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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 7: Heart Attack]

A/N: Hello all! Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥰 Thank you so much for loving this fic and giving all my eccentric AU ideas a chance. I’m currently in Washington DC visiting one of my best friends, so if I’m a little bit tardy replying to your comments/messages then that’s why. Don’t fear!! I will check in as soon as I can, and I am still amazed by and will forever cherish your support. 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, Shelby being a bigger plague than the locusts of Egypt, mental health struggles, references to violence and abuse, New Jersey, pregnancy, mini golf, lots of content for the Cregan girlies.

Selected Chapter Quote: “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

You type into Google as you hide in the public bathroom stall, pink tile walls and mint green porcelain, very 1950s, phantom drips of water and humming florescent lights: Can Plan B make your period late?

You scroll through the results, clutching your iPhone with both hands. Faintly, you can hear the rest of the band outside, chattering, laughing, slurping on Slush Puppies, smacking trees and rocks with their golf clubs. Yes, the consensus seems to be; Plan B can delay your period. Incidentally, so can pregnancy.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You peer down at your panties, as if you can force bloodstains to appear: sparce rosy threads of warning, dark red splotches like rust, you aren’t particular. You’ll take anything. “Fuck,” you say again, defeated. You get dressed, wash your hands, and head back out into the cloudless afternoon sunshine.

“Stargirl, it’s your turn!” Aegon shouts as you trot over to them: tenth hole, shaped like an L, featuring an intimidating loop de loop. The course is dinosaur themed; Rhaena picked it. Aegon points to Jace. “This deformed bastard wanted to skip you.”

“I told you,” Jace moans. His speech is garbled and lisping, his face comically swollen, bruised yellow-emerald-indigo and drooling blood, stitches above his left eyebrow. He just had his dental implants placed yesterday; the four teeth that he lost at Club Camelot could not be readily located for reattachment. “I can’t keep track of who’s next. I’m on like four different opiates.”

Baela frets over him. “Shh, shh, baby. Try not to talk.” There’s something about watching someone get almost-murdered that makes you want to forgive them, you suppose.

You grab your club and golf ball, dark blue, from where you left them by a tree. Rhaena gives you a covert little thumbs up and raised eyebrows. Everything good? You smile—too widely, insincere, a liar—and nod. Technically, you have yet to obtain concrete evidence to the contrary.

You take your turn, somewhat awkwardly due to the splint that still encumbers your dominant hand. You are thinking about anything but mini golf. Your ball goes halfway through the loop de loop and then comes rolling back. How many strokes? Four, five, you lose count, it doesn’t matter. Aegon is snickering, though not in a mean way, never in a mean way. Aemond is watching you. He does this constantly; you can feel his eyes—river water, otherworldly atmosphere—on you all the time, you can see him on the periphery of your vision. But when you glance at Aemond, he looks away. You’re wearing flip flops, a black NSYNC t-shirt, and bright pink shorts that Baela insists are of the very short variety. Aemond is staring a little extra hard today. Shelby alternates between glaring at him and at you.

Jace putts next. He misses the ball twice. On the third try, he hits it into a nearby pond. Golden koi fish scatter beneath the rippling sheen of the water.

“Loser,” Aegon declares mildly. “Criston, why the fuck are we in New Jersey?”

“Because you’re playing three shows at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford,” Criston says as he putts; his green golf ball sails through the loop de loop, bounces off a wall, and then rolls straight into the cup, a hole in one. “One Direction did it, Taylor Swift did it, and now you’re going to do it too. And if you don’t make it too unbearable for me, I’ll even take you to the beach while we’re here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees. He slurps on his Slush Puppie. “Oh, Aemond, I need the Netflix password.”

“You forgot it again?!” Daeron says. Jace, groaning softly, lies down on the ground in a patch of shade. Baela gets a bottle of Orajel rinse out of her purse and starts pouring it into his mouth.

“Get your own account,” Aemond snaps at Aegon. “I think you can afford it.”

“Bruh, that’s not the point! I don’t know where I left off in Grey’s Anatomy!”

They keep bickering. You stop listening. You can only hear the sounds of rustling leaves, squawking seagulls, the whistling of the warm August wind. You can only feel the weight of Aemond’s half-fascinated, half-resentful gaze on you. He wouldn’t believe me, you think. If I really am pregnant, he would never believe that it was an accident. He would never believe that I was that guilelessly, unambitiously stupid. Hell, I did it and I barely believe it.

You steal a glimpse of Aemond—black shirt and black sunglasses, white shorts, Adidas sneakers—and he turns away, pretending to pick dirt off his golf ball. Interestingly, he will talk to you about things not related to that night in Tokyo; perhaps it would be too suspicious not to, a neon sign for the rest of the band to read. But he never allows himself to be alone with you. And he never touches you, not even a grazing of hands or an absentminded bump as he passes you in aisles or hallways.

Bump, you think miserably. An inauspicious choice of words.

“We should watch Se7en,” Aegon is saying now. “Comet fam movie night.”

You mutter: “We’re not watching Se7en.”

“What’s Se7en about?” Rhaena asks.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“What’s in the box?!” Aegon shouts dramatically—quoting the beautiful yet doomed David Mills, a name he once borrowed to schedule a Zoom meeting with you—and then cackles. It’s his turn. He clobbers his golf ball and sends it flying through the loop de loop; it pops over the barrier and disappears into a bush. Startled squirrels dart out of the leaves.

“Loser!” Jace slurs as he lies sprawled across the ground, vindicated.

“Stop spitting blood everywhere,” Aemond says. He putts next, and badly: poor depth perception. “You’re getting it on my sneakers.”

“Watch it, cyclops.” Jace points to his own stitches, bruises, surgically replaced teeth. “I let you have this one. Now we’re even. But next time I won’t be so charitable.”

“You’re not even,” Aegon tells Jace, abruptly severe. He whips off his aviator sunglasses, crouches over Jace, glaring and thunderous like a storm. Baela observes this warily. “Not even close.”

Jace is intrigued. “No?”

“No. Your face will heal.” Then Aegon pokes him in the jaw and Jace screams, tears slithering down his puffy, mottled cheeks. Cregan yanks Aegon away before Baela can scratch his eyes out. Criston repossesses Aegon’s blue raspberry Slush Puppie as punishment. Luke wins the game, five under par.

Comet’s first shows in the United States this tour start just like the last few in Asia: Jace is iced, painted with concealer, thoroughly medicated, numbed into semi-consciousness. He does lines of coke in the bathroom under Cregan’s supervision. He can’t perform without it. Criston tried to negotiate a month off for Jace, but the label’s message was clear: get him on stage, we don’t care how you do it, we don’t want to know about it, here’s a blank check, figure it out or we’ll find another manager who can. Now Criston watches Jace with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes wounded and anxious, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of what he believes is failure.

The story released to the press is that Jace fell down a flight of stairs but is recovering smoothly. He can barely sing; his mic is turned up, and during Jace’s verses Cregan or Luke layer their voice with his. He wobbles and flubs his way through Night 1 in East Rutherford. You spend the show staring up at the stage without seeing it. Baela and Rhaena are with you, but you aren’t really with them; you feel like if they reached out to touch you, their hands would find only translucent emptiness like a mirage. Shelby is flocked by fellow influencers that she’s invited in from New York City. Aemond is somewhere, somewhere: lurking in shadows, brooding, avoiding, musing, suffering, jotting down starlight-colored judgments in his black-paged notebook.

Per tradition, the band and their entourage coalesce in Jace’s suite after the show. Jace himself, the gracious host, promptly collapses on a couch and lies there senseless as the party spins around him like the planets of a solar system. Baela is perched dutifully beside him, holding ice packs to his jaw, wiping away drool the color of one of Aemond’s Brambles. A tattoo artist is inking a goldfinch, New Jersey’s state bird, to the top of Jace’s right foot. Criston is across the room and speaking—rather tensely, it seems—with cigar-smoking label executives. Shelby is snapping photos with her friends; they take turns posing each other out on the balcony, adjusting elbows and wrists and knees, swiping away stray flecks of mascara, rearranging hair, recommending plastic surgeons. Aegon is typing WhatsApp messages—mostly emojis, from what you can see—to Miley Cyrus. At Luke’s prompting, Aemond begins sharing his comments to the presently sentient members of Comet. He puffs on one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes as he reads aloud. He kindly skips over any criticisms of Jace’s performance.

You can’t stand hearing Aemond’s voice; not because there’s anything wrong with it, but because there isn’t, because you can’t stop remembering what he said to you in that florescent-white bathroom at Club Camelot in Tokyo, because he uses his words on so many people who aren’t you, because sooner or later your time with Comet will be over and you’ll only ever hear him again through Spotify songs and YouTube clips from before the accident, because he will one day be a ghost who haunts you, rattling doorknobs and chilling pockets of air but never speaking. You escape to ask the bartender: “Can I get a Coke?”

“A rum and Coke?”

“No.”

“Like…white powder coke?”

“No, a Coca-Cola. With nothing else in it.”

“Okay, whatever,” the bartender says, perplexed. He fills a glass with ice and dark liquid that pops and fizzes with carbonation, then slides it across the counter to you. You meander out into the hallway where you can be alone, where you don’t have to pretend to be okay.

The carpet is gold but frayed, the walls adorned with faux marble columns and scuffs from recklessly handled suitcases. Even the hotels are worse in New Jersey. You sip your soda—nonalcoholic, huh? you think, then push it aside—and roam past suite doors and vending machines until you reach the cove of elevators. There’s a full-length mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded, gaudy. You frown at yourself, a reflection that suddenly looks a bit like a stranger. You’re wearing a short seafoam green dress, gold earrings and sandals, and an eerily vacuous expression. You turn and move your hair aside so you can peer over your shoulder at what’s been indelibly penned there since Rome: the tiny comet, the lyrics that encircle it.

I wanted to remember this band forever. To remember Aemond. You can feel your stomach drop as it grows heavy with dread. The pulsing music from Jace’s suite has followed you down the hall, Sugar by Robin Schulz and Francesco Yates. I think I might just have more than a tattoo to remember him by after all.

One of the elevators dings and opens. A man lumbers out, towering, broad, monstrous. You gape up at him: brown threadbare coat, heavy boots, unruly dark beard, grey eyes like a bleak winter sky. There is a miasma that colors the air around him with smoke and alcohol, sweat and earth.

“Hello there,” he says, politely enough. His voice is such a baritone rumble that it’s difficult to understand. He has a British accent, but not like Aegon’s, not like Aemond’s. He reminds you of someone you can’t quite place. “I’m looking for a certain young gentleman. I’m hoping you can point me in his direction.”

“Sure,” you reply, trying to disguise your shock so you don’t offend him. He could be someone important. He could be an eccentric producer or a consultant. Or a drug dealer. “Who…uh…who was it you were hoping to speak with…?”

He smiles: sharp canine teeth yellowed by nicotine, glinting eyes like silver coins. “Cregan Stark.”

“Okay,” you stammer. Drug dealer?? “Okay, okay, I’ll…uh…I’ll go get him.”

You hurry down the hall and into Jace’s crowded, smokey suite, clinking glasses and flirtatious titters in dim lighting like late twilight. You return your empty drink to the bartender, then tap Cregan on the shoulder and inform him that someone out in the hallway is asking for him. He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this. Drug dealer, you think confidently. Cregan gulps his vodka shot and follows you out of the suite. He steps through the doorway. He turns towards the stranger. And then he stops dead. His eyes go wide. The blood drains from his face. And Cregan—immovable, inscrutable, unflappable Cregan—shrinks until he is a child again.

Immediately, you know you’ve made a mistake. You reach for him. “Cregan, wait—”

“My son,” the monstrous man sighs. And of course now you’ve realized exactly who the mirrorlike grey of his eyes reminded you of. “My son.”

You can’t stop him. How could you stop him? Faster than you can think, he has crossed the space between you and entombed Cregan in a stifling embrace. Cregan stands paralyzed, his eyes shifting, searching for escape. Tentatively, appeasingly, his hands slowly rise to hug the man in return.

“Criston?!” you shout. But within the suite, he cannot hear you over the music and the berating of smoke-veiled, bejeweled label executives.

“Did you forget about me, huh?” the man asks Cregan gruffly. And as he steps back he grips one of Cregan’s shoulders: not like Criston would, not like a father, like a vice, like a bear trap. He shakes Cregan once, not too hard. “You can fly your private jet all over the world but you can’t call your own father back? Huh? Huh?!” He shakes Cregan again, harder.

“Criston!” you scream. “Security! Somebody!”

Nobody can hear me. Nobody is coming.

You sprint into Jace’s suite, seize Criston by one hand, drag him out into the hall. On the blurry periphery of your vision, you can see Aemond getting up off the couch to follow you. The second he spots the monstrous man, Criston is roaring. “No no no, get away from him!” He pushes between Cregan and the giant, terrifying, wrathful. The man dwarfs him. Criston doesn’t seem to know it. “You can’t be here. We’ve been over this, you’re not allowed to be here—”

The man tries to reach around him to clutch at Cregan’s shirt. Aemond pulls you away from the scuffle. Criston hits the man in the solar plexus; he is momentarily stunned, wheezing. By the time he straightens up, Criston—louder than you, bellowing and fierce—has summoned security. They are swarming the man and escorting him back down the hallway towards the elevators. Aemond goes to Cregan. Criston looks at you. You’re quivering, penitent.

“I had no idea…he asked for Cregan…I would never have…I thought maybe he was a friend of the band…”

“He’s on our no fly list,” Criston says. His voice is tired yet patient. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

You try to apologize to Cregan, but he isn’t listening to you. He’s listening to Aemond. Aemond is speaking to him, low and calm, too quietly for you to hear. “I’m okay,” Cregan says unsteadily. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright if you’re not,” Aemond tells him.

And you know that right now you are unnecessary, intrusive. Criston goes downstairs to figure out how Comet’s security guards in the lobby didn’t catch this and—presumably—to ensure that the invader is properly dealt with. Aemond slings an arm across Cregan’s shoulders and leads him back to the party where he is cared for, welcome, valued, safe. You hide in your own suite and try not to think about the dates on the calendar—missing blood, summer days ticking down towards zero—as you steep in a hot bath and attempt to scrub everything you’ve done wrong, today, yesterday, ever, off your skin. Then you change into an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants.

You try to sleep but of course you can’t, surrounded by a silence that only gets louder. When you hear the swipe of a keycard and the creaking of your door, you don’t know who to expect: Cregan, Criston, Rhaena, Luke, Baela, Jace, Daeron, Shelby, Aemond, ghosts. The clopping of his Crocs gives him away, neon pink to match his tank top. “I’m really not in the mood for anything resembling sex.”

Aegon replies as he kicks off his Crocs: “Did I ask, succubus?” He crawls into the bed, throws an arm casually across your waist, rests his head on your belly as your fingers thread through his chaotic blond hair, fond and tender. He burrows into you, into your softness and your warmth and your truth and your mysteries. Sometimes you feel like you’ll give until he falls into you like a trapdoor, the bones of his hands tangling around your spine, his blood vessels spilling into all of your rage-scarlet cavities, hollows of the flesh, hollows of the soul. “You’re sad.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. That’s the strange thing. Usually I can tell.”

“You’ve been gone.”

He looks up at you, confused. “I’ve been right here.”

“You know what I meant.”

Aegon doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t make promises both of you know he could never keep. He only lays his head down on your belly again and pulls himself closer to you, closer, closer, melting into your melancholy, dissolving into dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I was eleven when he broke my arm. Thirteen when he cracked my skull for the first time. Then I got big enough to hurt him back.” Cregan looks out over the waves: blue currents, white froth, sunbeams like glinting blades. As Criston promised, Comet is spending an afternoon in Seaside Heights. You and Cregan are sitting on the sand together twenty yards from the others. “I grew up in a two-bedroom cabin with no electricity or running water. We had a metal wash tub outside, ate deer and squirrels and rabbits, never had clothes that fit, never saw a doctor except when what was wrong might kill us. We had a woodstove and chopped down trees to burn in the winter. I had eight siblings, six of whom are still alive. Barnett overdosed. Courtland drove his friend’s Nissan into a brick wall. I’m not sure it was accidental.”

Your words are soft like a whisper, like gentle hands. “Cregan, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not…” His voice breaks. He stops for a while, composes himself, begins again. “It’s not something I talk about. Not because I’m trying to forget it. I can’t forget it, I’ll never be able to, I understand that, believe me. There’s just nothing to be gained from talking about it. I never feel better afterwards. I always feel worse.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

You wait, watching him. There’s something he needs to say. Down the beach a ways, Baela is doing yoga, her bare feet sure and agile in shifting sand. Rhaena, Luke, and Aemond are flying kites in the breeze: black dragons, green dragons. Shelby is, predictably, filming them from where she stands on Aemond’s good side. Aegon and Daeron are swimming so far out that you’re beginning to worry about sharks. Criston is parked under an umbrella with an unconscious Jace, reading Memoirs Of A Geisha and eating a sandwich full of something called pork roll.

