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seokahwrites · 3 years

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NUISANCE | chapter 1 (or, human walls and steak fungi)

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pairing.

| lawyer! jeon jungkook x lawyer! reader (feat. ex! kim taehyung)

summary.

| all you wished for was a relaxing two weeks in a big ass boat eating some big ass shrimps, away from the real world. but instead you’re stuck with your arch rival with no means of escape — and goddamit why does the bastard smell so good

tags.

| the spice has commenced; POUTY JUNGKOOK???; hunky jungkook?; jungkook?; jungkook in a suit; a LOT of jungkook; pouty reader; stressed out reader; use of the words dick and cooch; use of the word satan (to refer to kim seokjin ofc); KIM SEOKJIN IS THE REAL MAIN CHAR; poor joon is a victim; JUNGKOOK WEARING EARRINGS AND BRACELETS; taehyung is nice (?) (¿question mark?)

a/n.

| this writing was sponsored by red bull, alcohol and fantasies of casual jungkook as well as jungkook in a suit. also, jungkook’s smile is described as tight lipped bc his signature smile appearing is important to the story. also i wanna know y’all’s thoughts on tae. BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY THANK U FOR THE COTINUOUS SUPPORT AND LOVE, I WILL CONTINUE TO GIVE MY BEST AND THANK U FOR READING MY STORY <333

Having once spent a sleepless night reading Dante’s inferno, you were well aware of the fact that there are 9 layers of hell.

Though, it seemed the old man had forgotten about the tenth circle: Anywhere with Jeon Jungkook.

Since the first time you met him, you never had any reason to believe that he was a humble character. He had always looked at you from the top of his high horse and he took much pride in trotting on it.

As you, Jungkook and the receptionist wait for the elevator, the air thick with discomfort, you look at the man in front of you and remember that first time.

Your head is invaded with the memory of you in your Hello Kitty pajamas, adorned with grease and all, as you worked on a divorce case that causes you migraines to this day — love is a bitter bitch. It must’ve been past midnight when you and Jin were chewing away pizza slice after pizza slice at the office.

Then, there’s a knock at the door.

“If that’s Namjoon I’m literally going to fire you,” you bark at Jin as you hold his leftover crust on one hand and a document on the other.

And Jin, being the smart ass he is and knowing you wouldn’t survive a day without him, gets up from your leather couch without a word and opens the door, launching himself at none other than Kim Namjoon.

You roll your eyes at the love birds while wondering when the fuck their honeymoon phase was gonna end. You were so sick of them.

“Y/N,” Jin calls you from your desk, urging you to come to the door and once you’re beside him, this time with a cup of coke in your hands, “Can you keep them entertained for a bit? I just gotta grab Namjoon’s meds.”

Before you could say no, the little devil was already running off to his own cubicle, leaving you alone with the all familiar Namjoon and a very much not familiar stranger.

You lean on the doorframe without uttering a single word, sipping on your drink as well as the stranger — Sure, looking back at the moment you kinda just wanna punch yourself in the cooch and tell yourself to get a grip, but you weren’t blinded with hatred at the time, and also not blind — because it isn’t every night that a man clad in a charcoal suit and an unbuttoned shirt, comes knocking at your door; not to mention his watch dazzled under the artificial light and he held the blue tie in his hand with just the right grip.

You’re snapped out of your daze when the man goes from checking the time to whispering something in Namjoon’s ear, covering it the same way eight year olds cover their own secrets, and he laughs. This would all be good and well if he hadn’t looked at you with such appall in his eyes the moment before, the look still clear as day in your mind.

You're reminded that your makeup was probably smudged from all the times you had rubbed your eyes, your skin oily from the tiresome day and you were wearing Hello Kitty pajamas.

Maybe you shouldn’t have taken the insult so personally, but you did.

“I’m here,” Jin is back, a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder as the other one passes him a lunchbox of cold medicines, “What did I miss?”

At this you look up from the pitiful ground, pulling Jin back to your office, and accidentally spill (or throw) your coke at the stranger. You watch in delight as he looks at his very expensive looking suit drenched in a sticky brown, utter terror in his eyes, inhaling the wonderful moment for a second before shutting the door in his face.

The consequences of your actions: an almost two-year long rivalry with the stranger, revealed to be Jeon Jungkook moments after the incident when Jin asked, “Did you just throw your drink at Namjoon’s boss, you crazy bitch?”

And that wave has rippled to this day, in the form of insults and high-school level teasing (if his brain had even evolved to that age). The words “I’ll have you all to myself’ comes to mind; it makes you puff with exasperation. Sure it comes off a little flirty to unknowing ears, but it was just another reminder of Jungkook’s dismay — and that he had an all new access to torture you.

You attempt to shake the ick from your body, but in a trice you found yourself in front of the suite, the four floors you travelled to get there seemingly a glitch in time.

Isabelle scans the room card in front of the handle, handing it over to Jungkook after the green beep. “This is your room!”

You shove Jungkook aside, pulling your trolley as you enter. You had seen the pictures before, but seeing the grand room before your eyes in all of its shades of brown and gray dispersed throughout the walls and furniture, the intricate branch of lights in the ceiling and the panoramic ocean view that gave it its name; it made you forgot who you were sharing it with for a moment.

When you turn around, Jungkook is as wide eyed as you, and it makes the corners of your mouth lift ever so slightly because he looks like a fucking dork.

“Well,” Isabelle is smiling and you could sense her relief of not having to deal with the two of you anymore, “If you need anything, me and the rest of the Royal Sunrise team are available at all times, have fun!”

And just like that, she made her escape, leaving you and Jungkook standing in the middle of the room, alone.

For a moment you shut your eyes as hard as you can, scrunching your face with your fists up, in hopes that a miracle happens and Jungkook disappears. You have been having some odd dreams lately, maybe this was just—

Nope. He’s still there.

Since his eyes seem to have wandered too far, you call out his name to bring him back to earth, crossing your arms when his gaze lands on you, “We should probably talk about a few things.”

He drops the backpack from his back as he nods.

“First of all, the sleeping situation—“

“Yeah, I already thought of that,” he walks to the (very cramped) couch on the other side of the room and pats the armrest, “I’ll take this wonderful bed.”

You look at him with quizzical eyes, wondering how the hell was he of all people going to fit there. But it wasn’t really of your concern if he wanted to get scoliosis, he had made his decision.

“Plus, you need beauty sleep much more than me.”

What a waste of oxygen.

You shrug off his words, immune to his childish remarks at this point, “Okay, then. Next on the list, eating arrangements.”

At this point he’s picking up his things and placing them in his territory, “Why is that on the list?”

You move closer to the windows, a little excited when you see the balcony — you would use it to either push your roommate into the cold ocean or catch up on a few books, tough choice. “Because the tables are arranged by rooms.”

You felt the confusion in his eyes poking at your back, so you turn, “That means that we need to share a table for the next few days, dipshit.”

Jungkook shakes his body in agony, throwing a tiny tantrum, “Why is that even a thing?” He whined.

When you feel a headache coming, you grab your own luggage and place it on top of the bed, opening it up and digging in the pockets for a little bit of liquid luck. God knew you needed it.

You down the sample of Jack Daniels in one go with a bitter face and a blow of air.

“Really?”

You start picking out your pajamas for the night, “I was saving it for when I’d find a hot stranger by the pool but—,” when you look up and see the mess on Jungkook’s couch, you’re taken aback, “What in the world is that?”

Jungkook’s hands are rummaging through the jungle that were his things, and it’s obvious that he just shoved as many clothes as he could find lying around the house. He grabs hold of a white tee, “What?”

Again, a waste of—

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH.”

