing the can of soup. "Wh....?"

Another Boris with slight differences compared to Wally had walked into the room, looking at Henry with a concerned look on his face. Henry had slowly gotten up, just to pick up the soup can and just follow this toon off and towards his safehouse.

#batim #batim au #batdr #batim ask blog #batim ink demon #batim henry #batim wally #wally franks #batdr ink demon #batim sammy #batdr au #holy fucking shit #i cant believe i finished this chapter #i died at the start of it in december and my sammy plush appeared on my bed yesterday #i stg it was the fault of my sammy plush #god damn #writing for the au

[evafrechette]

It’s a Match

↠ yoongi x jimin | smut | hookup au | 18+ | 3.4K

↠ Summary: Loneliness can make you do questionable things. Like signing up to a dating app to suck the cock of a stranger.

↠ Warnings: deep throating, public blowjobs, cum sharing, kind of a social media au - but not, drunk Yoongi, flirting, masturbation, gagging.

Yoongi never thought he'd be desperate enough to download the app on his phone, but here he was at 11:37 on a Friday night, finger hovering over the install button.

"Ahhh fuck it.."

He clicked and watched as the app downloaded and installed on his phone. He never thought it would get to this point. He'd been single for years. Preferring his own company, he never found it necessary to date. People annoyed him, too loud, too intrusive, too manipulative. So he remained alone. But 4 years is a long time to be on your own and he was starting to grow tired of his own hand. Plus he'd watched evey fucking video there was on his favourite porn site a year ago. That should have been the sign he needed to get laid, but his dumb ass wallowed in misery for another 12 months and that's why he's here now, creating a profile in the hopes of getting fucked this weekend.

A frown formed on Yoongi's face, he had been scrolling through profiles for the last 30 minutes and hadn't matched with anyone. He knew it was because he was being incredibly picky, swiping left on nearly every single profile he'd come across. He wasn't gonna get his dick sucked carrying on like this. He swiped left on a profile of a man in his 40s - already starting to bald, arms wrapped around a girl half his age - when his eyes landed upon the profile of a young man.

Yoongi was intrigued. The man had the prettiest face Yoongi had ever seen, beautiful plush lips pulled into a seductive smile, with his blond bangs hanging over his eyes. Yoongi clicked to view the profile in full, Jimin - the beautiful man's name was Jimin. He used emojis in his profile, which made Yoongi let out a frustrated groan. He hated emojis, too childish. He continued to read the profile and decided that the two of them were too different and even though the man was beautiful he would swipe left, like he had been all night. Maybe it was an accident or maybe Yoongi's subconscious wanted those plush lips around his cock, because instead of swiping left he swiped right.

He put the phone down and got up to make a drink. He shouldn't have a coffee this late, but apparently he was living recklessly tonight. With the steaming hot drink in his hand he climbed back onto his bed. He took a sip of the dark hot liquid when he heard the ding of a notification. He cautiously leaned over and grabbed the phone, swiping away his lock screen. He could see that he had been notified of a match, so he quickly opened the app, curious as to which one of the very small pool of men he'd swiped right on that would like him back. Yoongi could feel his cheeks starting to heat up. He didn't expect to match with the blond with the lips to die for. Not only that, but the man had messaged him too.

Yoongi couldn't tell him the truth, he WAS going to swipe left, what the fuck happened with that anyway.

Yoongi choked on his coffee, Jimin looked like an angel, but an angel wouldn't talk that way. How the hell does he respond to that? Does he even want to respond to that? He placed his coffee on the side table and dragged his hand through his hair. If he didn't take this opportunity his blue balls would actually kill him. Well fuck, his response just made him sound like the world's most pathetic asshole.

Yoongi checked the time, it was quite early in the morning now. The coffee had helped wake him up, but the prospect of meeting with the cute man had him feeling even more awake than what was humanly possible. The two of them talked for the next few hours. Sharing stories of their worst dates, childhood pets, who was more powerful Superman or Ironman and their favourite songs. Yoongi finally said goodnight and put his phone on the charger. They had agreed to met at Jimin's favourite bar the 'Hit List' at 8pm that night. Seventeen hours for Yoongi to work himself up into a worried hot ass mess. Fucking great. And yet as he stared up at the ceiling a small smile broke out on his face.

Yoongi spent his Saturday doing everything he possibly could to distract himself from his date that evening. Was it a date? Do you call meeting some random off the internet to possibly fuck a date? He was too old for this shit. He rearranged his vinyl collection, read a decent chunk of his new book and practiced a few new songs on his guitar. Once the sky had turned a beautiful shade of orange and pink Yoongi knew he had to stop stalling and get his ass ready. He took an extra long shower, debating on whether to do some manscaping (since all the young kids do it these days) before deciding not to. He liked his bush, and if pretty boy wasn't a fan well tough shit for him.

He teamed his black and white shirt with a pair of black jeans ripped at the knee, a leather jacket and finished it off with a few pieces of jewellery. With one last look in the mirror Yoongi slid his phone and wallet into the pocket of his jeans and left his apartment. Just as he stepped into the lift his phone pinged. It was a message from Jimin.

*******************

Jimin is sitting at the bar when Yoongi arrives. He's deep in conversation with the bartender, so Yoongi stands by the entrance awkwardly looking around. It's a nice place, very quiet and intimate. It's dark, a few low hanging lights scattered around and tealight candles sitting in a whisky glass on each table. To his right is a large floor to ceiling window, surrounded by a mix match of old leather chairs. There is a faint smell of smoke in the air. Oddly this smell starts to calm Yoongi down, it reminds him of his grandfather. Okay, now he's nervous again. Thinking of his grandfather at a time like this?

"I'm a fucking mess." he mutters to himself as he walks over to the bar.

"Uhh sorry to interrupt, Jimin right?"

The blond turns his head and smiles, he is really more beautiful in real life Yoongi thinks to himself. He's wearing a black shirt with one too many buttons undone, his hair parted in the middle falling gracefully to each side framing his angelic looking face.

"Mmm that's right and you are?"

Um what?! Fuck, Yoongi knew he made a mistake by coming here. Ahh fuck, why did he have to make that stupid profile? He loved Amateur Bareback 3-Way #2, he could have easily watched it 100 more times.

"Relax cutie, I'm just playing, you should have seen your face," a giggle escaped from Jimin's lips. "Nice to meet you Yoongi." he stood up and extended his hand out to shake. Yoongi quickly wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and returned the handshake. Jimin's hand was engulfed in Yoongi's. He looked down and couldn't help but smile at the scene. Jimin's hands were so petite compared to his. It was a rather lovely sight.

"Order yourself a drink and we'll go sit over there." he pointed to the leather chairs Yoongi has been eyeing up earlier. He ordered an Irish Mule for himself and a Negroni for Jimin. He carried the drinks to the table, while Jimin followed closely behind. A little too close Yoongi thought. He could smell his perfume starting to mix with the smoke smell. It was a delicious combination.

The first half an hour was straight up torture for Yoongi. Even though the two of them had spent the night messaging each other it was different once he was sitting face to face with the most stunning man in all of Seoul. Yoongi avoided eye contact, mumbled and laughed dryly at Jimin's jokes. He was well and truly fucking this entire thing up.

Jimin huffed "You don't have to stick around you know, you can leave whenever you want."

Yep. He had fucked this up.

"Uhh it's not that," Yoongi starts to bite at his thumb nail "Jimin, I'm terrible at this. People stress me the fuck out, I haven't been laid in four years, I don't like leaving my apartment, you are lovely, fantastic even and that's making me even more nervous."

Jimin played with the hoop in his ear while looking directly at Yoongi, he tilted his head to the side "How can I help you relax? I thought we clicked last night?"

They did

"I'm sorry I make you nervous, I can't help it that I'm so cute." Yoongi finally looked into Jimin's eyes and they burst into laughter.

"It's not your fault. Fuck it, I need another drink . . or five that will help." he rolled his eyes before waking back to the bar.

With a few more drinks in him Yoongi was relaxed, he could feel the whiskey warming up his body. The heat in his stomach though, he was sure that was because of the attractive man sitting in front of him. The discomfort had finally vanished and instead a mellowness had fallen over the two.

"I've always liked older men." Jimin purred, his delicate small fingers, adorned with multiple silver rings, brushing against the now half empty glass.

"Aiisshh I'm only two years older than you!" Yoongi huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, but you act like you're nearly 60.” Jimin let out a hearty laugh, his eyes turning into crescents, cheeks plump and slightly pink. He slapped the table causing their glasses to shake. Yoongi quickly grabbed his to prevent it from spilling.

"It's not that funny." he didn't want to admit it, but the blond's laugh was hypnotic, he could watch Jimin laugh for hours and never tire of it.

Jimin straightened up, fingers now tracing the rim of the glass "I bet you don't fuck like an old man though."

Yoongi gulped and looked directly into Jimin's brown eyes, gone was the playful light, it was now replaced with desperate firey lust. He knew what the outcome of this date could be, and yet he was still nervous. He could feel his heart starting to race, his breath becoming faster. "Aaahh shit" Yoongi thought to himself as his left hand started to twitch, the blond's smell - a mix of orange blossom and patchouli was becoming overwhelming, he needed to calm down, he'd cum within seconds if he didn't get his shit under control.

"Heh, well I guess you'll find out later huh?"

Jimin reached over and ran his soft fingers over Yoongi's hand, playing with the bracelets that sat around his wrist.

"Why don't I find out now?"

Yoongi's friends love roasting him for his personality change when drunk. All of a sudden the quiet reserved man becomes giggly and loud. Cracking terrible jokes and singing at the top of his lungs. Sober Yoongi would never dare dream of taking a stranger to the bathroom to jerk off. Drunk Yoongi though? Try to stop him.

"Mmm Jiminshi are you sure?”

Jimin giggled at this "You are SO cute" he continued to draw his fingers over Yoongis hands "Of course I'm sure, do you wanna go back to mine? Or we could go to yours if you're more comfortable with that..."

Without thinking Yoongi stood, grabbed the blonds arm and pulled him up. They walked towards the exit, but before descending the stairs they took a left and made their way into the restroom. Once inside Yoongi pushed Jimin against the door and started kissing at his neck. "Fuck! Jimin, there is no way in hell I can wait to get back to my place, I need to feel you now." Yoongi whispered between kisses.

Yoongi leaned down and kissed his exposed chest, thank fuck Jimin had left those top buttons open. They had been torturing Yoongi all night long, but now he was thankful for it. Jimin's skin was so soft and it faintly smelled like cherry blossom lotion but he wanted more. He was desperate for more. Jimin ran his hands through Yoongi's hair and grabbed hard. Small moans escaped his lips, which drew Yoongi even crazier. He undid the buttons on his shirt and stood back. Jimin had the body of a god. Perfectly sculptured, with beautiful brown nipples begging to be sucked on. Who was Yoongi to deny god his wish?

Jimin let out a squeak when Yoongi ran his tongue over his nipples, hungrily licking and sucking at them. His right hand found it's way to the bulge in Jimin's pants and he pressed his palm down onto it. Jimin was now starting to get louder which made Yoongi smirk, he lightly nipped on Jimin's nipple before standing up and leaning in to sloppily kiss Jimin on those perfect, perfect lips, the taste of spice and bitterness still lingering.

"Uuuhhh Hyung, please touch me."

"That's what I'm doing Jimin."

"No you asshole, I want to feel you properly, get my fucking dick out." Yoongi stopped and looked at Jimin, slightly taken back by the tone of his voice. But he just smiled back - a wicked smile.

Yoongi got onto his knees and began undoing the zip of Jimin's pants. He pulled them down to his ankles, he then drew his hands up Jimin's legs, enjoying how smooth they were. He palmed Jimin's cock through his underwear eliciting a moan from the man above him. Yoongi pressed his face into Jimin's clothed cock. He took a deep breath, Jimin smelled wicked, his arousal mixed with body lotion was rousing. He alternated between sucking and licking on the cock trapped behind Calvin Klein underwear. He repeated this action a few more times before finally removing the now very damp briefs.

Jimin wasn't the biggest cock Yoongi had ever seen, but he was thick and absolutely smooth. He stroked his long fingers over his chiseled abs, along Jimin's length and then down to his balls which he cupped in his hand, massaging back and forth. He let go and brought his hand to his mouth, running his tongue over his entire palm. It was so fucking dirty and Jimin shuddered at the sight. He reached back up and gripped Jimin's cock in his now saliva covered hand. He drew his hand up and down at a frantic pace. He was too worked up to go any slower, but Jimin didn't seem to mind by the noises he was making. Oh shit, he was being too loud now. They'd get caught and thrown out or even worse the cops called.

"Shit Jimin, you need to be quiet or someone will hear us.”

“Mmm Yoongi I don't think I can cutie, why do you think I said we should get out of here."

Yoongi huffed and slowed his hand down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jimin's briefs, so he picked them up, stood and shoved them in Jimin's mouth.

"That should shut you up.... Is that okay? I can take them out if you don't like it.”

Jimin shook his head and moaned around the underwear. His mouth was stretched open and drool already starting to pool at the corners. What a fucking beautiful thing to witness. Pleased with himself Yoongi got back on his knees and kissed the tip of Jimin's cock. His tongue played with the slit, circling it before he slowly kissed down each side of his shaft. He then licked the base to tip, never taking his eyes off Jimin's. They both looked so fucked already, pupils blown out, flushed cheeks and lips swollen from the rough kissing earlier.

He started pumping slowly, wanting to tease Jimin a little, the blond was impatient though and bucked his hips into Yoongi's fist, letting him know he wanted and desperately needed it faster. Yoongi let out a small chuckle and started to move his hand at a pace the gorgeous man would enjoy. Muffled moans of pleasure let Yoongi know he had found the magic speed. He continued like this for a few minutes before letting go and taking Jimin's cock in his mouth. Oh he tasted good - of course he did he was perfect in every way why would this be any different? Yoongi hollowed his cheeks as he bobbed up and down on Jimin's length, taking it deep before pulling up and letting go with a 'pop'.

He took hold of Jimin's cock and rubbed his lips all over the head, spreading precum all over his lips and chin. He felt like such a slut, but he was loving every moment of it. Yoongi closed his eyes and slowly buried Jimin's entire cock in his mouth until it hit the back of his throat. He moaned around the feeling, this was what he had needed. To feel stuffed by a pretty cock attached to a pretty man. Jimin was squirming above him, his panting and moans muffled by the briefs in his mouth, but there was no doubt he was in ecstasy just like the cock starved brunette. Yoongi felt petite hands fist into his hair and start pulling and pushing trying to take some control of the situation, Yoongi slowed down and allowed Jimin to start fucking into his mouth.

With each of Jimin's thrusts his grunts became louder as he was getting closer to his orgasm. Jimin wasn't the only one getting close, after having practically become a born again virgin, Yoongi's head was dizzy with arousal and he wasn't sure how much longer he would last, his grip on Jimin's thighs tightening, bound to leave light marks the next morning. He closed his eyes and could feel the heat from his stomach rise throughout his body, his muscles tensing as he felt his release. The wet patch in Yoongi's pants made him feel absolutely filthy. He came just from sucking someone's cock? Before he had too much time to start mulling over how much of a slut he is, Jimin spills his load inside Yoongi's hot mouth. He thrusts hard a few times causing the cum to spill out of Yoongi's mouth and dribble down his chin, landing on the floor.

Jimin hisses as he slowly removes himself from Yoongi's mouth, he leans down and Yoongi yanks the underwear out of his mouth before smashing his lips against the blonds. He doesn't care that his mouth is still full of Jimin's cum, he tastes so good he wants him to experience the intoxicating taste too. When their lips part Jimin stands to put his softening cock away. Yoongi stands with him and looks around the room, avoiding eye contact.

"Umm thanks for that, that was .. uhh really good."

Jimin's bewitching smile returns "Yeah, that was amazing cutie can't say I've ever had my underwear shoved into my mouth though, but there is a first time for everything. Come here and I'll treat you good too."

"Well um, no it's okay. Honestly. I may have cum already." he sheepishly replies, still avoiding any damn eye contact.

A small "oh" left his pouty lips "well I'm glad I could have been of assistance."

The two stood awkwardly for a while before Jimin held Yoongi's hand and walked him over to the sink. He made the older man sit on the bench while he cleaned up all the mess he had made. Yoongi's heart couldn't stop beating. There was no need for Jimin to be so nice after what they had just done, but here he was doing something Yoongi actually felt was more intimate than painting the walls of his throat with his cum.

"Ah there ya go, now you can go back into the real world without anyone suspecting a thing.”

They walked outside together in silence, Yoongi had never had a hook up before. Do you crack jokes? Profess your love? Or just act like what happened never did? His mind was a million miles away when soft fingers were suddenly stroking his cheek.

"Please message me anytime you want to see each other again, and I'll be the one doing all the dirty work okay?"

This made Yoongi blush "Yeah okay. Thank you Jimin, truly I had a great night."

And it was the truth, he had so much fun he could relive the moment in his head for the next four years. Amateur Bareback 3-Way #2 wouldn't be needed when the memory of small hands, captivating moans and cum drizzling down his chin was enough to get him hard again. It had been less than 20 minutes. God dammit!

#Bts smut #yoonmin smut #yoongi smut #Jimin smut #bts fanfction #bts fanfic #yoonmin #yoongi x jimin #yoongi #jimin #bts #bts imagines #suga #bts social au #bts social media au #bts fic #bts suga #armywriterssupport

[nebula-plays-cyberpunk]

The moment Johnny Silverhand fell in love with V:

(Honestly time is an illusion in this game because at first they said ‘V u only got a few weeks to live’ and I said ‘bet’ and did all the side missions and gigs and trust, a lot more than ‘a few weeks’ went by so plz ignore timeline and just vibe with my headcanon)

-V goes to a karaoke night with one of their pals

-V gets drunk from being sad about Jackie

-V then gets up on stage to sing karaoke and sings Somebody to Love by Queen

-V gets REALLY into the song and starts getting people in the bar to sing the parts that she can’t by herself, dancing and air guitar as if their life depends on it.

-Johnny watches, amused for a long time before V indicates that they want him up on the stage with them. 

-Johnny hesitates but gets up on stage with V and looks out at the bar audience who are all now waving their hands in the air and Johnny feels something other than anger all of a sudden. And then when the song slowly ends, V ends up looking back at him as they’re singing. 

-And when they do, Johnny feels both a surge of happiness and a sudden sickening feeling

-Johnny Silverhand was in love with the walking corpse that his own biochip with his corrupted engram was slowly killing.

-ANGST

Feel free to read more if you want the long explanation! 

It had been a month or two since the Heist and since Jackie was killed. It doesn’t matter where you had him sent (but I will be judging if you straight up let him be taken to Arasaka); time has passed but V is still distraught about it (even if they don’t show it). After working themselves to near death, one of their pals (literally anyone V vibes with, or the whole gang or whoever you want bby this is a headcanon not a specificcanon) suggests doing something to relax them. This comes into a karaoke night at a bar. V reluctantly accepts because hey, booze is on whoever invited them out (if it’s just Takemura u wild af but no judgement. he def thought ‘yes. This is what the youths do to cheer up and ‘let loose’. The same goes with Viktor. No, I don’t take criticism andthatsondaddyissuesbabeyy). V will suggest a place that they and Jackie used to frequent for their karaoke nights.

V would go and try and have fun but end up feeling a little lost in all the happiness in the bar. How could people be so happy? V starts taking shots of their fave alcohol and starts to relax just a little bit. This is until someone goes up and sings ‘Tequila’, as a joke and V has to disappear into the restroom and cry because that was the song that Jackie always started with because it made him laugh and it made V laugh and it made Misty laugh. V missed Jackie. There was a big hole in their heart in the shape of a big, buff soft man. Johnny shows up, despite V insisting that he ‘fuck off’ in traditional Johnny / V way. 

Johnny surprises himself by suggesting that they just leave and fuck off somewhere else. V and Johnny both don’t know if it was one of their personalities leaking into the other’s or if it was a genuine comment from Johnny. Either way, V gets snippy about it, leaving the restroom and going to the bar and just CHUGGING a bottle of tequila. Whoever V came with gets a little concerned about this and even more so when V finally stumbles over to the karaoke stage. V ignores their concerns and lifts themselves up onto the stage, ignoring that someone is still there singing. V doesn’t care, they’re drunk plz give them a break.

V stumbles to their feet and kind of nudges the other people out of their way. Their song was done anyway. No fights happen (surprise). V scrolls through the list before going to a classic classic song.

Somebody to Love by Queen.

How does V know Queen? If V was a nomad, they def jammed out to Queen and were able to find albums and vinyls of them and usually sang them a lot when they were on the road or just traveling. Everyone in the Bakker clan knew all of Queen’s songs (and other old rock if you want).

For the street kid and the corporate beginnings, Johnny definitely would sing blurbs of them to annoy the fuck out of V. Johnny is a living, breathing earworm. There’s only 1 brain and V and Johnny legit share it. V easily gives it back with obnoxious commercial songs so it’s good. Both paths for V saw the title and decided that it was the best decision because they were drunk and the song was catchy and upbeat.

A few people in the bar know the song (and maybe even whoever brought V knows it too), but a majority are just chilling / drinking / having a good time. Johnny finds an empty seat near the front of the stage and sits down. He’s a smug little shit and wants a front row seat to the shit show that was about to happen. However, when the song starts, V just GOES for it. They’re singing their little heart out and Johnny has to keep his stupid little jaw from dropping because he doesn’t remember V ever being good at singing...or at least singing in tune. With how V is just GOING FOR IT, the bar gets a sudden jolt of energy because this mfer is up singing their little heart out to a song that is over a century old that a majority have never even heard of. This also amplifies when V starts gesturing for the bar to sing with her. A lot do. Johnny is just watching in both amusement and amazement.

The second V spots him, she is suddenly belting out all of her notes to him, looking drunk out of their mind. This is obvious when the guitar solo comes on and they start playing air guitar as if their life depended on it. V nods for him to come up to the stage.Johnny actually hesitates for a moment before he’s up there in a ghostly flicker. As he stood up on the stage, watching people sway back and forth as V continued to sing to them and then have them sing back to her. Johnny watches V as they continue to sing and dance their little hearts out. When the ending comes, the bar is filled with people waving their hands in the air on the beat (or as best as drunk people can) as V continues just belting the song. The ending comes and as V sings out, their eyes catch Johnny and Johnny is finally hit with this wave of happiness and admiration and finally: love. Johnny Silverhand had fallen in love with the very person that his engram was slowly killing. Angst to follow.

#johnny silverhand #cyberpunk #cyberpunk 2077 #johnny silverhand x v #gender neutral #plz if you see something that isn't gender neutral let me know i tried my best with keeping everything #they/them #they #them #tw: cursing #tw: swearing #cyberpunk spoliers

[cosmica-candy]

Chapter one: Sunflowers

Welcome to chapter one of the NSR Coraline AU this was written by @mechamastermind We have decided to post it on my account instead of his We hope you enjoy this first chapter

Prologue 

Neo and his family pulled up to the new mansion, coming up over the hill side, it looked quite old and rustic compared to the bright lights of Vinyl city. For one thing it was mostly made out of wood, and there were no outdoor lights.

The family quickly piled out of the car, the older brothers each immediately running to the trunk to grab their suitcases and ran with them inside. Neon found himself spinning around trying to catch one of the boys as they ran past him,

“Wait! Just– Oh goodness… Make sure to pick a room on the second floor!” he tried calling out to his impatient boys. Neon turned back and saw neo struggling to pull his own suitcase out of the trunk, he let out a little sigh as he walked up and pulled it straight out for him.

“Here let me little one…” He said as neo looked down disappointed once more, Neon took the briefcase and walked around the side of the car to Nova,

“Honey? Come on let’s start un–”

But nova just slumped over right in front of him, his face smashing into the steering wheel as he promptly clocked out after an over night driving session…

“Oh dear…” Neon said, turning back to Neo, Neo was looking around at the butterflies that fluttered about and landing on his head, Neon knelt down by his boy and gently patted his head.

“Why don’t you go explore or something, I have to help papa into the mansion.”

“B-buh.” Neo said, but before he could object his daddy already wrapped nova’s big arm around his shoulders as he attempted to drag him inside.

Neo kicked the dirt as he began walking down the big path leading to the mansion, softly looking as he counted stones along the way before he suddenly felt the urge to sneeze.

He looked up in front of him, and there away from the mansion was a huge field of yellow flowers, gently swaying in the wind. Neo wiped his nose as he ran amongst the flowers, gently holding out his hand against them, before he hit a rather large yellow flower, a yellow flower that went Ow!

He looked down to see a girl his age stand up from amongst the flowers, her hair blending in with the rest of the field, as she looked at him with her big red eyes, and talked with a lisp.