“After Comet happened, I got all of them out,” Cregan continues. “My mum, my siblings. Good houses in safe neighborhoods. Security in case Dad makes an appearance. He does, every once in a while. He’s locked up, he’s free, he’s locked up again. He has nothing else to do but haunt us. I’ve been waiting for him to die since I was old enough to understand what a graveyard is.” Cregan looks at you. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

“The thing is…” He holds out one large hand, palm down, like he’s resting it on a table. Then he shakes it. “Nothing ever feels stable. Nothing ever feels safe. No matter how much money I see stack up in accounts, I lie awake at night wondering what I’ll do if it disappears. So many people rely on me. I can’t stop worrying I’ll end up back in that cabin somehow. I can still hear drops of rainwater seeping in through the gaps in the roof. I can still smell burning wood.”

“The fact that you feel this way, given your history, is completely logical…even if the fear itself is not. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Cregan says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you think it would help if we sat down and looked at the numbers and did some math? Because I suspect that even with a hundred dependents, you’d easily be able to float them for the rest of your lifetime just using the money you already have. And there will be royalties from Comet’s songs forever. Maybe if we can show you exactly how improbable your worst case scenario is, that fear will begin to fade a bit. Not go away, not completely, maybe not ever…but I think you’ll be able to quiet it down.”

“I’ll give it a try. If you recommend it.” Cregan lights a cigarette and takes a drag. Criston glances over and then pretends he didn’t notice. “I have a daughter,” Cregan says; and you can’t stop the shock from hitting your face like a fist. He smiles faintly, wistfully. “I know. I’ve worked very hard to make sure she is kept away from…” He gestures broadly. “All of this.” Fame. Debauchery. Tabloids. Reddit threads. “I was way too young. And her mother and I…we were never really together. It was contentious for a while, but we’ve sorted through things. I support them financially, obviously. And when I’m not on tour or in the studio, I disappear up to Lancaster for a few weeks at a time and no one is the wiser.”

You study him as wind tears in off the Atlantic Ocean, as seagulls swoop and screech overhead. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate how you’ve protected her once she can understand.”

“I don’t know how to be a father. Not a good one. But I try. I don’t just show up for movie nights and birthdays. I take her shopping for school supplies. I put her back to bed when she has nightmares. I take her to the dentist, to the park, to the library. She really likes pigs, so I adopted a few from a farm animal rescue and we learned how to raise them together.”

“You caring about being a good parent puts you ahead of a lot of people already,” you say. “Nobody in Comet knows?”

“Just Aemond. Once, years ago, her mother needed something and I was out of the country. I had to let somebody in on the secret, somebody I could trust. I chose Aemond. I chose right.” Now Cregan is amused. “He’s the one who suggested the pigs.”

“Of course he did,” you say; and you can’t help but smile. “How old is she?”

“Six and a half. Do you want to see a picture her?”

“Absolutely. If it’s alright with you.”

Cregan pulls his iPhone from his pocket, swipes around for a while, and then turns the screen so you can see. She looks like him, a lot like him, but with round cheeks and long dark lashes. And Cregan is beaming as he says: “Her name is Iris.”

“So you didn’t have to do the Maury paternity test thing.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I knew from the second I saw her she was mine.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Cregan shrugs, pensive, evasive. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” And he believes that you mean it; you can see it on his face. Aemond is watching you and Cregan, you notice now. He glances over, pretends he didn’t, glances again. You gesture to the crashing waves and say to Cregan: “If Aegon gets attacked by a shark, will you jump in and punch it or something please?”

Cregan chuckles. “Yeah. That’s my main job here, I think. Stopping people from dying.” And then, seriously: “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything that warrants it.”

“No. Really.” Cregan reaches out, takes your uninjured hand, squeezes it briefly before releasing you. “Thank you, Stargirl.” Then he stands and walks to the water’s edge, letting the surf rush up over his ankles, for just a moment feeling nothing on his shoulders but the sunlight.

Aemond gives Shelby his kite and, as she glares bitterly, makes his way over to you. He takes off his sunglasses so he can see you better and hooks them on the waistband of his swim trunks: black, of course, his usual color. You’re actually wearing black today too, a flowing coverup over a pink swimsuit. You feel very much like hiding. When Aemond speaks, there is perhaps a hint of envy, green like leaves of poison, gleaming like snakeskin. “What were you and Cregan talking about?”

“Fatherhood.” And then you realize how it might sound.

There is a split second where Aemond looks startled; then he remembers Iris. “Right. Not so easy for people like us to navigate.”

People like us. Celebrities, boy band members, haunted men. You scramble for a nonchalant way to feel out the subject with him. “How does Louis Tomlinson handle it?”

“He’s a saint,” Aemond says. And you think: Patron saint of baby daddies? “Freddie was very, very unplanned. The mother was a nobody, a rebound. And a lot of people assumed she did it on purpose to try to keep Louis. Or to get eighteen years of a luxury lifestyle out of him. Or to just get fame in general. Personally, I believe it was all of the above.”

“Right,” you say, sweating heavily beneath your coverup.

“But none of that is the kid’s fault, and Louis is a good enough guy to realize it. So he plays nice with Freddie’s mother and they don’t go to war through tabloids anymore.”

“So, uh…” How can I put this? “You’re good with kids too. Cregan told me you had the pig idea.”

And the look that crosses Aemond’s face, the look: caustic, incredulous, night-dark, self-loathing. “Are you insane? Have you met me? I terrify kids. And I should, but not just because of the eye and the scar. What the hell do I know about being a decent father? What do I know about being a decent anything? I’d have no idea where to start. I’d fuck it up even if I tried desperately not to. I’d end up with kids like Aegon: addicts who hate themselves, people who are irrevocably lost.”

You say meekly: “I think Criston is something like a father to you. He could be a role model.”

“I’m not half as good a man as Criston is.”

Change the topic, change the topic, before Aemond gets suspicious. And there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him. “Aemond…after you almost murdered Jace…when we didn’t know if or how he was going to be able to perform until he healed…did anyone ask you to come back to Comet and fill in for him?”

“No,” Aemond says. And he’s thunderstruck by the thought, appalled, petrified.

“You don’t think that it might have been a good idea? That it might make sense?”

“No,” he says again instantly.

“But…in Tokyo…when Daeron made that speech at the last show…I think the crowd’s reaction was pretty powerful, don’t you? People still care about you. They love and respect you. And I think…maybe…it might help you with what you’ve experienced. To get back on stage—even just one last time—and prove to yourself that you still have what it takes. To know that if you do leave Comet, it’s your choice, not anyone else’s.”

“They love who I was,” Aemond says. “Not who I am now. And that’s easy to do. They don’t have to look at me.”

“Goddammit, there’s nothing wrong with how you look, Aemond!” you burst out. “You look fantastic. I never get tired of looking at you. I want to look at you all the fucking time. I’d hang life-sized portraits of you on every wall in my apartment in Kansas City. That’s how much I enjoy looking at you.”

He thinks you’re joking, he thinks you’re trying to make him feel better. You can’t stop him from thinking these things. And yet still, as he turns away, he is smiling: just a whisper of a curl at the corner of his lips, secretive, fragile.

As Comet is leaving the beach, you stop at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk to buy your keepsake for this tour destination. You settle on a pink frisbee that has I love the Jersey Shore! embossed on it in large, abrasive letters. You think your parents’ Australian cattle dogs will enjoy fetching it when you get home. Home feels so much closer—both literally and figuratively—than it did just a few weeks ago.

Criston is browsing through the t-shirts. “Hey, what size is your mom, Aegon? Medium?”

“How the hell would I know? Probably.” He holds up a pair of red, white, and blue bikini bottoms that say Firecracker across the ass. “You think my dad would mind if you sent her these?”

Criston is blushing. “Aegon, stop.”

“You could get her a bikini top too. Oh look, that one over there is red, it matches. And it says MILF across the tits. So that’s pertinent.”

“Stop!” Criston cries, distressed, and flees the store.

Halfway through the hour-long drive back to the hotel, Aegon insists that Criston stop the Escalades so he can get a hoagie from a Wawa. Aegon has never had a hoagie before. He says he cannot truly experience America without one.

At the ordering counter, Jace—slightly less bruised and swollen today, and thus in better spirits—taunts Aegon: “Are you sure you need all that bread? You’re going to be wearing a muumuu on stage by the time we get to the Midwest.”

“You know, just because you said that, now I’m going to get two hoagies…”

On the television mounted inside the Wawa, CNN is reporting on a group of tornadoes that just struck Wichita. And it occurs to you that tornadoes don’t have trajectories to calculate like hurricanes or airplanes or comets; they are climatological sharks. They strike quickly, indiscriminately, and then they’re gone again. They aren’t named. They aren’t enshrined. They don’t even have a belly to cut open and retrieve pieces of your loved ones from. If they take someone, they’re just gone.

While the rest of the band is in line to order their food, and Aemond is scrutinizing the dried fruit and nuts selection, you sneak through the other aisles.

It’s time. I have to find out eventually. I have to know.

You pluck a pregnancy test—cute, pink, nausea-inducing—off a rack, purchase it with truly impressive speed at the checkout counter, and race to the bathroom. It’s surprisingly difficult to piss on a tiny stick of doom, especially when your primary hand is in a splint and only partially useable. Eventually, you manage. You put the cap back on the pregnancy test, set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser, and stare at the metal door of the stall. The Wawa speakers are playing The Fray’s Over My Head.

It won’t be positive. It can’t be positive.

You think of pregnancy test commercials you’ve seen: happy couples rejoicing, happy single women getting negatives. How are you supposed to react to bad news? Nobody ever tells you. Do you scream, sob, beg for forgiveness, schedule an appointment at Planned Parenthood? Do you kick the bathroom stall door down in mindless feminine fury? Do you throw yourself off a balcony?

There’s no way it will be positive. It was one time. Just one goddamn time.

And who knows if that will ever happen again with Aemond. This does not improve your mood.

You pick up the pregnancy test. It is unequivocally positive.

You shove it into the small rectangular trashcan for pads and tampons, things you won’t be needing in the immediate future. You get dressed, leave the stall, go to the sink and wash your hands. Then you grip the cool, slick, white porcelain and gaze at yourself in the mirror under nowhere-to-hide florescent lights. What do you feel? Everything, nothing, things you can’t name yet. You’re a raw nerve, you’re completely numb.

The bathroom door swings open. Shelby enters. She squares up with great purpose. Your eyes roll to her, slowly, with no tolerance left, not a drop of it. “Stay away from Aemond,” she demands.

“Make me.”

She is in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

You turn all the way towards her. “Fucking make me, Shelby.”

“I knew you wanted him,” she says, she seethes. “I saw you in those paparazzi photos from Reykjavik and I knew you were already twisting your claws into him.”

You hold up your hands to show her; your thoughts are fuzzy, dazed, without inhibition. “I have no claws whatsoever. If I did, you’d know about it. Believe me. You’d be able to look down and watch your heart beating through the gashes.”

“You don’t belong here. Some Midwestern farm girl running around in flip flops and Cookie Monster pajama pants? You’re trash. You’re a user. You’re a nobody. And if you’re trying to steal a taken man, then you’re a whore too.”

“I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

“I can make them hate you,” Shelby says indignantly. “Comet. The world.”

“Good luck with that, Malibu Barbie. Nobody even knows I exist.”

“Stay away from Aemond,” she says again, trembling with her futile bleach-blond rage. “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

“And yet no future.” You smile sweetly, breeze past her, step on one of her perfectly pedicured feet with a thoroughly unpretentious flip flop. By the time you return to them, the band is almost ready to leave Wawa.

You’re not hungry, but Aegon coaxes you into taking a few bites from his hoagie. You’re not able to focus on what people are saying, but you hear Aemond mention that he wishes Comet had time to visit a planetarium in some nearby town called Toms River. You think about what it would be like to lie side by side with him under the stars, under the sky where comets appear again after vanishing for centuries. You wonder if there’s anyplace where you and Aemond could ever be truthful with each other.

At night you can’t sleep. There is no shortage of reasons why. You wander from your bed to the gold-carpet hallway to the vending machines, where you stare brainlessly at the options. Am I supposed to not be drinking caffein? Did I get any Vitamin D today? How much sugar is too much? You buy a bottle of apple juice—surely a safe bet—and head back to your suite.

As you walk by Aemond and Shelby’s door, your steps slow. Some nights you can hear them in there arguing: Shelby reiterating all the reasons why they’re perfect for each other, clearly a rebuttal to an accusation you weren’t privy to. Some nights you hear muffled casual conversation or episodes of Cosmos. Some nights you hear nothing at all. Some nights your imagination colors in the gaps before you can stop it: his hands on her, his mouth on her, things you know you have no right to dread and yet you do. But tonight, Shelby is momentarily removed from the scene. You can hear the distant pattering of the shower, and then Aemond alone in the living room gathering up plates and glasses. He’s singing something very quietly, so quietly it takes you a while to recognize it. It’s not even a Comet Donati song. It’s Through The Dark.

You sit down in the empty hallway, your back to his door. And you lean your head against it as you listen to Aemond singing softly to himself, doubt sinking into you the same way that trapped blood fills a bruise: Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. Maybe he doesn’t talk to me because he doesn’t want to. Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I’ve invented a history that we don’t really share. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he said he loves me.

“What am I going to do?” you whisper, scalding tears brimming in your eyes, shivering hands settling on your belly. In a few months, you’ll be showing. “What the hell am I going to do?”

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #Aegon Targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #Aegon II Targaryen #Aegon Targaryen II x reader #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #Aegon x you #aegon x y/n

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darkwolf989 · 2 months

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Outside the Office Part Seven

Hi All,

No trigger warnings for this one, but definitely mature content. I love the feedback I've been getting- I'm thrilled everyone is enjoying this series! As always, feedback is appreciated! Enjoy!

When I woke up, I found Valentino asleep, his arm wrapped around me protectively. His heart shaped glasses were folded neatly on the nightstand next to us. In all the time we had spent together, I had never seen Val actually sleep. I laid my head on his chest, listening to the steady ins and outs of his breathing as I slowly woke up. I blinked a few times and rubbed my eyes, willing myself to stay awake.

It was at that moment I noticed the bloodstains on his hands and clothes. I sat up and frantically ran my hand over the parts of him I could reach, searching for a source of the blood. Was he hurt? I ran my hands down his chest, unable to find its origon.

“Mi amore. Awake already?” he asked sleepily, adjusting his position ever so slightly.

“You’re bleeding.” I ran my hand over his neck, trying to calm the panic that was so prevalent in my voice. “You’re hurt.”

That woke him up. His fingers interlaced with mine and he pushed us both upright, looking down. Pain shot through me, but I ignored it. Val was hurt. He checked himself over and after a few moments, he shook his head.

“Not mine princessa. Yours, most likely. From yesterday. I need a shower and you…” he saw my pained expression. “Need another round of pain medication. And food.” He gently moved me against the pillows. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He vanished into the bathroom and reappeared a few moments later. He snapped on a pair of blue gloves before he reached over and carefully disconnected the IV line. From his pocket, he pulled two vials and an alcohol wipe packet. .

“One to flush, one for pain.” He took my arm in his hand and ran the wipe over the entryway. “It might burn princessa. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to be high.” I said, yanking my arm away. “No, Val. I don’t like that feeling. Please.”

“You won’t be.” He said soothingly. “The doctor gave you another non narcotic. Just like last night. Once it’s in you, I’ll take the whole IV out. I promise. Let me know when you’re ready.” He waited for me to answer.

“I…trust you.” I said softly, moving back closer to him.

He kissed my forehead. “That’s my girl.”

I grimaced as the first round of liquid flooded into my veins. He uncapped the second vial and slowly pushed it into my body.

“I don’t feel any…ah!” The tightness in the back of my head released and the pain erased itself.

“Supplier of highs and releases,” he mumbled, more to himself than to me. He carefully slid the IV out of my arm, taping the gauze over the pinprick of damage it left behind. “Do you feel okay?”

“I don’t feel pain, if that’s what you're asking.” I said slowly. “Lucifer wasn’t kidding when he said medicine in hell is far more advanced than what angels have. All we have for stuff like this is…well, more akin to what those demons gave me last night.”

Valentino grimaced. “Princessa, I can’t…even begin to imagine.” He sighed and gently leaned over and kissed me. “I told you the medicine wouldn't affect your brain. I made a promise to answer your questions today, and you promised the same. You can’t be hazy for that. But you do need to eat first. Come on, let’s go see what Vox made for breakfast.”