In the roll of an eye Jungkook’s torso is fully exposed, his back turned towards you with all of its bumps and mumps looking right at you. And you only become aware that you are staring when Jungkook notices the lack of a comeback, pointing it out with a smug tone.

“Y/N,” he doesn’t turn but he snaps you out of your stunned state all the same, “I can practically hear you drooling.”

At the very next instant you cover your eyes, just as little kids do when an inappropriate scene comes on the TV. “You wish, jackass,” and it comes off a little shoutier than you expected, as if the lack of visual correlated with the volume of your voice. Blindly, you grab your shirt and shorts from the bed and run to the bathroom, which just had to be on Jungkook’s side of the room.

And things take a turn for the worse when you run into something, and that something is warm and firm and breathing.

“Uh—.”

Pain.

You convince yourself it was just an invisible, Jungkook shaped wall they failed to mention on the website and fling yourself to the bathroom door, finding the handle rather quickly from all the adrenaline.

Once you’ve slammed the door shut, you let your back slide against the wooden slab and your ass hit the marble floor.

The clothes are still in your grip, your left hand feeling your overheating cheeks and for a tick you think that maybe, just maybe, you should throw yourself into the water and let the sharks take you so you could be buried at the very depths of the ocean. It seemed like a better fate than whatever the fuck was awaiting you the next two weeks.

You take a deep breath in, letting your mind focus on something else.

You look around and, oh, wow. Even the bathroom was charming — if you could ignore the absurd amount of windows, any sea creature passing by would surely see more than they should — glass making up all of the walls, including the shower’s.

The exposure that surrounds you, in its own weird way, cleared up your head the tiniest bit and for the first time since you’ve arrived, you were able to think, only the ocean and its blue around you now.

And what would be your first course of action after a glimpse of clarity?

Calling that rat bastard assistant of yours, of course.

You stand up and place your phone atop the hazel counter after clicking contact name ‘Twinky’, out of fear you’d smash the damn thing when you hear his voice, smoke was bursting at the seams of your chest. Prepare to meet your end, Kim Seokjin—

“Good evening, Ms. Y/N. For what reason are you contacting me in the midst of your vacation?”

Breathe in, breathe out. “Don’t get all formal with me, Kim,” you’re wagging your finger to no one, “I know you did something. Confess.”

The obnoxious twirling of Jin’s chair could be heard through the speaker, “I’ve no idea of what you could possibly be talking about, Madam—“

“Confess.”

“Fine, fine,” you could picture Jin putting his hands up at your murderous tone, “Me and Joon just thought it was about time you two kids got together.”

You take a pause from your pacing around. Motherfucker.

“Okay! I thought it was time and convinced Namjoon to go along with it,” your fist meets the counter with an audible thump, and you were seethed at the probability of Jin smiling at your behaviour. “Speaking of it, how’s it going?”

“Well, Jin,” you place the microphone as near to your mouth as possible, “JEON JUNGKOOK IS TAKING OFF HIS CLOTHES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROOM,” you put on a docile face and naturally assume that Jin could see you telepathically, “So you tell me how it’s going.”

For the first time since you hired him, you had left Jin speechless. Or so you thought.

“I didn’t know you would move this fast—“

“Jin.”

“I apologise, I apologise,” the witch cackles, “But you didn’t give me any context, I only assumed the best.”

“Spare me from your taunts, you hag,” you huff and roll your eyes, “And, as I’ve told you many times before, Jeon Jungkook is literally the worst. I hate—.”

“—him. Yes, Y/N, I’ve been hearing the same speech every single day for two years,” you could hear Jin walking back and forth before an abrupt pause, “Listen to yourself, Y/N, you brought this upon yourself. Whenever you saw or just remembered Jungkook existed you wouldn’t stop talking about him. So, being the good friend I am, I handed you his—,” you rush in a failed attempt to muffle his next words with your hand, “—dick on a silver platter.”

Oh, dear lord.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I wanna be anywhere near Jungkook’s—,” you speak in a hushed tone, “—thing.”

“See, you can’t even say it,” and you give up, because no matter how many times you denied it, Jin never let up. “Anyway, I gotta go and… take a call. Have fun!”

And he hangs up.

All you can do is groan, making a mental note that you oughta kick Jin in the balls one of these days, and you look at yourself in the mirror — you couldn’t even enjoy your tacky shirt because of him. Was a normal vacation really too much to ask for?

You remember that the universe had already answered your question with a big yes, and you can’t help but pout.

Still, ever the changing mind, were you really going to let the universe win?

Your pout turns into a smirk. Of course, you weren’t. All you needed to do was avoid Jungkook as much as possible, that would be easy for sure, you were on a gigantic cruise ship after all.

Yeah, this can still be great.

And so, quick to think as always, you grab your phone and scroll through the Royal Sunrise website.

To your luck, the cruise offered classes and activities of all types with a different theme each day — tomorrow is cooking. Not only was it going to be actually entertaining, you could avoid Jungkook without having to look behind you every other minute.

Genius.

With this new mindset and plan, you change into your oversized navy shirt and banana-printed shorts, a newfound excitement in your step. You even bang your chest with each of your fists, a gorilla-esque fighting technique if you shall, as a way to pump you up.

The door doesn’t seem as intimidating when you push it open, your arms swinging at your side as if you were one of the seven dwarves. This was good.

Immediately you're met with the vexing view of Jungkook, and you quirk your eyes when you notice that all he was wearing was a pair of gray shorts and that white tee, the oddity of it all iffy in your head since you’ve only ever seen him in suits and shirts. There’s a familiar tingling of (what you always assumed was) contempt in your fingertips and toes, one that would only ever occur with Jungkook. Hatred finds a way, huh.

He looks at you, back to his phone and back to you all in one second, and once his brain processes that you’re back and present, he ditches his phone and props himself up on one elbow. “You know the walls aren’t that thick, right?”

The tingle turns into a twitch and you almost hit yourself. Breathe, Y/N.

Jungkook sits up, crossing his arms, his eyes wandering once again, “I knew that Namjoon was planning something. He was sweating so much, I thought it was just the heat,” and they land back on you, “Turns out, it was betrayal.”

You head to your own king-sized resting place and a chuckle slips out of you at Jungkook’s little remark. “You did hear that Jin was the one who dragged him into this, right?”

You’re both pulling your covers over your bodies with silent grins due to the dumbassery of your assistants, “I assumed as much.” At this, your smiles become full-out laughs and your heads must have been too exhausted to dwell on the out of character situation.

It fades after a few seconds and you take one final look at Jungkook before turning off the lights, only to make sure he was already laid down.

Your anxiety comes back to the surface, your eyes staring blankly ahead at the ceiling.

“What a mess,” you don’t even notice you had blurted it out loud.

The rustling of sheets sounds through the otherwise cricket-silent room, “Tell me about it.”

Another chuckle.

“Jungkook,” you call him, the words coming out with no warning, “Can we just promise, no monkey business? I just really wanna relax and—.”

“Y/N,” he stops you before you could yap any further, “No monkey business.”

His interruption makes you sheepish, that tingle coming back as you fiddle with the sheets.

All of the sudden, “Good night, Y/N.”

Silence.

“Don’t be a killjoy.”

Groan. There really isn’t any reason for you to answer the prick. Still, you roll your eyes, “Good night, you troll.”

You hear his pleased sigh.

“Kinda bummed you don’t want my thing, though.”

Damn you, Kim Seokjin.

Your eyes flutter open, not with the calming sound of the dancing waves or the rustling of the sheets beside you from a happy hour mistake, no. You wake up with the sound of the shower running, the drip drop of the water meeting the glass floor of the bathroom.

The walls are very thin.

The image of a very naked Jungkook just next door is forced into your head, and you try to get rid of it by putting a pillow over your face, in hopes that it would put an end to your misery, but the world only gives a hundred problems and zero solutions.