“Aye! What you gone and do that for?! That really hurt!!” she said, stomping her feet into the soft dirt as neo put his arms behind his back and twiddled his thumbs.

“Oh, Uh sorry, I thought you were a flower.”

“So you tried to smack me!?”

“I wasn’t smacking you! I was petting the flowers!”

“Who pets flowers!?”

“I do!! They’re very soft!”

“That’s not what you do with flowers! Here I’ll show you what you do with flowers!”

Neo stomped his feet back at the girl, to which the girl let out a little huff.

She then squatted down on the floor, looking up at neo and waving him down to follow her, as he did the same. They both were squatting in front of a particular large sunflower. The girl leaned in putting her nose right up against it as she gently sniffed it, a little smile forming on her face now as she had the fresh scent of the flower fresh in her mind now…

“See? Gently, you sniff and appreciate the flower, not touch it.”

Neo kind of understood, as he mimicked the girl, putting his nose up against the flower and taking in a deep breath through his nose… it was the freshest thing he ever smelled, nothing like the flowers in the city… then he felt the burning sensation in his nose, his eyes began to water up before he let out the terrible force, a tremendous sneeze bellowed his way through his lungs!!

He ended up sneezing so terribly hard that the sunflower stem snapped in two, falling over as the girl began to fume with rage, she kept looking at the flower then back at neo for confirmation that his assassination just happened… She began to aggressively point at it and then at him, unable to speak words for a minute as she was so angry, before shoving him over and loudly exclaiming,

“What did you do that for!? You just hurt the flower!”

But neo was laughing as he was pushed, landing on his butt, it was kind of fun for him to play with someone his age like this, and found her reaction very funny. He was just giggling at her, which only made her more mad. She began to stomp around in circles angrily, obsessing over the other flowers before turning back to accusingly point at him once more with a vengeance.

“Who even are you anyways Greenie!?”

Neo was smiling as he hopped back to his feet, not just standing up now, but getting up on top of a nearby rock, standing a few feet above his friend now as he put his hands on his waist and proudly exclaimed.

“I am neo!! Neo nova!”

The girl just stared at him for a moment before asking,

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Oh.” He said, not the reaction he was expecting,

“It’s just my name… What’s yours anyways?”

She was in the middle of emergency surgery for the flower that was so violently cut down by the hurricane of this green boy, holding it up right as she pulled a little bandaid from her boots, covered in musical notes and tiny piano’s, she wrapped it around the wound, and gave it a little kiss… the flower stood tall once again, as she looked back at neo and said,

“My name is Yinu, pear boy!”

“What’s a pear?” Neo began to ask, before he began to hear some sort of singing coming from over the hill… he looked and saw the distant yet still massive figure of a giant red woman singing gently to the wind.

“Yinnuuuuuuuu~” the woman called out.

“Oh! That’s mama!! I gotta go pear boy! Don’t kill any more flowers!” Yinu picked up her packets of seeds and stuffed them into her satchel before running towards her mama, gently grabbing her hand as she began to walk her home, Neo looked at them almost jealous, before he heard his own calling.

Neon was frantically sprinting towards Neo, running down sunflowers in his way, only upsetting Neo further. Neon knelt down next to his boy taking his hand aggressively and pulling him along.

“Neo! What are you doing all the way out here! This is much too far for you!!you could have gotten lost! Or worse!”

“B-but daddy you said to explo–”

“I know but this is much too far, I couldn’t even see you…”

Neo looked down at his feet, his lip wavering as he was escorted back home… Neon looked down at his boy, picking him under the arms and hugging him to his chest as he carried them the rest of the way.

“Neo you know better than to run off… just stay home with daddy and papa…” Neo looked at his feet dangling behind neon now as he hugged his daddy tighter…

#nsr #no straight roads #cora au #neon j #neo #yinu #nsr yinu

[s-c-r-i-p-s-i]

Candy is Dandy but Liquor is Quicker

[Dead by Baelight’s Kinktober // Day 8 and 18 : Outfit/Skin, Cornered]

🖤  🖤   🖤 “Don’t come any closer,” you warned shakily, backing up against the boarded-up door as he stalked forward, every step radiating confidence. “Or you’ll what?” He asked, leaning in. “Arrest me?” Playfully rattling the costume handcuffs on your belt, he set his gun against the door. You stared up at him, eyes wide as saucers, and he just snorted, curling a finger in your hair. “Darlin’…” Tilting his head, his fingers traveled lower, slowly ghosting over your neck, your collarbone…. You inhaled sharply in frightened anticipation, goosebumps rising, only for him to skim over your chest entirely, plucking one of the mini bottles from your bandolier. “I would love…” Long, bony, but strangely elegant fingers unscrewed the cap, flicking it off where it clattered across the floor somewhere. “To see you try.” 🖤  🖤   🖤 Pairing: Deathslinger (Caleb Quinn) x F! Reader

Rating: Explicit

CW: non-con/dub-con, bondage, drinking, smut, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4,927

Something… odd had been happening lately.

Not the cankerous growths and sickly orange flowers that were always so abundant this time of year - or whatever passed for a year in this everlasting hell. By no means was that unprecedented.

Ask anyone who’d been there long enough to know and they’d tell you; there was a certain… cyclicity to things. Recurring phenomenon - the red envelopes, the flowers, the mysterious gifts wrapped up like Christmas presents. Always sequential, always in order, like some crude imitation of seasons. (And for what? No one ever aged a day.)

No, this was something new.

And new, in the Entity’s realm, was never a good thing. But… You had to admit, this seemed mostly harmless.

Look - It’s not like you were ever really in control of what you wore here, anyway. Most of the time, you were just stuck with whatever clothes you were wearing when you rolled into the fog. Sometimes She (that omnipotent thing in the sky) threw you in something else. Nobody ever really paid it much mind. The Entity worked in mysterious ways. And people, frankly, had more important shit to worry about.

But then when the flowers started blooming this year, things got a little weird.

She -…

She started putting people in costumes.

Cheap polyester numbers, mostly - the kind you’d buy from a big-box store, straight from one of those awful clear vinyl bags.

…It was starting to look a lot like Halloween. Jack-o’-lanterns even began appearing, scattered around the campfire and adorning the generators.

And nobody knew what the fuck was going on. Hell, not everyone even knew what Halloween was. You had quite the diverse cast; some people weren’t even from the same world as you.

The general vibe around the campfire was just… mild amusement if anything. You had a chuckle, then moved on. That was just the way of things. Everyone had these… survivor blinders on. You guess it was hard to get phased by something so minor when you all got murdered on the daily, but…

But you weren’t content with that.

You always had trouble just accepting things at face value. You wanted to know why.

Like - was the Entity stroking out? Things always did get a little strange around this time. Almost as if She were sick.

It was rare, but there were these little… Well, Feng called them glitches, and it was apt a term as any. Just little things, here and there, like She couldn’t quite enforce the rules of her own game.

Almost everything in this world seemed to be harvested from people’s memories. So… Maybe she was starting to pull things at random. Spiraling.

Was this the synaptic failure of a dying god?

Probably not, but there was nothing to do besides let your mind wander, and it was the only theory you had.

And then….

Then She whisked you away to Frontierland in the gaudiest slutty sheriff costume known to man and pit you against the goddamn cowboy.

Yeah, no - that was about a step too far to have been a happy accident.

Maybe you were thinking too hard. Maybe She just had a fucked up sense of humor.

When the fog cleared, you found yourself in the saloon with the others. You half-heartedly laughed it off (“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Very funny.”) and then moved on. Business as usual.

But not before rolling your eyes and discreetly downing one of the liquor minis from the shitty novelty booze bandolier sewn to your costume behind everyone’s backs.

At least She had the decency to stock it.

You were finishing up cleansing a totem when you heard the telltale crack of a gunshot split the air from all the way across the map. Not anywhere close enough to be dangerous, but a dead giveaway as to who you were up against.

…And cold hard proof that your little outfit was far from coincidence. The literal and proverbial smoking gun.

The moment you heard it you deflated, head falling back.

Seriously? What the fuck was She playing at?

Why you?

It wasn’t much of a conscious decision; you found yourself plucking another bottle from your bandolier and knocking it back without a whole lot of thought. You were obviously going to need it. Staring blankly ahead, you incredulously shook your head as you thumbed the moisture from your lip.

Okay. Alright. That was it, for now, you decided.

The Entity gave you a fully loaded bandolier - seriously, you were armed to the teeth with the little mini bottles, to the point it was actually kind of heavy. But you already felt a little weak in the knees after just two shots. It had been a while, so your tolerance was understandably nil. You didn’t want to be useless to your team. More importantly, it now felt critical you get out of there without running into the killer.

The Deathslinger was one of those ones. Not overly talkative, like a couple of the killers were, but he definitely got a kick out of the whole thing. There was a stark difference between the two camps, so to speak - the ones who only seemed like they killed because they had to, and the ones who were completely in their element. And he was obviously one of the latter.

It was that goddamn laugh. Low and sultry. Chuckling whenever he hooked someone or when a survivor did something exceptionally dumb. Even when you weren’t the target of it, you’d come to associate it with pure humiliation.

And you just knew that he’d take one look at you, in your stupid sheriff costume, and… Oh. You were steaming mad only thinking about it.

So you made it your personal mission to avoid him this trial. And to do that, you had to actually get out. Which meant no more drinks for you!

You should have known She had other plans.

You did your best to keep a low profile, tried to make sure you were on the opposite side of the map from him at all times, while still being useful. A difficult balancing act.

But you couldn’t just leave your friends hanging.

When you saw Meg’s aura flare out in distress as she was lowered onto the hook, you began making your way over, quick and quiet and praying to every god you knew that he would be long gone by the time you got there.

And, lucky you, there was no sight of him. So you crept towards the hook, privately taking solace that at least you weren’t alone in the goof factor; Meg was all dressed up like Wendy - the fast-food icon. The Entity really outdid herself, the braids were right on the nose, and you were almost loosey-goosey enough to make some stupid quip. Almost. Maybe when she wasn’t dangling from a meat hook.

You pulled her off the hook with care, but just as her feet touched the ground, another gunshot rang out, this time much louder. A spear whizzed by so close that you could hear it shear through the air just before it embedded itself in the post, inches away from you both. No sooner had you whipped your head around to find the source than the sound of shoes pounding against the ground filled your ringing ears.

You looked back and Meg was gone. Peeled off like a bandaid.

You decided you better get the hell out of Dodge too.

First things first, you needed to get out of the open; that was just asking to get shot. So you made a mad dash for the saloon. You figured you had a good head start since it should have taken him a hot minute to retrieve the harpoon, dislodge it from the hook, shove it back in the gun… Sounded like a whole ass process.

Except, when you looked back behind you he was hot on your tail. Trail. Hot on your trail.

You made a snap judgment, deciding you’d try and lose him by running up to the second story. Was it cheap? Absolutely. He obviously had some kind of bum leg, unless that brace was some kind of bold fashion statement. Not that it had ever slowed him down, any. But you were desperate. And all’s fair in love and war, right?

Swiftly turning the corner, you galloped up the stairs and dove into the first room you saw, hopping through the window.

By the time your eyes adjusted to the indoors and you realized it was a dead-end, it was too late. The only other exit was boarded up, and you could hear his boots unhurriedly thumping up the creaky steps like he was in no rush at all. Step. Step. You rushed to the boarded-up door and gave it a good open-palmed slam to test its strength - you’d seen killers smash through these like they were cardboard, but it just wouldn’t budge. Shit.

He was getting closer. You could hear his spurs. Hissing, you banged your fist against the boards in frustration. What, impending injury wasn’t bad enough? She had to add insult, too?

The footsteps stopped, and so did everything else, it felt like. Holding your breath, you slowly began to turn around. There he was in the window, backlit and silhouette, dusty sunlight filtering through his ghostly white hair. You had to admit, he cut a striking figure, something cinematic. There was just the trouble of the gun. Aimed right at you.

Didn’t have to climb over the window if he just reeled you to him. Smart man.

Before you could think to dive for cover or something smart like that, he began lowering the gun. It was hard to tell what expression he was wearing, backlit as he was, but you could feel those spectral eyes looking you up and down. From your cheap western style boot covers, all the way up your legs to your fluffy petticoat and layered skirts, the ill-fitted booze bandolier slung around your shoulder… and finally, the gold, plastic 5 point sheriff star nestled between your tits.

Oh God. Here it comes…

He didn’t even have to say a word, hot embarrassment already surging to the surface before he even opened his mouth.

“Well. Pardon me.” You could make out the glint of dirty teeth in the dark as his grin spread. “Didn’t know you were an elected official.”

Why the hell was he exempt from this bullshit, anyway? You’d seen Ghostface in a devil costume, and Myers in a cat ear headband, so you knew they weren’t immune. Maybe the Entity thought he looked stupid and campy enough as is. But… she couldn’t have dressed him up as Woody from Toy Story or something? He probably wouldn’t have gotten it, but you would have found it funny. Maybe then you wouldn’t have felt so small and humiliated.

You hated this. You didn’t even know what to say until he started climbing over the window. Then you had a pretty clear idea.

“Don’t come any closer,” you warned shakily, backing up against the boarded-up door as he stalked forward, every step radiating confidence.

“Or you’ll what?” He asked, leaning in. “Arrest me?” Playfully rattling the costume handcuffs on your belt, he set his gun against the door. You stared up at him, eyes wide as saucers, and he just snorted, curling a finger in your hair.

“Darlin’…” Tilting his head, his fingers traveled lower, slowly ghosting over your neck, your collarbone…. You inhaled sharply in frightened anticipation, goosebumps rising, only for him to skim over your chest entirely, plucking one of the mini bottles from your bandolier. “I would love…” Long, bony, but strangely elegant fingers unscrewed the cap, flicking it off where it clattered across the floor somewhere. “To see you try.”

And on that note, he finally tipped it back - you watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed it down. Shaking the empty bottle at you, he slipped it back into its holster on your belt. “Bit frivolous, you know.” He commented, curling his finger in and snapping it back. “A flask does just fine. No need to reinvent the wheel.”

“Right, well,” you huffed, and moved to squeeze past him - he was clearly in good humor, at least, so maybe he’d let you off easy. Wasn’t a little whiskey and a laugh good enough?

Apparently not.

You were immediately met with an arm shooting out, hand landing right beside your head, caging you in.

“Woah there, where d’ya think you’re going, sweetheart?” He smirked down at you, a crooked thing that flashed his teeth, scarred lip snagged over a canine. You’d never noticed before, but one of his incisors had a gold crown. Now that you’d noticed, you couldn’t stop looking at it, the alcohol still floating around in your bloodstream turning you into some sort of easily distracted magpie. He was missing one of his bottom teeth, too. It was… kind of a mess in there, huh? Smelled like whiskey and tobacco.

“You got me all the way up here, I’m not too keen on leaving already.” Sliding his hand from the door, he guided you away by the small of your waist, and you… you just kind of let him, stiltedly trying to follow his direction.

“So how about you…” You reached the bed and he grabbed you by your shoulders, turning you round to face him. “Just sit your pretty ass down.” Just a slight push and you were bouncing on the bedsprings, palms catching your fall.

In the back of your mind you were already fearing the worst, but much to your surprise he just sat down next to you on the edge of the mattress, looking almost comically large and out of place on the twin-size bed. All you could do was blink at him dumbly, unsure what was happening.

He took a long breath through his nose. It felt like forever before he finally released it and said, “Have a drink with me.”

“I…” You drew out the word dubiously, clearly meaning to decline. You were already too tipsy for comfort considering present company was a killer.

“Didn’t ask,” He said gruffly, pulling two bottles from your bandolier and offering you one. “Indulge an old man. Or we’ll do it the hard way.”

Hard to argue with that! You didn’t know what the hard way was, but you didn’t want to find out. So you took the bottle, lips pulling together in a tight, awkward half-smile when he clinked his against yours.

This was weird. Awkward, and in a whole different way than you’d been preparing yourself for.

You actually found yourself glad for the burn that flooded your body as you downed the shot, heat loosening your tense limbs and taking the edge off this… incredibly odd situation, if only slightly.

Besides the obvious threat, it felt like maybe, despite everything… he was really just a lonely old man. In want of someone to drink with. A slice of normality. Isn’t that what you all wanted? You guessed it couldn’t hurt. It was keeping him away from the generators, anyway. Buying you all some extra time.

And… maybe this was what the Entity wanted. The reason she brought you here like this.

“Now, miss,” He spoke, and you turned your gaze up to him, blinking owlishly, your head swimming. There was a lot to take in at this distance. All these different textures. Scars and stubble and pockmarks. You found it all fascinating. “I’ve got to be frank with you.”

You know, you hadn’t really heard him speak at length before, but you were starting to realize that his whole aesthetic, he didn’t really sound straight out of a spaghetti western like you might expect. There was a trace of that, especially in his vocabulary, but his accent was much more reminiscent of… Canada, somehow. With a slightly Irish lilt.

It was ludicrously unexpected, and something about it just made a dopey smile float onto your face. You didn’t even realize you were doing it, until his eyes drifted down, and he huffed with almost fond incredulity.

“Think that’s funny, huh?”

You’re almost positive you missed something he said. You heard it, you just didn’t… process it right. This time when he spoke, you tried to pay attention.

“I don’t usually go taking what ain’t mine, but damn if you don’t look like a present addressed just to me.”

It was your turn to huff, bobbing with amusement. “Okay, cowboy, I know what it looks like, but…” It wasn’t like you chose this outfit.

“Honey,” he interrupted, “I think you’ve mistaken me for the wrong kinda wrangler. It’s not cows I’m after.” He paused, tipping his head as if reconsidering, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But if a heifer’s in need of a good driving…”

It took you a solid minute for your brain to catch up. He was content to watch the cogs turn until it did.

He just called you a cow!

A cow in need of a good dicking!

Your mouth hung open in shock and he - he just laughed.

“Little slow on the uptake, aren’t cha? Had a few already? How bout one more?” His hand began trailing up your leg, dirty fingers slowly dipping beneath your pure white petticoat.

Suddenly, one thing was very clear.

You had to get out of here.

Shaking your head, you tried to stand, but you were swiftly reeled back as soon as your feet hit the ground, pulled into a hard lap, all bones and brace and knobby knees and God knows what else.

“We’re gonna have one more,” his voice materialized right beside your ear, tone final as he pulled another mini from your belt. You shook your head, whimpering some protest between tightly closed lips as he pressed the bottle to your mouth. Behind you, you heard him sigh through his nose like a beleaguered bull. Then his other hand came round your face, pinching your nose shut.

You didn’t wait around for your lungs to give out. There wasn’t any point in that. You knew he wasn’t going to give in. But you did. Almost immediately. Your lips parted for air and got tequila instead, swallowing sloppily as you tried not to choke, rivulets of amber dripping down your chin while he murmured, “There you go… Nice and easy…”

His hand lowered to your throat to tip your head back, your world spinning as a wet sensation dragged across your chin, the man licking up the tequila in one broad and obscene lick. That rotten chuckle inundated your senses. “Awful cute when ya can’t even keep your eyes straight.” He tapped his fingers along the column of your throat, adding in afterthought. “Awful cute anyway, but I’m not really in the mood to fight just for a little company tonight. You gonna be good for me now, darling?”

“…Uh-huh.” You nearly sobbed out the sound, voice meek and pathetic. But you’d be lying if you weren’t starting to feel… sweaty under your skirts, inner thighs getting embarrassingly slick. That always happened when you were drunk, but never this bad.

And despite all the awfulness churning in your stomach, you still felt heat pool in your gut as he cooed, “Good girl. Not at dumb as you look, are you?”

You didn’t even realize he was actually expecting an answer until he probed again, “Are you?”

You quickly shook your head.

Humming, he seemed to accept that, because he was soon re-adjusting you on his lap and catching your lips with his in a messy kiss. He tasted strong and dry, your tongue prickling like your taste buds were trying to retract at the mere slide of his against yours; like salt on a slug. When his hand crept up your skirt this time, you didn’t try to stop him, even as his middle finger began tracing your sopping panties, dipping into the wet seam. You could scarcely think, devolved into a gooey pile of nerves and feelings that he was amusedly plucking at.

Peeling your panties aside, his fingers parted your folds, a pleased rumble emanating in his throat and vibrating in your mouth when his thumb brushed against your clit and your hips twitched in response.

You were gasping for breath by the time he finally pulled his mouth away, but he gave you no time to recover, already pressing two fingers past your resistance. In some attempt to ground yourself, you grasped at his arm as they began curling and pumping inside you, but your weak, drunk grip made it about as easy as catching clouds.

At some point, your barely-there vision drifted towards the window and you dimly realized you were facing it, completely exposed. That if anyone came up the stairs, they’d be able to see everything.

You’d just have to hope his heartbeat would be enough to keep them far away from the saloon. Eyes fluttering to the ceiling, you pushed the thought from your mind. It wasn’t hard. Not when the feeling in your stomach was reaching a fever pitch, nearing the point of no return.

In some ways, he was a lot gentler than you were expecting. Which was good, because you felt hopelessly vulnerable right now, helpless and disorientated in his lap, his looming over you making your mixed up brain feel protected even though some part of you knew that wasn’t right.

Everything felt numb except where he touched you; the heat of his breath on your neck, the kisses he pressed to your skin, the scrape of his beard, the brush of his long hair against your shoulder. All your wires were crossed, every little sensation going straight to your core.

Gasping out as your climax crashed over you, your hips lurched, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand. Unbothered, he just kept stroking you through it until your hips finally began to sink back down and your cunt stopped desperately trying to milk his fingers. Withdrawing slowly, he pressed them into your open mouth, the tang of your own juices spreading across your tongue. You didn’t know what it said about you that your blind instinct was to obediently suck, but that’s what you did, and he breathed out in a low, steady hiss.

“Careful, now. Fool me too good and I might have to keep you.”

Pulling away, he encouraged you to lay on the bed, settling between your legs. You watched the ceiling drift then snap back to place every time you blinked while he fiddled with something - you weren’t sure what until he was fixing your arms above your head and the apparently not-so-novelty handcuffs from your costume were being snapped around your wrists.

Then his hands were skating over you appreciatively, over your ribcage, the curvature of your waist almost reverently. “Guess the good Lord finally answered my prayers.” He murmured, flicking the plastic sheriff star between your bosom. “Not really how I woulda done it, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh? After all…” The man sighed, fingers curling into the top of your blouse and slowly dragging the gingham fabric down over your breasts until they were revealed to his eerie, quietly covetous eyes. “We don’t exactly have all the time in the world, do we?”

What was that even supposed to mean? It seemed to you as if you had nothing but time. Maybe not in this particular trial - and as if to punctuate that thought, you felt a generator kick to life, the familiar thrum of hope in your bones.

Did he know something you didn’t? Or were you just too foxed to follow?

Exhaling, he rolled his hands over your breasts, admiring the feel of them for just a moment. It seemed like he wanted to take his time with you, but the reminder that you were on a timer was the spur in his side that eventually pushed him to move on.

You heard him audibly fiddling with his belts and wondered if you were getting out of this alive. It was cold comfort, but at least you’d probably managed to save everyone else. Not very heroic when it wasn’t even really your decision. But it was something. Maybe. Something to cling to as you felt the heat of him slide across the mess he’d made of you.

Whimpering, you curled inwards from your core as he entered you, bound hands lifting up and both grasping at his chest at the feeling of being run through. By no means was it violent. It didn’t hurt, exactly. But it had been a long time, and he was unforgivingly long and solid and foreign. An intrusion on your body.

“That’s it. There you go, gorgeous. Hang onto me.”

You did, your hands abandoning his chest to loop over his neck, accidentally knocking the hat off his head in your bound fumbling. He didn’t seem to care, swooping down to take your lips again while you struggled to get used to the feeling of him moving inside you.

With how wet you already were, it didn’t take all that long before pleasure started to win out, every little bump and grind against your sweet spot pulling you closer to the edge again, his mouth muffling the pathetic stream of sounds trying to escape yours.

This time, the fall from the top was a slow one, liquid heat spilling out across your core - though you weren’t quite aware how literally until you felt it physically starting to pool beneath you, a wave of embarrassment flaring when you’d realized what just happened. Okay - you didn’t - that had never happened before, drunk or not.

Your hopes that he didn’t notice were dashed as he pulled away to chuckle heatedly in your ear. He wasn’t far behind though, laughter broken by a groan as his hips snapped against yours, burying himself deep as he could go. You felt the alien jerk of his cock inside you, radiating warmth.

Panting, he nuzzled at your neck as he came down, whiskers scratching at your skin. You felt… suspended in place, not sure what came next. But you guessed it wasn’t up to you. Hesitantly, you let your fingers slip into his sweaty white tresses, the texture thick and rough like the mane of a horse, dusty and… probably unwashed for God knows how long.

There was that awkward feeling again. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit no matter how you turned them, but you weren’t allowed to leave.