He stood up and lifted me into his arms, carrying me out to the living room couch. “Vox? Vel?" He called out across the room. "One of you, keep an eye on her. I need a shower and I don’t want to leave her by herself.”

“You’re being overprotective.” I told him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He laid me down on the couch and kissed my forehead.

“And I have every right to be overprotective, princessa. Do you disagree?”

I didn’t. The feeling of love and safety that wrapped around me the moment he touched me was incomparable to anything else. I craved it, more than anything. I watched as he walked away, settling myself against the pillows.

Velvette looked over at me from her place on the couch and did a double take. “Fuck. You look even worse this morning.”

I heard Valentino yell from down the hall, his voice loud and laced with annoyance. “Don’t fuck with her Vel, or I’ll fuck you up.”

She puffed up and hollered back. “I’m not fucking with her, its the truth.” She paused and I watched her swing herself up and march down the hallway towards his room. I heard Valentino curse and she walked out a few moments later, a box in her hand. She marched over to the elevator.

“I’ll be right back.”

I watched her disappear downstairs and looked at Vox. He shrugged in response.

“Does it hurt to chew?" He asked, walking over next to me. "I made soup if it does. If not, I have waffles and scrambled eggs- with cheese. Both should be soft enough for you to eat.”

“I don’t feel any pain.” I said, pushing myself up. “But I’m not hungry either.”

“So waffles and eggs it is. Got it.” He disappeared into the kitchen and came out a moment later with a plate, handing it to me. “Come on, you have to eat. It's yummy, I promise."

“I’m really not all that hungry, Vox. And it has nothing to do with your cooking.” I responded, pushing away the proffered plate. “My stomach’s just off.”

He sat down next to me on the couch, setting my plate on the coffee table in front of him. He was quiet for a moment, and he picked up the fork and cut a small piece of the waffle, sticking it with the fork. “Your belly is off because you haven’t eaten anything in the last fourteen or so hours. Come on. You’re not going to feel any better if you don’t give your body what it needs.”

“I told you, I’m not…”

“And the train goes in the tunnel.” Vox sang sarcastically as he stuck the fork in my mouth. “Chew. Swallow. Food goes into our tummies and makes us feel better!” His one eye began to swirl. “Eat.”

I did as he commanded but glared at him once I had swallowed the bite. “Stop being a jerk, I am not a child.”

“Oh? Could have fooled me because grow ups understand the importance of feeding our bodies. So much like a five year old, I’m giving you a choice. Either I can feed you, bite by bite, or you can feed yourself. But you need something in your stomach. End of discussion.” His voice turned softer. “You’ll heal faster and feed better. You need to eat, reader.”

I glared but realized I wasn't going to win this one. I took the plate and fork from him. He wasn’t wrong, after the first delicious bite my hunger returned. “Okay fine but don’t do that again. I mean it, I’m not helpless and I’m not a child.””

“And I don’t have a Daddy kink, so if you do what you need to do, I don’t have to treat you like a child.” He paused. “Trust me, if I wanted to play Daddy I would borrow one of Val’s whor- er, employees and make some money.”

“What does that even mean?”

Vox reached over and patted my head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Just get as much down as you can manage. I’m going to go make another batch, yell if you need me.”

He walked away as I ate, scrolling through my phone as I worked my way through breakfast. A few minutes later, my plate was empty. I set it on the table and uncapped the Sweet Sixteen that Vox had left for me, sipping it as I made myself as comfortable as I could.

Vox walked over to me just as I finished the drink. He looked me over and grinned. “You can’t tell me your stomach doesn’t feel better now that you’ve fed it. Your color is back.” He paused. “Did Val take your temperature this morning?”

I shook my head no.

“He should have. Com’ere let me feel your forehead.” The back of his hand pressed against my skin. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. No fever. No fever usually means no infection brewing. I’ll let Lucifer know.”

“Is he coming today?” I asked. “I thought I might see him this morning.”

Vox shook his head. “Not unless you want him to come. He called earlier to check in on you but you were still sleeping. He said he’d try to video call with you later but if you could text him and let him know you’re alive I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

I picked up my phone and shot a quick text to Lucifer. He responded back right away.

You’re sure you're okay?

More than okay, Uncle Lucy. Promise.

Alright. I’ll try to call later but no promises. Things are rough out here. Glad you’re staying with the V’s. Be safe, and rest.

Across the room, the elevator door opened up and I looked up. Velvette sashayed across the room and plopped down on the couch next to me.

“Find what you need?” I asked, turning the screen on my phone off.

She pushed my empty plate across the table and set several bags and boxes next to us. “I did. Mind if I touch? Your face, I mean.”

“My face?” I asked as she tilted her head to one side, studying me. “I guess, sure.”

“Excellent.” She brushed my hair out of my eyes and tucked it behind my ear. “Mind if I play a bit? See what I can do to help you get cleaned up? You’ll feel better if you look better.”

“She doesn’t look bad.” Valentino’s voice drifted down the hallway. He walked over to us and leaned over the back of the couch. He pressed his lips to the top of my head. “Be nice. She’ll heal up.”

“Oh will you shut up? There is no hiding that she’s beat to shit. And if she looks in the mirror and sees it, well that won’t do much for healing now will it? You feel better if you look better.” Velvette shot back.

Valentino shrugged, apparently unbothered by Velvette’s snap. “As long as she’s fine with it, that’s all that matters. Vox, is there food left? I’m starving.” He turned to me. “Babe. Did you eat?”

“Vox made me.” I grumbled as Velvette lightly touched my skin.

“And do you feel better now that I did?” Vox prompted, flopping on the couch across from me.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then I stand by my decision. You gotta eat, that's the first lesson you learned upon your arrival to hell.”

“Speaking of arrival to hell…” Valentino sat next to Vox, directly across from me. “Care to explain why you told us last night that you’ve been beaten worse than this? Because this, babydoll, is pretty bad from where I stand.”

“Yeah. I want to know too.” Vox added.

“Agreed.” Velvette added, pausing her makeup to look at me.

I frowned at the three of them. “I told you. My dad raised me- he was the leader of the exorcist army. What exactly do you think my days looked like?”

All three of them stared at me in confusion. I rolled my eyes.

“Guys. It’s the military. Do you not have one in hell? My days started at four am and if I made a mistake, even a tiny one, I was met with corporal punishment- even more so because my father was the head, and he wanted to make sure he set an example. Not to mention some of the exercises themselves were meant to prepare us for our eventual arrival in hell. We underwent all sorts of physical training to ensure that even if the worst happened down here we would not, under any circumstances, betray heaven. And we were taught to fight to survive. To do that, they broke us down to the nitty gritty, and put us through all sorts of…scenarios. It’s what we needed to do to learn to survive.” I paused. “Or at least, that's what they told us.”

I stopped talking and watched them try to process what I had told them. A memory floated up, one I had tried to keep hidden away. Might as well share, maybe it would help them understand.

“Here is a prime example. One time, I was late to the first call. I was supposed to swim laps that morning under the watchful eye of my father. When I turned up late, he ripped into me in front of an entire platoon, told me what an absolute disgrace I was to our family name, and then made me run laps until I puked. Or passed out. I’m not really sure which it was. When I wasn’t physically able to run anymore, he made me spend the day cleaning out the locker rooms. Said it was character building. And I mean, he was right. I was never late for the first call again.”

“I have so many questions,” Vox began slowly. “Like, how old were you, exactly?”

“Oh no. Your turn is over. It’s my turn to ask.” I replied lightly. “Right? The agreement was that you would answer honestly, and so would I.”

Valentino looked ever so slightly annoyed. “Yes. I suppose so. Bear in mind, princessa, that agreement was between you and I. But fine. Ask your question. We can go back and process ... .that later.” He hesitated. “Does Lucifer know about this?”

“I said I’m not answering any more questions. Souls. Soul contracts. How do they work? And what the fuck even is your job, Valentino?”

“That’s two questions. If we answer them both, you have to answer another one as well. Got it?” Velvette interjected, brushing powder on my face. “There. You’re all done. I’ll finish later, when your lips don’t move as much.”

Across from me, Valentino set his empty plate on the table and stood up, walking over to me. I reached for him and he lifted me up, settling me against him and pulling a quilt over us. “You okay, princessa?” He asked with concern in his voice. "You look like you're getting tired."

“I’m fine. Answers. Souls.” I reminded him. “What did I see in that room, Val? What did I walk in on?”

Valentino sighed and thought for a moment. “You saw me at my job. As the boss. Every single one of those demons in that room belongs to me. Is owned by me. Sold their soul to me. I give them everything they are owed in their contract. And make no mistake, they knew exactly what they were getting into when they signed the contract with me. And I am bound by that contract as much as they are.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “Vox. Vel. One of you. Help me out here.”

Vox took a deep breath. “It’s like this. Our power as overlords comes from the souls we own. We acquire souls through the deals we make, deals that become contracts. Not like the little thing Lucifer did to you last night,” he added quickly. “Soul contracts are different from anything you’ve ever experienced. Once a creature signs over their soul, both they and the provider of the contract are fully bound by the terms of the contract until one or both of those parties meets their ultimate demise. Let’s be specific and use Valentino as an example. If a human signs a contract with him, that means they get something- whatever it is they desire in life, in exchange for their eternal soul working for Valentino after death. The specifics of those working conditions are outlined in the contract they both sign. It is Valentino’s responsibility to ensure that the contract is upheld. It’s his job, honey. Slightly different from my job, or Vel’s, but the base idea is the same. We provided a creature something in life in exchange for their soul, and the details of that exchange are specifically outlined in a contract. Both parties sign and are bound.”

“That also being said that until that contract is signed, consent is required in my studio. No one is touched outside the specific terms of their contract,” Valentino added. “The girl they mistook you for- she was in the final process of trading me her soul in exchange for…well, that doesn’t matter really. As part of her repayment, she would work for me. She wanted to be roughed up. But until I had her on stage, under my cameras, she wasn’t to be fucked. I don’t make a profit off of things I don’t own.”

“Who would even sign something like that?” I asked.

“Oh my sweet baby girl. You would be shocked. And there are no loopholes in our contracts, right down to the word “knowingly”. I ensure my deals are made with solid understanding from both parties. We are cruel because we need to be. All of my contracts outline the requirement to be that way." Valentino tucked a stray hair behind my ear. "Those who are soft do not make it down here. And princessa, the consequences of me breaking my own contract are far, far worse than upholding it- for both myself and the other parties.” He finished softly. His hand fell to the top of my head, his fingers worked their way through my hair and down my back as he spoke.

“Valentino.” I looked up at him and laid my head on his chest, settling into him. That feeling of safety and security was still as strong as ever. “You were a different person in your studio. I watched you strike someone, you threw your glass. You yelled, you demanded. I’ve never seen you like that. Ever. But you, you’re so gentle to me. And you hold me. And you’re soft, and take care of me. Why is that?"

“Princessa. I am not your boss. I don’t play that part in your life because I don’t own you. You and Vox and Vel, we’re friends.” He bent down and kissed me gently. “Or in our case, more than friends. But my point is, we offer each other an escape- a life outside of work. I don’t need to be harsh to you, and I don’t want to be. Who we are at work is not who we are in our private lives.” His voice softened. “I can be myself around them. Around you.”

“But Vox and Vel, they don’t…they aren't cruel. Not like that.” I protested.

Velvette let out a short laugh, “you’re joking, right?”

Vox shook his head, “oh sweetheart. We are- just not to you. Same reason as Val just said. We don’t own your soul. We don’t own each other's souls. We live and spend time together because we like each other and enjoy each other's company.”

Valentino put his hand on the top of my head. “Think for a moment, princessa. Do you spend your day aside Vox? Or does he put you to work on a laptop, tucked away in a corner while he handles his responsibilities? When you’re in Velvette’s studio, are you next to her- or trying on outfits handed by her employees until she calls you to the stage? I assure you, mi amor- they keep you as shielded from the realities of their job as they possibly can.” Valentino heaved a sigh and ran his thumb over my cheek, brushing away some of the makeup Velvette had dabbed on. “I’m sorry you had to find all this out, sweetheart. I’m sorry you had to see that side of me. Learn that side of us exists.”

“But reader, I cannot stress this enough. You will never see that side of us, not in our home, as much as we can help it. Outside of these four walls, we are overlords. It isn’t just Valentino who plays that role. If you saw any of us in our actual positions, you wouldn’t recognize us.” Velvette added.

Valentino continued to gently stroking my hair. I sank into him. He wrapped his arms around me and settled me against him. “Vox doesn’t let the world know that he makes banana chocolate chip pancakes each Saturday morning- unless I beat him to it. And Velvette certainly doesn’t let anyone other than us know that she needs to be carried to bed after seven drinks.”

“That was rude.” Velvette snorted, glaring at him.

“Shush Vel. It’s true. And to the point, this is our safe place, here and with each other. Outside of the public eye. Our studios are not. From the moment we step inside, we become what we need to be in order to be successful.” Vox explained, leaning back and putting his arm around Velvette, pulling her to him. He planted a kiss on her forehead.

Valentino cupped my chin. “The world doesn’t see the Valentino cradles you until you fall asleep during movie night. That’s not the image the world can see. If they did, we would lose the hold we have over hell. The world is an evil place, princessa. We keep you shielded from it, or at least, we tried.”

Vox pulled a blanket over him and Velvette, mimicking the position Valentino and I were in. “Again, to that point, we very clearly failed. Which leads me to the next thing that needs to be discussed. What is our plan going forward? I, for one, think Lucifer was right.. I think it's about time we started to present reader to the publicly as both one of us, and the princess of hell. It might be stickier for awhile in public, but at least people will know exactly who she is and there will be no more cases of mistaken identity.”

Velvette considered and looked at me. “People won’t touch you if they know you’re a V. I’m all for it.”

I nodded. “That sounds good to me. But how?"

“Tomorrow, I’ll bring you to the studio. Make it very clear that you are not to be touched.” Valentino said firmly, giving me a soft squeeze.

Vox shrugged. “Same, but maybe not tomorrow. Gonna wanna give you time to heal. If you come out in public looking like that, it won’t go over well for anyone.”

Valentino laughed darkly and held me closer. “I’m sure Velvette has full coverage makeup. No, I’m not waiting. I’m not risking this happening again.” He looked down at me. “I want you in the studio tomorrow, at my side. I want to make it explicitly clear that you are one of us.”

“Did anyone think to run this by Lucifer? Before we- you know, out the existence of the Princess of hell?” Velvette asked, snuggling up to Vox. “I mean, I’m all for it. I’ve been dying to have her walk in one of my shows.”

“Of course. It was his idea to begin with.” Vox answered. “He’ll be providing additional protection as well- not that that aspect is any of your concern. I’ll handle it. And, I think he was impressed at the protection we gave her…after the fact.”

“I know I was.” I said softly, looking up at Valentino. “You stood up to Lucifer and he was….scary.”

“And worth it, for you, Princessa.” His fingers interlaced with mine. “I believe we answered your questions, did we not?”

I nodded. “You did.”

“So one more question for you and we will both have answered each other the same amount. Do you agree?”

I looked up at him. “I do. Why?”

“Because this is the last question I have for you for now, mi amor. And then I want you back in bed, resting.” He took a deep breath. “Princessa…are you sure you want to be here? Are you sure, even after the events of last night, that you feel safe with us?” He tilted my chin up to him, looking me in the eye. “You agreed to answer truthfully.”

Vox and Velvette stared at him for a moment.

I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Valentino. I am sure I want to be here. You…even with what happened, you make me feel safe. I care about you.” I looked at Vox and Velvette. “All of you.”

“It should go without saying that we feel the same way.” Velvette said. She smiled and looked up at Vox, kissing him on the cheek. “I mean, who else can model AND carry a conversation?”

Vox nodded in agreement. “Of course we do. Outside the three of us, you’re the first one we’ve ever let into this space. Honestly, it would be weird if you weren't here at this point.”

“So it’s settled, I can stay?” I asked Valentino.

He looked pained. “You misunderstood me. There was never a question of could. It was a question of want. Do you want to stay?”

“Yes.” I said firmly. “I don’t think I can make my stance any clearer than that.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face into him.

He kissed me gently, running his hands down my back. “Mi amor, you have no idea how happy I am at your answer. I’m taking you back to bed now. You need rest if you want to heal quickly.” He stood up, cradling my body to his as he turned to walk me down the hallway.

“Oh, Val? We’re working from home today. So if you need to go in…” Vox called from behind us. “We’ll make sure she’s well looked after.”

Valentino paused, his grip on me tightening. “I do, but not right now. She’s my number one priority at the moment. Maybe after she goes to sleep.”