Sat up, you remind yourself of the fresh-new mindset you had implemented yesterday, and this motivates you to restart your morning right and get dressed for the busy day ahead.

You squat down to your bag, grabbing the first jumpsuit and shoes in front of you, surprisingly not too shabby. The black off-shoulder fabric was adorned with pale pink flowers and your basic white sneakers didn’t add much but they were still a welcome fit — you’d only brought three pairs of shoes, so you didn’t really have much of a choice.

The background noise of the shower running disappears.

Shit.

You stumble around the room, trying to switch out of your clothes as fast as you possibly could to avoid any of yesterday’s incidents repeating, the need of any sort of grooming forgotten along the way. Still, you succeeded, and just as Jungkook unlocked the bathroom door, you were out of the room.

The joy in your step was back as you took the few steps needed to the elevators, pressing that little button of victory. Though you’ve been to countless luxury premises, the details of each place still managed to leave you awestruck, and the black railing and golden walls of the ship with decoration clearly inspired by the Romans, weren’t an exception.

The elevator was going from the sixth floor to the fifth when you heard a door open, the hairs of your back standing up out of instinct.

“Wait up!”

Fuck me.

You turn to the left, met with the, once again, odd view of Jeon Jungkook wearing casual clothes, this time in a charcoal shirt a few sizes too big, black cargo pants and signature chunky shoes. But, there’s something even more strange and you can’t quite put a finger to it, it isn’t the fact his lavish watch was replaced with leather braids on his wrist or that his hairs strayed a bit more wildly, it’s—

“Holy shit,” your eyes shoot wide open, “Are those hoops?”

Your hands almost go to touch the silver in his ears, but you remind yourself you’d probably turn to stone.

An unfamiliar red paints Jungkook’s face as his own fingers prod at the earrings, his eyes not meeting yours, “Maybe.”

A gasp. “How did I never notice,” you state more than ask, but Jungkook answers all the same.

“I mean, I never wear them to anything work-related because keeping a professional image and all of that,” he looks at you, his bashfulness fading into an all-knowing smile, “And those are the only times I see your bitter face.”

You scoff, “Wow, actually we talked like normal people for a whole thirty seconds.”

The imp has the audacity to laugh at your face, the way he stops to scan you up and down going unnoticed by your sight. “I gotta say, Y/N, you actually know how to dress—“

Ding.

The black tinted doors open to the glass elevator, a panorama of all the ship’s floors in full display, blue and purple lights reflecting on the gilded ornaments. Your hands rest on the black railing and you don’t even notice there’s another person in the elevator.

“Y/N?” The deep timbre of the voice is all too easy on your ears.

A slight turn to the right is all it takes to see him, fluffy ash hair (that was rough between your fingers from all the times he had dyed it), a shirt that flowed like the clouds and beige slacks that matched with the sepia of his sandals (an ensemble that contrasted the vibrant version of him in your memory). But that square grin was still the same.

“Tae?” You laugh in utter disbelief, “Kim Taehyung?”

“Come here!” His long arms bring you into a hug and with your head nuzzled against his chest, his heartbeat echoed good times, easier times that weren’t filled with paperwork and suits.

It’s interrupted by your forgotten acquaintance clearing his throat.

You pull away, recomposing yourself as you stand beside Taehyung, “Jungkook, this is Kim Taehyung,” you feel Taehyung’s eyes on you, “He was kind of my college boyfriend.”

They shake hands and look back at you, as if waiting for something.

“Uh— Right. Tae, this is Jungkook, my—,” you glance at the brunet to find the right words, “—co-worker, of sorts.”

Your embarrassment only deepens when you remember that the Jeon Jungkook was a first-hand witness to the mess you were melting into in front of your ex-boyfriend.

Who needed caffeine when shit like this kept happening to you.

“Oh,” Taehyung’s voice drops an octave as he shoves his hands in his pockets, “So you two came together?”

And you wave your arms around to signal a ‘no’, but it comes off as ‘that-one-crackhead-at-the-corner-of-the-street-ish” instead. “God, no,” you snort, much to your chagrin.

Taehyung sticks his tongue between his teeth, staring down at Jungkook who was chewing on his own bottom lip, “That’s good to hear.”

It seems you’ve regressed to your college-self, tucking your hair behind your ear with blushed cheeks at your senior.

Ding.

The elevator had arrived at the first floor, Jungkook’s cue to leave.

But he doesn’t make a straight itinerary, instead standing in front of the elevator, “Aren’t you gonna catch breakfast, chump?”

Ah, right. Your genius plan could finally come out in the open, “No, actually. I have an all-day cooking class on the 5th floor.”

“No kidding,” Taehyung turns to you and places a hand on your bare shoulder with a wide smile, “Me too!”

At this, Jungkook’s shoulders slump and his expression falls flat, but you couldn’t get a word in as the elevator doors closed and he swiveled away to his own day.

Eh, it’s not like it was your affair anyways. Plus, 9AM wasn’t the hour to deal with his bullshit.

You and Taehyung made your way up, speaking of all the things you’ve been up to for the past three years.

“So, Jimin’s dancing in Europe,” you gasp, a swell of pride in your chest, your old friend would talk about it every free night he spent in yours and Taehyung’s flat.

“Yeah, now I don’t know who’s keeping an eye on all the dumb shit he does.”

The weight on your shoulders only got lighter with every laugh you shared with Taehyung, sweet nostalgia.

“We’re here,” you point at the chalk sign, the words ‘Bon Appetit’ scribbled on it.

Out of sheer intuition, you pull Taehyung by the wrist until you reach the entrance, a Royal Sunrise worker awaiting with a list of, what could only be, the names of the participants.

You let go of Taehyung when the man’s eyes travel to your holding hands. Oh, God.

He smiles, “Good morning, Mr. and Ms. What would your names be?”

“Good morning, I’m Y/N Y/LN,” your smile hadn’t left your face, “I signed up yesterday.”

He nods and you walk inside, Taehyung following you before the worker puts up a hand to stop him.

“Your name, sir,” his tone changes..

You look back, wondering what the fuss was about.

“Uh— Kim Taehyung.”

The man reads over the clipboard, even flipping to the previous pages. “Excuse me, Mr. Kim. But your name doesn’t seem to be in the—.”

Taehyung’s calm demeanour becomes a bitter scowl as he pats a fifty dollar note down the man’s pocket before he could continue his speech. “Just let this one slide, buddy.”

The sight is a bit rough on the eyes and the corners of your lips turn downwards, something itching at your throat, but you hadn’t seen him in a long time and he most likely had good intentions with the man, you could let it slide, right?

“So,” Taehyung rubs his hands with a smile that reaches the pillows of his eyes, a 360° from the him you saw a few seconds ago, “Where were we?”

The blue of the sky had faded into a deep lilac once you and Taehyung were finished with your last batch of food.

You stood outside with smiles plastered on your faces and flour sprinkled on your hair, reminders of a day well-spent.

“This was great,” you held boxes of chocolate crepes and mushroom pasta, “Except for the fact I was forced to eat and deal with mushrooms.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows pull together, “So many years together, and I didn’t know you hated mushrooms,” you remember telling him countless times, but he never had the best memory — you don’t bother to bring up your hatred for crepes. “But, yeah… I think it was the company that sealed the deal, though.”

A beat of silence. The boy was smooth as ever.

You’re the first to break it. “I guess I’ll go get dinner then.”

“Right, right,” he purses his lips, “I’m gonna catch a nightcap, too full for food anyways. See you, Y/N.”

And you only mumble a small goodbye before you and Taehyung are going different directions.

A day well spent indeed.

Grumble.

You couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Holy Moses, were you hungry as shit. Who knew that barely eating breakfast and lunch could do this to a person.