Eventually, he took a deep, centering breath and withdrew from you, guiding your hands back to the bed and clicking open the safety release of the handcuffs, setting you free and letting them fall wherever on the floor.

Rubbing your wrists, you groaned in discomfort as he dragged his fingers through the mess, pushing his cum back inside you. No. You just wanted to be done.

But then he pulled your panties back into place. Pulled your shirt back up. Smoothed your skirts down.

His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he heaved a big sigh and finally dismounted.

Pulling you up by your arm so that you were sitting up, he grabbed his hat from the bed, and you felt him plop it onto your head and adjust it.

“Suits ya.” He said softly, and it was the first thing he’d said in a while. Part of you was waiting for the other shoe to drop, not sure if he wanted a thank you, or…

He eyed you for another long moment, like there was something more he wanted to say, but… Instead, his gaze flicked down to the bandolier round your chest.

You swallowed hard as he plucked the last two bottles from your belt, the thought of taking another shot making your stomach churn and your gag reflex curl.

Patting your thigh, he bonelessly plopped himself in the nearby chair, rolling his eyes as you just stared at him. “Go on, get.” He snorted, uncapping one of the little bottles. “Don’t fall down the stairs on your way out.”

He was letting you go? Just like that?

You hesitated, something about this seemed… unfinished. You weren’t sure if you wanted to go.

But you didn’t want to wait around until he changed his mind, either.

So you uncertainly began heading towards the window, pausing when you remembered - “Your hat…” You reached for it, intending to give it back, but…

“Keep it, I don’t care.” That sounded unexpectedly crabby, and when you looked back, he wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the wall, avoiding your gaze as he tipped back a shot. “Wear it if you want to see me again. Don’t if ya don’t. I can take a hint.”

You blinked, unable to believe he was sulking. Now. After everything.

Your fingers hovered over the brim of the hat. You needed to quash this now, while you still had the chance. Your conscience was screaming at you, leave it, don’t encourage him, don’t even give him hope.

Don’t bring it to the campfire. Don’t anything. Just… leave it on the windowsill, you told yourself. It shouldn’t have even required thought. Nothing about this was okay.

You didn’t even know his goddamn name.

And yet… You found your hand slowly lowering, falling back down to your side. You gave him one last, long look before grabbing the windowsill.

You could always decide later.

🖤  🖤 🖤

Thank you for reading!!!

🖤  🖤 🖤  

Notes:

Thank you Pugge for beta'ing most of this!

I do not know WHY this took me so long to write but I’m fairly happy with it. Sorta wasn’t the direction I originally had planned for this, but what can I say, I’m cursed. I got the Midas touch, except instead of gold, everything I touch turns to non-con.

This piece was written for Day 8 and 18 of the 🔞 Dead by Baelight 🔞 Discord server’s Kinktober. Anyone over 18 is welcome to join here.

#dead by daylight #dbd #deathslinger #caleb quinn #my writing #oneshot #scripsi

[djarinispunk]

Chapter Three - Familiar Face

"Murphy"

You couldn't hide the shock on your face when you turned to see Javier, your jaw was practically hanging on the floor. If Javier was shocked to see you, he didn't show it. His face was stoic as ever and he practically looked straight past you as he approached you and Steve. If you weren't so in shock maybe you'd feel a little hurt.

"What the hell happened?" Javier asked, looking over the newly ravaged Club Oracle, what a coincidence that only mere weeks ago he was sitting in there.

"We’re thinking its one of Escobar's mules, took him out before things could get too heavy" Steve replied, gesturing to one of the body bags you'd failed to see upon your exit, your body shivered at the thought of who was inside.

"Won’t that put a target on our backs?" Javier asked, he had his back firmly to you, blocking you out.

Asshole.

"What a bigger one than we've got already?" Steve replied, before turning to gesture to you, he introduced you to Javier, telling him your name as if he hadn't been moaning it upon your last visit.

You shook Javier's hand as he told you his name. Looked like he was choosing to feign ignorance over behaving like a normal adult.

"She pretty much operated the whole thing, told her she should be working for us" Steve joked, nudging your shoulder, you just laughed.

"In that case, thanks for making our job easier" Javier added, you sent him a look, narrowing your eyes, enjoying the way he squirmed under your gaze.

"My pleasure" you nodded.

"One more time" Steve began, looking at you with kind eyes, "Are you sure you don't need a medic?"

You smiled, grateful for his hospitality, "I'm good, thank you Agent Murphy"

"Please, just call me Steve" he matched your smile, you watched from the corner of your eye as Javier seemed to roll his eyes.

Was he jealous?

You decided to play with him a little, running your hands along Steve's bicep as you spoke in a hushed tone, "I hate to ask but I'd really appreciate a ride home, I don't think I'm good to drive"

You watched as Javier's jaw clenched. God, men were so predictable.

Before Steve could get a word out, you watched Javier step in.

"Murphy I got this, you've got enough to do here" Javier put his arm around you, you tried to ward off the heat his touch brought.

Steve seemed slightly suspicious, you didn't blame him, Javier wasn't really sly in the way he was attached to your hip.

"Okay, and I'll see you at the station?" Steve began to walk away.

"Bright and early" Javier smiled, his grip on your arm intensifying.

"Bye Steve" you waved, your tone growing weak, suddenly you didn't feel so powerful.

As soon as Steve turned around, Javier had whipped you around to face him. His brow furrowed as he looked down at you. You gulped, trying to ignore the fire it kindled between your legs.

"Enjoy flirting with a married man huh?" Javier tone was so stern and do condescending, you hated that it affected you so much.

You cringed at the knowledge that Steve was married but chose to go a more childish route in replying, "Do I know you?"

"Very funny" he narrowed his eyes, to which you mirrored the movements. To any passers-by it would've just looked like the tow of you were engaged in a very heated staring contest.

"Hmm" he took your silence as a cue to continue "I'm gonna ignore this new attitude you got and give you a ride, okay?"

"Sure, gilipollas" you shrugged, muttering the last bit as you headed towards his car.

You heard his footsteps come to a halt, and turned to face him, he did not look impressed, "What did you say?"

And with the sweetest voice you could muster, you smiled, "Nothing!"

The tension in the car was palpable, you felt strangled by the silence that consumed you both. The most you'd said was your address and that was ten minutes ago. You scanned Javier's profile, it was criminal how beautiful he was doing even the most mundane things like driving. You huffed and turned to face the roads one more.

He picked upon your sigh, "Problem?"

"No problem here, officer" you practically purred the words.

"Still got a stick up your ass?" he said, you rolled your eyes in response.

"Why did you pretend to not know me in front of Agent Murphy?" you asked, choosing to ignore his previous remark.

He sighed before glancing over to you, "It wasn't personal, I'd just rather my colleague not have the opportunity to tease me about who I sleep with"

"Slept with" you corrected, now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

"But, I guess that's understandable" you began, noting his silence, "I just thought you were ashamed or something" you turned your attention to your cuticles, not meaning to sound so vulnerable.

He looked over to you again, taking your hand and placing his lips gently against them. You fought the urge to blush under his honeyed eyes.

"Never would I be ashamed, hermosa" his tone was low and sultry.

"What's taking so long anyways I only live like a mile away" you wondered, not sure how to respond to Javier's honesty.

"We're not going to your house"

You furrowed your brows, "What?"

"I'm taking you to my place" he was confident in his voice, like his words were common knowledge.

"Do I have any say in this?" you asked, eyebrows raised as he just chuckled at you.

"You gonna say no?" he turned to you as he smirked.

Safe to say you stayed quiet for the rest of the car ride. Arriving at Javier's apartment the second time around was far less rushed than the first. You had the chance to look around and assess his living quarters. You could tell Javier was a minimal kind of guy, only requiring the basics.

The one thing you did pick up on was the the record players nestled in the corner of his living room. You wandered over as Javier fixed you both a drink, scanning the crate of vinyl sitting next to it.

"Mind if I choose something" you held a record up to show Javier, he took a break from pouring as he looked over the breakfast nook.

"Be my guest"

You took the vinyl out of the sleeve and soon the sultry tones of Donnie and Joe Emerson were rattling through the room.

You took a seat on Javier's couch, smiling when he joined and handed you a mixed drink.

"Trying to get me drunk Mr..." you pulled a face realising you didn't even know the guys last name, yet you'd been to his house twice already.

"Peña, Mr Peña. And to answer your question, no, I want you to be in the right state of mind for what I'm going to do to you" he purred as his lustful eyes sized you up.

After downing a reasonable amount of your drink, you seemed to gain a little confidence. You set the glass on the coffee table and turned to straddle Javier's hips.

"Is that so? What if I want to take charge?" you spoke, laying soft kisses on his neck, feeling his pulse quicken underneath you.

"You're getting awful bossy, querida"

"Oh yeah? And you're being awful loud Mr Peña" you felt a surge of energy as you head a slight groan from Javier upon hearing you call him such a powerful title.

You continued your path of kisses, heading south and unbuttoning his work uniform as you did so. Javier's hand nestled into your hair as you began to undo the latches on his belt. Javier's thighs tenses as you shimmied him out of his jeans, already you could see his member straining against the fabric of his boxers.

You kissed the strong muscle of Javier's thighs, purposefully avoiding where he was most sensitive. You enjoyed the power as you felt him try to pull you closer to where he wanted you.

"Come on baby" you almost didn't recognise his breathy voice, "You're killing me here"

Deciding you'd had enough of torturing him, you released his cock from the confines of his boxers, not missing the quiet moan that left Javier, only spurring you on more.

You licked a stripe up the underside of Javier's hard cock, before taking him in your mouth completely. You weren't used to someone of his size so you let yourself adjust to the intrusion. When you were more comfortable you hollowed out your cheeks and began to bob up and down, Javier's moans fuelling you as you took him deeper.

"Fuck, just like that" his grip in your hair tightened as he bucked his hips into your mouth, causing you to gag slightly, "Fuck yes, choke on it"

His words ignited your own arousal, wanting nothing more than to reach down and satisfy yourself, but no, you wouldn't, this was about him.

You continued your ministrations on his cock, you could feel his breath quicken with every bob of your head. Knowing his orgasm was fast approaching, you took him dee and let yourself gag around him. Javier let out a deep moan followed by a string of expletives.

Suddenly, he pulled your head off of him and brought you up to reach his height, the sudden movement startled you but soon you were calmed by the feel of his warm lips against yours.

In between kisses he spoke into your mouth, "I want to finish with you" followed by more kisses, "Want to feel you come around me"

His words were met with a groan, this time by you. Javier wasted no time ridding you of your work uniform and settled you in a sitting position, easing into you with a slow thrust.

You both shared a moan as he began a steady pace as fucked up into you. Being on top was a whole other experience than the last time you had sex, he felt so much deeper in you and because of this, you struggled to meet his thrusts.

You soon started to match his hips, letting out wanton moans as you felt him speed up his motions.

"Fuck Javier" you managed to moan out between kisses.

"Talk to me baby, how does he feel" he took to planting wet kisses against you kisses as you lay your head back, basking in the unrivalled pleasure.

"It feels so good. Fuck, I can feel you in my fucking stomach" you whined, feeling your orgasm fast approaching as he hit your g-spot repeatedly.

"I- fuck - I am baby, you feel so fucking good" Javier's thrusts were growing sloppier, he to was close.

"Don't come yet baby, wait for Daddy" the name caught you off guard — your eyes widening slightly but you were quickly overridden with lust, letting out a moan as you snaked a hand down to stimulate your clit.

"Fuck, okay, come now baby. Come on my cock"

And that you did, almost painful in how intense you shook as you rode through your orgasm. You barely even heard Javier's moans as heat seared your body.

After a few minutes of heavy breathing and sweaty kisses, Javier pulled out and you settled against his chest, smiling to yourself as you heard the record come to a halt and flip over.

#pedropascal #javierpeña #javierpeñafanfic #romance #fanfic #pedro pascal #narcos #madolorian #dindjarin #oberyn martell

[satanfemme]

Val and 2, Vinyl and 7 OR 30 if seven is spoilers for clay pigeons, Volume and 14, Vaya and 21, Vamos and 4, the Girl and 5/6

2. Who do they look to for guidance? (Val)

I mean in a hero sense, party poison ofc, even if he can’t admit it. he wants to be the better party poison, so what better way to do that then look at how poison did things and “improve” those methods from that starting point as guidance.

in a more personal sense he looks to, tbh, all of the other ultra v’s. he’s not great at asking for guidance but he’ll still look to them for it in his own way. for example when he’s unsure about something he checks to see how they’re handling things, and they’re handling things better than him (and they always are) he secretly uses that as a comfort and/or a jumping off point for his own decisions.

7. Any family scandals? Does your character know about them? (Vinyl)

hmm ok I think there’s a little bit that’s still a spoiler so 🤫 but for the most part all his family scandals have already been revealed in my fics. the main ones are that his father was an exterminator and his sister was a scarecrow training to be an exterminator, which when ur a killjoy in one of the desert’s most well known crews it’s kinda a big deal. but none of the other ultra v’s really knew about this during the comics (he probably told val after the comics and, well, vaya and vamos r gonna hear at least part of it soon enough)

vinyl actually knew about both of those things the whole time though, he’d pieced things together wrt his father while he was still a kid, and altho before my fic post-comics he could only guess what happened to his sister, he knew her well enough that “escaped to scarecrow academy” was one of his top guesses. (tho secretly he always hoped she’d come to her senses and become a killjoy too at some point)

these def weighed on him like a lot in his early killjoy days. by the time the comics happened he was all but over it, but for the first few years it was very hard for him to kill any bl/i agents. it was over time that he became desensitized to it and in turn became pretty desensitized to killing in general, a la Target Practice™ for example. once he internalized “I might accidentally kill my father or my sister any time I kill someone wearing a mask, but that’s ok” it became pretty hard to get upset by any murder

30. What is their ideal sleeping situation? (Vinyl)

gonna answer this one too cause it’s easy. the ideal is always sleeping with all the other ultra v’s dog-piled on top of him (bonus: good pressure stim) OR sleeping on top of all the other ultra v’s (bonus: good pressure stim for everyone else)

14. What is something that never fails to make them excited? (Volume)

I feel like infodumping about music is an obvious but easy answer. so I’ll also say: rain. volume’s biggest problem is he gets so bored and depressed of the killjoy lifestyle so anything to break up his routine is a good thing, and rain is like perfect for that. it’s usually a surprise, it cools everything off, it’s pretty, it smells good and makes mud everywhere, it sounds good on windows, it usually means less dracs and scarecrows are out that day, what’s not to love?? 

21. Do they prefer giving or receiving gifts? (Vaya)

honestly?? receiving. they’re not selfish they just like getting stuff!! they especially like it when someone gives them something they can wear or at least something pretty they can put on display and show off. 

they also love getting new video games but those are very rare in the desert. I think the nest got a new game once or twice during their time there. both times the game was “gifted” to vaya and vamos (since they’re both the Gamers™ of the nest) and vaya LOVED it. what they weren’t told however was the “gift” was given to them under the (correct) assumption that they’d share the game with the rest of the nest. it was really a community owned game for all the killjoys to have. everyone gifting it to the twins specifically was all for show, just as an easy way to make their days hdfgf

4. Who is someone they’ve hurt? (Vamos)

oh they’re SUCH a people pleaser I don’t think there’s any cases of them genuinely hurting someone like that in my canon. sometimes they can hurt people out of their carelessness or their inability to read tone, but they’re always quickly forgiven, either because it was just a mistake (it was!) or because no one likes to see them upset (their anxiety spirals Very easily)

ofc that being said, val velocity, local asshole, doesn’t really forgive them for these things so easily. so it’s never really over anything serious but sometimes vamos will do something kinda dumb like twist an ankle doing parkour. then val gets upset that they’re not gonna be able to run for a few weeks and that’s gonna put everyone in danger. so val yells at vamos then vamos does their puppy dog eyes back, which val doesn’t accept, and the both of them get incredibly frustrated by this very quickly. the next thing you know they’re Both in a bad mood snapping at each other until someone else (usually vaya) can be like “both of you hug and make up right now or witch so help me”

5. What is a secret that they have? (The Girl)

she always kinda figured there was something up with the cat. she didn’t know it was a straight up camera, but she knew it’d likely “escaped” the city, and seemed harder to kill or injure than a normal cat, and was still just as young and perfectly healthy as she found it even after being with her for 10 or 11 years. 

but it never seemed to cause any trouble for her, and she loved it, so she kept it. and it wasn’t like a huge Secret secret before the comics, when she largely lived alone, cause who would she even be hiding this from anyway. but during the comics when val keeps talking about there being a spy and the trouble starting when she showed up?? uh oh ❤️ she kept a Very close eye on the cat then to make sure it was safe. 

then, when dr d was killed for supposedly being the spy, that kinda, uh, sucked. like she was hiding this probably-some-sort-of-wiretap-or-something-idk from everyone else just cause it was her one (1) friend for the past 12 years, and now one of her last surviving family member was dead in its place. F

6. Would they trust anyone with their secret? (The Girl)

nope! even after the comics it didn’t feel productive to tell anyone. as far as anyone else knew she found out the cat was a spy only Right Before they went into the city so no one blamed her for that, and with better living gone the cat no longer posed any threat and was just a cool pet cat so, like, what’s the problem. nothing to see here just a girl and her suspicious cat vibing

send me characters and numbers!

#I don't have the energy to proofread things so I'm just gonna assume this is all legible! #sleevesareforlosers #tlotfk #for bl: #long post #fathers

[nsrtypebeat]

Fragments - NSPR

Hi yeah, Fragments is a series for NSPR I’ll be doing, it’s basically any story that is before the events that would happen in NSPR.  Also, NSPR is a crossover AU where Vinyl City is a city in the Kanto Region..so..pokemon? Yeah. This also includes other charas from both NSR AND Pokemon, like here.  Also I’ll be opening asks since it’s far easier to explain the lore by asks, so go crazy wit it. (Also, lore on both sides of the Crossover has been changed quite a bit to fit.)  Anyways  Please be aware this is really not my best work, I’m just doing this for fun and if you want to give criticism feel free! But I would prefer it if you did it on some of my better stuff.  Characters - Neon J, Bill Words - 616  TW: Guns, Death threats, mentions of war (Please say If I missed anything else!! Im awfully oblivious)  Story below the cut!! 

“Get up. Now.” Neon’s screen powered on, only to wake up to the barrel of a shot gun. He swiftly backed up, only for his back to slam against the hardened oak of a tree. “I said get up, piece of metal. Get up or you die right here.” The unknown voice chided with a lifeless hiss. Neon’s body ached, he had been running across regions, desperately trying to escape a fate that could only be described as cruel. The Border Wars were over, he didn’t provide any true use anymore, that’s what they said. But he was still human, right? When was such a line between man and machine drawn? “Get. U- “ “Alright! Alright!” Neon cried, somehow gasping between his words, his energy constantly at a low point to where there was no point in trying to fight, even if he could calculate the easiest way to subdue whoever pointed at shotgun at him. Once he was up however, he was able to finally look at his possible murderer, and it was...not what he expected.

They were only a boy, probably around fifteen, their reddish-brown hair was uncared for, and it being already naturally curly made it seem like he had a mane almost. Their pure red eyes staring straight into Neon’s soul, and by their leg was a Jolteon, their back fur even more spiky than usual in response to Neon’s existence. The boy’s face didn’t seem mad, but rather blunt. Neon stared at the boy’s support hand, holding the shotgun ever so loosely, “You realize that if you shoot me right now, with that loose hand, you’ll blow your hand right off!” He chortled, of course it was a joke, and Neon was desperately trying to bring some light to obviously horrid situation. “Oh...oh...thank you...?” The boy tightened his grip, his eyes focused on his gun. Neon hadn’t noticed it but the boy’s voice was somewhat shaky, as if he was suffering to get his words out, or had some issue with it. “No, NO THANK YOU! You realize this is Sonezaki property, right? I can technically shoot you right now and classify it as self-defense.” Sonezaki. That rung a bell. By this point, if he could, Neon would’ve probably subdued the threat, but this was just...a teenager, he wouldn’t shoot Neon, he really wouldn’t do that, right? The boy gave out a groan, “Your clothes look horrible.” “Killing me would be bad but commenting on my fashion is just worse, this is my only article of clothing!” Neon gestured downward to the worn white shirt he had on. “You don’t even have pants?! You’re really just out here being half-naked?!” “No, no, it’s not necessarily half-naked because-“ “Perv!” The boy broke out into laughter for a hot minute, quickly taking a breather before speaking again, “I’m joking, I know what you mean, aha…aha…” He lowered the gun, before suddenly shifting back to a much more defensive stance. “Why am I laughing with you? I…I give up. Look,” The boy’s eyes squinted, his grip on the shotgun being loosened once more. “Alright, I really don’t want to kill you. So, I’ll let you inside my house, I’ll give you actual clothes, as long as you shut up and not get me in whatever mess you might possibly be in, understand?” Neon nodded along, his mind far too tired to think of the possible consequences and dangers that would lie before him. “...And..also, my name’s uh Bill.” Neon froze in thought before responding, “Neon J.” “Come on...” Bill backed up a little, lowering the shot gun, “If you touch any of the pictures on the wall though, I WILL kill you.” “…. Understandable.”

#NSR #No straight roads #Pokemon #Crossover #Pokemon Bill #Neon J #tw guns #tw death threats #tw war

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Beautiful Dreams - Ch 2 Daydreams

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | AO3

Marinette started coming to the music lessons every so often, dropping Louis off and picking him up. Luka gathered from Louis that it was unusual that she hadn’t come before, that normally Adrien and Marinette took turns getting Louis around to his activities. At least they didn’t just send him with the driver like Gabriel used to do. Luka wondered if Marinette hadn’t come before because she disagreed with Adrien about making Louis continue his lessons, but it was really none of his business, so he didn’t ask.

His reaction to her was just as strong as it was the first time, though he at least managed to retain control of his senses for the most part. It helped that their conversations were short and entirely professional, and after years of teaching, Luka could issue a verbal student progress report in his sleep. 

Luka did his best not to think about her outside of those interactions, and he was doing pretty well...for a while.

***

Luka sighed as he read Juleka’s message, and looked around for something to kill time. If he remembered where he was correctly, there was an outdoor flea market a couple streets over where he’d found some good vintage vinyls now and then. Might as well check it out, since Juleka was going to be late. 

Luka straightened the leather vest he wore over his t-shirt absently, glad he had opted against his jacket under this bright sun, checked to make sure he still had his wallet in his pocket, and set off. The market was a street or two farther down than he was thinking, but still only a few minutes walk. 

How he spotted her in a crowd like that, he’d never know, but there was Marinette, leaning over a table, turning over some brightly colored pieces of fabric—placemats maybe, he couldn’t really tell. She was dressed far more casually than he’d ever seen her, though she still looked nicely put together in jeans and a light sweater with a wide collar. Her dark hair was piled up in a messy bun so that there was one long unobstructed line from her neck to the curve of her shoulder—

Luka looked away quickly, feeling like a stupid teenager with a crush, butterflies in his stomach and all. It was stupid, he was stupid, he was a grown man and she was a client and he could say hi without being a total idiot about it. 

But then again, no, it would be weird, he decided. It would be one thing if she saw him, then obviously he would wave, but to go up and get her attention, no, they weren’t that closely acquainted. He aimed for a table piled with musical paraphernalia a few down from where she was and tried to stay casual and not look back at her again. 

Luka was thumbing through some old records looking for something interesting when suddenly there was a yelp and something crashed into him from the side. Luka lurched, just managing to keep his feet, but whoever had knocked into him was headed for a close encounter with the pavement. Luka reacted without thinking, managing to get one arm under the person—woman—and grab onto a wrist with the other hand. Off balance as he was, he couldn’t stop her fall entirely, but he managed to lower her to the pavement in a somewhat controlled way. His eyes widened when he realized who he had just rescued. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said with a slow grin, as Marinette blinked up at him. “You okay?”

“M. Couffaine!” she gasped. “I mean—Luka—I mean, yes, I’m okay, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened—”

Luka changed his grip from her wrist to her hand and tried to pull her to her feet, but she stumbled again immediately. “My shoes,” she said, leaning heavily on his arms. “Something’s wrong.” 

“Here, sit down,” Luka said, lowering her to the pavement a second time. “Ah.” He crouched at her feet, hooking two fingers through the shoelaces of her sneakers, which were tied to each other. “Looks like there’s a prankster on the loose.” 

“Oh!” Marinette made an irritated noise, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. “I bet I know exactly who it was. I just stopped some kids from throwing rocks at the birds a minute ago.” 