I buried my face deeper into him at the thought of him leaving. He ran a hand down my back and carried me into my bedroom, setting me down on the bed. The medication had begun to wear off and the bruises were once again making themselves known. I knew from prior experiences I needed a hot shower and a round of anti inflammatories before the pain became unbearable.

I expressed this to Valentino. He frowned at my words.

“Princessa. I don’t…I don’t feel comfortable with you being by yourself for any period of time. Not right now.” He hesitated. “I suppose I could wait outside the door while you shower, but…”

“What if you just joined me?” I suggested.

He looked at me. “Princessa?”

“You’ve seen me naked yesterday, and probably before that. Fuck,Vox and half the world has probably seen me without clothes at this point. After yesterday, what does it matter?” I sank into the pillows. “And besides Val, if I could have any say over who gets to see me like that…I would prefer it to be you. Only you. Every time.”

“It matters to me because it matters to you.” Valentino said firmly. “And so you’re aware, other than Vox, no other person in that studio who saw you yesterday is breathing today. It was a direct violation of their consent clause- whether they knew it or not.”

I stared at him. “You killed them…even though they didn’t know they violated their contract?”

“It’s in the language.” Valentino gently cupped my chin. “Remember, I have an agreement I have to follow as well.” He leaned in and kissed me. “Princessa, if you’re sure, I would appreciate being by your side.” He helped me to my feet. “Preferably, right by your side.”

“Valentino, are you actually going to shower with me?” I teased.

He kissed me lightly. “Only because you asked, Princessa. And of course, to keep you safe.” He lifted me up and carried me to the bathroom, setting me on the counter. He reached into the shower and turned it on. He rummaged through a drawer and came up with a bottle of ibuprofen. I watched as he pulled a paper cup from the dispenser and filled it up with water. He handed me two pills and the cup. "Here. Swallow these. If you're still in pain after your nap and want a bath, I’ll run one.” He nodded towards the bathtub on the other side of the bathroom. “Maybe an Epsom salt bath if that sounds good to you."

“Mm, yeah. That could help.” I swallowed the medication and set aside the cup. Once that was out of the way, I reached for his shirt and gently tugged at it. "This needs to come off."

He smiled, “alright, babydoll. Settle down.”

“What? Val- you’ve seen me naked, wouldn’t you agree it’s only fair that I get to see you without clothes?”

That elicited a laugh. “Oh Princessa. You make a compelling argument.” He leaned in and kissed me before pulling off his shirt.

I took a moment to admire his body. I had seen glimpses of it before of course, moments when Velvette was adjusting buttons or other parts of fabric in the limo. And of course I felt it- rock hard body pressed against me when we snuggled. But this was the first time I had seen him fully shirtless. To say he was gorgeous was an understatement. Every muscle was perfectly sculpted, lean and perfectly put together. His jeans fell just below his hips, hugging every curve of his body.

“Like what you see, princessa?” He teased lightly, leaning in and kissing me.

“I couldn’t imagine anyone who wouldn't.” I said softly. “Damn, Val.”

He laughed again and undid the top snap of his jeans. “Ah, mi amor..” He leaned in and kissed me again, the rest of his clothing falling to the floor. He leaned in closer, obscuring my view of anything below the waist. “My turn to undress you.”

He pulled his tee shirt off my body, tossing it into the dirty laundry. Carefully, he tugged off my pajama bottoms and they joined his shirt in the hamper. He lifted me up and carried me into the shower.

I hissed as the hot water hit my skin. He turned his back to the water, protecting me from its sting.

“I’m going to set you down. Just lean on me, alright?”

“I can walk Val. I’m not…completely broken.” I said as he set me down, his hands on my waist as he made sure I was stable.

He tilted my chin up and kissed me softly, the steam building around us. “I know, princessa. Something tells me you would be…difficult to break.” He pulled me to him and gently guided me back under the water. “Come now, let’s get those muscles to relax.”

I leaned into him, resting my head against his chest as he gently rubbed my shoulders under the running water. I felt the warmth wash over my body. Under my head, he exhaled slowly, as if he was trying to control his breathing.

“Princessa.” He muttered, leaning back, both hands on my shoulders as his eyes studied my body. Somewhere in my brain I wanted to be embarrassed, to hide under his gaze. But for the first time, I felt comfortable being totally exposed to him. Somewhere in my belly, I felt something stir. I had felt it before, but standing next to him, against him, the feeling was stronger.

“Valentino.” I pressed my body into him. The pain I had begun to feel erased itself under the heat. “I have another question.”

“What is it princessa?” He leaned down and kissed me. “Ask away.”

“Does it hurt?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Does what hurt, princessa?” he asked with confusion and concern.

“What you do in the studio. Sex. I want to know. Is it supposed to hurt that bad?”

A horrified expression crossed his face. “Mi amore, no,” he said quickly. He shook his head and stepped forward and pulled me close to him, stepping his own body under the stream of warm water. “No. It doesn’t have to. Some enjoy the pain, the feeling of surrendering their entire body to another. They enjoy the punishment, the degradation. But it doesn’t have to be that way. It can be soft, gentle. Pleasurable in ways you never thought possible.”

“Show me.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then quickly pulled me to him, his lips pressing against mine. Any lingering pain vanished, replaced with a different feeling- a warmness spreading deep in my belly. I wanted him. Just him. All of him.

“You need to tell me if it hurts," he said as his hand ran down my thigh. “I need to know what feels good- and what causes you pain.” He leaned into me, pressing my back against the wall of the shower. I felt his finger slip inside me, then another. I let out an involuntary moan. He ran his thumb over my clit, drawing circles around the sensitive skin. I arched my back.

An explosion of nerves as his body pressed deeper into mine. I moaned, leaning into him, digging my nails into him as I tried to balance myself against the pleasure. “Valentino!”

“That’s right baby.” He pressed his lips against mine. “Come for me, my princessa.” His fingers moved faster, his kisses growing more and more rapid.

My stomach knotted as warmness spread through me, my vision flashing black as I felt an explosion in my belly, an explosion I had never felt before. I panted as the feeling of euphoria spread through every inch of my body., rendering me absolutely helpless. I felt his fingers slide out as I leaned my entire weight onto him. Against his thigh, I felt his cock twitch.

“Sex is fun, princessa. When you’re with the right person.” He whispered, holding me to him. “That’s my girl. Breathe.” I could see his conflicted expression as his eyes ran over me. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’ve got you. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up so we can get you to bed.”

Balancing me against him, I felt him lather both of us in soap. He guided me under the water, rinsing us off before running a hand through my hair. He took a bottle of my shampoo and gently squeezed some in his hand.

“Close your eyes. I don’t want to get soap in them.” He ordered gently.

I did as he instructed, gripping onto him as the overload of my release slowly dissipated. By the time I was rinsed off and wrapped in a towel, propped back up on the bathroom counter, I felt like I could breathe again.

“Did you enjoy that, princessa?” He asked with concern, wrapping himself in a towel. “You’re quiet.”

“Val, that was…amazing.” I said softly, reaching for him. My body ached for more, hindered only by the pain I was very much starting to feel. “I want you. All of you.”

He took a deep breath as he surveyed my body. After a few seconds, he exhaled. “And you can have me. I promise. But not tonight. I’ll shatter you into a thousand pieces, mi amor. Especially, especially if it's your first time.” He pressed his lips to mine. “Your first time will be special. I promise. But you need to wait.”

I let out the most uncharacteristic whine. “But Val. I want you. Every single inch of you. And I’ve never felt this way before. Not ever. Please.”

“Another day, princessa. I want you too. Every inch of you.” His body pressed into mine and I could hear the struggle in his voice. “Waiting is testing every single fucking bit of my self control. But I need you to be okay afterwards, and right now I don’t think you will be. You’re still hurt, mi amor.” He leaned forward and kissed me, his breathing almost ragged. “I wouldn’t wait if I didn’t have to. Believe me. You’ve now officially seen me at my worst- and at my best. And gotten into the thick of everything I do in the worst possible way. And you still want me. Reach for me. Want me to hold you and be by your side. Princessa, my love, my heart. I will not rush what should be a magical night simply because I want you right here and right now. So please. Let me help you get dressed and come lay with me. The sooner you heal, the sooner the pain leaves you the sooner I can show you exactly what it means to be loved by someone as intensely as I love you.”

He wrapped me in his arms and against his chest, I could hear the frantic beating of his heart. His hand fell down the small of my back and looked up at him, pushing myself up to kiss his lips. Inside my chest, my heart soared. He did love me.

“Okay Val. I’ll wait until you’re ready. Until you think I’m ready.” I looked up at him. “I love you too.”

He held me tighter, kissing the top of my head. He let out another slow exhale. “I love you more than you could ever know.” He hesitated and ran a hand over my cheek. “I need to get dressed and get to work. And you need to get in bed.”

I took a comb from the holder on the counter and began to work through the knots in my hair as I watched him yank his tee shirt over his head, and then reach for his jeans. I frowned as he stepped into them. “Wait, why are you putting your jeans back on? I thought you said we were taking a nap.”

He took the brush from my hand, smoothing out either side of my hair as he carefully worked his way through the knots. “No. I said you need to rest. I need to work, and I’m going to work from home as long as I possibly can. But if I put my sweatpants on, snuggle you next to me and lay down in bed I’ll fall asleep right besides you. But I can’t sleep in jeans- I just can’t do it. Hopefully between them and my laptop I can get enough done today that I don’t have to physically go into my office. And you can still rest, right next to me where I can keep an eye on you.” He set the comb down and reached for the mirror and wiped away the steam, picking up his heart shaped glasses and adjusting them on his face. “There.”

I turned and caught sight of myself in the mirror. The deep blues and blacks of yesterday stood out starkly against my pale skin. I frowned at my reflection. The shower seemed to have brought out even darker colors.

Valentino saw me looking and quickly lifted me up off the counter, pulling one of his clean shirts over my head before lifting me up and carrying me to bed. One hand holding me, the other tossing pillows against the headboard. He sat down, adjusting me so that I was snug against him before reaching for his phone, laptop, and headset. I watched him open the laptop screen and hit the startup button.

“You should sleep.” He told me, running his fingers through my damp hair. “I’m just going to be working, and you can’t heal that pretty face without rest.”

“Pretty isn’t the word I’d use.” I mumbled, more to myself than to him. “I look like shit.”

“Excuse me?” He reached down and tilted my head up so our eyes met. His voice was gentle, but his tone was one of anger. “Care to say that again?”

“I…” I paused and thought better of it. “No.”

“Alright then. You will heal, princessa. But in the meantime…” He pulled me gently to him and kissed my forehead. “You are not allowed to insult your beauty. Understood? The woman I love does not deserve to be insulted., not even by herself.”

I nodded. He shook his head, unsatisfied with my response.

“Let me hear the words, so I know you understand.”

That burning feeling in my stomach coiled up as he spoke. “Yes, Valentino.” I closed my eyes and laid myself on his chest, the sound of his heart thundering under me.

“Good. Because the sooner you’re healed the sooner I can show you all the fun parts of being with someone you love.”

I felt him kiss the top of my head and curled up next to him, I fell into a deep sleep.

#the vees #valentino x reader #valentino x wife #valentino x you #vox x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin fluff #the vees x reader #valentino #hazbin x reader #valentino x female reader #vox #valentino hazbin hotel

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sacredsnape · 1 year

Note

Could you do a one shot for Remus please, after a full moon he doesn’t come back home immediately and reader is just worried and when he does come back he snaps at her because he’s tired, she gets hurt, gives him silent treatment but still tend to his wounds then cries and he hears her

I love this request, it has me in my feels 🥲

Genre: angst/fluff

Warnings: mentions of injuries and blood

Masterlist

Remus wasn't home yet.

He usually returned home the morning after the full moon, but now it was nearing noon, and you were worried sick.

"Remus?" you called every time you stepped outside, hoping to see him. You and him lived in a cottage near the woods he'd run into to transform, so it only made sense that he'd appear there.

You eventually just sat outside on the front porch to wait, your leg bouncing with nerves. You felt hot tears well up in your eyes and trickle down your cheeks, falling onto your shirt.

Suddenly, the bushes lining the woods rustled. You quickly stood up, grabbing your wand just in case before crying out in relief when Remus stumbled out of the bushes.

"Remus!" you cried, running over to your boyfriend. He was in bad shape; he was more scratched up than usual and had a nasty gash on his arm that was still bleeding heavily.

"Oh, Remus," you sobbed softly as you reached him, opening your arms to hug him, "I thought I'd lost you-"

"Don't fucking touch me," Remus snapped. Your heart dropped. You stood back, staring at him in shock. "Leave me alone, Y/N."

Remus brushed past you, limping towards your cottage. You didn't move, your heart hammering as an icy shock coursed through you.

What did you do wrong? You greeted him the same way you did every time he came home, so why did he snap at you?

More tears filled your eyes, but they weren't tears of relief anymore. You struggled to swallow the lump in your throat as you entered the cottage, following Remus's trail of blood to the bathroom.

You found him already submerged in the bathtub, the water up to his chin. He didn't look at you as you walked in, his eyes trained on the water surrounding him, which had turned dark red.

"Remus," you tried again, a little desperate this time. "Why are you-"

"Stop it," he cut in, his voice gruff as he dragged the sponge across his muddy, bloodstained arms. "Just stop it, okay?"

Remus couldn't bring himself to look at you. He knew that you were crying, judging by your shuddering breaths and sharp inhales, and he felt extremely guilty. He had been in a terrible fight with another werewolf and was far too exhausted to talk to you right now.

Despite your anger and hurt, you huffed, sitting down on the edge of the tub and snatching the sponge from Remus. He still didn't look at you, causing your heart to break even more.

You reached for the bottle of body wash and squirted more of it onto the sponge. You began to wash Remus, being careful with the deep wound on his arm. The two of you sat in stony silence that was only interrupted by the gentle splashing of water and your sniffling.

After the bath, you helped Remus dry off and dress. You cleaned and dried his wounds, bandaging them with care. You then drained the water in the tub and threw the dirty towels into the laundry. Finally, you gave Remus his healing potions. He didn't thank you, simply drinking them and then handing you back the empty vials.

Remus went to bed. You went to the living room and cried your eyes out into the cushions on the sofa. You felt miserable, your mind racing as you wondered what, if anything, you had done wrong.

Maybe he was cheating on you. You'd seen the way other women looked at him whenever you two went out together. You couldn't blame them; Remus was indeed very handsome, but he was yours, unless all that attention from other women was starting to peak his interest.

The cushion you had your face buried in smelled like Remus. Chocolate, coffee, and cinnamon. You let out an angry sob and hurled the pillow across the living room, watching through teary eyes as it knocked down a photo of you and him from the mantelpiece.

The glass frame shattered on the hardwood floor. You winced at the unpleasant noise, standing on wobbly legs to investigate what you had done. The photo was of you and Remus on your first date exactly a year ago today. It sat lopsided in the shards of glass, and you cautiously bent down to pick it up, gasping when a sharp corner nicked your finger.

Cradling your bleeding finger, you looked at the photo. You were sitting on Remus's lap, his big arms secured around your waist. The photo moved, showing you laughing at some corny joke you'd heard, while Remus smiled at you with so much kindness and warmth on his face. You two had been at a friend's party, you having ended up on his lap after a dare made by said friend. You remembered how flustered you had felt in that moment, especially after feeling your now boyfriend's bulge brushing against your bare skin in your skirt.

Remus was your lover. He always had been and always will be, even if you were pissed at him, and he was ignoring you.

You had to fix this. With more sobs leaving you, you impulsively gathered up the broken glass in the air with your wand. They levitated before you, and you were halfway to the kitchen to put the frame back together, when your wand slipped from your trembling hand and the glass fell, shattering further.

Some of it cut you mid-fall, and you gave up, slumping onto the kitchen counter with your face buried in your arms as you wept, your cries echoing around the small kitchen.

You screamed in surprise when you suddenly felt large, warm hands pulling you up. The hands turned you to face their owner, and you saw Remus standing before you, his face and voice etched with genuine concern.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing? There's glass all over the floor. Your hands are all cut up too," Remus spoke softly, cradling your tear-stained face in his bandaged hands.

You struggled to catch your breath, your words slurring slightly as you tearfully asked, "Who is it, Remus? Who are you cheating on me with? Is it Madam Rosmerta?!"

Remus stared at you for a moment before laughing, shaking his head. "Madam Rosmerta? Dove, what are you talking about? I'm not cheating on you with anybody. You're my only love."

"Then why have you been ignoring me ever since you got home?" you sobbed, burying your face in his chest out of habit. The soft fabric of his cardigan nuzzled your cheek, and you whimpered and held onto him tightly.

"Love, I'm so sorry," Remus sighed as he rubbed soothing circles into your back, embracing you. "I'm just tired. I got into a bad fight with another werewolf. I shouldn't have snapped at you or ignored you, though. There's no excuse for my behavior. I'm so very sorry, my baby."