Once the coast is clear, you run to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly because why is this thing so fucking slow.

The time taken to go down to the first floor is even more agonising, but you just imagined the wonderful meals that actually tasted like food waiting for you downstairs. You could feel the pork melting in your mouth already.

Ding.

Since the first floor is more packed, you pace yourself as you power-walk to the dining area but you arrive in no time, walking through the tables and scanning each marker for the number 83, until you finally find your salvation — and the mop of brown hair sitting there with its unmistakable silver.

You park your ass on the wooden chair and place the white boxes of gag-worthy food on the table.

“Fancy meeting you here, Y/N,” Jungkook shoves a fork of rare steak and potatoes in his big mouth.

“Don’t antagonise me, Jungkook,” you leap to grab his wrist before he can get another scoop, “Where’s the food?”

You feel him tense under your grip, “Okay, let go of me, hungry hungry hippo,” you loosen your fist and lean back on your chair with crossed arms, “And the restaurant is out of steaks for the night, your only other option is some fried fish or something,” he continues munching.

“No—,” your head meets the table with a bang, “—I’ve been dreaming of red meat all day.”

“Didn’t you cook at— you know, cooking class?”

“Yes, we did,” you sit up and shove the boxes of trash to Jungkook as he examines them.

“But, you hate mushrooms and crepes,” he turns his head in a robotic motion when he opens the lids.

Your hunger fades for a bit as that tingle in your fingertips pushes you to sit straight, leaning your head like a curious puppy.

“How do you know that?”

Jungkook bites his bottom lip as he seems to think of a response. “Well, you mentioned it at the Law & Practice Awards a few months ago,” he rubs his fingers on his chin with a feign look of concentration, “I believe your exact words were: ‘Why does the stake have fungus on it’ and ‘Everybody knows that crepes are just a—.”

“—a cheap version of pancakes,” you finish his sentence with surprise painted on your face. Still, you question him, “But, how do you even remember that?”

Jungkook’s flush is back on his cheeks, “As they say, keep your friends close,” he flashes that tight lipped smile of his, “And your enemies closer.”

Just as you were about to flip the fucker off, your stomach grumbles. Out of all of the moments it could’ve complained, it decided to do so in the only second of silence.

Jungkook mumbled something along the lines of “That’s it,” under his breath and let out a sharp exhale, cutting up his steak and taters and pushing them into a smaller plate, adding a few greens in the mix. He snaps his fingers at the nearest waiter and grabs a glass of wine from his tray. The act finishes off with him pushing the food in your direction.

You stare at the food, at Jungkook and back at the plate again. Dumbfounded, once again.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Eat,” he continues on with his dinner as if he hadn’t just done— Well, what he just did.

You bite your lip and bow your head slightly, though you’re sure he doesn’t see it, before vacuuming the food directly into your belly.

The rest of the evening is spent in comfortable silence, no daggers threatened to be thrown or scorn weighing in the air. This lasts all the way to the door of the room; you were fine with communicating with only ‘hums’ and nods but Jungkook, as always, had to ruin things.

He leans his back against the white door, arms crossed and a smirk as he looks down at you. “How lucky of you to have your mortal enemy and—,” he puts up air quotes, “‘kind of college boyfriend’ in the same boat as you, huh?”

You palm your face and hide a sheepish smile, “I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

“How could I when I was your special guest to first hand embarrassment in the elevator,” he waves the white flag of peace as he puts his hands up, “But, hey—“

“Hi, Jungkook,” someone behind you purrs, heels clacking.

You turn around and see a woman of jet-black hair in a stunning red silk dress, the pony-tail on her head swinging a delicate left to right as she waved her manicured hand at none other than Jungkook — who brushes a hand through his hair before complimenting her greeting.

It takes you by surprise, though you laughed at Jungkook’s gnarly stance at the beautiful woman, the tingle comes back, this time prickling at the pit of your stomach.

As soon as she had walked away, you rubbed your hands at the sides of your arms, “Wow, Jungkook. Moving fast are we?” you squint your eyes, “I think it’s the earring.”

“First of all, screw you,” he unlocks the door, “Second, that’s nothing, trust me.”

He holds the door open for you and you catch a whiff of his black vanilla scent. You stop in your tracks and place a hand on his shoulder with a grimace on your face, “Just don’t do anything on my bed, okay?”

You don’t bother to wait for an answer as you head to the bathroom with your comfy tee in your hands.

This time, the counter was embellished with skincare and cologne galore, all thanks to your dear roommate.

“He wouldn’t notice if I used some of this, right?” You say to Jungkook’s bottle of cleanser, too lazy to go back and grab your own toiletries.

“If you use that I’m drowning myself,” you hear him shout from the other room.

Sorry, face. You’ll have to wait for tomorrow.

Once you were snug in your tee, you were off to bed — Jungkook in the same attire as yesterday as well.

You leave the lamp on as you checked your phone for the first time since yesterday. Of course, Jin was your only notification, a plethora of obscenities and questions that would, unfortunately, be permanently ingrained in your mind forever. You turn off your phone and throw it on top of the night stand.

Not today, satan.

“You mind?” You ask Jungkook who seemed to be scrolling away, too engrossed in his phone to look at your finger pointing at the light, only a grunt on his behalf.

You turn it off and shut your eyes, your body tense, not that you weren’t used to it, the decaying muscles of your back have been like that since you graduated high-school. And, it was a bit more intense from all the mixing and pot handling — thank the heavens that tomorrow’s activities involved massaging. Though, today was a win.

Jungkook’s phone turns off and his body sloshes around, the sounds he makes the only ones reverberating in the room.

“Good night, Y/N,” you try to ignore him, but he comes forward with a good case, “Come on, I gave you my food.”

Guilt tripper.

“Fine, but only because you’re annoying as shit,” he lets out a satisfied breath, “Good night, Jungkook.”

You arrive at dreamland in no time.

taglist. (open)

| @fangirl125reader / @vantxx95 / @jinpanman / @ggukkieland / @miniiimee / @paizthemaiz

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toosicktoocare · 4 years

Text

Jason knows the second he’s pulled from sleep by a low vibration close to his head that today’s going to go down in the books as, to put it simply, a bad day. There’s a dull sense of pressure in his head, pushing lightly against the base of his skull, and his phone buzzing insistently beside his head is only heightning his overall awareness that he’s got one hell of a mirgaine trying to grow against his brain.

He slaps his hand around blindly for his phone, squeezing his eyes shut against the drum of pressure as he clumsily presses answer on his phone with a groan.

“Look, Dick Brain, I’ve already told you that I’m not teaming up with you lot of dumb birds tonight. I have my own shit, so you you all need to keep your shit to yourselves.”

“Master Jason?”

Jason isn’t prepared for the polite accent on the other line, one that’s distinctly laced with an air of disappointment. He shoots up in bed, his free hand flying to push against the alarming wave of pressure that’s blooming across is forehead. “Shit, Alfred. Sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”

“I assumed as much. Did I wake you?”

Jason clears his throat to rid the lingering dryness from sleep that’s coating his throat. He blinks slowly at the digital clock on his bedside table until his mind finally makes sense of the numbers and orders: 10:22 AM.

He contemplates lying for a breath of a moment only to chase the thought away with a shake of the head. Alfred will know; he always does.

“Yeah,” he laughs quietly. “Guess I slept in a little.”

“Are you quite alright, Master Jason? It’s unlike you to sleep past 7 AM.”

Jason mentally supplies the words that go unsaid: ‘because of your nightmares.’ Sighing, he digs his fingers into his forehead, massaging around the blossoming pressure. “Yeah, just a headache.”

“Not one of your migraines, I hope.”