“You’re probably right,” Luka said, pulling off his sunglasses and getting down on one knee to tug at the knotted laces. “Just sit tight, I’m pretty good with knots.” He glanced up to find her looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Not, um, recreationally,” he grinned, with a wink that made her blush. “I grew up on a boat, so knots were kind of a part of life.” He avoided looking her in the eye, trying to focus on her shoelaces.

Not that looking at her legs was much better. Those jeans fit her really nicely. He bit his lip and hoped he wasn’t blushing visibly. 

“My bag,” Marinette muttered suddenly, twisting where she sat to look around. “Oh!” There was a large bag with the Gabriel logo on it on the ground nearby, its contents spread over the sidewalk. Fortunately most people were just walking around the mess rather than right over it, though her belongings were clearly in danger of being kicked all over the street. 

“I’ll get it, just sit tight for a minute,” Luka said, leaving her laces for the moment in favor of retrieving her things before they were trampled or stolen. 

“Wait, my sketchbook,” Marinette said, pointing to where it had fallen in the street. “I really need that. Everything else is replaceable.” She looked like she was about to crawl for it, but Luka waved a hand for her to wait and went to get it first. Watching the traffic carefully (Juleka would kill him if he ended up in the hospital over something like this), he stepped into the street, bent down, and got her book. He turned and held it up as he stepped back onto the curb; to his surprise, Marinette was blushing vividly. “Oh, um, thank you,” she stammered as he handed her the book, averting her eyes from him.

Slightly confused, Luka replayed the last few minutes in his mind. Wait, was she checking me out? Luka bit back a grin. “I’ll get the rest, just hang tight.” She made a strangled noise as he turned away, and it was all he could do to keep his laughter to himself as he picked up the rest of her things. He glanced back once, but Marinette was staring at the ground beneath her feet, her hands up on either side of her face like blinders. Luka laughed quietly as he picked up the rest of her things. She was too cute, and honestly it felt kind of good to be checked out by a woman like her. At least he felt less guilty for ogling her legs.

“I think I got everything,” he said as he set the bag down next to her. “You can check while I get you untied. Although—hang on, let’s get you out of the middle of the sidewalk.” There wasn’t much of a crowd at the moment but they were about due for the lunch rush to flood the sidewalks, and Parisians on a mission weren’t known for their patience. There was a bench only a few feet away. He crouched down beside her. “May I?”

Color flooded her face. “Oh, you don’t—I mean I can make it that far, you don’t have to—” 

“If that’s what you prefer,” Luka shrugged, offering his hands. She let him pull her to her feet and steady her, and then made a little hop towards the bench, and promptly toppled, almost losing her grip on her bag again. Luka, prepared this time, caught her around the waist, and raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh and mostly failing.

Marinette sighed and pouted. “Fine. Please. I’m so sorry about all this.” 

“It’s fine,” Luka said, slipping one arm down under her knees. “Here we go.” 

A bridal carry was always a lot harder than they made it look on TV, but Marinette was small, so it didn’t take much to get her to the bench. He set her down and then sat down himself by her feet, guiding them up into his lap. 

“Thank you so much,” she said, sounding miserable. “Honestly, I’m so sorry about all this.” The little ladybug winked at him as she pressed her hand to her forehead in obvious frustration. 

“It’s all good,” Luka said, flashing her an easy smile. “I’m glad I was here.” He picked at her laces, silently resigning himself to redoing his nail polish that night. Marinette’s various falls had tightened the knot and there was no way his nails would survive. “I’m just killing time, anyway. I’m supposed to be meeting my sister for lunch, but she’s running late.” He glanced up and caught Marinette eyeing up his arms, but tried not to let on that he’d noticed, though a smile tugged at his lips. “How about you? Doing some shopping?”

“Some shopping, some sketching,” she sighed, leaning back on her hands. “Looking for inspiration, I guess.”

“This can be a good place to find it,” Luka said, glancing around at the market with all of its varied people and textures and sounds. “I’ve found it here a couple times myself. Been a while since I was here, though, honestly. I’m a little surprised to see you here in the middle of the day.” 

“Well, the truth is...” Marinette leaned forward, propped her cheek on one fist, and gave him a pout that drew his eyes straight to her sinfully perfect lips. “My assistant basically kicked me out of the office today. Apparently I was terrorizing the interns and she thought I could use a break. I’m not allowed to go back until at least 3:00.” She sighed. “I have a ton of stuff to do at the office, but I make it a point never to argue with the person responsible for my morning coffee, so here I am.” 

Luka had to clear his throat. “Sound policy.” He made the mistake of looking at her again and this time he caught the full impact of her beautiful eyes like a kick in the gut. His eyes tried to find somewhere else to look and landed on her bare neck, and the wide collar of her light sweater just hanging onto the tips of her shoulders—he quickly looked back down at what he was doing, mouth suddenly dry. He finally managed to pull free one loop of the knot. “There we go,” he muttered, just for something to say. “That should loosen it up a bit, and...there, you’re free.” He grinned at her, and retied her laces correctly.  

“Thank you so much!” Marinette turned and let her feet drop to the ground, and once again he couldn’t stop staring at the line of her neck and the curve of her shoulder. He needed to look away, right now, but before he could manage it she smiled up at him. “I’m so sorry for crashing into you like that.”

The first six responses he could think of were highly inappropriate and he was beginning to wonder if the collision had knocked a screw loose. “Better me than the pavement,” he finally managed, with a mostly natural smile. “Are you hurt?” 

“I don’t think so,” she said, checking her hands and arms, and dusting off the thigh of her jeans where she’d landed on the pavement. “No damage.”

“Good.” His phone buzzed and he checked it and sighed, falling back against the bench in frustration. 

“Everything okay?” Marinette asked, frowning. 

Luka sighed again but gave her a reassuring smile as he tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Yeah, it just looks my lunch date’s been cancelled, my sister can’t make it.” 

“Do you want to do it with me?” Marinette asked, and as Luka looked at her, startled, she went pale, and then red almost at once. “Oh my—I meant lunch! Do you want to grab lunch? Since you’re free and I’m thirsty—hungry! I mean it is hot and I need a drink and—shit, clearly I need something because my brain is totally malfunctioning.” She buried her face in her hands and gave a little moan. 

Her brain wasn’t the only one malfunctioning. Luka swallowed hard, trying to parse everything he’d just heard with the part of his mind that didn’t live in the gutter, but unfortunately it seemed most of it was at least visiting at the moment. Before he could make much progress, Marinette took a deep breath, took her hands off her face, and looked at him squarely. “Sorry, let me try that again. Can I buy you lunch as thanks for helping me out?” she asked, her face still red but appearing otherwise calm. 

“Ah, sure,” Luka answered before he could really think it through. “Sure, why not? Although you don’t really need to thank me, what was I going to do, leave you lying on the sidewalk to get trampled?” 

Marinette smiled. “Still. I nearly knocked you down, you had to pick up my stuff out of the street, and carry me around, and you fixed my laces. The least I can do is buy you a sandwich or something. Besides, now that you’ve mentioned food I’m kind of starving. Were you planning on somewhere close by?”

“Jules and I were just going to a little place a couple of blocks over. It’s—it’s not much, barely more than a food stand honestly, so if you’d rather do something else—”

“No, no, that sounds good!” Marinette actually looked excited about it, which Luka couldn’t really understand. She’d probably eaten at the best places in the city. Even divorced she probably had more money to her name than Luka had ever touched in his entire life. Hadn’t Adrien said she was Gabriel’s head designer? The phrase out of his league suddenly leapt to mind. Except, wait, he wasn’t trying to date her, he reminded himself. She was a client. 

Well, technically, Adrien was the client, but...no. Just, no.

As they walked Luka cursed his natural urge to touch; he kept finding his fingers on her upper arm or her shoulder and snatching them back as he guided her to the little food shop that he and Juleka liked. It really was just a little hole in the wall sandwich place, it didn’t even have any real seating, so he and Marinette ended up finding another bench to sit on as they ate. 

“Wow, this is really good,” Marinette exclaimed, catching a bit of sauce on her thumb and licking it off. Luka glanced at her just in time to catch the flick of her tongue and the flash of the ladybug, and he bit down on his sandwich a little harder than necessary. “Thanks for telling me about this place.” She wrinkled her nose and leaned towards him a bit, as if she were telling him a secret. “Gabriel would’ve shit a brick if he knew I was eating at a place like this, in public no less. Makes everything taste better.”

“Don’t mention it,” Luka laughed in incredulous surprise. “Any day I can make Gabriel Agreste roll in his grave is a good day.” 

“Ugh, that man,” Marinette shook her head, taking another bite. “If only he’d died sooner.” She flushed and covered her mouth with her fingers. “I mean…”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get no argument from me,” Luka chuckled. “I couldn’t stand him, and the feeling was very much mutual.” 

Marinette cocked her head at him. “How did you get to know Adrien? We were together for so long, I’m surprised I never met you before.”

“Music events,” Luka shrugged. “I didn’t see him regularly, really, just every few months. He was always really nervous and I hated sitting still in those damn awful suits they made me wear for recitals, so we’d run into each other pacing the halls and get to talking.” He shook his head. “Listening to Adrien perform back then was painful, it was like listening to a robot. Soulless, you know? I kept thinking what a waste, to spend all that time practicing and in the end all you got was that. We talked a lot wandering those halls, at first just about music, and then about a lot of other things, including his dad. After that, I started to understand why his music sounded the way it did.”

Marinette gave him a knowing look. “And you tried to help, didn’t you?”

“I—yeah, I did,” Luka chuckled. “I tried to help him feel the music. Eventually I invited him to be part of a band I was in at the time, tried to show him what music could really be like, you know, but he only got to come for a couple practices before the old man brought the hammer down. We kept in touch off and on, but we had to keep it quiet.” Luka rolled his eyes. “I’m a terrible influence, you see.” He gave a general gesture that included his dyed hair, pierced ears, tattooed arms, and general punk aesthetic.

Marinette made a sympathetic noise, her index finger bending down to rub the ladybug tattoo absently. 

Luka sighed. “Heaven forbid anybody teach his perfect little robot how to actually feel something while he played. Adrien did learn it somewhere along the line, but I’m not sure it was from me.” Luka’s forehead creased as he ran the memories through his mind. “I think he got together with you pretty shortly after Gabriel pulled him out of the band, now that I think about it. We didn’t see each other much over the next few months, Gabriel was paying too much attention. Eventually I think he just forgot about me since Adrien was back on the straight and narrow.”

“That sounds like Gabriel,” Marinette sighed, and then shook her head as if clearing it. “By the way, is your sister okay? I mean, I don’t mean to pry, it’s just, you said she cancelled on you, but I didn’t think to ask if anything was wrong.”

“Oh, she’s...fine,” Luka said, a little reluctantly, and then sighed heavily. “She and her wife had a baby very recently, and it’s been kind of tough on them both. I guess she just didn’t feel like she could leave them this morning.” Luka tapped a foot restlessly. “To be honest, it’s been rough for the whole family for a while now. My mother—our mother, she...passed away, about a year and a half ago, and I took it pretty hard, so Juleka’s had a lot on her shoulders between dealing with me and her pregnant wife, not to mention how the loss affected her. I really wanted to start making it up to her and at least get her out of the house for a little bit, but I guess today’s just not the day.” 

“That’s such a difficult time,” Marinette said sympathetically, crumpling up her empty sandwich wrapper and making a fairly impressive shot into a nearby trash bin. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother.” Luka glanced at her, and then away. He hated those words most of the time, but at least Marinette sounded sincere. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you to lose her, but I do know that a baby is a big change for everyone, even if you think you’re prepared and you have all the support in the world. Oh!” She held up a finger, and started digging in her bag. “Actually I have something that might help a little bit.” She pulled out a couple of envelopes out of her bag and offered it to him. Luka put aside his own trash and wiped his hands quickly on a napkin before taking them. “I used to get these all the time,” she said, as Luka’s eyes widened slightly reading them over. “Less these days, but still more than I want to mess with. There’s always some spa or other offering something to me, because of my position at Gabriel and as the former Mrs. Agreste.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean, I like a spa day as much as the next girl, but I don’t know, it just feels gross being offered stuff like this so they can brag about how they kept me young and fresh for the runway shows. Your sisters are welcome to use them. I know a good sitter if you need one.” 

“This—Marinette this is a really nice place, are you—are you sure?” The cards in his hands were probably worth two hundred euros each, easy. “Surely there’s someone else you would rather give them to?”

Marinette smiled and leaned over, covering his hands with her own. “Nobody that needs a day off as much as your sisters. And it’s not like I earned them, you know? It’s all for Gabriel and Adrien, not for me. I’d much rather your sisters get a break.” She sighed and got to her feet. “I have to get going, I have some meetings this afternoon that I can’t miss, but thanks for having lunch with me! I feel much less ready to murder interns now.” She hunched her shoulders slightly. “I probably should pick up something yummy for them as an apology for being so snappy this morning.” 

“Right,” Luka said absently, still rather stunned. “Marinette, are you really sure, I mean, thank you, very much, I just...um…” Marinette giggled when he just continued to stare. “Careful, you’ll catch flies.” She winked at him as he shut his mouth quickly, and it felt like her ladybug was laughing at him as she waved goodbye.

She got a few steps away and then turned around again, and he could have sworn she was blushing. “I’ll see you Tuesday? It’s my turn to bring Louis.”

“Yeah,” Luka said numbly, a little too late. “See you then.”

Marinette just gave him one more bright smile before taking a step backwards and catching her heel on an uneven place in the sidewalk. Luka winced but she managed to catch herself, and he caught a glimpse of her red face before she turned and power-walked away. She’s funny, he thought to himself with a smile, carefully putting away the spa certificates in an inside pocket of his vest. And generous. Kind and thoughtful. Hot, hell yes, but still cute. No wonder Adrien married her so young. If I’d met a girl like that back then, I wouldn’t have let her go either. 

***

By Tuesday afternoon, Luka was reasonably sure he had his shit together and his head mostly on straight, right up until Marinette and Louis showed up at his door and it turned out he couldn’t even look at Marinette right away. “Hi, Louis,” Luka exchanged a fistbump with the boy. “Ready to work?”

“Yes, sir,” Louis chirped, and then Luka’s eyes shifted up. She was back in her designer business suit with her hair carefully done, perfectly elegant and poised and untouchable. The consummate business woman.

“Marinette,” he greeted, as evenly as he could. “Nice to see you. No worse for wear?”

“Hi,” she smiled, and damn if he wasn’t getting just a little bit obsessed with that ladybug tattoo as she gave him an odd little wave and smoothed her hair self-consciously. “No, I was fine. Not even a bruise! You? I mean, of course you’re probably fine, but I did almost knock you down—”

“Mom, you’re being weird,” Louis whispered, and Luka had to look away to hide his smile. She might look like a business woman, but she still acted like the fluttered woman from the market.

“Hush, you,” Marinette muttered, face pink. She looked up at Luka and turned a little pinker. “Um, do you know of a coffee shop or something nearby where I can work? I have some things I really need to get done and I don’t want to waste more time in the car than I have to, so I thought I could just find somewhere close. If you know of anything.”

“I do,” Luka answered with a slow smile, “But you’re welcome to work here.” He gestured towards his living room. “Or at the table in the kitchen, if you prefer.”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude on your private space,” Marinette said, holding up her hands, and there was the ladybug again. “A coffee shop is fine.”

Luka shrugged, eyebrows raising slightly. “It’s not intruding if you’re invited, but by all means, do whatever you’re comfortable with. There’s a shop around the corner. Honestly their coffee isn’t very good, at least not to my taste, but it’s a comfortable place to work. Or—” he swept his arm again toward his living room. “Make yourself at home. Take your pick. Come on, Louis, let’s get started.” He led the boy down the hall to the studio. 

With the music as a distraction, he quickly forgot about Marinette until the lesson was over, and when he walked out of the studio with Louis, he had to choke back a laugh. 

Marinette was sitting on his couch with her laptop across her knees and a bluetooth headset blinking in her ear, but her head had fallen back and she was snoring lightly. Her hands rested slack against her keyboard, twitching slightly. Luka covered his smile with his hand and Louis giggled. 

“She’s been working too hard again,” Louis whispered. He looked up at Luka hopefully. “Can we let her sleep?”

Luka sighed. “I wish we could, but I don’t know her schedule or what kinds of things she needed to do today, so it’s probably best if you go ahead and wake her up.” He patted Louis’ shoulder. “Sorry.”

Louis heaved a kid-sigh and trudged over to his mother. He tugged at her arm. “Maman.” Marinette whined, and Luka bit his lip against his amusement. She was too cute. 

Louis tugged harder, shaking her lightly. “Maman, wake up.”

“Not yet, Louis, it’s too early. Come rest with Maman,” Marinette slurred, wrapping her arm around Louis and pulling him down against her. 

“Maman!” Louis shot a pleading look at Luka, who couldn’t help chuckling. Louis glared at him. “You were the one who said I had to wake her up. Quit laughing and help me.”

“All right, all right,” Luka put up his hands, still chuckling, and went to Marinette’s other side. The ottoman made leaning over her awkward from that position so he sat next to her and took hold of her shoulder, shaking gently. “Marinette. Wake up, honey.” He winced slightly. That probably wasn’t appropriate. She stirred, but didn’t quite wake. Luka shook her again. “Marinette.” 

She rolled her head towards him with a soft “Hmm?” and her eyes blinked open sleepily.  God, she’s cute.

“You fell asleep,” he told her softly. She blinked those beautiful eyes a couple more times before the realization sank into her brain, and she shot up off the couch, and then promptly lost her balance as her shins hit the ottoman. Louis caught her laptop as it slid off her lap. Luka lunged and got an arm around her waist and a hand on her forearm. “Easy, easy,” he soothed, trying to steady her and hold his own balance at the same time. “You’re okay. You couldn’t have been asleep for long.” He guided her to sit back down. 

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. She looked at Louis and then back at Luka. “The lesson’s over?” 

“All done,” Luka nodded. 

“I’m so sorry to impose.” She checked the time. “Um, the driver should be here shortly.” 

Luka shrugged. “It’s no trouble. Louis is my last student for today and I don’t need to be anywhere.”  He looked at Louis and tilted his head toward the row of guitars. “You want to pick another one?” Louis had been curious, so they usually spent a few minutes going over whichever guitar model he wanted to look at that week while they waited for the car. These were Luka’s personal instruments, and he didn’t normally let students touch them, but Louis was clean and careful, and Luka couldn’t refuse in the face of the boy’s enthusiasm.

Louis brightened and went over to the row of guitars, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Luka chuckled at his serious expression, and he heard Marinette giggle at the same time. The two adults shared an amused look. 

“Can you show me this one?” Louis pointed.

“Sure.” Luka picked up the classical guitar, checked that it was in tune, and set it in Louis’ hands. Luka showed Louis how to hold it, positioning his hands, and described how it differed both from the bass and the steel-string acoustic that he’d tried before. Without prompting, Louis positioned his fingers into the chord Luka had shown him the previous week, and strummed.

Luka grinned. “Not bad, piano man.”

Louis giggled, and offered it back to him. “I like this one,” Louis said, “Can you play something on it? Please,” he added hastily, glancing at his mother.

Luka took the guitar and sat down on the couch, positioning it in his lap. He played a simple tune, Louis’ eyes following his fingers curiously. Then a wicked idea came to him and he grinned, fingers already moving to his purpose as he darted a glance at Marinette. 

“Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,” he sang, and nearly lost his composure entirely at Marinette’s dropped jaw and outraged expression. “Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee…”

Louis caught on and giggled, and Marinette shot him a look of betrayal. 

“Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day, lulled by the moonlight, have all passed away—“ He only barely made it to the end of the verse without laughing, and then had to pause, one hand over his lips, to get his chuckling under control. 

“Rude,” huffed Marinette, which only made both Luka and Louis laugh harder. 

Luka kept playing, even as he tried to stifle his laughter. He meant to give her his best puppy eyes in request for forgiveness, “Beautiful dreamer—“ but their eyes locked and as he sang the line, the look became something else. “Queen of my song,” his voice had gone a little husky, but he was committed now. “List while I woo thee with soft melody.” He couldn’t make himself look away. “Gone are the cares of life’s busy throng. Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me.” His hands finished the song almost absently. When the last chord faded, Marinette blushed and looked away. 

Luka cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from her and looking back to Louis, unsurprised to find the boy watching him intently. Louis was a smart kid, empathetic and intuitive. Luka had known that from their first lesson. Dropping his eyes to the guitar, Luka played the first thing that came to mind. “My love is like a red red rose, that’s newly sprung in June, my love is like a melody that’s sweetly played in tune.” 

Louis wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you know any that aren’t mushy?”

Luka chuckled. “It’s a romantic instrument.” He nudged Louis with his elbow. “Like the piano.” He played a few more bars, and sighed. “My mother used to sing that one when I was a kid,” Luka said a little thickly, a sudden sense of loss sweeping over him. He cleared his throat, and felt a hand press his shoulder. He looked into soft blue eyes and his breath caught for a moment. 

“It’s lovely that you can remember her that way,” Marinette said quietly.

Luka cleared his throat again. “Yeah. She left a pretty strong legacy behind. This is the first time I’ve sung it since…I don’t know why I picked it now.”

Marinette sat down on the ottoman, her knees almost touching his. “Can you play a little more? Only if you want to.”

Luka complied, if only to keep from breaking down. “As fair art thou my bonnie lass,” he sang softly, but heavy with emotion, and then his years of performance betrayed him and he made the mistake of looking up into her face, “So deep in love am I—” His throat seized up for a moment as their eyes locked. Oh, shit, he thought, heart racing. He tore his gaze away, swallowing. “And I will love thee still my dear,” he managed, “Till all the seas run dry.” Luka shook his head, putting the guitar aside quickly. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“That’s okay. It was beautiful.” Marinette reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I hope someday you’ll be able to play the whole thing again.”

Luka nodded, his gaze still on the carpet as he tried to get a grip on the conflicting emotions swirling around in his gut. 

“I like that one,” Louis said again, only a little stiffly. “The guitar, I mean.”

“Me too,” Luka wiped his eyes with his thumb and smiled, looking at him. “It’s my favorite after the electric. It’d suit you if you’d like to give it a try.”

Louis frowned. “I play piano.”

Luka chuckled. “So do I. You can play more than one. You’re allowed to love more than one instrument.”

Louis' eyes flicked between Luka and Marinette, and then he looked at the floor as he shook his head. “I play piano.”

Luka got the hint. “Okay.”

“The driver’s here,” Marinette burst out, looking at her phone, clearly relieved. “Time to go, Louis.” She held out her hand to Luka. “Thanks for letting me work in your home.”

“My pleasure,” he said, standing and taking her hand, squeezing it gently rather than shaking it. “Don’t work too hard. Louis worries about you.” He smiled. “And you can’t be your best creative self if you're exhausted.” She blushed adorably and dropped his hand like it burned her. 

“Yes, well, um...thank you. Bye.”

“Mom,” Louis whispered, taking her hand. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird,” she hissed back. 

Luka looked away to hide his smile, then put the guitar on the stand. He picked up Marinette’s briefcase and laptop bag and motioned her towards the entry. “Shall we?” 

“Right, yes,” Marinette said quickly, and Louis rolled his eyes and tugged her down the hall. Luka followed with Marinette’s things. He walked them all the way to the car. “Thank you,” Marinette said breathlessly as she took her bag. 

“My pleasure,” Luka said again, and she looked up at him for a moment and all he saw was blue, blue, blue, how could anyone’s eyes be so blue. 

He kept it together long enough to say goodbye and get back inside, but only barely. Luka shut the door and put his back to it, sliding down to the floor and putting his head in his hands. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “This can’t be happening.” This had disaster written all over it. He couldn’t possibly be falling in love with Adrien’s ex-wife. 

But he was. Oh God, he was. And somehow he’d sung her his mother’s song and he missed his mom so much and now he was six different kinds of fucked up and it was a good thing Louis was his last lesson for the day, because he wasn’t sure he’d be getting up off the floor anytime soon.

Luka fumbled his phone out of his pocket and dialed, holding it up to his ear as he tangled his fingers in his hair and rested his forehead on his knees.

“Hey, Luka, what’s up?”

“Hey Jules.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Nothing major, anyway, just...sad. Do you think I could come over tonight? I’d really like to see my girls.”

“Of course,” Juleka replied, and he kind of hated the softening of her usual cutting tone. It made him feel even more pathetic. “Are you—do you need me to come home now?”

“No,” Luka said quickly. “No, I can wait until you’re off work.”

“Okay,” Juleka sighed. “If you’re sure. I’ll be home at six, but if you need to, you can go on over, you know Rose will be there.” 

“I don’t want to bother her,” Luka shook his head. “I know she’s been struggling emotionally since she had the baby, I don’t want to bring her down any worse. I’ll wait for you. I probably need a little time to get my head on straight anyway.”