You whimpered again. Remus gently kissed the top of your head, looking around at the glass all over the floor. He noticed the photo and put two and two together, squeezing you.

"How did the photo break?" Remus softly asked you, continuing to rub your back. You shook your head, refusing to answer in fear that he'd get mad at you.

Remus squeezed you again. "It's okay if you broke it," he promised.

You sighed and finally looked up at him, your heart swelling with love. You loved Remus no matter what and he seemed to feel the same, as he kissed you deeply and held you closer.

"It's okay, darling. You're okay. Let me take care of you," Remus soothed. He pulled away to grab bandages from a cabinet, keeping his hand on your hip. You giggled as he cleaned and bandaged the cuts on your hands, his lips grazing your forehead.

"There we go. We're both going to end up looking like mummies with all these bandages if we get any more injuries," Remus chuckled quietly, kissing your cheek.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, hooking your arms around the back of his neck.

"For what?" Remus mumbled as his lips wandered down to your neck, kissing you there.

"I don't know."

Remus laughed against your neck, the vibration of his voice slightly ticklish. "Then don't say sorry if you don't know what to be sorry for," Remus said lightly. "In fact, you have no reason to be sorry. I'm the only one who should be sorry."

"But I forgive you," you answered meekly, wiping your eyes. "I'm not mad at you anymore."

Remus leaned up to kiss your lips, his lips soft and warm against yours. "That doesn't mean I've forgiven myself. I feel terrible for making my girl cry."

"I'm okay now," you insisted, despite tears continuing to leak from your eyes. Remus wiped your tears away with his thumbs, humming lowly.

"What can I do to make it up to you?" he asked, resting his chin on your shoulder as he hugged you flush to his body.

You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling him smile against your neck.

"Just talk to me next time," you sighed, pecking the side of his head. "You know I'm always here to listen to you and take care of you."

You felt his smile grow. "That I can do, my love," Remus said. "I promise."

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lovelybunnyxx · 3 months

Text

Bloody Valentine ― Hisoka Morow

TW: Blood, implied stalking, break-in, mentions of death, violence, implied non-con.

AN: Wow, thanks for 500 likes and the follows! Since tomorrow is Valentine's Day, I thought this was fitting.

❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥

You are surrounded by red.

Red has always been one of your favorite colors. It makes you think of ripened fruit and pretty flowers, the simple things in life that bring you joy. But then you met him, and now all the happiness the color used to make you feel has faded to dread.

You have never quite figured out how Hisoka manages to get into your apartment so effortlessly. You always triple-check that all the windows and the front door are locked before you leave for work, checking twice that the security system you had put in is activated. But no matter what you do, it never seems to do any good at keeping him out.

He is waiting for you on your couch when you get off work, grinning while holding a large bouquet of roses and a large box of chocolates in the shape of a heart. In any other situation, it would feel almost romantic, like a boyfriend eagerly wanting to give his girlfriend the presents he bought her for Valentine's Day.

If his outfit wasn't splattered in blood with your boss's dead body at his feet.

"Ah, you're home!~" Hisoka grins, the sight makes your stomach turn. Despite trying to refrain, your eyes dart down to your boss's corpse, and you grimace at the sight of his heart resting on top of his chest. Dead bodies have become a regular sight since Hisoka took interest in you, unfortunately. Sometimes, he reminds you of a cat, proudly showing off his prey to his master. "I brought you gifts. Aren't you happy to see me?" Hisoka asks, taking a step towards you, knowing you are certainly not.

You immediately step backward, which makes him chuckle. You want to run, but you know there is no use. He would be able to find you no matter where you went. "What are you doing here?" You finally manage to ask, trying to force your voice not to crack.

Hisoka chuckles, cocking an eyebrow at your question. "I brought you gifts. Isn't it obvious why I'm here?"

Hisoka's tone is mocking, and you hate it. You take a deep breath and force yourself to speak again. "Why..?' You trail off, your eyes fixated on your boss's dead body. Hisoka notices your gaze and he laughs.

"Hm? That's part of your gift. You said that you didn't like him, so I did you a favor and got rid of him," Hisoka says as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. When you don't respond, he hums. "Shouldn't you say thank you? I believe I deserve some gratitude for all the effort I put into making today special."

You swallow deeply. "Thank you," you force out, making Hisoka smile.

"Good girl," Hisoka croons, walking towards you. He pushes the flowers and chocolate into your hands, grabbing your face with his bloody hands and tilting it up so you're forced to look into his eyes. "Happy Valentine's Day."

You want to vomit at the sticky feeling of blood on your face, but his hands tightening slightly around your face serves as a subtle warning that he's expecting a response. Of what he's capable of doing if you make him angry. "..Happy Valentine's Day," you mumble, causing Hisoka to hum in contentment, rubbing his bloodstained thumb against your lips.

"See, that wasn't too hard, was it? Hisoka mumbles, leaning in and planting a kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he smiles when he sees that he has smeared blood on your face. "Now, I think it's time you give me your gift." One of his hands trails down from your face, stopping to fidget with one of the buttons on your shirt, making it obvious where this is going. "After all, I think you look absolutely delectable while covered in red."

#yandere hunter x hunter #yandere x reader #yandere hxh #hxh x reader #hxh hisoka #hisoka x reader #hisoka morow #yandere hisoka #hisoka morow x reader

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drivinmeinsane · 5 months

Text

Snow ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Four ※ Sierra Six / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

※ Summary: You expected a quiet night in, but that changes when you follow a trail into the trees.

※ Rating: No mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Pre-relationship, Treatment of injuries, Caretaking

※ Word count: 1920

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

Of course you notice that the log basket by the fireplace is empty when you’re already sprawled out on the couch, remote in hand, Christmas tree plugged in, and fully prepared to settle in for the night. You grumble as you get up and pull on your boots and your coat. Grabbing your flashlight, you open the back door and step out into the cold. You’re nearly to the shed when the beam of light picks up something unusual in its field. You come to a complete stop and examine the ground with a growing sense of horror.

The snow is churned up, something had clearly come through here recently enough. Probably within the past hour or so while you had been snugly tucked into your remotely located home. You can make out footprints. Human, likely belonging to a tall male judging from the size and the distance apart. They’re messy like the maker had been stumbling along. Your flashlight picks up dark blotches on the white. Blood. You look up, frantically scanning your surroundings for a sign of who might have left this path across your yard. There’s nothing other than the trail that leads off into the woods.

You silently backtrack to your home to grab the hunting rifle leaning against the wall in the coat closet, an assurance for living out in the middle of nowhere in the wooded hills. Feeling like a side character in a cheaply stereotypical horror movie, you go back outside to follow the trail. Flashlight off now that you’re in pursuit. You desperately want to nope out of the situation, but there is no one else around for miles to handle this. You push follow the path into the thicket. There’s a shape huddled at the base of a tree not far into the brush.

The moonlight is blocked by the branches, so you resignedly turn your flashlight on to illuminate the figure. It reveals a man dressed in bloodstained street clothes. He’s slumped forward so you can’t see his face, but his jeans are covered in a mixture of blood and snow. Some of the blood is glossy, fresh, but most of it is frozen. He is only wearing a thin windbreaker for warmth. There’s a gun resting on his lap. His fingers are slack around it, not even holding onto the weapon. They look waxy and stiff. Only his labored breathing lets you know that he’s alive.

“Hey.” He doesn’t respond to your slightly hesitant yell so you nudge his foot with the tip of your boot and try again, louder. “Hey!”

No movement, or any awareness of you at all. He just continues breathing like each exhale might be his last. Emergency services are at least forty-five minutes away, if they are even able to get through the snow at all tonight.

Gritting your teeth, you inch forward to kick the man’s outstretched leg. “Hey!”

That finally gets a response. The stranger groans and lifts his head up. He squints against the bright light you have pointed at his face and raises a shaky hand to block it. You shift so you’re pointing the rifle at him in case he gets it in his head to make any sudden movements.

“Put your other hand up too,” you order him. He complies, leaving the handgun on his lap. You can barely hear your voice over the pounding of your own heart. “What are you doing out here? You’re on my land.”

His mouth works a couple of times before he’s able to speak. When he does, his voice is hoarse. “Sorry. I got turned around.”

“Yeah? Why are you so messed up if you just ‘got turned around’?”

“Had to jump out of a moving car. The people I was with didn’t appreciate that much.” He sounds so serious that you raise your eyebrows in disbelief.

“Are you going to be trouble for me?”

“Probably not.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, out of his mouth before your question has the chance to linger in the air.

Against your better judgment, you take his word at face value and tuck your rifle under your arm, pointed away at him. His handgun gets stowed in your waistband before you help him to his feet and sling his arm over your shoulder. The arm not occupied by your own gun gets wrapped around him. Your knees nearly buckle under the weight of him. It’s slow going to your back door. He seems to be intermittently losing consciousness. On the second of the three steps leading to the small porch, his foot drags and slips out from under him. He nearly takes the both of you down.

“C’mon,” you grit out and bodily haul him up the final stair.

The stranger slumps in your hold as you get the door open and all but drag him into your kitchen. He comes to enough to stagger through to the living room. You more or less drop him onto the couch. He sags limply into the cushions like a puppet with its strings severed.

“Can I call for medical help or do you need me to try to do a patch job?”

“Please don’t call anyone. I’ll be fine.”

You exhale hard, nerves jangling. Patch job it is. “Sit tight.”

Leaving him alone and dripping melting snow all over your couch, you gather a couple towels and the medical kit that you keep well stocked for emergencies. He is exactly as you left him when you come back in the room laden down like a pack pony. You put the supplies on the seat next to him.

“What’s your name?”

“Six.”

You want to comment on how that’s obviously not a real name, but you bite your tongue and swallow the words down. It’s not your business. Keeping him from dying on your couch is your business.

Without any further preamble, you wrestle him out of his wet clothing, leaving him in just the underwear you don’t dare to touch. Once he is stripped naked, you start examining his body to find the source of the blood. You find it immediately, but your eyes can’t help but take in the rest of him. Six, as he calls himself, is muscular, but you knew that from how heavy he was over your shoulder and in the circle of his arm, but it’s the expanse of his injuries that is more notable. It’s unsettling. He’s marked with old scars and fresher ones that are still uncomfortably raw and pink. You don’t think you want to know what this strange man does for a living. It looks as though several people have tried to kill him over the years, admittedly with limited success if his presence in your home is any indication.

Ignoring the rest of his body, you focus on the sizable gash in his size. A bullet must have burned its way across his side at a close range judging from the singeing around the edges of the wound. It’s still sluggishly bleeding, but it’s thankfully shallow enough to not be fatal in the short term. You wet a piece of gauze with disinfectant and press it against the wound. Six does not so much as flinch. He looks resigned to the pain when you glance at his face to gauge his reaction. You pinch the sides of the injury together and secure it with several meticulously placed butterfly bandages to keep it closed. Holding a thick gauze pad on the wound with your hand, you wind vet wrap around his abdomen to hold it in place. It should serve to put pressure on it to restrict the chance of bleeding and further trauma to the sight.

You’re relieved to discover that the rest of his injuries are minor in comparison. He has a slightly sprained wrist that you stabilize with more vet wrap. Unfortunately, he is covered in scrapes and abrasions. All you can do for them is to put a large band-aid on the worst of the road rash. It’s next to a tattoo that says something in Greek. Your stranger appears to be more well-versed in literature than you might have expected, not just a thug despite the obviously prison quality tattoos.

Injuries aside, the man feels concerningly cold due to the exposure to the freezing temperatures and not insignificant blood loss. You realize that if you had been more prepared and hadn’t needed to restock your log barrel, he would have likely succumbed to the elements right outside of your home. The thought of finding his body in the morning makes you shiver reflexively. You push that line of thinking aside and pick up one of the towels. You hold it in both hands and rub his extremities in between your cloth covered palms, trying to encourage circulation back into his body. It works. His fingers lose their waxy appearance and his body temperature seems to level back out. He starts shivering, a good sign that means there is no more need to worry about hypothermia. You take the fresher towel and dry his sodden hair before wiping his torso clean. His shivering gradually subsides as you work. He’s dozing off, breath whistling through his nose. Some of the tension has left his face.

Once you’re finished with him, you finally fetch the logs from the shed. On your way, you take the time to disturb the tracks. Even though it’s still snowing, you do not want to take the chance that they will be discernible by a hostile party. Knowing that you will be cleaning up anyway after you put your unexpected guest to bed, you don’t take any great pains to avoid tracking more snow into the house.

You drop your armful of logs into the basket and put a couple of them into the fireplace. They should last a while. You approach the couch, catching Six awake but not alert. He’s staring blankly at your Christmas tree, seemingly captivated by it. His eyes redirect unsteadily to you when you’re close enough to touch him. The man squints like he’s having a hard time seeing through his exhaustion.

“You an angel?”

You almost laugh, but he sounds so tired and so sincere. “No,” you tell him gently. He mumbles something unintelligible in response.

Crouching at his side, you take hold of his legs and guide him until he’s laying down, curled on his non-injured side on the cushions. Six manages to lift his head enough for you to shove a decorative pillow under it. His eyes slip closed when you cover him with the throw blankets that you always keep in the living room. You practically tuck him in. Just before you withdraw, you impulsively smooth his hair back and press a kiss to his forehead. Something in your heart tells you that he could use the comforting gesture.

You pull away, satisfied that he’ll make it through the night and that you will be able to get some food into him in the morning. Just as you turn to leave to start cleaning up the mess that has been left in the wake of his arrival, you’re brought to a halt. Six’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist just long enough to make you pause before he lets go.

“Thank you,” he says, muffled against the pillow.

Your face softens and you feel the corners of your lips rise in a smile. “You’re welcome."

#12 days of goosemas #the gray man (2022)#the gray man #the gray man fanfiction #sierra six #sierra six fanfiction #courtland gentry #sierra six x reader #courtland gentry x reader #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanfiction #ryan gosling x reader #.my posts #.my work

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 1 year

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Protection of the Abyss

Synopsis: When Childe's too injured to think, Foul Legacy soothes him to sleep in search of you.

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff Warnings: Injuries, mentions of crying, near-death experience, pain, mentions of medical supplies

Requested by Cottagecore Anon 💐: hihi! so uhm i have a FL scenario brainrot rn and i might forget about it cause there's so much im doing rn in college (AAA—) so imma immediately send this. 💐 what if foul legacy takes over childe, like, not to transform into his foul legacy form but like, takes over childe's consciousness and body and tries to find reader as childe and reader just doesn't know its FL. its okay if you dont wanna do this request btw!! (since it is a bit uncomfortable for a being to take over —) - cottagecore anon 💐