“Nah,” Jason tries for an airy attitude, one void of any concern, and to his legitimate surprise, Alfred seems to accept his answer, though hesitantly.

“If you’re absolutely sure...”

Deflect, Jason supplies to himself. “I assume Dick’s got you calling to do his dirty work?”

“Not quite. Master Bruce asked me to call when Dick informed him that you’ve been dodging his calls all week.”

“That’s new,” Jason mutters, swinging his legs over the bed and sliding to his feet. The sudden change in weight distribution elevates the pressure in his head. He swallows back a gasp, free hand finding the wall for support as he shuffles from his bedroom to his bathroom in search for pain killers. “What’s so important about tonight? Sounds like a standard drug bust that Dick can more than handle on his own.”

“Master Bruce would feel better if all of his sons were present tonight.”

Jason doesn’t understand Bruce’s mind, his logic and reasoning for his choices. He never has, and he gathers that he never will. He snags a bottle of pain killers and balances his phone between his ear and shoulder, ignoring to sudden shift of pain in his head.

“I have my own patrol, Alfred.”

“We’ll have all patrols covered, Master Jason. Your territory will be well looked after tonight.”

Damn, Jason thinks. If there’s one thing Alfred is good at, it’s his verbal reassurance, something so frighteningly powerful. He dry swallows a few pills and drops against the edge of his tub with a sigh, fingers raking through his hair.

“Fine. Will you send me the details?” He drags out each word slowly, making sure that Alfred knows he’s only agreeing because it’s Alfred asking.

“Of course.”

***

Jason’s head feels far too heavy on his neck, the added pressure weighing it down. The pain killers chased off the edge of the migraine for a few hours, but per usual, the pain came back stronger as the pills wore off, and he’s opted not to take more, not wishing to risk being slightly sluggish.

He walks up to see Dick, Tim, and Damian occupying a small corner down an alleyway, their odd meetup point. Tim’s seated, his back against a wall, and he’s yawning. Dick’s stood with his back against a wall across from Tim, his arms crossed, as he muffles a few light coughs into his fist. And, Damian’s standing closer to Dick with his right arm cradled close to his chest.

Tension trickles down to Jason’s limbs, and he grips his helmet a little tighter in his hand as he approaches. “The fuck’s wrong with you all?” His own voice is a drill in his head, piercing through the pressure and re-distributing it unevenly.

It’s Tim who opts to speak around a second yawn.

“Dick’s still recovering from the flu, and the Demon Brat hurt his wrist on patrol yesterday.”

“My wrist is fine, Drake,” Damian spits out, drawing out words deliberately.

“I assume you haven’t slept,” Jason mutters, nodding toward Tim, who’s slow to get to his feet.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Dick cuts in sharply, and Jason arches a single brow to the oldest, faintly curious. “You need sleep, Tim, or you’ll wind up sick.”

“Funny since you’re the one who’s running a low grade fever.”

“Grayson is competent, Drake, even while recovering from illness. He’s not so easily taken down by the flu.”

“And what are you planning on doing tonight, Damian,” Tim drags out lowly, and Jason shifts his faint curiosity from one idiot to the other.

“You can barely move your wrist.”

“I’ve been trained to be ambidextrous, Drake-”

“-Okay,” Jason calls out, the curiosity from before replaced with dull, familair annoyance that’s now mixed in with a hot pain swirling in his skull. “Let’s just get this the fuck over with, yeah?” He looks to Dick, a silent question to take charge, and Dick nods and turns on his heel, leading everyone to the hinted base for the drug ring.

“Father would tell you to watch your language,” Damian mutters at Jason’s side before he quickens his step to match Dick’s steady pace.

Jason flips him off and shoves his helmet over his head, swallowing back a groan when the added weight pushes the pressure in different directions. Nausea starts to tumble in his stomach, and he tries his best to steady his breathing, pushing his concentration away from himself.

“So, Timmy, what are the deets? Alfred didn’t say much.”

***

Turns out, Bruce’s hunch was correct, and all four were forced to hold their own against multiple, burly men, all of which got in numerous, painful hits before being taken down. The fight ended at the top of an apartment building across the street from the warehouse that was doubling as the drug storage, and Jason’s not sure he’s ever felt this much pain in his head, knowing that it didn’t help he let a few men get some solid hits to his face and temples.

The others appear to be, more or less, in similar conditions. Dick’s down on one knee, panting heavily. Damian’s paler than usual, and he’s got his wrist held tightly to his chest, and Tim’s swaying on his feet, looking about ready to drop any second.

Jason pulls a slow gaze around them, swallowing thickly around the bursting pressure that’s pushing hard against every inch of his skull now, swelling against his brain, leaving his vision fraying at the edges. He’s faintly aware that the others are talking amongst each other, but he can’t keep up with the conversation, not with the sudden roar in his ears that drowns out the voices around him.

The pain’s... intense. It’s all he’s able to supply, most thoughts breaking against the pressure. He takes a step back, fingers clumsily slipping under his helmet. His vision is graying now, blurring, and he tries to blink around it. He can see Dick get to his feet, see the older boy frowning at him. He’s saying something to him, but Jason can’t work his mind around reading lips. No, all he wants is to get the damn helmet off his head, but his hands are shaking too hard to be of any use.

He starts to feel hot all over despite the crisp fall air. He takes another, staggering step back, his legs struggling to hold his balance, to support the weight of his abdomen and head, and the back of his foot knocks hard into something. He only realizes that he’s bumped into the edge of the roof when he’s falling backward into open, empty space.

His stomach plummets in time with his body, bringing back his vision, sounds, his surroundings.

“Jason!”

He pulls his gaze from the tilting sky to see the others coming into view, and he wonders, briefly, if it’s the last thing he’ll ever see, but the thought gets josteled from his head when something small yet strong latches onto his ankle, followed by a loud, gasping cry.

His back slams against the side of the apartment building, bringing with it bursting, white hot pain across his head, but he manages to stay present, craning his neck up to see Damian crying and holding onto his ankle with his injured hand. Dick stumbles toward them, wrapping one arm tightly around Damin to keep him up on the roof.

“Jason! Do you think you can lean upward?”

Nodding, Jason breathes deeply around the pain and nausea, and he swings himself upward, arms flying forward until he’s grasping at the hands reaching out to him. Dick and Tim pull him up, and the second he’s upright, his vision grays until he blacks out entirely.

***

“Come on, Jay, open your eyes for me.”

Jason wants to be annoyed that the voice is waking him, but there’s something so soft and desperate in the tone, in the gentle touches at his face, so he decides to try and chase it.

“Bruce is on his way.”

That brings Jason back all at once, his mind reeling against pain, and nausea twisting so hard in his stomach. He leans to the side and vomits, mutely thankful that someone removed his helmet.

“Shit, Jason!”

He can feel a hand at his back, rubbing small circles, and when his stomach settles, he flops back onto his back with a groan, only faintly aware that his head is pillowed on Dick’s thigh.

“Jay? You with us?”

“Bruce says he’s two minutes out. He wants to know if we can make it off the roof.”

Jason realizes slowly that there’s a voice missing, and then memories flood agaisnt the pressure in his head until he’s jerking forward to see Damian sitting across from his, tear trackes evident against his cheeks.

“Fuck, Damian, your wrist-”

“It’s okay.” Damain’s voice is shaking, and Jason leans forward to pat Damian’s knee, unsure of what else he could do or say to properly express the heavy weight of appreciation for Damian saving his life.

“Jason, what happened? Are you sick?” Dick’s voice is laced deep with worry at Jason’s back, two hands planted firmly to Jason’s shoulders.

Before Jason can answer, Bruce is swinging himself over the ledge of the roof, fully suited, dark eyes shifting between each son, falling on Jason.