“Okay, but you know we’re there if you need us, right?” Juleka sounded worried and Luka winced. 

“I promise, Jules, I’m okay. Just...some things got a little heavy today, and I started playing mom’s song without even thinking about it and it just kind of hit me like a truck, that’s all. I promise I’m okay this time.”

“Okay, bro,” Juleka sighed. “I gotta go, okay, I’ll see you tonight.”

“Thanks Jules. Bye.” He set the phone down on the floor next to him and leaned his head back on the door.

He didn’t like to say he had taken his mother’s death harder than Juleka; they were a close-knit family and they all felt the loss. Their grief just looked different. Juleka had Rose and now their daughter, and she couldn’t afford to fall apart all at once, so she did it in little pieces spread out over time. Luka had commitments he had to keep, and he had, but he’d had a lot more freedom to be crushed by the weight of losing his mother and the boat he’d grown up in. He put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of his face, blowing out a breath. 

Now he had a new problem. He was falling for Marinette. Maybe had fallen already. Probably was doomed the moment he opened the door that first day and forgot how to breathe. And as he sat there and admitted it to himself, the logical next question presented itself:

What are you going to do about it?

The smart thing would be to do nothing. She was his student’s mother and his friend’s ex-wife. He didn’t see her outside of work except for that one time. He could ignore it, write a few songs about it and move on. Maybe go on some dates to take his mind off it. Juleka had been bugging him to go out again.

The thought of dating again made him sigh. The whole cycle of dating just exhausted him. He led something of a double life, mild-mannered music teacher by day and rock guitarist by night, and it felt like he was always disappointing the people he dated eventually, because he didn’t care about the conventional definitions of success. Luka wasn’t ambitious; he didn’t need to be a rock star or a virtuoso. Music had always been about connection for Luka. He liked playing small venues and he liked teaching his students. At the same time, he loved playing his own music, he loved playing with the band, and he wasn’t about to give that up either. Introverted by nature, dealing with his kids and clients and crowds already wore him out—usually in a good way, a ready to recharge and go to bed at the end of the day way. Add dating into that though, and...ugh. 

Luka couldn’t remember the last he’d been excited to go out with someone. What was the point? How could you connect with someone when you spent the whole day dreading the experience? So he just...stopped. Dating for the sake of dating, anyway. He’d always thought when he met someone that made him think it’d be worth it, he’d try again.

Lately Luka had started to entertain the thought that he had Juleka and Rose and his niece and his music kids, and maybe that should just be enough for him. And it...sort of was. Sometimes. 

But Marinette...she would be worth it. He wanted to go out with her, he wanted to know her better. The thought of holding her, kissing her, sent a visceral longing through him he hadn’t felt since his last serious relationship. And...she’d seemed a little bit into him too. Attracted to him, at least. Maybe there was a chance, if he was willing to take it, but...

Luka slid his hands down his face and stared over his fingertips into his empty apartment.

***

It was hard, waiting for Juleka to get out off work, and Luka was knocking on their door before Juleka had even had time to change out of her work clothes. He planted himself on the couch and fidgeted until she came back. 

“Sorry,” Juleka said, handing him a soda. “Rose doesn’t want to drink while she’s nursing so we don’t have any beer.”

“It’s fine,” Luka sighed. “Probably the last thing I need right now anyway.” He looked longingly at the baby carrier strapped to Juleka’s chest. Luka’s heart eased a bit just looking at her. “Mind if I hold her for a bit?” 

Juleka smiled, took Angelique out of the baby carrier, and handed her over carefully.  Luka grinned down at the scrunched up little face. “Hey, you,” he cooed. “How’s my best girl?” 

Angie’s newborn-blue eyes were squinty and unfocused, but she turned her head towards him, wiggling in her wrap. Luka sighed and murmured “I wish Mom could have seen her.”

Juleka raised her eyebrows. “Is that really why you sounded so messed up when you called? Missing Mom?” 

“Some of it,” Luka sighed again. “Hang on, I’m moving out of smacking range before I tell you this one.” He slid to the far end of the couch.

“What did you do,” Juleka groaned, letting her head fall back against the couch. “Damnit, Luka.”

“I haven’t even said anything!”

“Fine, then say it so I can get on with complaining about what an idiot you are.”

Luka eyed her for a minute before admitting, “It’s a girl.”

“Damnit, Luka!”

“Real encouraging, Jules,” Luka snapped, getting a little irritated. Angie made a fussy noise and he automatically began rocking her, making a gentle shushing noise near her ear.

“So,” Juleka sighed, when Angelique was quiet again, “Lay it on me.”

Luka told her the whole story, as honestly as he could manage. How Adrien had come to him for help. How he’d met Marinette. How he’d reacted to meeting Marinette. How she was sweet and pretty and kind, and even though he hadn’t known her very long, but—

“You never know them very long,” Juleka muttered. “That’s your problem. If you would go out and meet some real people, make some friends, you might have better luck.”

Luka didn’t bother answering. That was an old argument. It was something Luka had accepted about himself that Juleka never quite had. Most of the time, he felt an instant connection, or none at all. 

“Well,” Juleka said slowly, picking at a loose thread on the battered couch. “What are you going to do about it?”

Luka sighed. He’d been stewing over that all day. “She’s Adrien’s ex-wife.”

“Emphasis on the ex.”

“He’d probably be really hurt,” Luka mused, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I know the divorce wasn’t his idea.” Juleka didn’t respond right away and Luka frowned. “You’re making the face.”

“What face?” 

“The face you make when you’re trying to be tactful,” Luka said wryly. “Just spit it out, Jules, you suck at tact.”

“First, bite me, and second, they’re divorced.” Juleka shrugged. “She left him. Unless you think they might get back together—” Luka shook his head. “Then I know there’s probably some stupid bro code bullshit but—” Juleka made a gesture that clearly showed her opinion of that. “You’d hate yourself if you missed out on something great for such a stupid reason. He really doesn’t have any right to be upset. Marinette’s the one who decides who she wants to be with, if anyone. Besides, you and Adrien hadn’t seen each other in years until he called needing your help.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re not friends,” Luka protested. “You’re so desperate for me to be in a relationship that you’ll justify anything,” he grumbled, rubbing his cheek lightly against Angie’s soft hair.

“If you believed that you wouldn’t be here asking me for advice.” She paused. “And I’m only desperate for you to be happy. I just know you’re lonely. It’d be one thing if you were really happy on your own but we both know you’re not. And you know Mom would tell you to go for it if she were here.”

Luka scowled. “Low, Jules.”

Juleka spread her hands. “Disagree with me.”

Luka couldn’t because he knew she was right. Anarka had always been a damn the consequences kind of woman, especially when it came to romance. 

“She’s a client,” he pointed out half-heartedly. “It’d be unprofessional to ask her out when I’m working, and I wouldn’t do it in front of the kid anyway. You and I both know how crappy that feels. I feel bad that I let it slip in front of him this afternoon as it is. I’ve only ever seen her the one time outside of work, and that was a fluke.”

“A fluke, or an opportunity?” Juleka asked him, raising her eyebrows slightly. “Maybe you should see if the universe throws you another one. Do what you do best, go with the flow, and then seize the moment when it comes.”

“What if it doesn’t come?” Luka asked moodily. 

“Then maybe it wasn’t meant to be,” Juleka shrugged. “Or maybe you’re actually going to have to step up and make something happen. Your call, really.” She gave a lopsided smile. “How much faith do you have in the universe right now?”

Luka snorted. “You’re joking, right?” He jumped slightly as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and his eyes widened slightly. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“What?” Juleka said.

Luka picked up the call. “Hey Marinette,” he said as casually as he could manage, making sure not to look at Juleka. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Luka, I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said, sounding flustered as usual, “I think I left a folder at your place this afternoon, and I was hoping I could come by and pick it up. Did you see it? It was pink and—well, it was a pink folder, it looks like any other folder except pink, I don’t know what I was trying to—anyway, have you seen it?”

“I haven’t,” Luka said, trying not to laugh. “But I can look for it when I get home.”

“Oh, you’re out—well, of course you’re out, why wouldn’t you be out, I’m stupid—”

Luka grinned in spite of himself, and turned his face away from Juleka’s rising eyebrows. “Yeah, I’m hanging out with my sisters tonight, but I could drop it by your office tomorrow if you like.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to trouble you, I know you have students and...and whatever, so just let me know what time is good and I’ll come by and pick it up tomorrow?” 

“It wouldn’t be any trouble—” Luka began, and then changed his mind. “But if you’d rather pick it up that’s fine, just let me know when you’re heading over. I’ll look for it when I get home and text you?”

“That’s perfect, thank you,” Marinette said gratefully. “I’m so sorry, God knows what you must think about me after this afternoon as it is, and now I’m—”

“Stop, stop,” Luka said gently. “It’s fine, Marinette. You’re human and Louis said you’ve been working really hard. It’s great to be dedicated but don’t let it burn you out.” He caught the warning look Juleka gave him and broke off the lecture. “Anyway, I don’t think badly about you at all, so—so I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.” Juleka rolled her eyes at him and he made a face at her that meant shut up. 

“Right, tomorrow. Um, goodnight, Luka.”

“Goodnight, Marinette,” Luka said, and hung up quickly, blowing out a breath. 

Juleka smirked at him. “Smooth.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” he muttered, chucking a throw pillow at her.

“Hey! Don’t curse in front of the baby, asshole!” she scowled, and then winced at a shriek of “Juleka!” from the doorway.

Luka grinned smugly. “Hey Rose.” Juleka subtly flipped him off where Rose couldn’t see.

“Hi Luka.” Rose leaned over the couch and kissed his temple, and while she greeted Juleka, Luka fished the two spa cards Marinette had given him out of his jacket pocket. 

“I’ve got something for you two,” he said, when they were ready to pay attention to him again. He held up the envelopes and Rose moved to take them from him. She opened one and gaped.

“Luka Couffaine!” she whisper-yelled, falling onto the couch next to him. “You did not spend this kind of money on us.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Luka grinned as Juleka reached to take the card from Rose and read it over. “They were a gift from a client. We were talking, and she said she remembered how hard it was to be a new mom, and that you deserved a day out. As it happens, I agree with her.” 

“But the baby—” Rose began, but Luka leaned over and patted her knee. 

“I can watch her for a day. Come on, Rose, you’ve barely left the house for a month except to go to the grocery store. You guys need some time for yourselves. I promise I can handle her long enough for you guys to go get a pedicure and a massage or whatever.”

“It would be nice,” Rose mused. 

“Is this the same client we were talking about?” Juleka asked suspiciously.

“Yes,” Luka admitted.

“Uh-huh.” Juleka pondered that for a moment. “Well, I definitely approve of you dating someone who gives these kinds of gifts.”

Rose’s head whipped around toward him so fast he was surprised she didn’t topple over. “You’re dating someone? Luka! Tell me everything right now!”

Luka glared at Juleka. “You did that on purpose.”

“You should have known I would.”

Luka had to tell the whole story over again, and by the time Rose was done with her interrogation, he was ready to leave. He gave back the baby (who clearly needed a change at that point anyway), kissed both his sisters, and headed back to his own place.

When he got home, a quick search of the living room turned up Marinette’s folder between the couch and ottoman. 

“All right, universe,” he muttered under his breath, looking at the pastel sign from the gods in his hands. “You better not be fucking with me here.”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | AO3

***

Inspiration music for this chapter: 

There’s a billion versions of Beautiful Dreamer (written by Stephen Foster) but here are a few of my favorites:

My Love is Like a Red Red Rose was originally a poem that many artists have put to music, but below is the version I specifically used for inspiration. You can read the original poem by Robert Burns here.

#quickspins #beautiful dreams #lukanette #this is a long one but I didn't want to break it #oh no he's hot #these two dorks #you know i love me some couffaine sibling teasing #jumping in with both feet #and of course juleka has to give him a hard time #i am lukanette trash i admit it #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #miraculousladybug #miraculous ladybug #ml fics

[staticscreenwriting]

All you have to be is here - Part 9

Synopsis: Billy has fucked up and has to do 60 days of community service at a home for troubled kids and youth. Working with the kids there makes him learn a lot about himself. Also there’s a girl there his age who has a phenomenal smile and who is way too nice to him.

I guess I should mention there’s a lot of angst in this. Talk of substance abuse later on, physical abuse, emotional abuse. All that kind of gnarly real life stuff. It deals with kids and teens struggling with a a shitty family life so be aware of that.

Part 9 of ?

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8

Please help a girl out by reblogging. Thank you ♥

Attention ! If you wanna be tagged pls send me a message or an ask it’s easier and faster for me than going through the tags of each part every time. Thank you :)

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

I never really ever felt so adored before Never really ever felt this type of vulnerable Don’t have to hide, don’t have to fear All you have to be is here Never really ever felt so adored before And I said I wanna feel like this forever Even if forever’s just for now We’re on fire, let us burn As the outside world, it turns We are here and alive In our corner of time Forevermore

The hardwood floor feels cold against Billy’s bare feet as he trudges out of the bedroom and towards (Y/N)’s kitchen in search for a coffee and a cigarette. Luke the cat is purring as he spots him, rubbing on his legs in hope for some food. 

Billy never particularly liked cats but this one has grown on him. He’s fat and lazy and blissfully unbothered by everything. He really really likes this cat. 

Starting the coffee machine, Billy reaches out for a mug and has to suppress a groan as his eye register just which one he’s grabbed. It’s black and shiny and there’s a picture of a much younger (Y/N) printed on it. She’s maybe 3 or 4 years in this picture, a poster child for innocence but her smile is the same one he’s grown so fond of. It’s what’s written beneath the photo that makes his heart drop. 

“ Happy father’s day to the best dad in the world. “ How fucking ironic.

Unconsciously, Billy’s eyes wander towards the doorway leading to the living room. His hands grip the mug a little tighter as he feels the anger start to bubble up again. 

There’s a man on this couch, he’s banged up and yet he’s sleeping safe and sound. That man shouldn’t be there, he gave up the right to be there years ago. There’s a man there that broke (Y/N) heart in a million little pieces and judging by the tears that stained her cheeks last night, he continues to do so to this day.

Maybe, Billy thinks, he’s projecting his own frustrations and pain and suffering onto this situation. Maybe this one can have a happy ending for (Y/N) and her dad. Though life has never really given Billy a reason to believe happy endings do exist outside of fairy tales. This can only be a crash and burn situation waiting to happen.

For the first time in his life, he hopes he’s wrong. He wants so desperately to see (Y/N) succeed, to see her happy. 

Luke nudges against Billy’s ankle, effectively softening the mood a little. 

“ Alright, amigo. I’ll give you some food. Calm down. “ 

Maneuvering his way around the kitchen and preparing the food for Luke, it all feels weirdly domestic. He can move around freely, no fears of making any wrong moves of messing anything up. This is what home feels like. What his own home should feel like. What it never does.

“ You talking to the cat ? “ 

A pair of eyes look back at Billy, that looks so familiar. They’re (Y/N)’s eyes. Identical and yet they couldn’t be more different. There’s no warmth in these eyes, no softness. No love.

The man’s eyes are cold and tired and empty. 

“ Yeah, so what ? “

“ No I — I wasn’t judging. Just — look kid I was just trying to start a conversation. “ 

“ Not a kid. “ 

There’s a shift in the air, a shift in Billy’s mood too. Suddenly he’s on high alert, extremely conscious of his surroundings, of the man’s moves. It’s a side effect of living with a dad who loves to smack you around. You get highly aware of everything around you. The good and the bad. And it’s scary. Like a constant shadow following you, ready to swallow you whole if you let your guard down for long enough.

(Y/N)’s dad lets out a long sigh then leans against the kitchen island. He looks worse for wear. Tired. Exhausted. The skin around his eye is colored in hues of red and blue and purple and it’s swollen almost shut. There’s dried blood around his nose and the cut above his eyebrow looks painful even from afar. 

Billy knows he shouldn’t, knows this is probably earning him a ton of bad karma points, but there’s a tiny part in him that take a sick satisfaction in this man’s misery. No matter how much his physical wounds hurt, they won’t ever come close to the emotional anguish he’s willingly put his own daughter through. And for that, Billy thinks, he deserves to suffer.

If anyone knows how it feels, it’s Billy. He’s been through it all, the physical and the emotional pain and if he was ever asked to chose, he’d take the hits over the heartbreak anytime. Those heal at least. 

“ I understand that you don’t like me a whole bunch. I — I deserve it, probably. “ the guy says, a slight southern accent ringing through his words.

A scoff falls from Billy’s lips “ probably. “ 

“ What do you want me to do ? I’m trying here, ya know. “ 

Billy turns around, pours himself another mug of coffee, black. Strong. Not because he wants it, one cup is usually enough for him in the morning, but because if he doesn’t take a minute to cool down the anger and frustration is gonna get the best of him and he’s gonna reach over the kitchen island and give this dude another black eye.

“ She didn’t have to take care a me last night but she did. I appreciate that, I do. I know she’s a good girl. “

“ You don’t know shit, man. “ 

“ And you do ? “

“ I was the one holding her when she cried for hours the last time you showed up, drunk off your ass. I know that, no matter how much shit you put her through, she still loves you and cares about you way more than you deserve. “

“ What I put her through ? “ 

“ Yeah. What you put her through when she was just a fucking kid. Smacking around her mom like it was nothing? Having (Y/N) witness all of it ? That shit is unforgivable in my book. If it was on me, I would’ve left you there last night. I wouldn’t have given you a second look. Fortunately for the both of us, she isn’t like that. She’s warm and soft and loving and she gives way more than she ever asks for. “ 

Billy moves closer to the guy, looks him straight in the eye. God how he wishes he could have the guts to say these things to his own father. Stand up to him. To put down his foot and make it clear that enough is enough.

Fact is, he doesn’t have it in him. Not now not yet.

But this isn’t Neil. It’s not his own abuser. Not his own demons he’s fighting here.

It’s (Y/N) and for her it’s worth the fight. For her it’s worth being brave.

“ Listen to me, “ he says and lowers his voice so tremendously it almost resembles a growl “ she once told me that people don’t need to earn love, that it’s not something one has to be deserving of. I don’t think that’s true all of the time. I think you need to do a whole lot to earn back her love and even then you won’t be deserving of it. Not after what you did. You’ll never be good enough for her. Never. She’ll love you anyway. That’s the world she’s living in. A good one. Where people forgive. I don’t share that sentiment. I don’t forgive. So if you hurt her again, I will hurt you. That black eye ? You’re going to wish for it back if I get my hands on you. I’ve done worse things to people and back then my only reason was boredom. This girl ? I love her. I’m sure you can imagine how much that feeling fuels my anger if someone were to hurt her. Are we clear ? “ he asks and pats the man on the shoulder. 

“ Are you threatening me ? “ 

“ No. I’m just making sure you know the stakes. “ 

Billy can already see this ending badly. It’s like a sixth sense for misery. He hopes, for (Y/N) sake, that he’s wrong.

The odds tell him he’s not.

“ She’s always a woman to me “ by Billy Joel is softly playing from the vinyl player in the corner of the recreation room. (Y/N) sits by a table helping one of the younger girls draw a bunch of flowers with crayons in all colors of the rainbow.

Billy never particularly liked the song until he heard (Y/N) sing along to it one day in her kitchen. She was wearing his shirt and her hair was piled on top of her head and there was still a faint imprint of her pillow visible on her cheek. She’s never looked more gorgeous than in that moment. 

It became one of his favorite songs then. He thinks she knows. Sometimes she hums it when they sit on her couch and she softly plays with his hair. Things don’t feel so bad then. 

As if she can sense his thoughts, (Y/N) lifts her eyes off the drawing and finds his across the room. Her lips are pulled into a tiny smile, it’s hardly there but it’s enough for Billy to notice. For him to understand. 

“ She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes “ Billy thinks the guy might be onto something there.

This is the first time she’s smiled since everything with her dad happened. Her dad, who’s still waiting at her place for them to return. She’s offered him to stay for a while, “just to get back on your feet”. It makes Billy uncomfortable, so fucking uncomfortable. He can already see her making up scenarios in her head, of a future that involves her dad. A happy one where the past is the past and wounds and magically healed. He loves her unwavering positivity. He loves that she believes in a world where good things happen to good people. 

He also knows that this makes her vulnerable though. If things don’t go the way she imagines them to go now, and they won’t, it’s gonna hit her twice as hard. He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to stomach seeing her go through that hurt. If only he could take it from her. He’d do it. In a heartbeat. 

“ You’re doing it wrong “ a tiny voice speaks up from beside him. Jack is 6, he’s got shaggy blond hair and blue eyes and a bright smile missing a few milk teeth already. Jack, like (Y/N), believes in a world where ordinary things are magical and love if free and good things happen even though the world has done nothing but prove him wrong. Jack reminds Billy entirely too much of another little boy with blond hair and blue eyes and a perfect little world.

That boy is gone now. Buried underneath a thousand layers of hurt and bitterness and cruel words from a person that’s supposed to love him. Billy hopes things can turn out different for Jack.

“ What do you mean, I’m doing it wrong ? I’m literally just coloring in this fu — this picture. “ 

If someone had told him a few weeks ago that he’d sit in a room with a bunch of kids and his — his girl, coloring in pictures and listening to cheesy pop love songs, he would’ve told the person they’re insane. It’s his new normal though, as normal as life can be for him anyway. And even though he will never admit this to anyone, not even (Y/N), he might even enjoy these moments a little. Problems seem to be non existent for the for the time being. The air feels lighter. The mood feel softer. It gets easier to breathe, even if it’s just for an hour.

It’s, and he’s not going to repeat this, it’s kinda fun. 

“ Yeah but you made the dinosaur green. It’s not. It’s supposed to be brown. “ Jack speaks up again, pointing his small finger towards Billy’s green T-rex drawing.

“ How’d you know ? You ever seen a T-rex ? “ 

“ Uh-huh. “ Jack nods “ my mom took me to a museum once when we visited grandma in New York City. They had lots of pictures and postcards. Maybe if mom — if she — maybe I can go again and bring you one. “ 

Billy doesn’t know this boy’s story but it’s clear to him that something about his mom ain’t the way it’s supposed to be. He knows Jack stays here permanently so whatever it is, it can’t be good.

“ See, I’ve never seen a T-rex so I wouldn’t know about the color. I’d appreciate that postcard. “ 

Jack nods but the childlike wonder, the excitement, is gone. He’s more timid now. Almost sad.

“ I don’t think my mommy is gonna come get me anytime soon. But if she does and we go to New York I promise to bring you one. You’re my friend now. “ 

God this kid is trying to kill him, huh ? 

“ Mommy hasn’t visited since when it was snowing outside. I miss her sometimes. “ 

Yep, Billy’s heart was officially shattered into a million little pieces laid out on the table in front of him, right above the drawing of the (wrongfully) green colored dino.

“ I miss my mom too. “ 

It’s the first time he’s told anyone this is — ever. Sometimes he likes to make himself believe that he doesn’t miss her anymore. That she effectively lost the right of being missed when she chose to leave. That’s a lie though. Absolute bullshit.

If anyone needs to hear the truth right now, it’s this little boy. And the little boy inside Billy that’s still missing his mom an awful lot, no matter how much grown-up bitter Billy likes to deny it.

“ Where is she ? “ Jack asks with that unbothered childlike curiosity.

“ She uh — I don’t know for sure but I think she’s back home in California. “ 

“ Was she not ready to be a mommy ? Mine wasn’t. “ 

“ I — I don’t know, Jack. “ 

“ When I last saw my mommy she hugged me really tight. And she gave me a teddy bear and she told me that she loves me very much but that she’s sad and sad people can’t be good mommys so she’s going away to become happy again and when she’s not sad anymore she’ll come back and we can be happy together. Maybe your mommy was sad too“ 

Billy has to swallow back a knot forming in his throat. Has to keep the tears at bay. This is not place to cry, Billy. Not in public, Billy. Never in public, Billy.

“ Maybe. “ 

“ Well I hope she is happy again soon so you can be happy with her. “ 

Wherever she is, Billy too hopes she’s happy. 

Maybe Jack has a point, maybe one day they can be happy together. Maybe when he isn't sad anymore. He hopes she’s there already waiting for him.

“ I’m not saying you shouldn’t let him stay. I’m just not okay with you being alone with him “ 

“ He’s my dad, Billy. “ 

“ Exactly. “ 

One word conveys all he feels on that subject. Their track record is just too fucked up to ever trust someone just because they’re supposed to be “family”. It just doesn’t mean shit. 

Billy’s holding onto a bag of grocery they have picked up, as (Y/N) opens the door to her place. She’s told Billy it’s okay for him to go home though there’s no way in hell he’s gonna leave her alone with this dude. And home and “home” anyway.

“ I know what he did was — “ she doesn’t finish the sentence though, as her eyes fall onto the state of her apartment.