~ * ~ Childe is used to injuries. As the Eleventh Harbinger, he holds an unprecedented position of power over the endless troops of the Fatui, and as such it seems only natural for others to be against him, to fear his control and desire to put an end to it. The Fatui are distrusted in all other nations- that much he knows- but very few are courageous or foolish enough to attempt to confront the infamous Tartaglia, the Fatuus renowned across Teyvat for his battle prowess, and the ones that are quickly find themselves left for dead with a warning to never approach again. They would return home, terrified, whispering to their companions that yes, Tartaglia is truly unmatched amongst the common folk of the world. Childe has heard the rumors, and allows them to grow and flourish. He sees them as true- of course he’s unbeatable by simpletons like treasure hoarders and hilichurls- with the power he wields, how could he not be? He keeps his Foul Legacy, the art of the Abyss, grasped tightly in his hand; powerful, deadly, controlled; ready to unleash at a moment’s notice, and together he and the Abyss could even tear down the heavens from the sky. How foolish. Trembles run through Childe’s body as he limps away from a pile of dead bodies, slumping against a rocky cliffside and letting out a slow exhale. The twin blades in his hands lose their shape before dissipating into mist, the effort of using his Vision too taxing on his weakened body, and Childe curses himself and his idiotic hubris. He got sloppy- thought he wouldn’t be attacked so far from civilization- although he won, his opponents were smart with how they used their own blades. He squeezes his eyes shut as another wave of pain washes over him, awful and nauseating. His Foul Legacy whines in the back of his head, echoing faintly, distressed at Childe’s wounds and attempting to soothe his rapid, delirious thoughts, a moment of calm in the turbulent ocean of memories. He grasps and clings to a bright piece of the past amidst the Harbinger’s flickering consciousness- the first time he met you, at Bubu Pharmacy, and how you had held his heart and treasured it like it wasn’t corrupted by the Abyss and the starry sea. Childe hears Foul Legacy growl determinedly, once, twice, before everything fades to darkness. Foul Legacy blinks, squinting at the sun and sitting up. Everything is numb, a thin blanket spread over the searing pain of their shared body, and he glances down at his- Childe’s- hands, tentatively flexing them. They’re human enough, minus the way his skin is stained night-color from his forearms down, even fitting inside the bloodstained gloves Childe always wears as part of his uniform. The monster shivers- everything feels smaller in this form, squishier, more vulnerable- he hates it. Briefly he considers slipping the mask on the side of his head over his face, for some semblance of protection, but ignores it in favor of rising to his feet, the pain of Childe’s injuries just barely masked by Abyssal power. You- he needs to find you. You’ll help him and Childe, with your gentle hands, and erase the fear that lingers so steadily in his being. The sun is setting as you write up another prescription, clicking your tongue. What a horrible cold going around! The number of people falling ill only rises by the day, and you’re simply grateful that neither you nor Baizhu have gotten sick yet, with seemingly the entire city needing the Pharmacy’s services. With a flick of your wrist you sign the paper, stamping and rolling it into a scroll to take to work the next day. At least Qiqi can’t catch any bugs going around, you’re not sure what you’d do without your best herb collector, and you toss the scroll into your open bag where at least ten others of the same type are waiting. There’s a knock at your door, and the lateness of the hour makes you tilt your head in slight surprise as you set down your empty mug and venture out of your office. Idly humming a tune, you unlatch and open your front door, your little song dying away in an instant when you’re greeted by the sight of Childe, blood splattered across his clothes. Immediately you panic, brain going into overdrive as your eyes jump from injury to injury, only stopping to wonder how in the world he’s still standing upright. “Wh- Childe?! What happened?!” You pull him inside, sitting him on the couch and turning to run for your medical supplies when a hand catches your wrist. Childe tugs gently on your arm, and slowly you lower yourself and sit beside him, worried at his silence. His fingers brush your chin, urging you to look up into his shining blue eyes. Shining. Your own eyes widen as you stare, the sparkle in Childe’s eyes unnatural yet beautiful all at once. You begin noticing other unusual features, from the staining on his hands to his pointed ears to his hair, now fading from ginger to white at the tips, and your next words are hushed, whispered. “You’re not Childe… are you?” A head shake, and the sensation of a face buried in the crook of your neck prompts you to wrap your arms around Foul Legacy, running your fingers up and down the back of an Abyssal creature in a human body. You can feel him shaking- partially out of fear, partially from adrenaline- and your heart almost shatters right there and then. Without another word you slip away and climb the stairs, Foul Legacy following right behind you, to retrieve your medical kit. The next moments are filled with comfortable silence as you tend to the injuries peppering Childe’s body, cleaning the dried blood with a delicate touch. Foul Legacy merely watches, eyes glimmering and flicking from your face to your hands and back again, fascinated by the process and how the veil over the pain grows stronger and stronger. A few times you catch him mumbling quietly in Childe’s voice, then hastily covering his mouth, blinking in confusion as you attempt to hide your laughter before hunching over the bandages once more. Finally, finally, Childe’s body is wrapped and treated, the snow-white gauze stained deep red in several places, and you let out a tired sigh and lean against the wall, Foul Legacy slotting himself in place beside you. There’s a tentative brush of his hand against your wrist, the deep purple-charcoal color strange but familiar, and without thinking you lace your fingers with his and hold tight. Foul Legacy squeaks in surprise, the sound coming out as more of a yelp in Childe’s voice, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, pointed ears twitching in embarrassment. You smile, raising a hand to ruffle his copper locks, and suddenly there’s a cheek smushed against your palm, Legacy closing his eyes and pouting. His sulky expression, adorable as it is, quickly fades as you begin rubbing your thumb against his cheekbone, turning into one of awe and contentment. This- This is what Childe feels when you cup his face in the morning, at times when Foul Legacy is securely locked away. Everything is soft and gentle, his blackened hands holding yours as you trace across all of Childe’s freckles, making little galaxies and constellations out of them, and Foul Legacy wishes he could stay forever even if he feels his strength waning. He shifts slightly, attempting to curl around your body like he usually does, but settles for resting his weary head in your lap, consciousness faltering as Childe’s body begins to heal. Just barely does Legacy feel your hand stroking his hair, and involuntarily he lets out a whimper, not wanting to leave just yet. There’s a slight pressure on his forehead, your voice whispering something he can’t quite place, and Foul Legacy’s eyes drift closed into slumber. Childe wakes up aching, pain humming constantly in his bones, but not unbearably. Golden rays of sun splash across the blanket tucked over his body, the scent of food wafting from the kitchen- your kitchen- a tasty-smelling broth simmering while you read at the table. Your head jerks up when Childe peeks around the doorway, a broad smile gracing your features as you leave whatever novel you were skimming behind in favor of pulling the Harbinger into a gentle hug. He doesn’t even bother to wipe his tears as he mumbles out “thank you”s and “I’m sorry”s, merely leaning into your touch with a hum of relief. He’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s here with you, where he can heal safely unlike all the times before, accepting the soft blanket and warm broth you bring as he nestles back down onto the couch. The tips of your fingers dance from freckle to freckle, and with a quiet laugh Childe asks you what exactly you’re doing. There’s a little gleam in your eyes as you chuckle. “Oh, I just thought I’d give you some attention, too.” In the back of Childe’s mind, Foul Legacy purrs sleepily, treasuring the memory of your gentle hands ghosting over his face.

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jaggededges123 · 2 months

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a little bit of tridentariicest for @dmsr-art 🥰

“I can still eat you, like this, look—as many times as you want, baby.”

“Ianthe, not funny,” Corona wails, piteously, but she doesn’t even try to stop you as your bloodstained hands tug at her white trousers with the golden trim—you leave the royal purple jacket, for now. “You have his eyes, and you could have had mine!”

“Who cares about Babs,” you soothe, taking in the buttery-golden curls that appear as you pull her trousers and underwear off one leg over her boot, leaving it hanging as you settle between her thick, gorgeous thighs. “Don’t mention him, dear—you need to stay with me, and not as a myriad-long battery.”

You reach out with your fingers, which feel like they are buzzing with the energy of a thousand thanergic stars, and you touch her, sliding your fingers gently down her slit. She spreads her legs wider for you, obliging and sweet even as she cries. She’s wet.

Of course she’s wet, she’s her and you’re you. Even in her upset, there was really no other outcome.

“Sister,” she cries, and again your heart half-breaks because if only she was capable of understanding. You usually understand each other, when she is capable of it, but her brain is not on the same level as yours. This would be easier if it were. “I can’t believe you. We could have been—forever—”

“Shhhh,” you hush. “I need you, darling Corona. Don’t mention it again.”

And you dive in as she gives a pathetic “Is that even true?” that gets cut through with a moan, because she really cannot help it.

You know every inch of her juicy pussy, each out-of-the-way sensitive spot, and the motions she likes a partner to take with their tongue. You knew it first before anyone else, and you still know it best. No one can ever take that away from you—you will always know your older twin sister better than anyone else, love her more than anyone else, do what it takes to keep her more than anyone else.

As you lap at with her with your tongue, making circles around that flushed, pretty clit and pressing your nose into her pubic hair, you take two fingers soaked in his blood and press them inside her. She hiccups loudly, and her hand comes to grip at your limp pale strands of hair, which is more than encouraging. It’s working.

You crook your fingers and worry them along the front wall of her channel, and you take her clit to task with the point of your tongue. You consider, for a moment, adjusting the shape of that fleshy protrusion of your mouth moment by moment to show her how focused you are on her pleasure and how skillful a genius you are. It used to be a little hard, doing that—it wouldn’t be hard for you now, the marvel you are.

“Ianthe! Oh, I need you!” she shrieks, her hand gripping in your hair so hard that you can feel some of the follicles letting go—and immediately repairing themselves.

She comes too fast in the end, to make changing the shape of your tongue worth it—a slut for your mouth or your fingers or whatever else you use on her, that’s what she is. You know the moment she falls apart because you can thanergically sense her heartbeat stutter and then race, the cry of her every muscle. It makes you throb deep in your core, hotter than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Her purple-clothed chest starts heaving as she squeezes down on your fingers and trembles on your tongue, and you’re confident for a second that you’ve successfully distracted her from whatever silly romantic fantasies she’s concocted that mask the grim reality and terrible awesomeness of the Lyctoral process. Perhaps she understands now, in that dim, pretty head of hers, that if you were to take her then you wouldn’t have her anymore.

But then an even more hysterical sob breaks on her lips, not quite the sexy kind, and you know that she may never understand it.

You sigh.

#coffeetomb #tridentariicest #ianthe tridentarius #coronabeth tridentarius #thank you so much for prompting me 🥰 this one was so fun for me to use :3 #please also let me know if you'd like me to gift it to you on ao3 when i eventually archive it <3 either way is fine with me!

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sleepiexx · 1 year

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My Hero

Carlos Oliveira x fem!Reader

Note: been dying to write for resident evil!! Especially Carlos bc he has a special place in my heart right next to Valeria Garza, here it is :))

Summary: Carlos saves a pretty FBI agent and can’t help but flirt with her

Warnings: mentions of drugging, mentions of serial murder, mentions of taxidermying people, descriptions of a wound and stitching it, lmk if I missed any

Word Count: 1561

He’d found her in the hallway of the police station, bulletproof FBI vest ripped through as though it were paper. He hadn’t even considered that she was alive until he realized that the sad little wheezing noise that had non-stop been plaguing his ears came from her mouth.

“Holy shit,” he whispered as her eyes shot open. She attempted to move but stopped short, groaning.

Carlos stilled for a second, gun aimed at the woman, trying to determine wether her groans were that of the inhuman creatures he’d been desperately trying to survive against but ultimately decided against that as a pained whimper passed her lips. He quickly shoved his gun into it’s holster and grabbed a med kit off the wall before running to her side.

“Hey, hey, hey, stop trying to move sweet thing. I’m Carlos and I’m gonna help you, okay?”

“Hurts,” she whined, tears free falling down her face.

“I know, I know. I’m going to fix you up, but first, I need to take this off. Think you can hold your breath for just one second and tough it out?” He asked, knowing that no matter the answer she gave, he was going to have to convince her to let him take off the vest and let him stitch her up. Her life depended on it.

“Yeah” she breathed, jaw clenched tight, “yeah, just do it fast.” She moved her hands away from where she was clutching claw mark-shaped open wounds ranging from rib to shoulder.

“Will do,” his hands made quick work of the velcro, shimmying the loosened vest over her head. Underneath was a bloodstained white button up blouse.

“Is it okay if i unbutton your shirt so I can reach the wound?” Once again, something he would have to convince her of if she said no but Carlos refused to make her feel any worse than she already did by taking away her decision and just stripping her with no warning.

In response, she nodded. She was handling the situation very well, Carlos assumed that might have something to do with the vest, or rather the letters on it, what it meant she was. He quickly undid the buttons on her blouse, carefully sliding it off, attempting to not expose her. Thankfully, her bra had been narrowly missed by the claws on the creature, edges just slightly tattered, so she wasn’t completely bare.

Digging through the med kit, Carlos pulled out disinfectant. “I’m going to-“

“Please just get it over with,” she strained.

“Gotcha, no more talking,”

A pang of guilt rushed over her, “‘m sorry,” she cried, wincing as Carlos cleaned the wounds with harsh disinfectant. “I’m so thankful for your help, this just hurts really bad.”

“Hey, no hard feelings. I wouldn’t be feeling particularly chummy either if I was just- stabbed? Cut? Clawed? Jesus what happened?”

She took a long sigh, “There was a creature here earlier, like the ones outside but less human, more monster. Slashed the shit outta me with it’s claws and then smashed through the window.” She explained, gesturing to the broken window to her side. Carlos made a mental note to check her hands and legs for glass shards later.

“Christ,” he let out an exasperated sigh, “were you here to help with the zombies?”

The girl shook her head, “I mean not technically, they would have sent someone other than me had anyone known. We thought it was just serial murders to begin with. Which partially, it was.”

Carlos shot her a curious look, “I’m about to start stitching, but keep talking. It’ll help keep your mind off the pain.”

She gave him a respectful nod. “The RPD chief of police, he was killing various women and then turning them into taxidermy for his own sick enjoyment.” She elaborated, face turned sour, “I’d been in his office to discuss my findings about the murders with him, I only put together that he was the one committing them when he gave me a glass of water. After a few sips, I got woozy and realized he’d drugged me. Before I could do anything to stop him, I crashed on the floor. When I came to, Irons was long gone.”

Her face felt unusually flush as waves of chills ran through her bloodstream, causing her to stop her story for a second and rub her face with the palm of her hand opposite the side that Carlos was fixing up.

She continued, voice wary, “I wandered the police station still drugged up, but conscious. I was looking for help, but I was met with flesh eating zombies. After fighting them off, I ran in here to get away. Little did I know there was some big fucked up creature in this hallway too.”

Carlos frowned at her story, “that sounds awful, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, other than the whole zombie thing.” She laughed a humorless, dry laugh. Carlos smiled along, attention still on the claw marks which at this point were dripping quite a bit of blood.

Her chills and flush-ness morphed into a skull shattering headache. She felt weak, incredibly weak. Her body sank lower on the wall she was propped up against.

“What’s your name again?” She asked, speech slurred ever so slightly but not enough to cause immediate alarm in him.

“Carlos, what’s yours?”

“I- I don’t know, Carlos. But…but.. but I’m tired, so ’m g’nna take a nap, okay?”

Carlos’s head shot up, his eyes meeting hers which were fluttering closed. Panic reared its ugly head in Carlos’s gut.

“Hey, hey none of that. You gotta stay awake.” He lightly smacked her face a few times, making her squint them open at him. “Keep those puppy dog eyes on me, okay?”

She didn’t give a response but he took her still open eyes as an okay. He hastened his stitching pace, flicking his gaze between her face and collar bone. As he was about to make his last few stitches, he noticed her eyes beginning to close again.

“C’mon, puppy, eyes open. I only got a few more stitches to do. You can rest later.”

She blinked a few times, silently trying really hard to stay awake as exhaustion washed over her body.

He decided to continue talking to her throughout the final stitches so she could keep focused on staying awake.

“Gotta stay awake so you can tell me your name later. And I gotta keep you alive so you’ll go on a date with me after this, how’s that sound?”

“You’re asking me out as I bleed all over your hands?” She strained.

He smiled, happy to have gotten her talking again, and while it wasn’t his top priority at the moment, he was really hoping to get that date. “If it makes you feel any better, you look really sexy covered in blood.”

She giggled faintly, “keep sweet talking like that and maybe I will let you take me on a date.”

“Is that right? Well in that case, has anyone ever told you what beautiful eyes you have?”

She scoffed with a smile, “just you and your weird nicknames.”

“I think it’s fitting, puppy for the girl with those sweet little puppy dog eyes. Besides, it’s not like you’ve told me your name yet.”

She would have likely responded had she not been occupied by realizing he finished stitching her up. Carlos set the thread and needle back into the med kit, reaching for gauze and tape before turning to wrap the girl’s freshly-stitched wounds.

“I thought you were a zombie there for a second, I’m glad I found you. Just one more combat trained person to add to the team.”

“How many else are there?” An attempt to gage how much of a chance they had of getting out. She wasn’t opposed to the idea of a small team, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt having some extra help.

“Well there’s you, me, my friend Tyrell, and that S.T.A.R.S. lady.” He listed off.

“S.T.A.R.S.? So we do have a fighting chance. Jill Valentine or Rebecca Chambers?”

“Jill.”

She nodded in response.

They stayed in a comfortable silence the rest of the time it took Carlos to wrap the wound. The agent focused on her breathing, trying to get it back to normal.

“All done.” Carlos gently patted the gauze, smiling and helping her onto her feet. He re-buttoned her shirt and even helped her slip her vest back on.

She shot him a smile back, “(Y/N).”

He cocked his head in confusion, “huh?”

“You said I needed to stay awake so I could tell you my name, well you’ve successfully fixed me up. I’m (Y/N).”

His smiled returned tenfold, “pretty name for a pretty girl.”

She laughed, “How did I already know you were going to say something cheesy like that?”

“You’re FBI, you’re in my mind, picking my brain.” He replied, making her scoff. He smirked in return, “So.. you want to fulfill my other wish?”

“What’s that?”

“Let me take you on a date”

A different route from both of their joking tones, (Y/N) smiled, a real, genuine smile. “If we get out of here, you can take me on as many dates as you want. After all, you’re my hero.”

#carlos oliveira x reader #carlos oliveira x you #carlos oliveira #resident evil 3 remake #resident evil

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zedif-y · 1 year

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thinking about how the clock from impulse this season is so... meaningless. which is ironic given the whole Time theme.

starting from when it was given- impulse gives it to bdubs to ensure his safety. he gives it to bdubs for him to spare his life when it comes down to it... but impulse never promises anything in return.

compare it to double life, where impulse says, specifically, that the clock means they'll be "together forever!"

it's not the one-way promise it is in limited life, where the clock is more of a token than it is a symbol of their bond. impulse has bdubs promise not to kill him, but that's it. he may not have killed bdubs directly, but he led him to tango's trap, and what does bdubs say on the way?