“Migraine,” he answers deeply for Jason. “Alfred suspected as much.” Bruce stops before him. “Can you walk?”

Jason nods and allows Bruce to pull him to his feet. He sways for a moment, swallows back the need to dry heave, and grounds himself, faintly aware that Bruce’s hand is just inches from his elbow. He doesn’t meet Bruce’s studying gaze, doesn’t fully breathe until Bruce breaks away to assess the others.

He watches, exhausted, as Damian argues with Bruce that he doesn’t need to be carried. He frowns when Tim stumbles into Dick, and Dick crouches down and instructs Tim to climb atop his back. He follows behind the others, listening in briefly to hear Tim grumble how Dick’s fever feels like it’s spiking, or how Bruce’s is tugging Damian tightly to his side and muttering reassurances under his breath.

When they reach the ground floor, his knees begin to shake, but then Alfred’s at his side, worried, arm tight around his shoulders, and he’s guided into one of Bruce’s many cars, squeezing in the back beside the others. Tim’s directly to his left, and he drops his head to Jason’s shoulder almost immediately. Jason nudges him forward just enough to slip his arm around his back, and Tim curls closer into him.

Jason decides that just for tonight, he’ll let him. He cranes his neck to see Damian similarly clinging to Dick, and he locks eyes with Dick, the two sharing a mutual, tired nod.

Dragging his gaze slowly forward, Jason squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on the lull of the engine and not on the drum pounding in his head.

“Shall I drop Master Jason off at his apartment?”

“No, I want all of my sons at the manor tonight.”

#batfam #batman #batbros #sickfic #whump #whumpfic #dcu #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #damian wayne #bruce wayne #red hood #nightwing #red robin #robin #hurt/comfort #hi dysfunctional family

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itsclydebitches · 4 years

Text

You all want to hear a shocking secret? I’m still writing these 😅

Drabble #3 for @valasania-the-pale!

Reckless Conversation

Pairing: Future Geralt/Dandelion with pining Dandelion and references to other ships

Word Count: 3,581

How'd it go? Geralt would ask, head bent over his blade like he wasn't hanging on Ciri's every word.

I think I broke Dandelion's nose should produce a fun reaction.

That was an enjoyment only future Ciri had access to though. Right now, present Ciri had to deal with the damn thing.

"It's not that bad," she insisted, even as blood soaked through the rag she'd given him. She winced as Dandelion all but stuffed the material up his nostrils in an effort to stop the flow. Ciri was pretty sure she'd last used that to mop up some drowner slime... best not mention it. Besides, it wasn’t like he was breathing through his nose right now. "It's fine. You're fine."

"I'd like to be the judge of that!" came the muffled reply. Dandelion staggered to a nearby water trough, blinking down at his own reflection. When he straightened his face was curiously blank. "You've ruined me."

"Oh please."

"I'm done. Through. My career will never recover. I hope it was worth it, little miss witcher, I really do."

"Okay, first of all you're fine. Second, I doubt a bruised nose will hinder your poetry—"

"I am speaking of my romantic career, dear, keep up!"

Ciri rolled her eyes to the heavens, half hoping they'd open up and drown her. Dandelion had dropped plaintively to his knees, staring into the water and bemoaning his bloodstained shirt. She bit down on the urge to point out the new mud on his trousers.

"Maybe," she said, rocking back on her heels, "you shouldn't go grabbing little miss witchers from the depths of alleyways. They have a tendency to hit first and ask questions later."

The glare didn't surprise her. The words though...

"Well, I was happy to see you."

Oh.

Shaking her head, Ciri pulled Dandelion to his feet and straight into a hug. "And I'm happy to see you too. Drama and all."

The sounds emanating from her shoulder were curiously wet, though whether that was due to injury or emotion she couldn't say. "Friends pay for ruined clothes, you know."

"Not when one friend has a monopoly on Novigrad's entertainment district and the other barely has two coins to her name. Plus, I'm pretty sure one of them is counterfeit. I owe someone else a broken nose. Sorry you got it instead."

With a laugh Dandelion pulled away. "In truth I'm happy to receive anything you might give me, Ciri. Though I'd really prefer a strong drink."

"I think we can manage that."

After checking that his nose truly wasn't broken — just blooming a display of color that would put many painters to shame — Dandelion took Ciri's hand and led her into the city. He wasn't a native, but he might as well have been given the number of years he'd spent here, moving between high society circles and dangerous slums. Ciri knew there were few who could show her Novigrad like Dandelion and after months on the Path she was more than happy to let someone else call the shots for a while.

She shouldn't have been surprised when, just minutes later, she was steered into a small alcove, the entrance so dark even she might have missed it passing by. An elf stood off to the side of a door, the bulk of his arms contrasting the ornamentally styled tunic. He inclined his head towards Dandelion as they slipped inside.

"Milireth," he whispered, though the sudden onslaught of chatter made that unnecessary. "Great chap. Bit taciturn for my taste, but then I have plenty of stirring conversation for the two of us. He had some trouble finding employment a while back — you know how inhumane those Eternal Fire folks are and yes, I use that term deliberately — so I called in a favor with Julia and got him a spot here. Perfect fit. Now Milireth, in turn, lets me in without Julia being any wiser." He dropped her a wink.

"Dandelion. Are we going to get kicked out halfway through our drinks?"

"Absolutely not. Probably not. Provided we keep to the back. Or provided Julia has gotten over her most recent grudge. Either way I'd consider those excellent odds. Come on!"

He led her through the establishment with impressive skill, weaving among the closely packed tables, dodging feet and legs. As Ciri's eyes adjusted to the low light she realized why Milireth was a good fit for this place. While Novigrad tended to divide its species rather strictly by districts and boroughs, here there was a diverse mix Ciri had only ever seen among her own friends and family. Dwarves, humans, elves, and, she suspected, a doppler or two made up the majority of the crowd, largely keeping to their own tables but still intermingling to an almost unheard of degree. They were literally sharing elbow room, leaning into one another's space with a confidence that said here, at least, everyone was welcome. A figure all the way in the back was shrouded in their cloak, but claw-like hands brought a mug to their lips. A woman with slit eyes smiled as they passed. Another was giving off pheromones — if the men draped in her lap were any indication. Monsters of all manner took refuge in shadows, fortifying themselves with good food, better drink, and even, if any would admit it, the company.

Dandelion gently pushed Ciri into an empty seat. Her legs felt loose as a water hag's stew.

"What — ?" she started to say before realizing that she knew precisely what this place was. Ciri shook her head. No one liked stupid questions. "How does this place exist?"

Dandelion waved a hand. "Well, the philosopher might spout something about life finding a way, no matter what might stand against it. The Captain of our guard would say that the scum of the city are unerringly skilled at meeting in clandestine places. I suppose that both are right in their own way. Me? I might wax poetic about the stunningly skillful enchantments that keep this place from prying eyes."

Ciri's gaze dropped instinctively to the Cat medallion against her chest. It lay quiet as a grave. Well, a grave post-witcher contract.

"Very sophisticated enchantments," Dandelion said.

"I'll say. I'm surprised you and the other humans aren't buckling with migraines." Ciri wasn't sure what protected her exactly. The Elder Blood, early exposure to magic, the fact that she was a Source... who could say. Except maybe Yen, and the last time she'd brought it up she'd gotten a mind-numbing lecture for her trouble. Better to simply let some things remain a mystery.

Dandelion shrugged. "We will. Eventually. In an hour or two, but by that point one should be three sheets to the wind, so who can really tell the difference?" With a grin he waved down a passing barmaid who unceremoniously dropped two mugs on their table. Apparently one didn't order here. Or if you did, best be quick about it. The barmaid paused only long enough to peer closely at Dandelion's face. By the stretching of his grin he no doubt thought her a suitable distraction. Ciri suspected she was just interested in the growing bruise.