Every drawer seems to have been pulled opened and ransacked, there’s cutlery on the floor and not a single cupboard door is closed. The pillows that used to be neatly placed on the couch are thrown everywhere.

“ Dad ? “ 

And there it is. The metaphorical bomb Billy knew was gonna come but wished so hard it wouldn’t. 

His eyes wander around the room before they land on a piece of paper on the kitchen island. He picks it up and reads the first few words before knowing exactly what it is. The heartbreak he so desperately wanted to safe her from, all written down neatly in blue ink on white paper.

“ Some of my money is gone, Billy “ (Y/N) says as she hurries out of the bedroom, an empty old can of Folgers coffee in hand. 

“ You should read this “ is all he says as he holds out the letter to her. What does one say in a situation like that ? Hey babe, here’s some heartbreak for ya ?! 

She carefully takes it from his hands and lets her eyes move across the page. He can see clear as day what the letter says, doesn’t even have to read it himself. It’s all there in her eyes. In the way the warmth slowly vanished and is replaced by a cold, a sadness, utter despair. 

He warned him. He fucking warned him not go break her. Not again. And what does he do ? Exactly that.

“ Billy ? “ she says, a sniffle evident in her voice.

“ Yeah ? “ 

“ What did you say to him ? “ 

“ What did I say to him ? “ 

“ Uh-huh. “ 

Why does it matter, he thinks. The guy is gone. Up and left as he always assumed he would.

“ He says in this letter that you talked to him so what the fuck did you say ? “ 

The fury her voice holds, he’s never seen in her before. It’s terrifying. 

“ I told him not to hurt you again. Told him he doesn’t deserve your forgiveness. “ 

“ That’s not on you to decide “ she yells. It’s the first time he’s heard her yell like this. With pain in her voice with — disappointment. 

“ I was trying to help “ 

“ Well stop ! “ 

“ I can’t. I love you and I know what guys like him are like. I — “ 

“ You don’t know anything “ she’s crying now and as much as he wants to hold her, he also feels the anger bubble up again. There’ve been many moment where Billy was in the wrong, where he deserved to be yelled at. Not this time. He did nothing wrong this time. Hearing her say these things is not only shitty, it also hurt. A whole fucking lot.

“ I know what shitty dads are like. They don’t give a shit, (Y/N) “.

 “ Maybe yours doesn’t. But my dad is not Neil. Maybe he can change. Maybe he can love me again. Unlike yours, mine at least he used to love me. “ 

The anger is gone. The sadness is gone. Everything he’s felt up to that moment is just gone and he’s left feeling completely numb as those words leave her lips.

He can see the realisation in her eyes of what she just said. 

“ Billy I — “ 

“ Fuck you, (Y/N) “ 

She’s following him out of the apartment and down the corridor, down the stairs, out of the building and into the parking lot. And she’s crying. Crying up a goddamn storm.

Billy can’t bring himself to care. Not right then. Not after what she just said to him.

“ Billy please. “ 

“ You know what (Y/N), “ now it’s his time to yell, “ maybe my dad doesn’t love me but at least I am honest enough with myself to accept that fact. At least I don’t pretend like my life is all rainbows and butterflies and sappy love songs. I know he doesn’t love me and I accept how fucked up and shitty it is. At least I don’t live in a fantasy world where everything fine and dandy and problems are magically fixed by singing kumbaya and drawing my feelings. “ 

As he gets in the car and speeds off, leaving her alone in the dark, his thoughts twist and tangle in all kinds of ways. None of them clear. All of them a blurred mess. 

He only notices the tears running down his cheeks as he arrives home and gets out of the car, wiping them away so that Neil won’t see them. He fears he’ll be able to tell anyway.

With heavy steps Billy walks up to the house then tries to turn the key as quietly as possible. If ever he believed in a higher power, Billy prays that now is the time they chose to be kind to him and make sure Neil doesn’t catch him coming home late. 

But as he stated before, life’s hardly ever been kind to him and tonight is no exception.

“ Where’ve you been ? “ Neil asks as he leans against the door leading into Billy’s room.

“ Work. “ 

“ Not until now you haven’t “.

“ A friend’s “.

Neil raises his eyebrow, for a moment contemplating his next step. Usually Billy would care, about a possible beating, about whatever nasty words Neil is about to spit at him. Though tonight he doesn’t give a shit. Whatever he does, whatever he says, it won’t hurt nearly as much as (Y/N)’s words just did.

“ Uh-huh and what got you all wheepy ? “ 

“ I doesn’t matter “ he murmures and turns towards his room, effectively being stopped by Neil’s arm reaching out and blocking the way. 

“ What was that ? “ 

“ I said It doesn’t matter “ 

For a moment the two just stare at each other, matching fury in their eyes. Silently challenging each other to make the next step.

Neil grabs Billy’s jaw in between his fingers and squeezes just a little. Just hard enough to hurt but not leave a mark or cause serious damage.

“ Thin ice, Billy. Thin fucking ice. “ 

With that he lets go and moves towards the kitchen.

Billy hurries into his room, slams the door and slumps down on the floor besides his bed. His head drops down to rest on his knees and another round of hot salty tears roll down his cheeks.

If this way any other situation he’d be cuddled up on (Y/N)’s couch, telling her about the things that upset him and she’d tell him that she understands and that things can only get better from here on out and then she’d kiss him and put his heart back together little by little. 

But what if the only one that can fix your heart, is the one that destroyed it in the first place ? Not broke. Destroyed.

Billy reaches up towards the phone resting on his bedside table and pulls it down towards him. His fingers move across the buttons in an almost trance like state. He knows the number by heart. Has dialed it so many times. So many times.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three Times.

He wonders if she even picks up.

“ Hello ? “ 

If only hearing her voice could make things right. Could fix him in one way or another. If only hearing her voice could make him feel like home the way it used to do. If only hearing her voice was enough.

“ Hello ? “ she asks again.

Billy clears his voice then takes a long breath, bracing himself for what’s about to come and then. Then he answers.

“ Hi, mom. It’s me. Billy. “ 

_______________________

@babygal-babygal / @anxiousamandapanda / @imjusthereforsupernatural / @chhhcherybomb / @tomarisela / @noodlenerd101 / @xxcxrolinexx / @bippity-boppity-boopa / @mcrmarvelloki / @silver-winter-wolf / @thecrowclubsmanager / @theroyalbrownbarbie / @salemlysi / @sarai-ibn-la-ahad / @asheseiler / @stra-vage / @ssstutteringbbbill / @biliyonce / @addictofsupernatural / @angelophany / @charmed-asylum / @xxemoluverxx / @killer-queen-xo / @1lluminaticonfirmed / @rebel-broken-angel /

#billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagines #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 27

I’m.......so fucking stoked to post this right now 

Ao3

“I need to stop and fill up,” Eretson mumbles ten silent minutes into the ride back to Fishlegs’ house. 

“How dare you?”  The silence shatters like physical bonds and Astrid sits up straight in the passenger seat, arms crossed to keep herself from hitting him. 

Or at least not hitting him yet.  She still might hit him, but not now, not until he explains where he left his brain. 

“I can make it,” he swallows, refusing to look at her, “the light comes on fifty miles before empty, anyway.” 

“Hiccup told me about the plea deal,” she tries to sound deadly but with her fists tucked away and her eyes tired, she’s not convinced that she gets the point across.  Especially when Eretson pulls up in front of Fishlegs’ house and looks at her with obvious pity, like she’s a kid and he’s about to have to explain that the fish he flushed down the toilet isn’t coming back. 

“We can talk tomorrow.”  Eretson gestures at the front door of Fishlegs’ house, porch light welcoming even now. 

“We can talk now,” she raises an eyebrow, “because I’m not telling Snotlout about this myself.” 

“Jorgenson will understand,” he shrinks a little under the statement though and she knows she’s struck a nerve.  Good.  If Eretson is stupid enough to put the idea of a plea deal in Hiccup’s evasive head, he deserves to look Snotlout in the face and admit it.  “He’s a cop.” 

“A cop who I haven’t seen put too many innocent people in jail on purpose,” she lets disgust leak into her tone and it’s enough that Eretson turns the car off with an efficient turn of the keys before climbing out of the car and striding ahead of her to the door. 

He doesn’t want to look at her right now, and that would make her want to get in his face if it wouldn’t put her expression in full display.  She doesn’t want to see her own face until she shoves useless despair back where it belongs, behind a wall of determination. 

“Detective Eretson?” Fishlegs answers Eretson’s knock and the other man holds up an almost surrendering hand. 

“Eret is fine.” 

“Is that like a nickname or something?”  Snotlout’s lying back on the couch, tossing a box of tissues up in the air and catching it.  He tries to lean up on his elbow, but it must hurt his stitches because he falls back again, the box hitting him in the face.  “Because it’s stupid, and I hate it.” 

“It’s not a nickname.” 

“No, it’s kind of just half your name.”  He sits up, using Heather’s shoulder for help even when she tries to shrug him off, obviously invested in the papers she has scattered across the floor. 

“How is that not a nickname?”  Heather snaps, smacking his hand away from her shoulder.  “Isn’t a nickname just a shortened version of someone’s name?” 

“Usually their first name, Heather, would you take me seriously if I went by ‘Jorg’?” 

“Probably,” she snorts, standing up and handing a piece of research to Astrid, highlighted and attached to a couple of sticky notes.  Something about the first canonical Grimborn murder and the despair fights against its cage.  “You know, since ‘Jorg’ is just Swedish for ‘George’.” 

“Why are you bringing up my name when this guy just announced that his name is Eret Eretson?” 

“You brought up your own name.” Fishlegs locks both of the new deadbolts he installed yesterday, his hand awkward on Hiccup’s borrowed drill, and if Astrid doesn’t hit someone soon, she’s going to scream. 

“Sixty-eight!” She settles for yelling at Snotlout, brandishing the research she doesn’t want to read like a weapon. 

“Why does that go on my tally?  Fishlegs was just the one talking—” His eyes widen and he holds his hands up apologetically, “wait no, I’m sorry Astrid.  So very sorry.” 

The apology is authentic enough to catch her off guard and she almost hits him anyway, for surprising her when she can’t tolerate anymore surprises, but it also gives her a moment to breathe and shrug and pretend she knows how to be reasonable. 

“It’s ok,” she bites her lip and gestures at Eretson, who she will not be calling by his first name because even though she lacks the bandwidth to agree with Snotlout right now, his name is stupid.  “Eretson has something to tell you.” 

“What?  Is your middle name ‘Son’?” 

“I talked to Hiccup today,” Eretson pulls the conversation back on topic and it’s anything but a relief.  Astrid wants to shout that she talked to him too, that he’s stupid and noble and not fine at all, but once again, that wouldn’t help anything.  “And introduced the idea of proposing a plea deal to implicate Grisly.” 

Snotlout frowns and looks between Astrid and Eretson before speaking slowly, “did he say no?” 

“He didn’t say anything,” Eretson shrugs, “I just told him to think about it.”

“Well, that was stupid,” Astrid laughs bitterly, “he doesn’t just think about anything, he obsesses over everything.” 

Snotlout and Fishlegs share a knowing look and Astrid raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Snotlout drops her question almost too gently, and she’d be suspicious if she had room for anything other than mounting panic at the thought of Hiccup following Eretson’s advice. 

“What was that look?” 

“There was no look,” Snotlout shrugs, looking back at Eretson. 

“It’s just that you calling Hiccup obsessive is a little…well, someone mentioned Viggo Grimborn outside your apartment a couple of times and now you’re involved in a copy cat murder investigation.”  Fishlegs says gently, if a little condescendingly, and Astrid purses her lips. 

 “A few times a night, maybe.” 

“And I don’t think you’ve been outside in days because you’re researching so frantically, so you calling someone obsessed—”

“Are you done?”  She cuts him off and he holds his hands up.  “Because I’m trying to talk about the horrifically stupid idea of Hiccup accepting some kind of plea deal.” 

“How exactly is it stupid?” Snotlout asks, too gentle, and she blinks at him. 

“Because he’s innocent?” Heather answers for her, “and admitting to something that he didn’t do isn’t the smart way to handle this?” 

“Plus, think about how it would look when this does go to trial,” Astrid points out and Heather nods in agreement. 

“A trial will take months,” Eretson says, too gently, and she hates when the truth doesn’t sound like a point.  “Months you have to keep looking, whether he takes the deal or not.” 

“Forensics should have enough for dismissal in months,” Astrid’s voice cracks and she forces it even, ignoring worried looks that she doesn’t want, “why do you think Viggo Grimborn wasn’t caught?  He wasn’t a criminal mastermind, it’s just that no one could fingerprint him or use a DNA sample.” 

“Forensics will be valuable at a trial,” Eretson’s measured voice makes her want to scream, like maybe if she’s loud enough she can force something to happen, “but it’s still about convincing a jury.” 

“I wish the news would stop covering it,” Heather mutters and Snotlout shoots her a look before talking. 

“What kind of plea would you even be asking for?” 

“I was thinking something along the lines of trading information in exchange for a reduced sentence,” Eretson fidgets with his sleeves, pushing them up and letting them fall back down, twitchy at the odds of getting yelled at again. 

“So, he trades the ‘insider information’ that Grisly is a sociopathic serial murderer and they ship him off to the nice prison upstate while they investigate,” Snotlout mulls that over for a second, “as much as I hate to say it, that’s not a bad idea.” 

“Really?”  Eretson flushes and clears his throat, standing up straight like his spine has been replaced by a curtain rod.  “I’ve been looking through Grisly’s case notes and I don’t like the idea of him having months to patch up the few holes I’ve found so far.” 

“Then what do you do a few months down the road when forensics prove that Hiccup had nothing to do with it?”  Astrid hates even entertaining the idea long enough to say it out loud and Heather seems to agree, nodding emphatically.  “But there’s a record of him confessing, what happens to that?” 

“Unless Grisly planted Hiccup’s hairs all over or something,” Snotlout says, a little desperate, worry leaking through in ways Astrid doesn’t understand.  “Either way though, it’s contempt of court or obstruction of justice or something and he can appeal—"

“So, more time in court, more chances for disaster,” she laughs, the thought of further disaster too heavy and impossible to take seriously, “all to tell a lie that’s going to be overturned by evidence anyway?” 

“All to get my couch back,” Fishlegs says quietly after a minute, appearing at Astrid’s side and putting an arm over her shoulders.  It’s shepherding as much as comforting and she digs in her heels against being herded. 

“You can stay with me,” Heather offers, and Astrid never thought she’d consider Heather the only other person with sense. 

“Your address is on file,” Eretson shakes his head, “it’s not safe while Grisly is still out there—”

“I don’t care,” Astrid shoves Fishlegs’ arm off, unsure how she’s the one in the corner when Hiccup is the one in the cell. 

“I do,” Snotlout is quiet, almost apologetic as he looks at her, “I’m getting pretty sick of hiding out while the guy trying to kill me gets to think he’s winning.” 

“So, Hiccup is supposed to confess to something he didn’t do so you can feel like you’re winning?”  Heather snips and Snotlout rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t talk to me about what’s best for Hiccup, you ditched him as soon as you disagreed about Vinyl Greenbean—”

“Then why are Astrid and I the only ones who don’t want him to lie during a criminal trial—”

Heather and Snotlout bicker like siblings, the kind of vicious back and forth perfected over years of disagreements, but something about their timing is off, like there’s a hole, a third voice supposed to flit back and forth alongside theirs.  Astrid can hear its absence louder than any memory of Hiccup’s voice and the thought makes her swallow hard, clinging to something looking more impossible every second. 

What if there’s no way to make this all go away?  What if she does have to find some way to move on with her life while trials drag out across weeks or months or years? 

She doesn’t want her life back, not while Hiccup isn’t in it.  Not while he doesn’t have his.  

“Enough,” Eretson cuts across the arguing with a tired, heavy order that everyone takes.  Snotlout turns to point at him, irritated, but he stays quiet as Eretson continues.  “None of this is going to be decided tonight, it’ll take time to talk through either way, so maybe it’s best to…”

“Hiccup’s already decided,” Astrid glares at Eretson one last time before sitting on the couch and diving into Heather’s nearest pile of research, hoping for some concrete fact large enough to drown out her fears. 

00000 

The memo to leave her alone must be delivered to appropriate parties, because she spends the next three days researching in relative privacy.  Ruffnut helps, which means she hangs around and talks about nothing in particular, but it’s better than Fishlegs’ quiet worry or Snotlout being a little too nice.  Ruffnut is at the archives when Eretson and Heather show up, looking official enough that it sends a thrill of cool fury down her spine.  

One of these days, Eretson is going to tell her that Hiccup accepted a plea deal and she’s going to hit him.  It’s inevitable and infuriating and it takes everything in her not to wish it would hurry up, even sarcastically. 

She’s not supposed to be the cynical one, there’s supposed to be someone else here to do that. 

“What do you want?” She doesn’t so much greet Eretson as warn him. 

Eretson glances suspiciously at Ruffnut before talking, “I was hoping—”

“We were hoping,” Heather tries to soften the tone of the situation and Astrid sighs, forcing her expression placid as she waves Eretson on with a falsely casual hand.

“There’s a piece of evidence I’d like your opinion on,” He produces a thumb drive and looks pointedly at Ruffnut again, waiting for her to take the hint. 

“Ooh, evidence?  I’m in.”  She intercepts the hint and runs with it, snatching the drive and plugging it into Astrid’s computer. 

“Actually, it’s sensitive,” Heather tries and fails to beat Ruffnut to the mouse and Astrid crosses her arms. 

“I trust her with sensitive.” 

“You do?” Ruffnut snorts, clicking play before Eretson can stop her. 

It’s a grainy, night-vision video of a man in a top hat and a long coat limping fluidly across the street in front of Astrid’s apartment building.  In the fifteen seconds shown, the figure never shows his face, instead leaning the hat closer to the camera as he raises a long arm upwards and covers the lens in what Astrid assumes is black spray paint. 

The time stamp is for the morning Hiccup got arrested, at 3:28am. 

“We know it’s not Hiccup,” Heather placates, and Astrid wipes her palms on her jeans. 

“Someone sure tried to make it look like him though,” she sighs, “play it again.” 

The second playthrough she tries to ignore the mocking in the swinging limp, the coat that hangs wrong, the arm that moves slowly through a calculated arc.  She succeeds enough to notice the hat, fluorescing just enough in the night-vision to make itself unique. 

“Look,” she pauses the video, pointing at a splatter of small smudges on the front of the hat forming almost a halo around a larger smudge on the top of it, “what’s that stain?” 

“I wondered that too,” Heather tries to take the mouse and Astrid bristles for a second before letting her, “but then I looked into the camera that Gobber put up and apparently it’s some paranormal detection model with a UV mode.” 

For the first time, something clicks just next to Grisly’s painted narrative, a single fallen leaf looped into an eddy instead of following the current all the way down. 

“Snotlout had Hiccup’s hat.” Astrid starts looking through her phone, hoping she texted someone or took some picture, something concrete to prove what she’s saying.  “The night he was over at my place and got shot.  But he didn’t have it at the hospital, so there’s no way that Hiccup had it the other morning.” 

“How do you know this is his hat?”  Eretson asks and Astrid points at the largest faintly glowing stain. 

“Toothpaste fluoresces,” she laughs, finally feeling like she might be getting somewhere after eons of dead ends, “that’s—I know I got toothpaste on his hat and the rest…if I had to guess, it’s blowback, from when Grisly shot Snotlout.  He must have taken the hat then.” 

“So, you’re saying the fact that you can prove it’s Hiccup’s hat…means it’s not him blacking out the camera?”  Heather looks at Eretson for corroboration. 

“The only proof we have against Grisly is Jorgenson’s testimony,” Eretson shakes his head, “and I don’t want to bring him in yet.  What about proof that Hiccup didn’t shoot Jorgenson and take his hat back?” 

“You saw him at the hospital,” Astrid tries, the memory of Hiccup strung out and exhausted tugging at heartstrings that must remain double-knotted if she has any chance of being useful through this.

“That won’t hold up in court,” Eretson shakes his head and Astrid wants everyone to leave so she can keep reading and figure out some magical way that this doesn’t go to court.

A way other than a plea deal that resigns Hiccup to being known as a murderer or at least an accomplice.  She just needs time and she can fix this.  She’s sure there must be a hole somewhere, no one is perfect, least of all Grisly. 

“Wait, before the hospital, he was with me,” Ruffnut supplies, crossing her arms. 

“What?”  Astrid tries to communicate her anger at not being told that little detail earlier with her eyes. 

“We were at the condos trying to sneak into Grisly’s office.”  She laughs, “we succeeded, and got caught and—oh wow, that’s not a funny story anymore knowing he was coming from shooting Snotlout.” 

“How was that ever a funny story?”  Astrid doesn’t expect an answer, but Ruffnut, as always, defies expectation. 

“It was hilarious, we were like pretending to be married—that’s how I grabbed his ass, remember?” 

Of course Astrid remembers, but she never thought the nonsense coming out of Ruff’s mouth and igniting useless little furls of jealousy would ever be pertinent to something this important.  She half thought Ruffnut was kidding to urge her into some kind of forward motion, and she didn’t really have a chance to get past half-thinking about the comment. 

“Does Grisly know you snuck into his office?”  Eretson asks, frustrated that it’s a question he needs to worry about but obviously relieved that he’s no longer obligated to report on its legality. 

“He caught me,” Ruffnut shrugs, “but Hiccup got out without Grisly seeing him.” 

“There goes that alibi,” Eretson mutters and Astrid tucks her hair behind her ear, trying not to feel defeated in her once sacred role. 

“I could—you know, I could go down to the station right now and—”

“I’m saving that,” Eretson says cryptically, a whisper in the mausoleum dedicated to her chances of helping. 

“Fine.”  She stalks off to the nearly completed Grimborn room and everyone is gone by the time she risks going back to her desk. 

When she gets back to Fishlegs’ house and knocks on the front door, Snotlout swears inside, obviously startled, and she’s irritated until he opens the two deadbolts and she sees the relief in his face. 

“Sorry.”  She doesn’t know what else to say and immediately wishes she’d said nothing. 

“It’s fine.”  He seems to stuff down what he wants to say, “you’re not Grisly.” 

“Guilty,” she tries to joke but it’s not funny and she wonders what Hiccup would say.  “About the plea deal—”

“What’s your team?” Snotlout interrupts, introspection wrongly-sized on his face.

“What?” 

“I’ve never asked what team you actually support,” he shrugs and she narrows her eyes, “is it the Chiefs? I bet it’s the Chiefs.  Vikings fan?—"

“Why?” 

“They uh…having a good season?”

“Goodnight,” she stalks past him to the couch and opens the notebook she left on the coffee table, re-reading Hiccup’s notes for the millionth time. 

00000

The next time Eretson and Heather show up at the archives, Astrid tries to ignore him, but curiosity gets the better of her and she acquiesces to his questions with a nod. 

“Have you found anything promising?”  He asks like he already knows the answer and she flips through Hiccup’s notes to the creased, crumpled picture of the ‘Al, I.’ safe message. 

“I did think of something earlier,” she ignores how Heather examines the picture with authentic interest, trying to remember the details of Hiccup’s interrupted tour, even though it hurts, terrified that the memory of his shocked, delighted face under spontaneous hat hair when she took control will fade.  “If the whole idea is that Hiccup is mimicking the Grimborn murders, why didn’t he leave a message on the wall?  He clearly had paint,” she references the video from earlier in the week, but even she can hear how feeble the idea is. 

He didn’t have time to leave a safe message because he got caught.  Copycat killers don’t purposefully leave more evidence.  She’s grasping and it’s obvious and desperate and she hates the edge of pity in Eretson’s expression as he sighs. 

Astrid’s jaded enough by this point to not ask if she can go with him when he leaves.  Something tells her the plea deal is more probability than possibility at this point. 

Heather stays though, asking to see the Berk Enquirer where Astrid found the ‘Al, I.’ safe message, her hands careful on the wrinkled pages that Hiccup clenched in his fist a world ago, when all of this seemed random.  Snotlout and Ruffnut show up not too much later and Ruffnut produces a flask from her purse, setting it purposefully in the middle of the table. 

“Antique documents,” Astrid hisses half-heartedly, pulling the pages away and brushing at a drip of nose-burning alcohol on the corner. 

“Tuffnut made this,” she drums her fingers on the table, “do we try it?  Or is that a really bad idea?  Or do we try it because it’s a really bad idea?” 

“If we’re trying bad ideas…” Astrid closes the notebook she was reading and the lack of distraction makes the day instantly heavier.  “I have a couple others I’d put first.” 

Hitting Eretson.  Draining her bank account to hire her own lawyer and sue Eretson.  Go down to the station and tell all the truths she’s been holding back.  Hit Grisly while she’s at it. 