"I believe you. I trust you."

i think about the way purpose shapes an object. about how it shows the intentions of who made it.

in third life, impulse made a clock for himself. it's sleek, simple but imperfect, small dents in the metalwork. nothing fancy, made to serve its purpose. it's his. it doesn't have to be anything special.

in double life impulse crafts it with love. it's for bdubs- it has to be perfect. it's carefully polished, carefully designed and put together. it's special not just because bdubs is his soulmate, but because bdubs asked it of him. "I'm not making that mistake again," impulse says. he's not settling for something functional. this clock is a promise- their vows to each other, their love and devotion.

in limited life impulse makes it in a hurry. it's almost worse than the first one, quickly polished with more than a few corners cut. it's hasty as a plea, an mere whisper of the promise it once held.

the kicker is this: bdubs has seen every version. has held and traced each golden surface with his hands, felt the weight of them in his palms. the bloodstained and cracked, the perfectly polished, the one backed with an uneven sheet of gold.

i wonder if he could tell. i wonder if he stared down at the recent clock, and frowned, seeing it for the bargaining token that it was. did his heart ache, just a little, thinking back on what it used to mean, what he wants it to mean?

just food for thought.

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happyk44 · 1 year

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The world froze as a dog’s howl pierced the air somewhere behind the Titan’s army. It was too much to hope but Percy called out, “Mrs. O’Leary?”

The enemy forces stirred uneasily. They began to part, clearing a path through the street like something behind them was forcing them to. Soon there was a free aisle down the center of Fifth Avenue. Standing at the end of the block was Percy’s giant dog, a small figure in black armor and a slightly larger figure crackling with electricity.

Percy’s heart stumbled in his chest. “Nico?”

“ROWWF!” Mrs. O’Leary bounded towards him, ignoring the monsters on either side of her. Meanwhile, Nico continued forward. The enemy army fell back as though he radiated death. Jason was at his side, becoming more and more recognizable as he approached. His mouth was matted with golden blood. It stained his skin.

Through the face guard of his skull-shaped helmet, Nico smiled. “Got your message. Is it too late to join the party?”

Percy’s heart skipped a beat as he glanced at Jason, growling low. “I thought Jason was supposed to be doing something else?”

Nico drew his hand up to Jason’s face. “He completed his task in record time.” He turned to Kronos. The tone of his voice was chillingly breezy. “You remember your brother, Grandfather? Krios. Jason eviscerated him just moments ago.”

At the sound his name, Jason turned his bloodstained body to face the Titan still on his chariot.

The shock that slid over Kronos’s golden eyes was almost funny. His lips turned back into an ugly sneer. His hand tightened on his scythe. “Son of Hades,” he hissed. “Do you love death so much you wish to experience it?”

Jason growled. Lightning licked the earth around him. For a moment, Kronos almost looked worried. It sent a shock of confidence through Percy’s core, even as the campers behind him, even as Annabeth at his side, faltered nervously at the sight.

Nico held a hand out. “Your death,” he said, “would be great for me. And as Jason’s already proven, you and your kind will easily perish.”

He withdrew his sword - black as a nightmare. With the motion, the ground rumbled. Cracks appeared in the road, the sidewalks, the sides of buildings. Skeletal hands grasped the air as the dead clawed their way into the world of the living. There were thousands of them, and as they emerged, the Titan’s monsters got jumpy and started to back up.

“HOLD YOUR GROUND!” Kronos demanded. “The dead are no match for us!”

The sky turned dark and cold. Shadows thickened. A harsh war horn sounded. As the dead soldiers formed up ranks with their guns and swords and spears, an enormous chariot roared down Fifth Avenue. It came to a stop next to Nico and Jason. The horses were living shadows. The chariot was inlaid with obsidian and gold, decorated with scenes of painful death. Holding the reins was Hades himself, Lord of the Dead, with Demeter and Persephone riding behind him.

Hades wore black armour and a clock the colour of fresh blood. On top of his ink-black hair was the helm of darkness, a crown that radiated pure terror. Just looking at sent chills down Percy’s spine. It changed shape as he watched: a dragon’s head to a circle of black flames to a wreath of human bones. It reached into his mind, pulling forth his worst nightmares and fears. He wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. It was only obvious the enemy army felt the same way from the way they were shuffling, only remaining in place by Kronos’s power and authority.

Behind him, Demeter and Persephone were decked in armour as well, though Persephone matched her husband more closely. Where her mother’s armour was as gold as wheat, Persephone’s was blacker than sky. A silver diadem of roses laid across her head. She carried a wicked sharp sword, Stygian Iron like Nico’s, but it glinted bloodred in the sun. In Demeter’s hands, she held a scythe. Something about it made the air cold. Like winter was coming.

Hades smiled coldly. “Hello, Father. You’re looking… young.”

“Hades,” Kronos growled. “I hope you and the lades have come to pledge your allegiance.”

“The ladies?” Demeter snapped. The air within the first few feet of her dropped by several degrees. A light layer of frost rose slid across the pavement under her chariot. “I am your daughter, you body-stealing cretin. This is why I helped kill you last time.”

Persephone grinned wildly. The flowers on her chariot bloomed. “Hello, Grandfather! We’ve never met before, but I’m excited to watch you die!”

Hades’s laugh was chilling to hear. It resounded loud across the air. The enemy army shuddered at the sound. It broke right down into Percy’s veins. Even Kronos stilled. Persephone only beamed wider.

“I’m afraid we are not here to join your side,” Hades said. “My son here convinced me that perhaps I should prioritize my list of enemies.” He glanced at Percy with genuine distaste. “As much as I dislike certain upstart demigods, it would not do for Olympus to fall. I would miss bickering with my siblings. And if there is one thing we agree on, it is that you were a terrible father.”

“True,” Demeter huffed. There was a cold glint in her eyes. “No appreciation for agriculture.”

“Mother!” Persephone groaned, but Hades’s lips quirked upwards.

Hades drew his sword - the same double-edged Stygian blade Percy remembered presenting to him months before, although now it was complete, etched with silver and haunting. “I will say, I’ve always envied our youngest brother. Watching you die has always been my dream.”

Demeter raised her scythe. “Then we’ve been having the same dream, brother.”

For a moment, a genuine flash of fear showed in Kronos’ eyes. Quickly he steeled himself, snarling, viciously, “I don’t have time for this!”

He slammed the ground with his scythe before either of his children could finish their attacks. A crack spread in both directions. It circled the Empire State Building. A wall of force shimmered along the fissure line, separating Kronos’s vanguard, Percy, and those closest to him from the bulk of the two armies.

“What’s he doing?” Percy muttered.

“Sealing us in,” Thalia whispered. She turned to where Jason was hunched over low to the grounds, hands clawed. “He’s collapsing the magic barriers around Manhattan, cutting off just the building, and us.”

Outside the barrier, car engines revved back to life. Pedestrians woke up and stared uncomprehendingly at the monsters and zombies all around them. No telling what they saw through the Mist, but it had to be plenty scary. Car doors opened. At the end of the block, Paul and Sally emerged from their Prius.

Panic spiked Percy’s chest. “No. Don’t…”

From Sally’s expression, she understood how dire things were. Percy hoped she would have the sense to run, but instead she said something to Paul and began running straight towards him. His voice trapped in his throat. A positive, he didn’t want to cause Kronos to divert his attention to her. But fear clawed its way, ugly and heated, throughout him as he watched her dodge crevices in the pavement and guide Paul around weapons and monsters.

Lightning slammed the earth. Percy snapped to attention, eyes flicking to Thalia then past her at the barrier where Jason had just thrown himself at the barrier. He stumbled back, but, undeterred, threw himself at the barrier again. It was almost enchanting to watch. Winds stormed around him like a mini tornado. Electricity crackled against his skin. With every slam, the sky thundered.

And Kronos seemed that much more worried.

Hades blasted the wall with black energy and roared, “ATTACK!”

The armies of the dead clashed with the Titan’s monsters. Fifth Avenue exploded into absolute chaos. Mortals screamed and ran for cover. Demeter waved her hand and an entire column of giants turned into a wheat field. She spun her scythe towards a group of cowering mortals and blew them out of danger with a blast of winter wind. Persephone laughed, delighted. She changed the dracaenae’s spears into sunflowers. Nico slashed and hacked his way through the enemy. He guarded fleeing pedestrians as best he could. Meanwhile, Sally and Paul continued to run towards Percy, dodging monsters with every step.

“Nakamura,” Kronos said. “Attend me. Giants.” He looked down at Percy and sneered. “Deal with them.”

Then he vanished into the lobby.

For a second, Percy was stunned. He’d been expecting more of a fight. Not a blatant dismal. Like he wasn’t worth the time. Rage hit him like a storm. When the first giant smashed at him with his club, Percy rolled between his legs and stabbed him in the ass. He shattered into a pile of ice shards. The second giant breathed frost at Annabeth, but Grover pulled her out of the way, while Thalia sprinted up the giant’s back like a gazelle and sliced her hunting knives across his monstrous blue neck.

Outside the magic barrier, Nico was fighting towards Sally and Paul. Hades barked an order at Jason that Percy could barely hear under the thundering fall of the giant Thalia had slaughtered, but whatever he said, had Jason sprinting, faster than light, towards Nico’s side. He grabbed a monster and ripped it apart with his bare hands.

Thalia landed by Percy’s side with heavy breaths. She followed his line of sight and exhaled sharply.

Jason was his own mess of violence. Monsters and friends alike cowered before him. Mortals screamed more in terror at the sight of him than anything else that was happening. Once he reached Nico’s side, he was like a guard dog. He darted around Nico and caught an enemy demigod’s throat between his teeth. Blood spurted as he tore out their jugular, then threw them away with one hand. Their sword clattered to the ground as their body slammed into the barrier.

Thalia’s breath hitched.

Percy was so mesmerized by the horror of a one-man killing machine he almost didn’t notice that his mom had arrived, Paul at her side. Paul grabbed the sword from the demigod Jason had murdered and stabbed an oncoming dracaena in the gut.

“Paul?” Percy said bewildered.

So many things were happening right now - Hades had arrived with reinforcement to turn the tide of this battle, Kronos had just run off, a wolf child was tearing monsters and people with his teeth, Paul had just expertly killed a monster.

Paul grinned as he turned to Percy. “I hope that was a monster! I was a Shakesperian actor in college! Picked up a little swordplay!”

Percy could’ve laughed, but a Laistrygonian giant was charging towards Sally at top speed. Her bac turned, she was rummaging through the open door of an abandoned police car. Fear vomited through Percy’s mouth as he screamed, “MOM!”

She whirled around, just as the monster was almost on top of her. But instead she cranked the pump and a shotgun blast blew the monster twenty feet backwards, right into Nico’s sword. Enraged, Jason howled and launched himself at the next one, eviscerating it, before quickly returning to Nico’s side.

“Nice one,” Paul said, a little distant as he glanced down at Jason nervously.

“When did you learn to fire a shotgun?”

Sally blew the hair out of her face. “About two seconds ago. Percy, we’ll be fine. Go!”

“Yes,” Nico agreed. “We’ll handle the army. You have to get Kronos.” He lifted up his sword and grinned. “We got this, Percy.”

“Okay,” Percy breathed as he stepped back, stopped only by Thalia grabbing his hand.

She was watching Jason with wide watery eyes. Nico followed her gaze and shook his head. “He’s fine!” he insisted. “He can handle himself.”

Jason proved as much by shredding an entire group from the enemy army with one decisive wave of his hand. The air pressure slamming down exploded them into bits. An unbothered air rolled about him. He crouched low to the ground and growled.

“He’s fine,” Nico repeated. “Please. Thalia.” She turned to him. “You have to go.”

Percy pulled on her hand. For a moment, she refused. And then, quietly, she went. As Percy ran after her, he called out to Mrs. O’Leary to search for Chiron in the rubble. And as he, Thalia, Grover and Annabeth ran into the building, they paused in the destroyed doorway to look behind them at the war ensuing. Sally was blasting away at monsters. Paul was hacking and slashing. Nico was shouting orders to skeletal soldiers.

And Jason was a force of blinding light, tearing everyone else to pieces like they were nothing but toys to play with.

Thalia shivered. Annabeth and Grover glanced at Percy but he just grabbed Thalia’s hand and turned, racing towards the elevators. They could get into who and what Jason was later.

–

Percy watched his dad walk towards his throne, with an amused grin and little wink. Before she ascended to her throne beside her husband, Hera waved her hand. A simple stone guest chair appeared at the foot of the hearth. Hades brustled past Percy towards it but didn’t sit on it yet, gazing past Percy through the open doorway of the throne room.

With a gentle smile, Hestia glanced up at her little brother. Demeter passed him on her way to the throne and gave a quiet acknowledging nod. Even Poseidon patted his shoulder brotherly before he sat down on his throne. However, Zeus only looked annoyed.

“Do you wish to continue standing, brother?”

Hades rolled his eyes. “I’m waiting for my son. The rest of your brood are here. Only seems fitting mine should be as well.”

A floral scent emerged from nearby. Percy glanced over his shoulder to see Persephone walk in, looking slightly frazzled. She grimaced and mouthed an apology. Behind her, he could hear Nico arguing with someone. The acrid stench of electricity filled everyone’s nose. The other gods paused in what they were doing as Nico approached, his lips thinned. Alongside him, Jason fussed over him. For the most part, he was clean. There were still stains of blood in his blonde hair, but it was gone from his clothes, hands, and mouth. Strangely, he was devoid of any wounds. But he was trying to lick at Nico’s healing cuts and growled every time Nico swatted at him.

He kept walking towards his father, but his footsteps shook with every beat once he passed through the doorway. Attuned to the change, Jason’s posture turned as well. He bared his teeth at everyone they passed by, tensed and angry.

“I’m sorry,” Nico said to his father. “I tried to get him to go home with Persephone but he was refusing.”

As though on instinct, Jason dropped to his butt by Hades’ chair. Hades ignored Nico’s apology to sweep his hair back from his face instead. Then he pushed Nico down by the shoulder. Nico crossed his legs over one another, settling beside Jason who was laying down on the ground, watching everyone else warily, but less tense now that Nico was with his dad. Hades himself sat down.

It was clear he was pretending he didn’t notice Zeus staring down at him in abject horror. A mixture of anger and disgust flustered across his face.

Voice thin, he pushed himself up. “Hades, why do you have my son with you?”

Not looking at him, Hades glanced down at Jason and pet his hair absentmindedly. Jason leaned into the touch, rumbling low in his chest. “I would argue that he is with my son, rather than with me.”

“Jason?” Hera said faintly.

The situation was tense as could be. The air around them all was supercharged. They had just exited one war, and it seemed like another was fast on the horizon. Zeus descended from his throne to approach. A thunderous rage built like a storm in his eyes. Jason tensed, rising up to all fours, beside sliding back onto the tips of his toes. A low growl rolled from his throat, a warning.

Hades’s eyes flickered up to face him. Then he stood quietly and shifted to the side, shielding Nico from view. Percy couldn’t blame him. Zeus had already tried to kill Nico once.

He’d be damned if he tried again.

“He,” Zeus began, quiet and testy, “is not supposed to be here.”

“And yet he is,” Hades mused. “He could be dead, if you’d prefer.”

This time it wasn’t Zeus that spoke, but Hera. “What?”

Hades didn’t turn to her when he responded. His gaze remained firmly on his youngest brother, his stance hardened, protective. “They asked me to help kill him, I offered him a home instead, they accepted, and here we are.”

Zeus laughed, bitter. “They would never-”

“When has a child raised by wolves ever been returned to the human world in a way that doesn’t breed fear?” Hades snapped before Zeus could finish. “A child of yours is no more special than anyone else’s. He was a terror. They wanted him gone.” His voice lowered. “I found it quite funny, actually. All that talk about how my children were a danger to everyone else, best to be culled-” The word stung the air with a tremendous force. “-before they came into themselves, and it was yours who proved to be as such.”

It was so fast, Percy almost missed it. Zeus had raised his hand - to slap Hades or blast him. But Jason threw himself forward in such a blinding rage that Zeus stumbled back. Shadowy tendrils emerged from Hades’s cloak. They snapped forward and caught Jason before he could sink his teeth into his father’s throat, before he could sink his outstretched hands into his father’s bare skin and rip.