She ignored them both to try the drink. Bitter and frothy, but it went down easier than most of what she'd had in the last year. Ciri took a long swing and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

"Which means," Dandelion continued, waving the barmaid away, "that we have more than enough time for you to tell me everything you've been up to. Don't spare the details! Though you may not have my knack for storytelling, dear, I know you're not entirely without talent. If you leave even a morsel out I'll be devastated."

"Well, far be it from me to devastate you."

"Precisely."

So Ciri told Dandelion all, keeping her voice low in case a room full of creatures didn't take kindly to a list of her contracts. A few had eyed her swords upon entry, but said nothing, seemingly content to keep out of her way provided Ciri kept out of theirs. It was only too bad she couldn't say the same of her travels. Drowner infestations were one thing, even if the sailors too often tried to get handsy instead of paying her in coin, but a pack of werewolves had given her trouble for a solid month. All born into the curse, they possessed the ability to transform at will and had used it to their advantage as bandits, terrorizing a collection of villages. Solving the problem without indiscriminate slaughter had been a tricky business, demanding that Ciri pull from her knowledge of negotiation and mediation: neither of which were her strong suits.

The werewolves at least would live out their days as members of a community. The rampaging godling out in Kaedwen was another matter entirely. Ciri hadn't had the privilege of meeting one until then — and she'd always assumed it was a privilege based on Geralt's teachings. "Not a beast to be put down," he'd say, eyeing the aggressive drunk. "Just mischievous. Respect them and at the very least you'll finish your contract without bloodshed. At best you'll come out of it with a friend." Well, she'd been more than respectful. Especially towards a being whose mischievous nature had resulted in families terrified of their own dreams, to the point where one newly minted wife had walked out her window. Another strangled her infant, thinking it an intruder. Ciri had tried to establish if the families had moved into what the godling perceived as her territory, if she had some sort of grievance towards young wives and mothers, even if it were possible for their species to fall under spells... all of it came to naught. Her inquiries were only met with laughter and, in time, more death. When a member of the Viper school had passed through and casually mentioned burdock root for navigating dreams, she'd bought him a drink, crushed a whole stem up in hers, and met the godling in another reality. Ciri couldn't swear she killed it, though as the Lady of Time and Space she suspected she'd had that edge. Either way, afterwards the women had slept soundly for a fortnight and it had felt safe to move on.

There were others, of course, though no encounter quite as thrilling. It seemed like no matter how much people sneered at the trade — Geralt for his yellow eyes, her for being born a woman — everyone had a nest of something in need of extermination. Or a haunting to be put right. Or even, on occasion, just a particularly nasty job that no one else wanted to do. Ciri didn't mind mucking about in the sewers, provided her payment got her a bath at the end of the day. As well as, weeks later, the humor in watching Dandelion's face twist in on itself.

"You didn't," he murmured, taking a large gulp of his drink. He swirled it as if to wash away an imaginary taste. "You drank from it?"

"It was either that or die of thirst. I don't have a witcher's mutations. Sometimes you've just got to make do."

"You poor, wretched thing."

“Oh I know. Buy a poor, wretched thing another drink?”

Speaking with Dandelion was easy. Even when he interrupted to supply what he considered to be the superior description, or went off on his own, thrilling tangents — forever stealing the spotlight. They were just the quirks of talking to him and after so long on the Path Ciri found herself welcoming the familiar. More than that, or the warm interior, or even the satisfying drink, she soaked up the feeling of family that permeated the air.

It was a funny thing that, family. Funny, at least, if you shared her sense of humor. If anyone asked about her parentage (and plenty certainly had) they were in for quite the explanation. Born to the lovely Pavetta and Duny, though orphaned at a terribly young age. So really, in spirit Ciri’s parents were her grandparents, nothing less than the Lioness of Cintra herself and her devoted husband, Eist Tuirseach. But oh, haven't you heard? Her father hadn't really died. Why, he was no mere Lord, but the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself! Emhyr var Emreis, The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies and so on and so forth. Surely then he would be the one she referred to as 'Father'? Well, not when one considered a slew of complexities there, including her status as a Child Surprise. Duny, Eist, and Emhyr may have all vowed for the title of 'Father,' but destiny gave that dubious privilege to Geralt of Rivia and time proved one a wise man and the other a fool. So it was that Ciri found herself with three fathers, technically, though four if one considered the childhood emotions she'd attached to the Urcheon of Erlenwald. Two mothers as well, with the third arriving along with Geralt: Yennefer of Vengerberg. Sorceress. Visionary. Protector in the extreme.

Yet the irony was that it didn't stop there. Who were the other witchers if not additional fathers, given joke names like 'Uncle' and 'Brother' to avoid confusion? What else made up the Lodge but mothers when it was they who taught her everything from magic to the ungodly chore of managing her blood each month? For an orphan Ciri had an uncommon number of parental figures... including the man who sat across from her.

"Who's raising who?" she'd once heard Dijkstra mutter while Geralt and Dandelion had argued over her. It had been about something inconsequential, the disagreement lost to time, but Ciri, hardly a teen, recalled thinking that they were indeed like children in their bickering.

Now, as an adult, she was inclined to re-term such moments as... frisky. In the absurdly strange way of all witchers and bards. But really, what friends argued so strongly over the raising of a daughter?

Their interactions across nearly fifteen years hadn't exactly escaped her notice, even if childhood had often mischaracterized what precisely those interactions were. Nor, of course, could Ciri have missed how Dandelion kept speaking of romance without naming any new paramours.

"So," she said, leaning across the table. This time a young man passed with drinks and Ciri snatched one, enjoying the spicy scent. She dangled the brew before Dandelion's nose before taking a sloppy sip. She was no lightweight, but they didn't skimp on the alcohol here either.

Dandelion leaned forward to meet her. "So?"

"Don't tell me I've been blathering on and you haven't thought of a single thing to share? No exciting adventures of your own? No... new friends?"

In the shadows of the establishment Dandelion's face fell, then grew soft. In an instant the performer was gone and in his place sat a man closer to fifty than forty, a little tired, a little stressed, but more happy than anything else. He took the mug out of her hands and stole a drink for himself. "Can I share a secret with you, dear?"

"Always."

"Promise not to tell?"

"Witcher's honor."

"Your skillfully thrown punch may not have been the death of my career. I fear that's coming along just fine on its own."

"Come on."

He chuckled, so light and airy it floated away into the conversation around them. Ciri only knew he was laughing because of that smile and the shake in his shoulders.

"All right, all right. You've caught me. There are still many men and women alike who flock to my side post-performance. Even a few who have asked for a private staging, if you catch my drift."

"Dandelion. I've 'caught your drift' since I was fourteen and you gave me a lecture on avoiding venereal disease."

"Did I?"

"You were drunk."

He took another massive gulp from their shared mug. "Well, that would explain it. But yes, I'm still popular — thank the gods for that — but I'd be a fool not to acknowledge that most of that stems from my unparalleled musical talent and a hefty nest egg. I'm not as limber as I once was, dear. I have wrinkles." Dandelion shook like a dog shedding water.

Ciri smiled. Slow. Syrupy. "You're still the most handsome poet I know."

"Oh thank you. I should hope so! The others are all cads..."

"And you're dodging the question. Or the implied question, since I know you like to get technical." Dandelion scoffed. "No new friends? No last hurrahs before your golden years? Come off it, Dandelion. The last two times we've met up you haven't mentioned a single new 'acquaintance' and we both know you'd be talking up any encounters whether they'd been good or not. A girl's got to wonder."

"A girl's gotten nosy." He slammed the now empty mug back on the table. "Let's go."