“We should try it,” Snotlout rubs his hands together then pauses, “or we could try whatever bad idea Astrid wants to try first, I’m open.” 

“Stop,” she glares at him. 

“Stop what?” 

“Being so nice,” her shudder is involuntary, “it’s not going to make me feel any better about the plea deal.  And it’s creepy.” 

“It is creepy,” Heather agrees, “it’s like the threat of Astrid hitting you sixty plus times finally taught you humility or something.” 

“She can’t,” his wince is exaggerated, “I’d still die.  It wouldn’t be any better than handing me over to Grisly.” 

“Sounds like that might be easier on you,” Ruffnut laughs, eternally repositioning herself into the audience. 

Astrid opens her mouth to say something to Heather but a choked breath is all that comes out as her eyes widen.  Easier.  Grisly has a plan to make this easier. 

“That’s it,” she says quietly, morbid confidence welling behind it, “that’s his out.” 

“Hey, don’t actually turn me over to Grisly, just because you don’t like—”

“No,” she shoves the rest of Hiccup’s notes in her bag, “that’s Grisly’s plan.  That’s how none of this catches up to him, that’s how forensics doesn’t uncover anything.  That’s how he keeps this out of trial, where he’ll obviously lose.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“And the deal is going to rush it—”

“Astrid—" Ruffnut goes to stand up, but Heather beats her to it, following Astrid to the archives’ staircase. 

“I’ll be back at Fishlegs’ later,” Astrid doesn’t stop Heather from following her, taking a brief chance on the camaraderie born in the fire of all these recent disasters. 

“What are you doing?” Heather asks outside, pulling an umbrella out of her bag when a crack of thunder punctuates the conversation. 

 “I’m going to go see Hiccup.”  She feels better saying it out loud.  More solid.  More effective. 

“He doesn’t want you to,” Heather pauses like she’s holding something else back, but Astrid keeps walking, arms crossed against the rain. 

“Well I don’t want to sit around joking about him being in jail.”  She lets her realization sit for a second, pausing as long as she dares to think about it without throwing off the rest of her juggling rhythm.  Being equally annoyed at Snotlout’s story isn’t really a reason to trust Heather, but it’s all Astrid has, and she flicks her a careful, judgmental glance.  “I have to warn him.  Even if it’s another wild guess—”

“Slow down,” Heather frowns, moving close enough to share her umbrella, “warn him about what?” 

Astrid sighs, once again leaning into the uncomfortable truth that she can’t do this alone, “if Grisly is really planning on getting away with framing Hiccup with modern forensics and psychological assessments working against him, he can’t let this go to trial.  And at this point, the only way to stop it from going to trial is to make sure there’s no one to try.” 

It’s abstract and cluttered and everything she can do to not say ‘kill’. 

“How are you planning on getting into the jail?”  Heather asks after a silent second, handing Astrid the umbrella to dig through her bag. 

“I…hadn’t thought that far.”  She curses herself, trying to rein the useless panic back in. 

“Snotlout never took his badge back.”  Heather hands her an all too familiar shield shaped badge in a thin leather wallet and reaches back into her bag, “or his gun—”

“Why would I need a gun?” 

“If you’re right…” She trails off pragmatically and Astrid swallows hard, shaking her head. 

“If I’m wrong, I’m breaking enough laws impersonating a police officer.  How do you know the badge will work?” 

“It’s how I got in last time, there wasn’t even a guard on duty at the side door, I just scanned the badge and went up.  He was on the top floor then, in the smallest corner cell.”  She produces a keyring and holds it up by a non-descript silver key, “this opened the hallway door.” 

“You aren’t going to tell me to stay out of it?”  Astrid pauses, the rain on the umbrella punctuating her half thoughts.  Maybe she should ask for the gun after all. 

“I think it’s your business whether you stay out of it or not.” 

It’s either a setup or it’s not.  Heather is either with Grisly or not.  Astrid either showed her hand or she didn’t, and either way, her next move is the same.  Tell Hiccup. 

Heather goes back to the archives, or the station, or to Grisly’s office to tell him what’s going on.  Astrid doesn’t know and she doesn’t have room to care, not when the last week without seeing Hiccup might be coming to something like an end.  A point of punctuation, at least, a new anchor before the next disaster, whatever it will be. 

The side door of the county jail opens like the alley door of an office building when Astrid holds the badge against it, and if it weren’t for the Berk Police Department insignia on the wall inside, she could almost believe she was going to a doctor’s appointment or to see an accountant.  That illusion shatters though when she looks through the small bulletproof window on the second-floor landing and sees a line of men in orange jumpsuits walking down the hallway, shepherded by a guard in a gray uniform that sends a shiver up her spine. 

She’s never seen a prison guard, their uniforms could be gray for all she knows, but they look too much like NWF for comfort. 

The badge works again at the sensor next to the door on the top floor and she slips through, shutting it quietly behind her and not giving herself time to pause or think, because if she did, she might realize what a horrible idea this is.  The umbrella in her hand drips a trail of raindrops on the floor as she walks purposefully, trying to project that she knows what she’s doing and she’s supposed to be here as she makes her way to the last door on the left, hoping for the first scrap of luck that she’s had since she found Elizabeth Smith’s apartment. 

The key Heather gave her slides easily into the lock, turning with an anticlimactic click, and she slips inside before she can think better of it. 

“Astrid?”  Hiccup’s voice splits the silence with a stab of shaky confusion, a wall of bars between them dividing his haggard face into three parallel snapshots of shock. 

“Hi.”  She looks him up and down, making sure he’s real and whole, struggling to hold onto the urgency that propelled her up here on a whim. 

“How—”

“Snotlout’s badge,” she shows him before shoving it into her pocket to free up a hand that she rests tentatively on the crossbeam of the cold bars.  He hesitates before setting bony, clammy fingers on hers, jaw flexing under the extra week of stubble too obviously, like he’s lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose. 

He looks worse than he did through plexiglass and her heart aches. 

“Heather…” His expression is resolute, but his eyes are soft, “you shouldn’t be here.” 

“Neither should you,” she snaps a little too loud, “and I’m trying to fix it, I’m trying to find something wrong in Grisly’s setup, but I don’t see how to make it fall apart before it goes to trial.  Or worse, before you force it into an early plea deal.” 

“Trial,” Hiccup’s lips twist into a nauseous smirk and her hand itches to wipe it off.  “Grisly seems to think this won’t make it that far.” 

“He said that?”  Astrid’s blood runs cold and fast, like her veins are an Alaskan rafting course, and Hiccup’s fingers curl absently around her knuckles, thumb brushing hers as he frowns. “And the plea deal would make it happen so much faster, but—did he really say that he wasn’t going to let it go to trial?”

“Something similar,” he shrugs a scrawny shoulder and his frown deepens, “you really shouldn’t be here.” 

“The only way that Grisly could avoid a trial would be if there’s no one to try.  If the murders stop and the evidence lines up, why would anyone dig deeper?  Especially if he got rid of you, that would be easiest for him.”  She needs to say ‘kill’, she knows she does, she needs to drag Hiccup along with her on a tour of their macabre reality, but the word sticks in her throat like its determined to choke her.  “It’s the only thing that makes sense, it’s the only way any of this fits—”

“I love you.”  Hiccup doesn’t stutter or choke or quibble.  He looks at her, ghost of a smile haunting the corner of his mouth as his hand tightens on hers.  “You know, just in case you’re right again and I don’t get another chance.”

Her heart skips a beat then makes up for it, and at first, she thinks she imagines the clapping. 

It almost sounds like the pounding in her head, a little uneven, emphasis drifting slightly off beat.  It could be an echo, a residual from the way her heart is pounding, fear and confusion rattling around her chest. 

It could be a symptom of her brain shutting down, until the laugh. 

There’s nothing humorous in the sound, nothing alive.  It’s half awkward chuckle after dropping a stage prop and half delighted to stumble upon adequate improv partners. 

It’s Grisly in the doorway with a knife. 

Hiccup’s top-hat is crooked on his head, as out of place as his unpracticed smile, but twice as insulting.  He claps again, impersonating some concept of glee, and Astrid’s feet feel glued to the floor. 

“You love her?”  He laughs, the sound rich like blood, more alive than she’s ever heard him, “I had my suspicions, but I never dreamed I’d see them confirmed.” 

“What are you doing here?”  Hiccup’s voice is dull and quaking with some deep-set vulnerability that makes Astrid want to protect him. 

“Your dutiful lawyer is downstairs negotiating a plea bargain,” Grisly says like he’s delivering bad news, looking down at the knife in his hand with an almost fond smile, “he seems to think that horrible judge might go easier on you if you talk.  And maybe it’s true, some people must be a fan of your talking for you to have made it this far.”  When he looks back up, his smile is almost peaceful, like he’s nearly at the end of a very long, arduous road.  “I’m not one of them.” 

“I thought you enjoyed our conversations,” Hiccup angles himself like there’s some impossible way he could shield Astrid even when she’s on the same side of the bars as the madman with a knife, and his eyes scream ‘run’ in a language Astrid doesn’t speak.  

“Astrid,” Grisly doesn’t ignore Hiccup’s struggle to protect her as much as he passively enjoys it, like background music amplifying the emotion in a movie scene.  “This is long overdue, I was hoping to save you the inconvenience of coming down here by making a house call—”

“Leave her alone!” Hiccup yells, desperate, the walls swallowing most of the volume even as it leaves Astrid’s ears ringing. 

There are cameras in the hallway, they surely heard this.  They’re surely hearing all of this. 

Why didn’t Grisly shut the door?  If he shut the door, his audience would shrink dramatically, at least until someone reviewed the tapes later. 

It takes her a second to place the delight in his eyes and then it hits her that he didn’t expect to see her here. 

“This is better than I could have imagined though,” Grisly laughs the low, polite laugh of someone making an inappropriate joke behind their boss’s back, “I thought Hiccup would get out on bail and I’d catch you two together with that idiot Jorgenson and clean up all my loose ends at once, getting a judge fired in the process.”  He sighs, wistful for the plot twist he predicted that didn’t quite work out, “but this…to find Astrid here right when I came to dispose of you, to hear you admit your feelings not knowing you were about to watch her die…” 

Die.  The word seems so passive that Astrid can’t imagine it having anything to do with her.  Especially with the way Grisly is looking at her like an object, a prop that couldn’t have any life to give to anything other than his dastardly scheme. 

And Hiccup is quiet, quiet like he never is, quiet like he’s already given up. 

Something her Uncle Finn always used to say flashes through her head, his too serious words for coaching a children’s baseball team taking on new meaning. 

Stunned silence is an enemy’s greatest weapon. 

When she flips her grip on the umbrella in her hands and swings it hard, it’s more dangerous than Grisly’s knife because he doesn’t expect it.  Because he expected her to stand there and quiver or beg or bargain instead of follow the righteous bolt of anger telling her to take this into her own hands. 

The center pole of the umbrella hits across the bridge of his nose with a crunch and a clatter as he drops his knife.  He moves faster than she thinks he will, batting the umbrella away from his face and fumbling for the blade. 

That puts his face at the perfect height to knee him in his already bleeding nose as she tries to straighten out the umbrella to hit him again.  The first hit broke it, apparently, and she settles for thrusting the handle against his chest as soon as he tries to stand, the blow knocking him off balance and sending him stumbling back through the still open door. 

His back hits the opposite wall and his hat falls off, revealing rumpled white hair that makes the blood gushing from his nose look more vital, like he’s losing something he can’t live without.  He tries to stand up and she moves to hit him again, an involuntary noise of disgust leaking out when he flinches away, looking for the exit he hasn’t given anyone else. 

The door at the end of the hallway flies open and Eretson appears, gun in hand, flanked by two officers uniformed in standard Berk PD blue. 

Astrid drops the umbrella and holds up shaking hands, taking a step back from Grisly’s defeated form and pointing at a camera on the ceiling. 

“He…he left the door open, I bet—I bet this is all on film, he wasn’t expecting, well…me.”  She looks at the broken umbrella and the stain on the knee of her jeans before glancing back at Grisly’s already swollen features, sharp edges gone soft with loss of sick control.  “He confessed.” 

“And he trash-talked a judge,” Hiccup adds from behind her, voice meek and hollow, “which I don’t think helps.” 

“Usually doesn’t help,” Astrid agrees, heart fluttering too fast as she watches a cop slide handcuffs around Grisly’s wrists.  He slumps under the weight of them, nose dripping on the floor as he trudges down the hall, a leashed lion on the way back to his cage. 

Eretson doesn’t ask how she got in or how she’s doing or where the knife near the gate of Hiccup’s cell came from.  He sighs, either too professional to show his relief or too tired to feel it, before instructing the other officer with him to take them to an interrogation room while he goes to get a copy of the security footage before anyone else can get to it. 

When he comes back and announces that a second NWF agent is in custody for trying to erase the footage seconds after Eretson’s download was complete, Astrid feels like she can breathe for the first time since she concerned herself with why Elizabeth Smith stopped. 

#ripped #httyd fic #hiccstrid #modern au #serial killer tour guide au #blood tw #astrid is a bamf #if anyone guesses why snotlout is being so nice I'll...scream

[intervieweird]

CARAVAGGIOVAGABOND:

“ I UNDERSTAND YOU. ”

Daniel lays on the bed, four fingers of whiskey full, plied with a fifth of vodka and the stirrings of something frothy in his stomach. He figures he’s got enough booze fermenting in him to make a brewery.

He puts out his butt in the ash tray, burnt to the filter and bland as the scratch in his throat. Everything else in the room swims as he stirs; a blurred wave of neutral tone and unexpressive landscape paintings.

But not those eyes. Those eyes stay right where they are.

“Yeah?” He asks, pleasantly slurred and sluggish, moving his limbs mechanically on the bed to turn and face the creature watching him from the chair. He feels good now. Real good. Warm and tingling all the way to his toes, though the way his brain is having trouble keeping up with his eyes tells him he’s going to feel it in the morning. He just can’t mix his spirits like he used to. “And how’s that?”

caravaggiovagabond: @intervieweird cont. from [x]

The dimly lit, unspectacular hotel room isn’t exactly Armand’s usual preference, but currently he’s given little choice but to follow wherever his current obsession leads him. Tonight, that just so happens to be by his bedside, the young man lying charmingly inebriated across the bed.

To see Daniel in such a state is also not Armand’s preference – he would much rather that he was active, coherent, and fit enough to be dragged from pillar to post all over the globe. Those plans, however, are quite clearly foiled as it’s looking very much doubtful that Daniel will be able to travel even to the bathroom unassisted, never mind anywhere further afield. He dips into the mortal’s mind for just a moment, morbidly curious, but soon pulls away again, the dizzy, room-spinning stupor clouding his thoughts not at all a pleasant experience to him even secondhand.

With a sort of languid, animalistic grace, the vampire slips from the chair that he’s taken up residence in, half-crawling to the side of the bed where Daniel now faces him and crouching beside him at eye level, both arms folded on the mattress near the man’s face, his marble cheek resting against the thick, baggy sweater clothing his own forearm.

“Because we are kindred spirits,” he murmurs, cool, iron-scented breath a sigh against Daniel’s heated cheekbone, amber eyes fixed on him as one fingertip emerges from the cradle of his folded arms to prod at Daniel’s shoulder.

Armand is like a crooked creature, skewed limbs unfolding, too long. A monster. A monster crawling from under the bed and slipping under his skin like an itch. It’s a trick of the eyes, Daniel knows. Mortal eyes; eyes made of cells dying every second. He remembers what Louis told him once, how the undead moved too fast to process with the feeble chemical impulses of the human brain. Maybe it’s the old, primitive vestiges that are telling him to run, run, flight sparking in the dull grey matter, clogged with fatigue and poison.

But Daniel doesn’t run, and he wonders, distantly, why.

He turns towards death at his shoulder, a frown on his face as he fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand.

“Quit poking me.”

His vision blurs, sets, settling into a fixed image of that beautiful damned boy. Daniel peers at him, curious, and he wonders if Armand hears the catch in his throat, the fine movements of the muscles, the ache in his jaw as he feels it clench. “What makes you say that?”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

“Don’t you feel it?”

The words are barely more than a whisper; seductive, addictive, persuasive, a gentle smile twisting the corners of the boy-demon’s mouth upwards at the other’s tense reserve and slurred reprimand. He stops, his fingertip resting only gently now against Daniel’s arm as though in rebellion, staking a silent claim.

“I feel it, Daniel. Your heart sings for me.”

Armand’s sharp fingertip is removed from his arm, slender hand sliding across the mortal’s prone chest to clutch the sheets on his far side, using them as leverage as the boyish frame pulls itself effortlessly upwards. He kneels beside Daniel on the mattress, leaning over him until tangled, auburn curls almost brush his cheek, staring down at him with that frighteningly preternatural, chestnut gaze as though he’s the most fascinating specimen of human life.

His demand is unspoken but nonetheless powerful. He will be taken notice of. Daniel will listen to him.

“Sometimes you run so far and so fast that I almost start to believe you don’t want to be found. Almost.”

Does he? Does he want to be found? Sometimes, no. Sometimes he’s felt the safest in a Fresno flop house or Amsterdam bordello, red light winking at him through the vinyl slats, an unfriendly demon eye, haunting him like his own vision of the devil.

And sometimes - sometimes he’s slumped over a payphone, coins rattling like his fingers on his last pack of smokes, and he calls Armand to take him home.

And isn’t he here now? Didn’t he come? Daniel doesn’t recall the push and the pull, doesn’t remember where the knot of their tug-of-war finally crossed the mark. Armand finds him anyway, in the Waldorf-Astoria or slumming it on a bench in Hyde Park. And as far as he runs, doesn’t Daniel also let him?

“You think?” Daniel growls, scratchy-timbered and aching for a glass of water. But his hand finds its way to touch that cheek - so fucking glacial, his fingertips brushing against a cold steel hull, for all the perfect flesh didn’t give. A chill runs up his arm, to touch this thing looming over him. This beautiful, awful thing. He laughs, low and throaty. “Maybe I should buy a submarine.”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

His beloved’s short-tempered quips might be more painful to hear, were it not for the fact that Armand knows (perhaps even better than Daniel himself does) just how besotted he is. Even were it not for the promise of the Blood, he knows that Daniel could not turn away from him now even if he so desperately wanted to. Their lives and fates have become so intertwined – after all, how could Daniel turn his back on the one person who understands him more than any other?

The reporter’s hoarse laugh has a wry, little smile blooming on Armand’s face all over again, the touch to his cheek pleasantly warm. He turns his head so that those brave fingertips catch just barely on the corner of his lips, dangerously close to teeth that could rip them off without hesitation. He wonders, if Daniel came face-to-face with a wild jaguar would he try to pet that, too?

“You know I could buy that for you too if you really wanted,” he husks against the prone fingers. “But wouldn’t you be terribly lonely all the way down there without me?”

With lazy, feline grace, he topples over, rolling across Daniel to tuck in against his side, writhing his way close beside the boy and resting his pretty, auburn head against Daniel’s shoulder, pressing so tightly against the inebriated young man that he has no choice but to pay notice.

“You could just love me instead, Daniel.”

It’s a strange kind of heaven they make together.

It takes no thought for Daniel to fold around the boy in his arms, to breathe in the copper curls, the slight body crushed, crushing - against him. Armand is so slender, so terribly, deceptively delicate. It’s almost a tragedy, the two of them embracing like this in the wan yellow light, midnight minutes ticking away like so many hours of his life.

“Of course I would.” Daniel murmurs into his hair. Muscles spasm at the corner of his lips, but it’s no smile. “I’d go crazy.”

His hand tremors.

“I would. I do. You don’t need to give me anything. Except the one thing you won’t.”

He regrets immediately, pang like a hot knife cutting through his gut. His stomach cramps, a shiver twisting through him as he swallows back bile. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he wants to say. I didn’t mean it, he wants to confess, and hold that cool body closer against him. But he did mean it, all his wretched viciousness and bitter hooch breath. He meant it, like he meant it all those times before.

“So do it. Goddamnit, why won’t you do it?”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

As quickly as he’s enveloped by the docile affections of his lover, they’re whisked away again as the age old argument once more raises its ugly head. He feels a strange, rather hollow sense of loss as the easy domestic bliss crumbles around them, Daniel’s hand shaking against him with all the bitterness and animosity that the young man can muster towards him.

Face betraying his disappointment, even though the regret underlying Daniel’s brash reaction is prominent against his mind, Armand pulls back, disentangles himself from the embrace as though it’s a punishment, sitting instead straight-backed against the headboard.

“I’ve told you so many times before, Daniel. The answer hasn’t changed. The answer will not change, regardless of how many times you ask me.”

Sad doe eyes glance reluctantly towards his companion, a frown disturbing the otherwise smooth flesh between his brows.

“I couldn’t bear to live with your eternal resentment, my love. Why can you not trust me when I tell you that this - whatever you think it is - is not what you want?”

If you loved me, you would not ask of me the one thing that I cannot give you.

“So you can bear to live with me dead? The fuck am I supposed to feel?” Daniel leans forward, coils of bedsprings protesting against the shift of weight. His feet swing over the side of the bed, barefoot on the whorls of carpet. His back is a faceless, unfriendly plane to Armand, slouched over his knees in as his head bows into his hands.

He can’t bear to look at Armand. He can’t bear that too-knowing, mournful look. Ages old.

“I’ve heard this before.”

From Armand, from Louis, too. It’s no gift, you don’t want this. But Daniel does want it. He can’t help but want it, this singing, killing blood in him. Only in drops! Agonizing, evil drops that Armand would dole out as he saw fit. And what did Armand care about agony it put him through? It’s a selfish, unjust thought. But he still thinks it.

That honeyed voice slithers into his mind, same as it always had. Daniel knows it so well now, he can hear it whispering things to him in the electric pulse of his brain, in the moments before sleep - in his dreams - in his nightmares - when he wakes. He hears it, knows its timbre, its faint accent and the way it sharpens when Armand feels pain, or rage, or the way he’s feeling right now.

“I’m tired.” He sighs. His body aches, and he’s dizzy even when he presses the palms of his hands to blackness against his eyes. And he’s tired of this fighting. Tired of hurting, tired of being hurt.

“I want to go home. Take me home, Armand.”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

In an act of uncharacteristic vulnerability, Armand stays rooted to the spot, moving only to pull his knees upwards to his chest as though trying to make himself smaller, as though wishing he could disappear altogether. He feels chilled right through to his bones by Daniel’s bitterness, the hateful burning of tears already working behind his eyes.

“You don’t know what you are asking me for,” he hisses defensively, his whole posture mimicking that of a coiled viper. “You have so many beautiful years, Daniel, and you would squander them away to become… this!”

In one whip-quick, agitated movement, he gestures towards his own being with one hand before pulling it back in towards himself, covering the palms of his hands with his sleeves protectively.

“Death is better than this, believe me; I’ve seen both and I know which one I would choose - which one any of us would choose - if given my time again.”

Face pinched with pain, he drags his sleeve across his eyes briskly where vicious red begins to well up from his tear ducts, leaving coppery stains smeared across the white cable knit, the evidence of his shame. Truthfully, he can’t even think of turning Daniel, of making him cold and distant, his stomach twisting with some strange, foreign anxiety at the idea alone. He wants to obey Daniel’s wishes, to take him home and forget all of this nastiness, but he CAN’T, the atmosphere too oppressive, choking his voice as he forces it out.

“Don’t you think I realise the consequences of my choice?”

“God damn you!” He grates, suddenly explosive. He moves with combustive, kinetic energy, hand swinging like a mallet against the bedside radio, plastic pieces imploding with a clatter against his fist and falling with a muffled thump against the motel carpeting.

“How the hell can you be what you are and tell me you love me, you son of a bitch.” He rounds on Armand, rage whiting out the image of the huddled, wounded boy curling into himself on the ruined bedspread. “What kind of sick nerve you’ve got. Maybe it was better when you let me starve in that cesspit. At least I came to terms with croaking it. Now you’re killing the both of us. So do the fucking vampire bullshit already. Put me down like a dog. Is it better now, Armand? Is it really any fucking better? I don’t want any goddamn twilight years! I want all of it! I want to be with you!”

His face is feverish, wild and glistening. For all the unsteady, gut-roiling omen of his liver, Daniel holds his ground. He boils with blown-out pupils, sweat pricking at his temples and chest and the soft flesh under his arms. “I want the blood. I want it. What’s the point without it?”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

It’s impossible to suppress an overtly human flinch as the radio goes to pieces and he can’t help but stare at the action bitterly, desperately wanting to reciprocate. One small, white hand balls into a fist, desperate to lash out, but no matter how badly tempted he is, he won’t – he could never put Daniel in harm’s way and with his preternatural strength, there’s no promising his safety were Armand to lose his temper.

“Stop it! STOP IT!”