To his credit, Zeus had the sense to take a few steps back. Hades clicked his tongue and Jason relaxed. The shadowy leash dispelled as Jason eased backwards, crouched low all the while. His eyes never strayed from his father. He let out a loud snarl, almost like a bark. Lightning glowed across his skin. Faint winds whipped across his hair. His teeth remained bared.

Stay back, he was saying. Or I’ll kill you.

Percy remembered how he’d appeared, covered in golden blood. It was meant to be a thought, kept quiet to himself to speculate aloud later when the situation wasn’t so charged, but instead his seaweed brain faltered and he blurted out, “Who’s Krios?”

Zeus whipped to face him, face reddened with fury, and he wished he’d said nothing at all.

Hades sat down with a quiet laugh. Poseidon clasped his hands together. “He’s our uncle,” he said slowly, as though picking his words carefully.

Percy was content to keep it at that, ready to just get this meeting over with and go home. But Thalia stepped forward, breathing shakily. Zeus looked more pissed off. Thalia ignored him. “Jason killed Krios. How come we didn’t see him do that? Where was he?” She gripped her hands into tight fists and steeled her voice. “Where has he been?”

The gods glanced around themselves. Artemis cleared her throat. “Thalia-”

“There is a Roman camp,” Hades said. Everyone’s gazes snapped to him. Their eyes were wide with shock. Hestia giggled and he grinned at her. Quickly, Persephone crossed the room, glaring briefly at her father, before settling herself on Hades’s knee. “For Roman demigods. Jason is not the son of Zeus. He is the son of Jupiter. Same person, different priorities.”

Zeus’s entire body was trembling now. “You-”

“Me,” Hades agreed. He shrugged. “I always thought it was dumb to separate the two. The problem didn’t come from petty rivalries but the idea that they were different to begin with. I am no better than Pluto and he is no better than me. Jason is no better than her-” He gestured at Thalia. “-and she is no better than him.” He placed his hand on Persephone’s hip, steadying her. “If anything there’s value in the differences.”

Thalia bore no mind to her father’s shaking form. “And the wolves?”

“The Roman children are taught by wolves, by Lupa. Jason was too young, stayed too long. It changed him as it would any child his age. When the camp received him, they couldn’t manage him. They wanted him gone but failed to do so themselves. I was summoned as a next step. I didn’t see the value in killing him. Besides, I quite like dogs.” Thalia bristled but didn’t react. “I did agree to hand him back when requested.

“While you fought here, they fought their own battle. He killed Krios as requested, and when he was done, he came home.” His lips twitched. “As you can see, he’s quite attached to your cousin, as well as myself and my wife. Refused to stay behind if we were going. Since he’s here, there’s really no sense in hiding his origins any longer. He completed his great purpose, after all, the reason behind his secrecy. And as much as certain people in the room enjoy trying to kill their nephews-” He turned his gaze back to Zeus, voice incredibly bleak. “-I have little interest in killing mine.” He glanced at Percy from the corner of his eye. “Well, it depends on the nephew, I suppose.”

Percy ignored the flash of fear that squirmed in his stomach like flopping fish.

A Roman camp…

He supposed it made some kind of sense. Greco-Roman was the name. Didn’t they go hand in hand, written in and out of each other? And they’d met Janus the year before, hadn’t they? He was Roman, and Percy hadn’t questioned his existence.

“So! Little brother.” Hades leaned forward, gave a roll of his hand. “I believe there were things you wanted to say.”

“Yes, Zeus,” Hestia chimed in. “Please get started.”

Her voice was so soft and kind. Zeus softened with every word. His gaze hardened as he raised it back to Hades, but without further complaint, he rose to his throne and sat back down. Thalia took a step back, exhaling shakily as Zeus called the Olympian Council convened and began his long-winded speech. Persephone smiled from Hades’s lap and ran her hand through Jason’s hair. He laid his chin on Hades’s other knee, keeping a careful watch on Zeus all the while.

A fact that did not go unnoticed by the rest of the people in the room.

–

“So. A Roman camp, huh?” Percy leaned against his cabin wall. “How much do you know that no one else does?”

Nico screwed up his face. “It depends. What do you know?”

Percy snorted and glanced up to where Jason was wandering around, taking everything in. He didn’t stray too far from Nico, constantly looking back to make sure he was there and that Percy, standing a good couple feet away, wasn’t hurting him. Thalia was watching from closeby. Her face was carefully guarded. However, every time she would try to get closer to Jason, he’d snap at her and a flash of distress would cut over her eyes as she stepped back.

Percy sighed. “I don’t…” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what she’s feeling.”

Before they all left Olympus, Hades had called Thalia to the side and spoke with her. When she returned, she said that he had explained briefly the reality of how Jason had gone missing in the first place.

Why

their mother had abandoned him. Which was news to Percy. After Jason’s introduction during that whole sword quest in the Underworld, Thalia had chosen not to explain anything about him in the aftermath. Percy had thought he’d run away or something.

But no. He’d been abandoned to wolves at two years old. By his mother.

She didn’t go into much more detail, but obviously whatever Hades had told her had hurt her. Instead of following Artemis back to the Hunters, Thalia tagged along with Nico. Then continued to follow them as they chased after Rachel. They all overheard yet another prophecy being written into the stars, ideally nothing for the next century or so, when Percy was long dead and didn’t have to deal with any more godly madness. But in the softening madness, Thalia was hanging back, observing her wolfish brother.

Dinner would be starting soon. Percy wondered if that meant Nico would be taking Jason back to the Underworld. If Thalia would lose her brother for the third time.

“Pain,” Nico said. “And hope.” He fiddled with his fingers. “I didn’t know about the Roman camp until I met Pluto, my father’s Roman form. He prefers Hades, but sometimes, when Jason is too rowdy, they fall into what he would know them as.” Nico chewed his lip. “I don’t think he can tell much of a difference. Mostly because there really isn’t one. It’s not like dual sides, or different aspects, like with Egyptian gods.”

“Wait, Egyptian-”

“I mean, there’s no wild or calm variations. It’s like Dad said,” Nico continued, breezing past Percy and this new revelation with ease. “It’s just slightly different priorities. Pluto is more wealth than my father but they’re both still kings of the dead, in charge of the underworld, owners of all the jewels beneath the earth. They’re both still my father. Same as Jason will always be Thalia’s brother, even if he was born from a different name.”

Percy considered what to say. Then, “I didn’t know you were rich.”

Nico’s lip twitched. “My father’s rich. I’m just his son.”

Percy shrugged. “Well, he’s gotta die some time, right?”

Nico laughed, gently. “He would agree with you on that actually.” Ahead of them, Jason, finished examining the exterior of all the cabins, turned sharply on his heels and began jogging back towards them. “Nothing lasts forever.”

#feral!jason #percy jackson #nico di angelo #jason grace #thalia grace #hades (pjo)#pjo #my writing #my fanfic #pjo fanfic #i am so tired i'll upload this to ao3 sometime tmr #kronos is scared of jason because he remembers his son killing him with lightning and isn't thrilled at the risk of a repeat #please please please please enjoy this it took so fucking long to write and im really tired #underworld jason au #happy talks pjo

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vladdyissues · 1 year

Text

Death. The ultimate enemy.

In the rubble of his once-pristine lab, Vlad worked feverishly to resuscitate Danny. He talked to him, encouragements at first. "Come on, Daniel, you're strong. You can make it. Stay with me, badger. Fight this!"

When that failed, anger and desperation set in. "Don't you do this to me, Daniel Fenton," he growled. "I've already lost your mother and father. You're not leaving me, too."

Precious minutes passed. Vlad continued to perform chest compressions until his arms ached. Danny remained unresponsive. As the strength drained from his pitifully weak human hands, Vlad began to beg. "Please, Daniel. Don't go." His voice cracked. "Not like this. Wake up, badger. Come back. Please come back..."

After thirty-seven minutes, sore and stricken, he finally ceased.

He had done all he could. The boy was gone.

Gathering Danny's cold, lifeless body into his arms, Vlad softly recited a litany of heartbroken apologies.

"I'm so sorry, Daniel. It shouldn't have ended this way. I should never have told you about the gauntlets. I shouldn't have put the idea into your head. This is all my fault. I tried to protect you, and I failed. I failed you..."

When his last tear had fallen, Vlad gently laid Danny down and covered his corpse with a sheet. As he stared at the motionless shape on the table, a dark, powerful anger began to coalesce in his heart. He clenched his bloodstained fists.

He would rebuild his lab. Rebuild all of his broken equipment, sparing no expense. He would buy the most state-of-the-art technology and develop a new range of spectral-neutralizing weaponry. And then he was going to find it, the malevolent offspring of his and Danny's ghost halves. He was going to hunt it down, and he was going to kill it. Rip its evil ectoplasmic heart from its body. Peel its skin from its spectral form, all the while repeating the name of the boy it had murdered so that it would know the reason for its agony.

Vlad would have his revenge. He would see justice done.

For Danny.

#danny phantom #vlad masters #danny fenton #danny phantom fanart #dp fanart #phanart #dp fanfiction #hjbenderart #hjbwrites #ficlet #the ultimate enemy #au #enemies to allies #blood #death #angst

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sunshinies · 6 months

Note

hello hello! may i get some titles related to horror films? maybe related to saw, friday the 13th, or texas chainsaw massacre franchises

🔪 Horror movie title suggestions :

Prn who lurks in the shadows , the silent slasher , prn who goes unseen , the shape , prn who revels in repulsion , prn who thrives on pain , prn's bloodstained smile , prn who strikes fear in the hearts of all , the chainsaw-wielder , the gore-soaked maniac , prn who hunts as one , prn's blood-soaked hands , the gorehound , prn who inflicts relentless pain , prn who hurts to teach , prn who gives life meaning through pain

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im-just-a-mississippi-girl · 11 months

Text

This I Promise You

Pairing: Juice Ortiz x female!reader

Category: Fluff/Comfort

Word count: 1,608

Summary: Patching up your injured boyfriend turns into making a big decision.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of cuts, bruises and scratches, mentions of blood but nothing graphic

Masterlist

Taglist

Gif is not mine. Credit to owner.

It was late at night, close to two in the morning, when Juice finally arrived home. He tried being as quiet as he could, given you would be fast asleep in the bedroom that was a short distance from the front door. Cuts and bruises littered his arms, hands, and a few scratches resided on his cheeks.

The ride out to Stockton was rough. The MC ended up getting some cops on their tail as they rode into Stockton on top of that they had gotten ambushed by the MC they were supposed to meet to reach an agreement on the issue at hand and to discuss future steps toward working together. All members of Samcro had gotten their share of cuts, scratches, and bruises from the brawl.

As Juice attempted to make his way silently into the bathroom to clean himself up and bandage a particularly deep cut, he did his best to keep his groans to a minimum but you were still awake in the bedroom. All you could do was toss and turn as you waited for you man to come home to you. You were never able to sleep well, if at all, without him next to you.

In the bathroom, Juice rummaged through the medicine cabinet in search of the first aid kit. A few medicine bottles and antibiotic creams tumbled to the floor as he pulled out the small kit. “Shit!” He frustratedly whispered as the few medications hit the tile floor, clattering and rattling upon impact. In the quiet house the sound seemed to be magnified times ten. He just knew he had woken you up. How could he not with all that commotion?

As you laid in bed, you kept thinking you heard something so you grabbed your gun out of the top drawer of the bedside table and hopped out of bed to investigate. You hoped it was Juice but if not, you weren’t afraid to shoot. You heard the clattering of things falling to the floor in your bathroom so naturally you made your way to the door. You cautiously peaked your head around the doorway and let out a sigh of relief upon seeing the love of your life. “Oh thank God!” Your hand rested on your chest where your heart resided.

Juice spun around hearing you speak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be loud.” He watched as you looked him over. He hoped you wouldn’t see the nasty slash on his side. The guy he was fighting with during the ambush managed to whip out a switchblade and ended up making contact with Juice’s side. He didn’t think it was that bad at the time thanks to all the adrenaline but on his way home, the gnash as stinging and painful and still bleeding. His bloodstain soaked shirt proved it. He had contemplated on pulling over and calling Chibs to slap a bandage on it but he decided not to. He wanted to get home to you asap.

Your eyes roamed his bloody and battered body, taking in each cut, each bruise, and each scratch. Your eyes landed on his side, the blood appeared to still be fresh and deep. You hoped it wouldn’t require a trip to see Tara this late at night. You wondered if the others were in the same rough shape. “You’re hurt. Let me take care of you.” You insisted, reaching for the first aid kit from his hands. You didn't have the skills Tara or Chibs had but you knew enough from watching the two and doing a little bit of research to understand what to do.

Juice knew you were a good care taker, a good nurse — in more ways than one. Honestly he would rather have you taking care of him more than than one else. You always knew what he needed before he did and how to get him to cooperate when it came to something he wasn’t particularly fond of. Juice passed you the kit and propped himself up against the bathroom sink. “Be gentle. It really hurts.” He practically pleads with you. Juice knows the last thing you want to do is hurt him more and that you’ve always been gentle with him but he still wants you to know just how painful the wound is for him.

“Always baby.” You lean up and gently kiss his forehead. It’s one kiss that always comforts him whenever he’s hurt or nervous or upset. It’s the one kiss you give him every morning and every night when he’s home, even when you’re at the clubhouse or TM. You remember how embarrassed he used to get when his brothers would see you kiss his forehead but now he doesn’t care anymore. You mean more to him than anything and anyone in the world.

You opted against having him try to remove his shirt knowing it would cause him more pain so you grab some scissors and cut it down the middle. Any other time Juice would protest but at this point he just wanted to be cleaned up and the pain to ease by any means necessary. You gingerly peel his shirt away from the bloodied skin. Damn. This was nasty. Nastier than you expected. You sucked in a breath. Here we go. You grabbed a clean wash cloth from the closet and wet it, beginning to lightly wash off the blood. Juice groaned and hissed as you worked. “I’m sorry lovely. I’m trying to be gentle.” You glanced up at Juice’s face and saw how hard he was trying to be still and let you bandage him. You had to be quick but efficient. Before too long the gnash was as clean as you could get it. “Almost done sweetie.” You promised, hands digging through the first aid kit. “Did I ever tell you what I wanted to be when I was a kid?” You thought getting his mind off you patching him up would help pass the time.

“No, I don’t-” He sucked in a breath as you applied antibiotic cream to the wound. You knew it had to sting and burn. When Juice finally exhaled, he continued his sentence, “think you have.”

“I wanted to be a florist, have my own little shop and maybe sell some little trinkets and balloons and cards. Be a one stop shop for gifts for special occasions or those just because moments, you know? I know it’s silly but that’s what I wanted. I always loved flowers — the way they smell, all the different colors and types, the way you can make so many beautiful combinations of different types of flowers, and how much they make people smile when receiving them.” You shrugged. Gently placing the bandage on the wound, you glance up at Juice to see how he’s holding up only to find him already looking at you, love and admiration evident in his eyes. “What?” You embarrassingly chuckled.

“That’s not silly, being a florist. You’ve got a gorgeous garden in the backyard so why not do it? I knew that was your passion from the first time I gave you a carnation, remember? It was all I could afford. I was terrified you’d be disappointed it wasn’t a fancy bouquet and hate it, never want to see me again. But I’ll never forget how your eyes lit up and the biggest, most gorgeous smile grew on your face. You have no idea how relieved I was.” Juice confessed, recalling the memory of picking you up for that first date. It wasn’t some magical fairy tale date but it was nice. You both made the best of you had and ended up having fun despite Juice being called away for a club meeting.

You cautiously patted the edges of the bandage onto his skin to stick. You were blushing at the memory. “I remember that like it was yesterday. You looked so handsome, made sure I was safe and comfortable on your bike.”

“You should do it. Charming could use a good florist, someone passionate and caring to help make someone’s day better.” Juice encouraged. He genuinely wanted you to do this. There were plenty of vacant spaces in town that would be perfect. You always supported him so now it was his turn to support you.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just a little daydream these days.” You waved you hand in dismissal.

“Then make it a reality. I’ll help you with it. It’s only fair, you help out with Clear Passages. The club will help too.” Juice offered. He could see the hesitation and worry in your eyes. Starting your own business is scary and he gets that but Juice was going to do everything he possibly could to make sure you succeeded.

After thinking about it and seeing the look of encouragement on Juice’s face, you finally caved. “Okay, okay! I’ll do it, let’s do it!” You never dreamed that you would make this decision at almost three in the morning after bandaging up your boyfriend but here you are. “Wait. What about the money? It’s going to take a lot of money to get this idea off the ground.” You started to panic. You didn’t have that kind of money and neither did Juice.

“You let me worry about that, sweetheart. I promise you’ll have the best and most successful florist shop Charming has ever seen.” Juice wasn’t sure at the moment where he’d get the money but if he had to pull extra shifts at TM and do extra runs for the club, he would just to see your dream come true.

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