The hoarse cry boarders on a scream, both fists slamming down either side of him on the old, worn mattress, undoubtedly adding a few more broken springs to its collection.

“How could you do it to me? Why are you doing it to me?”

Staring up at his lover balefully, he can’t stand to hold his anguished stare for long, burying his blood-streaked face in both hands, unrestrained sobs wracking his body now. He isn’t sure what’s worse – Daniel’s rage or the incessant reminder that someday, Armand will have to let him go. He isn’t ready for it; he isn’t sure he’ll ever be ready for it. And as much as it breaks his heart, the thought of cursing him for all time is still inconceivably worse.

“Why isn’t this enough for you, just as things are? Am I not enough for you, Daniel?”

Even Daniel flinches, eyes shuttering like from the flash of a camera bulb. His head turns - involuntary - for only a split second, but he feels stung; wounded by Armand’s naked despair, wounded that even this isn’t enough.

His hands hurt - every fiber of him hurts - a live wire, raw and ragged and sparking. That’s Daniel Molloy, boy-reporter: a ruined man, shorting out and burning himself up from the inside. Is this enough for you? He thinks. Enjoy before your warranty expires.

“Stop it, Jesus, you’re gonna — ” Daniel grimaces, blinking away the sight of Armand on the bed like that, so fragile and so monstrous. He isn’t sure what he meant to say, what words died in his throat as he half looks away, embarassed and ashamed by the nakedness of feeling. "Don’t you dare ask me that. Don’t you fucking ask me that. It’s not the same.”

Light pulses behind his eyes, pulls on the nerves woven through the lattice of his skull like the fistful of a careless child, and he brings up a hand to squint away the pain.

Fuck. Fuck.

“This isn’t some ‘til-death-do you-part’ bullshit vow. Don’t you have any idea what it’s like?” Daniel leans into the pain - it’s pissing him off, sharpening the edge. He offered an out - he did. And he knows it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t real; it was just some half-assed excuse, too tired for this familiar old fight. But Armand wouldn’t let this of all things die, and Daniel found his second wind. “Don’t come at me with pretty words about mortality. I’ve heard it before, from you and Louis and Keats and Neruda and Shelley. It’s all the same.”

caravaggiovagabond‌:

After everything that he’s lived through, consensually or otherwise, Daniel is the only one who, in this day and age, could possibly rip such unfiltered feeling from him – intentionally or otherwise. The intensity of this - of what they are - has such a habit of racing from 0 to 100 in milliseconds; entwined as lovers one moment and a raging war the next. And for what? All because Armand loves him more than Daniel thinks, than Daniel could ever comprehend. Even wretched and enraged, Armand could never bear to part with this and trade it for some cold, dead imposter.

“Then why won’t you listen?” he begs. “Do you think that we all say it for the sake of our hea-ealth?”

His voice, though reedy and underdeveloped, has always been so clear. Now, it is broken with hiccuped sobs and jumping like a scratched record.

“Of course I know what it’s like, I’ve been on both sides, haven’t I? And believe me, I would take death first. I would take death one thousand times before this!”

If it was so simple, if he thought that he could live with himself for it, of course he would change Daniel. But he knows that to do so would be a date worse than death. All of it, from the process of creation itself to the loss of the very essence of Daniel’s humanity… he can’t. He curls in on himself, arms coming to wrap loosely around his torso as though trying to comfort himself, the fight suddenly seeming to drain out of him and leave him helpless instead. He wipes his sleeves across his face and then leaves his wrist there to cover his mouth, to stifle any further cries.

It’s so much easier to be angry. It’s easier when Armand is angry, too. But this - this wretched, hiccoughing misery - Daniel doesn’t know what to do with this. How small Armand looks, folding in on himself in a kind of helpless resignation. Armand - giving up ? - he doesn’t know what it is, but the wrongness of it makes him angry.

How’s this any better? Daniel thinks. Living off crank and cough syrup. Not eating, not sleeping. He hasn’t seen the sunlight in weeks. This isn’t being alive. This is barely being human.

Where the hell do we go from here? It’s as much a thought for himself as a challenge, bold-faced; direct - to Armand. Where the hell do we go?

Daniel stares at him, bleary-eyed, barefoot among the broken things.

“Quit it,” he says lowly. “C’mon, just — ” Just what? Now that’s bad writing, building the suspense without fulfillment. This makes for the shittiest story. Daniel has always loved speculative fiction; worlds parallel to their own, something just close enough to see the reflection of what you know. But something different, something bigger than the awful, looming monotony of an ordinary life. It had been so goddamn simple to transcribe Louis’ words, to insert himself only in the spaces left in-between. “The boy” wasn’t really him, wasn’t really Daniel so much as it had been the world. The audience’s oeuvre into this fucked up, violent, beautiful other life he had tumbled into.

But he’s living it now, or - living alongside it. That’s worse. To be so close to feel it and never to break inside. No matter how many times Daniel might beat his fists against the shell, no matter how it fractures - how Armand fractures - he can find no purchase. And each time, he finds himself slipping, loose and unstrung, falling deeper and deeper into the void. Don’t you see, Armand? One of these days, I’m not going to get out again.

He doesn’t want to write this story anymore. Not now, not that it’s his.

“Goddamn you. So just kill me already. You’re doing it anyway. God damn you.”

Daniel’s fists clench and unclench, casting long, distorted shadows in the shitty light of the flophouse room. He sits again on the bed with the creak of the cheap metal springs, hunched and sullen next to the figure of the wounded boy weeping silently beside him. Daniel says nothing else, staring hollowly at the stain in the peeling wallpaper, imagining it resolving into the shape of a long-legged insect with fractal wings and the smell of blood.

#alcoholism // #drug reference // #caravaggiovagabond #thread: same old dance. #verse: 1980s.

[baby-army-ff]

meet cute -- Monte & Yoongi

God, the bells at the entrance to Catfish Vinyl echoed in Montego Bridges' worst nightmares.

Worst yet, Monte wasn't asleep or dreaming. And the bells gave away the fact that she was once again fifteen minutes late to clock in. Glancing around the empty lounge, she might have escaped the lecture this time.

It wasn't her fault that she didn't have reliable transportation to work. Of course, she might've lied about it in the interview. And maybe she would have reliable transportation if she didn't blow all her money at the recording studio. But it wasn't her fault. That's what they get for paying minimum wage!

Once she was clocked in, she took her place behind the cash register, whipping out her phone. Chances were no one would come in for the first hour of her shift. That's usually what happened anyways. Why Bruce was such a stuck up about being on time, she'd never know.

"Don't think I didn't hear you come in late again."

"Speaking of the devil." Monte set her phone down on the counter, standing up straight.

"Is that what you do when you're out here alone? Pray to the dark lord?"

She smirked. For all she knew, he could have been into that kind of stuff himself. Bruce had owned the vinyl lounge for longer than she'd been alive. He was one of the few people that could intimidate her, probably due to the fact that he looked right out of one of those mafia murder movies.

"No, I just mindlessly scroll on social media until my eyes glaze over, my brain goes numb, and I start believing that birds are actually government robots recording every aspect of our daily lives."

He shrugged. "That would make a lot of sense."

"And you say I'm the one on my phone too much." She went back to scrolling, popping a mint from the candy jar into her mouth. It was for the customers technically, but she hadn't had to refill the jar in a month. She was doing them a favor really. If they sat for too much longer, they'd probably poison someone.

"Funny, my phone says 4:30. Didn't your shift start at 4:00?"

Groaning, she set her phone down once again. "Are we back on that? If you want the truth, I lost my house keys and was looking everywhere for them."

"Did you find them in your nightstand?"

"How'd you know?" She feigned astonishment.

"That was yesterday's excuse too."

Shoot. She forgot she didn't use the house got flooded excuse yesterday.

"This is strike two, Monte." Bruce gave her the disappointed father look. Not that she knew what that really looked like—she never really got that look from her parents a day in her life.

"Bruce, come on. You know I'm the best worker here. And no one stops by before 5 o'clock."

"Your schedule says 4 o'clock. Period."

She shut her mouth, holding back the groan. When Bruce was serious, he really was serious. She didn't want to push his buttons any further. Though she was tempted to.

"I promise I'll be on time tomorrow. And I don't promise often."

He seemed appeased by her answer as he went back to sorting through vinyls. She was pretty sure they were in alphabetical order already, but he seemed to really like flipping through the tracks. It really was his passion.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? That disappointed father look on your face is killing me." She was half joking. The other half was her just being bored and hoping he'd give her something to do.

"Sell a vinyl to this customer." He nodded his head towards the entrance.

She hadn't even noticed anyone walking towards the shop. Tucking the phone away in her pocket, the nightmare bells jingled again as her first customer of the day walked in.

"Welcome to Catfish!" She voiced towards the front door. She couldn't really tell anything about the guy that walked in, besides the fact that he had snow white skin. A baseball hat and sunglasses hid any other defining features.

She gestured to Bruce to go to the backroom. She hated when he judged her vinyl knowledge, and he always managed to steal her thunder with all that he knew. She wasn't about to lose this challenge.

She watched over his shoulder, taking note of which vinyls he chose to flip through. His choices were random at first. Of course he flipped through the Beatles. Everyone did that. Eminem. J. Cole. Not much of a selection there, but she could stan them.

"Are you looking for something specific?"

He turned around to look at her still standing behind the counter. "Me?"

She snickered. "No, the ghost next to you." She walked towards where he was standing. "If you like rap, then be prepared to have your world shook. Follow me."

He obeyed, trailing beside her and sipping the large iced coffee in his hand. Black coffee. He must be really desperate to have to drink that stuff.

"We have to stop by Animal Collective, because, well, they're my favorite. And this album is perfection. If I were stoned, not saying I've ever been there, this is what I would want playing in the background. Don't tell anyone I told you that though."

Without words, the boy smiled. That was enough to boost her confidence and keep the album under her arm as an option. Who knows, maybe he'd want it after all.

"Moving on, for rap, this is the best vinyl in the building. Wu-tang Clan. If you haven't heard them, you're missing out. It is my absolute favorite, and, if you don't buy it, I might just buy it for you myself because it's that good."

Pocketing his sunglasses, she was able to see his face as he took the vinyl in his hands. He was clearly Asian, with eyes that looked like they could shoot daggers. Though he looked innocent and gentle, and maybe not a day over twenty. She was a bad judge of age though.

"You know a lot.." He smiled, holding the vinyl carefully.

"I like vinyls. And rap. Unfortunately our rap vinyl collection here is kinda sucky."

"You like rap?"

"I love rap. I actually perform around the corner sometimes—"

"You rap?" His eyes lit up with amazement.

She was used to people being shocked that she wanted to rap. If there was an image to fit, she definitely didn't meet it. But the look in his eyes was more than just surprise. He looked excited.

"Just a little bit." She lied. She'd spent nearly every day for the past month recording at the studio down the street. It really wasn't a big deal though. It was a friend's recording studio, not like a record label or anything. That was still a far off dream.

"That's so cool." He walked to the counter with her, taking longer sips of his coffee along the way.

"So, where are you from?" She made small talk as she rang him up. Usually she hated these parts of the conversation, but she was actually interested this time.

"South Korea."

"What brought you here?"

"Music."

She watched his eyes. He was being genuine, that much she appreciated. She was so over the guys who came in acting like they knew everything about music and vinyls.

She handed over his receipt. "I'm Monte, in case you ever hear about me in the future or anything."

She smiled at his laughter, forcing it into her memory.

"I'm Yoongi."

"Well, come again, Yoongi." Please.

God, where was her head?

The bells jingled as he headed out the door, waving at her one last time. She waved before turning towards the office.

Bruce was already standing in the doorframe. "Are you okay? You look a little.. red in the face." He could hardly hold back the bubbling laughter.

"Whatever." She pulled her phone back out, blocking out his mocking. Why was she so shaken by the boy? There wasn't anything exceptional he said or did. Maybe that's what it was. He was genuinely authentic.

And he liked rap. So that was a plus in her book.

"He bought a vinyl?"

"Two." She said matter of factly. "He bought two."

"Consider your sins repaid. Now go get a drink of water before you overheat."

She ran a hand across her forehead. Since when did he keep the lounge so hot?

#bts #bts yoongi #bts suga #bts fluff #bts drabble #fanfic #romance #original character #character concept #bts fic #bts imagines #bts jin #bts namjoon #bts jhope #bts taehyung #bts v #bts jimin #bts jungkook #bts ff #bts fanfic #meet cute

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

Name: Matthew Kincaid Species: Vampire Occupation: Artist and supernatural snitch Age: 66 Years Old Played By: Gray Face Claim: Luke Arnold

“I don’t live with anything, man. Technically.”

The nice thing about looking up from the dirt is that you’ve got a lot of room to dream real fuckin’ big in. Matty made the most of it. And he had to, because he spent a lot of time on the ground as a kid - kicked there by every playground shithead in every town his military parents dragged him through. The Kincaids moved around the whole motherfucking United States, and West Germany, besides; for him, they said. Matty didn’t see it that way. His parents were what they were because the money was good, good enough to buy them a nice house, a nice car, a nice life. Good enough to put him through school, which would be a good, good thing, because he was smart, wasn’t he?

When he applied himself, maybe. If he just knocked it off with all his bullshit about being an artist and started focusing on a real career, they would always say, a real life. Instead of sneaking out to the bars of West Berlin and Hamburg and Frankfurt and El Paso and Columbus and Oklahoma City and so on. Instead of splattering paint all over his new shirts and piercing his own ears just “to try it.” Instead of wasting hours closed off in his newest bedroom, singing along to cranked tapes of the Stones, Zeppelin, and the Scorpions. Trying to get it right. Trying to sound like someone else, so he could be someone else, somewhere else, doing something else. Maybe, then, he’d fit. Maybe.

Then Matty found out that, actually, he could have all that by sounding like himself - because he sounded pretty fucking amazing, when he let that big voice out. It took until his first year of college, at a school he’d picked because his parents made him and it was as far away from them as he could get. What a feeling, singing along with everyone else at some freshman party, pissed faceless on tequila… and the room going dead quiet around you, just to listen. After years of being shit on by his mom and dad and teachers and classmates for daring to step into drama club and actually practicing for band, for doing art projects “wrong,” for bringing German rock records and other “stupid crap” to school, for wearing his hair too long and his pants too tight and so on, and so on, and so on, Matty was stunned.

And it wasn’t a fluke. He’d thought it must be, but no. From covers, he started improvising, and people liked that too. Liked it more, even. Open mic Fridays at the campus bar became the best fucking night of the week. So he found more, scattered throughout the city. Soon, Matty was entirely hooked. On the freedom, on the confidence. On being seen and heard and loved like that. He’d never known anything like it. And now that he had, he couldn’t imagine life without it.

The band erupted like a goddamn volcano, from there. Warhorse. They’d found each other at just the right time, in just the right place, and, fuck, man… the music they made was something else. People noticed. Fast. Matty spent his twenty-first birthday touring the country to sold out shows, and by his twenty-fifth, it had all gone global. They were legends, and he was thriving on it. And on the fiercely tight-knit family he’d found, in his bandmates. They weren’t gonna be like the rest, falling out and apart. No way. Not that there weren’t highs and lows, of various kinds. But they made it through, for love of the music. And they always would, despite all the drama, and the distractions, and… yeah, the drugs. Hey, they were rock stars. Par for the course.

But the course took a swerve nobody could’ve seen coming, and from there, everything crashed and burned. And the end, like the beginning, and the press, and the fans, was all about Matty.

It happened in New York. Some dingy bar, after a show, groupies, the usual. Until somebody fucking bit him. And - God, if only he’d been twice as hammered. Maybe he wouldn’t remember the rest. The blood and the cold and the dark. Then a bandmate’s hands on his face, rousing him to the worst ache he’d ever felt. A hunger. Something so furious and painful that he snapped like an animal, teeth, fangs, in his bassman’s neck. He drank until the haze sizzled off, long enough to taste it. To realize. To come to his senses, and run. And that was that. Warhorse, one of the most explosive bands of its age, never played another show. Just collapsed. That was shocking enough, but the disappearance of Matty Kincaid, specifically, became the stuff of conspiracy theories and urban legends. These days, the band is remembered largely as a mysterious musical tragedy. Which is a shame, because as any real classic rock fan can tell you, Warhorse - and that iconic frontman of theirs - were so much more.

Of course, Matty’s a whole other kind of more, these days. Or less, as he sees it. He’s entirely repulsed by what he’s been turned into, and never properly had the chance to grieve the life he’d had, the people he left behind, and hurt. He nearly killed one of his best friends in the world, somebody he loved. And he lost everything. It’s not even the money, the fame. It was the meaning. So, no, he’s not over it. And, to some extent, he holds that against every vampire he meets, and all the rest of them. Enough that he usually doesn’t suffer an attack of moral qualms when he points the local hunters towards some supernatural or other. Usually. And if he does? A bit of ash will probably fix that. Or the blue mushrooms. Daverin will do, if that’s all he can get. Nectar, as a last resort. Whatever it takes, to make sure he’s out of it more often than he isn’t. Why should Matty get remorseful, anyway? They’re all monsters.

Character Facts:

Personality: Passionate, creative, charming, affectionate, defensive, conflicted, fearful, self-loathing

Since he came to White Crest, for the sake of avoiding awkwardness, Matty’s been going by an alias - Matthew Kerrigan. No, it’s not especially inventive. Because he doesn’t trust himself to remember to answer to a different first name, and alliteration should help him keep the surname straight, right? 

Warhorse is about as substantial a piece of rock history as Styx, REO Speedwagon, Twisted Sister, or Quiet Riot. So, not one of the first names that pops to mind, but not too far down the list. They’re your thing if you like “dad music.” Though, all that’s old is new again, and a few of the band’s big tracks have made their way into blockbuster soundtracks lately. There’s usually a song of theirs on your average radio mix of standard summer tunes, and since the band’s gone official on Spotify, they’ve popped up on plenty of those “Essential 80s” and “Roadtrip Classics”-style playlists. One of those bands that you’ve definitely heard, even if you don’t really know them. 

Matty still looks almost exactly the same as he did when he was fronting Warhorse. Maybe he can’t help the fact that he literally hasn’t aged a day, but. He hasn’t got rid of the band hair, either, and that’s a choice. So are is the thrift store throwback style. Dude’s living in the past… 

Matty hasn’t touched music in… decades. But he can’t really stay away. He’s started drifting in and out of any live shows in town that seem interesting. It’s not the same. Nothing is. He’s been working up the solidity to head into For the Record, just to see if he can find a couple vinyls worth having. 

Though he spent most of his time with Warhorse at the front, singing, Matty is also very capable on the piano and guitar. The rest of his artistic side shone through in the work he did designing the band’s album covers and show sets - so, for some viewers, his art has seriously nostalgic vibes. Even if they’re not sure why... 

#retired

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

Andreil at a baseball game

This prompt made me chuckle, given Neil’s disdain for baseball.  Hope you enjoy this bit of fluff!

“I’m being punished, aren’t I.”  

Neil’s arms were crossed and his eyes were narrowed, and Andrew struggled to keep his face straight.  “Yes.”

“Ugh.”  Neil cast another glare in the direction of the stadium rising up in front of them.  “I didn’t mean to do it.  I can take her back, if you want.  It was just…she was looking at me with those eyes, you know?”

Andrew did know; Neil was looking at him with those same piteous eyes, just as he had a week ago when he had brought home yet another hard-luck kitten.  This made four, with fifteen legs and seven eyes and three tails between them, and Andrew had warned him after the last one what would happen.  Neil knew Andrew always kept his word.

Besides, it wasn’t like Neil would actually take the thing back.  When they had left the little tripod beast had been asleep in Andrew’s boot and Neil had gushed and taken seventeen photos with his goddamn phone before Andrew had shoved him out the door.

“You know the deal, junkie.  Add a cat, go to a baseball game.  Add two, and it’s season tickets.”  It was the only recourse Andrew had at this point, short of homicide.

By some gift of a minor deity they made it into the stadium and to their seats without being recognized.  Once Neil was slumped in his seat like a sullen toddler, Andrew left in search of alcohol.  At least this park had semi-decent beer; he ordered a comically overpriced ‘76 and a miniature plastic baseball cap heaped with moose-tracks ice cream and headed back towards his seat.

As he came down the steps he realized there was a strange hubbub down in their section.  A strange, Neil-related hubbub.  Of fucking course.  A cluster of college-age kids were all gathered around a flustered Neil, waving programs in his face for him to sign.  

“But I don’t even play baseball,” he was protesting when Andrew made his way into their row.  He was fully prepared to dump his twelve dollar beer on someone’s head if necessary, but it turned out conspicuously stepping on people’s feet and pretending you didn’t notice was a highly effective method of getting them out of your way.  Who knew?

Neil blinked up at him sheepishly.  “They’re, uh, fans.”

Andrew gave him his best “No shit” look, and Neil grinned when one of the fans squealed as they recognized Andrew.  

“Oh my god.  Oh my god, you’re Andrew Minyard.  You’re like my brother’s favorite player!  He has a fathead of you up on his wall!”

Neil snorted; the girl continued to gush despite Andrew’s flattest stare until her friends tugged her away.  “Well, now you know why they made you pose for that,” Neil said with sweet venom.  “It was all so one teenage boy could have a life-sized vinyl version of you forever on his bedroom wall.”

“Thanks.  That’s not fucking creepy or anything.”

It was already the bottom of the first inning and Neil hadn’t so much as glanced in the direction of the field.  They were close enough to see the sweat on the batters’ faces as they headed for first base, not that Neil appreciated the good seats.  Andrew wondered if it still counted as punishment if Neil succeeded in getting through all nine innings without watching a pitch.  Probably, judging by the restless jiggling of one long leg.  

Andrew finished his ice cream and sipped his beer, ignoring the twitching coming from the seat next to him.  Vendors wandered up and down the steps, and Neil bought himself a hot dog and onion rings, the latter of which Andrew mooched half of before he even noticed.  

By the top of the fourth, Neil had started to watch despite himself, the junkie.  At the bottom of the fifth, he leaned over.  “Fastball.”

Andrew studied the way the pitcher was eyeing the catcher, the angle of his shoulder, the stance of his feet.  “Curve.”

“Five bucks?”

“You’re on.”

By the seventh inning stretch, Andrew was twenty dollars richer and celebrated by escaping the off-key singing that reverberated through the stadium to get another beer.  This time he returned to find his idiot arguing with a hard-core baseball fan from the row in front over whether replay was killing the sport.  Neil had the glow in his eyes and flush across his cheeks that he got when he was fighting just for the sheer love of being difficult, and Andrew wanted to drag him out of there, if only to find a dark corner and kiss him senseless.  He wasn’t even paying attention to what Neil was saying, just the way he lit up and laughed at the response he got.

Play resumed, and this time it was Andrew having trouble concentrating on the game.  It was impossible.  Neil was impossible, with the sun highlighting the curve of his cheek, shooting gold through the flame of his hair.  He glanced at Andrew, the corner of his mouth quirking up and promising trouble later.  With a herculean effort, Andrew dragged his eyes back to the field; if his thoughts were racing ahead to newfound plans for how they would spend the rest of their evening, nobody needed to know.

The game ended with a strikeout from the young relief pitcher.  The roar from the crowd had Neil joining in, swept away in the noise and almost palpable joy that rippled through the stadium.  Andrew remained in his seat as his junkie leaped to his feet, silently shaking his head at how spectacularly his plan had gone awry.  

“That wasn’t so bad,” Neil said once they were back in the merciful air conditioning of the Maserati.  

“I’ll have to think up a different deterrent.”

The smile Neil shot him with was painful in its beauty.  “You know Lady Whiskerton has a brother.”

“You are not naming it that.”

“Too late.”  Neil caught Andrew’s hand where it rested on the gear shift and brought his palm to his lips.  “You’re stuck with us.”

A thousand acid retorts marched through Andrew’s brain only to die on his tongue.  He had been trapped in flypaper before, knew the sticky helplessness of it.  This was different; this was a plant turning to the sun.  It was warmth, and strength, and the slow sure deepening of roots through rocky soil.  This was every dark corner and recess being illuminated, every demon exposed by the sanitizing light, and saying yes anyway.  It was the opposite of stuck.

“You’re an idiot,” he said, keeping his voice as flat as possible.  But Neil—damn him, Neil was fluent in Andrew as he was in everything else.  He heard the truth behind the words, and the look he turned on Andrew was preposterously beautiful.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking at me too loudly.”

Neil laughed, bright and warm. Andrew could bask in the sound.  “You can hear what I’m thinking?”

Andrew could; after all, he was good at languages too.  And it was the same as the thought currently taking root in his own chest.  The words echoed through the car, unspoken but not unheard, as Andrew steered them towards home.

#aftg #all for the game #neil josten #andrew minyard #tfc #the foxhole court #drabble #my writing #andreil #baseball