"Ah — look. Sorry. If you don't want to talk about it — "

"I don't want to talk about it here." Dandelion rolled his eyes with such fervor that Ciri worried for a moment that they'd leave his head. "Come now. Have I ever kept things from you? I'll tell all with a master's flair, but I'm doing it out of their earshot. Besides, that headache’s starting up."

A few patrons cast them looks, which Ciri could only interpret as confirmation that they'd been eavesdropping. Then again, she'd been doing the same. There was a certain amount of camaraderie as they left the establishment, Dandelion passing a hand over all he knew (and dropping reminders not to mention him to Julia) and even she got a few nods of recognition. Changling, bard, vampire, or un-mutated Witcher, it seemed so long as you kept yourself to yourself all were welcome.

She'd have to come back sometime.

Ciri took note of the street as they ambled away, Dandelion's arm comfortably tucked into hers. They'd nearly reached the market before he spoke.

"I know I just promised a tale, but are you really going to make me explain this?" His petulance drew out a laugh.

"No," she admitted. "What's to explain? I’m not blind. You've spent the last twenty years following Geralt around and very nearly losing your head for the trouble. Or your voice. Your arm. Your balls, if some of those stories are to be believed."

"Oh, believe it, my dear."

"So I think that speaks for itself. Mere friends don't go to such lengths."

The toe of Dandelion's boot found a small stone, sending it soaring ahead of them. "Yet you forget one crucial detail."

"Enlighten me."

"Future loves do not have poetry worthy relationships with a sorceress."

She ground them both to a halt, the sudden loss of momentum drawing a curse from Dandelion. "Are you kidding me?" He squawked as Ciri reached up to knock some sense into him. Try to, anyway. "Oh, I knew immersing yourself in that exaggerated, destiny-laden, overly dramatic drivel would cause problems someday."

"One moment now! Drivel?"

Ciri ignored the outcry. "Yes, Geralt loves Yen... Just like Yen loves Istredd. Triss loves Geralt. Triss and Yen both had that weird thing for Philippa and don't even get me started on Fringilla. What do you think it means that Geralt spent months with Regis and Yen still dragged him up to that unicorn the moment he returned? Or that they casually talk about a 'sorceress' work' over the breakfast table? Dandelion, he's past his first century with so little family left. If you think that leaves less room for you in this mess than you're not nearly as smart as the masses claim. You’ve been listening to your own ballads too much."

She supposed this was some kind of accomplishment: leaving the most verbose man in The Continent utterly speechless. The alcohol still burned in the back of her throat and Ciri could admit that, in a more sober, everyday moment, she probably wouldn't have said as much as she had. But it was all true and dammit, if she'd learned anything since the Frost it was that a short life could be just as cursed as a long one. She was sick of people — herself included — letting things pass by.

"I don't know which is harder to believe," Dandelion murmured, raising a hand to his brow. "That you have twice assaulted me on this beautiful day. That I am being egged into a relationship with a witcher by his uncouth daughter..."

"Or?"

"Or that he remains that stunningly handsome at over a hundred years old."

Ciri snorted, tugging him along. Dandelion stumbled a moment, a testament to her words, but did quickly regain his feet. "You know we've never shied from discussions of sex in this family. Love though? Absolutely... so go slowly there."

A blush stained the great poet's cheeks, though no one else would have caught it on such a hot, sunny day. He delicately cleared his throat. "Any suggestions?"

"Hmm." Ciri pretended to think, tapping her chin. "We've been apart so long and really, our day has only just started, so I suggest that you come home with me. The three of us can start by having lunch."

The blush turned into a conspiratorial smile. "Where you will unexpectedly disappear, leaving the two of us alone?"

"But of course."

"My dear Ciri, I'll make a storyteller out of you yet."

A story she was more than happy to work on. How'd it go? Geralt would ask, trying to hide both face and curiosity. She'd done enough telling for today and Ciri looked forward to dragging Dandelion into their home, shoving him forward, and letting two of her dads work that out for themselves.

#witcher #gerlion #geraskier #Ciri #witcher fic

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bang-to-the-tan · 4 years

Text

Moth to Flame

Chapter 13

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: (hoo boy) Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Sloppy Seconds, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Degradation,Somewhat Dubious Consent/Hypnosis, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Fingering, Handjob, Masturbation, Cumplay, Threesome (M/M/F), Foursome (M/M/M/F), Voyeurism, Slight Stockholm Syndrome?, Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

Words: 11.1K (jesus tittyfucking CHRIST)

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…

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Yoongi’s sweatpants fit well enough to get by in, matched with another of Namjoon’s hoodies—this time in a tan color. (How many hoodies does one man need? You’re reminded again of Jin’s seemingly endless supply of clothing, though you don’t dare mention the similarity) The flip flops he’s lent you are a little on the large side, but you doubt it really matters. You’re just glad to be wearing shoes again. As you wait by the door for Namjoon to get his keys and slide his arms through his jacket, tugging on a bucket hat and hanging a pair of sunglasses onto his shirt, you’re still trying to process your emotions. Outside. With other people. Other humans, even. Are you going to run? Are you going to try to escape? It feels like that’s what you should be planning.

“Oh.” Namjoon catches your attention as you muse, pulling dark, smokey fabric your way and wrapping it around your neck. You pluck distractedly at one of the fringes hanging off it, meeting his gaze after a second.

“Just in case,” he says, shifting the scarf around your shoulders more securely. “For the marks.”

“They look bad?”

He tilts your head to the side, inspecting you with a quirk of his lips. “Mm. No. Not really. Kinda healed. But just in case. Don’t want any awkward questions.”

Awkward questions. Like, ‘blink twice if you’re being held hostage’? That kind of awkward? You allow him to tuck the edges back in, hiding the evidence of where you’ve been. What you’ve been doing. What’s been done to you. You grimace. Your head still hurts, and the world has begun spinning a little when you turn your neck too quickly.

You blink, and you’re in the passenger’s seat of the car, staring out the window while Namjoon talks. Vaguely, you’re aware of what he’s saying. That he thinks it’s awfully important. You beg to differ.

“—find you on any, like, missing persons databases so I think we’re in the clear, but just to be safe, y’know. This is…it’s a risk. You understand?”

You hum, working your jaw. You wish he’d gotten you something a little stronger for the headache. It’s better than it was, but not gone. Swear it gets worse when he talks, and he’s talking a lot.

“I need you to behave yourself. Don’t make a scene. If you act out, then we can’t do this anymore.”

You roll your eyes, even knowing that it’s going to twinge at your migraine.

“I’m not gonna run around screaming about being kidnapped, Joon,” you grumble.

“I know. I know, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. I promised you we’d let you go when we’ve…sorted something else out.”

“That’s a different phrasing than you used last time.”

“I’m trying. Okay? Just—I’m not trying to keep you prisoner.”

“Hence the handcuffs.”

You flick a glance over at him just in time to catch the tick of his jaw as he narrows his eyes at the road ahead.

“That is…not the same thing.”

“If it’s sexy, then kidnapping is okay.”

The exasperated snort of air that he answers with is partly humored and partly frustrated.

“You are, annoying sometimes, you know that?”

“I get to be, I think.” You turn back to the window. “Considering.”

“…yeah. Alright. Considering.”

The store has too many fucking people in it, is the thought that occurs to you. At first, pulling into the parking lot, you’re excited to see them. Human beings, running amok, running free. You feel like an animal at a zoo released into the wild. Ordinary people, milling about, going about their ordinary lives. It’s invigorating.

That feeling quickly fades when you actually get into the building. The smells, too-sharp chemicals and body odor hits you immediately; cheaply, quickly cooked food and even cheaper body spray. The noises. Chattering, obnoxious laughing heard from the other side of the store, children shrieking and shouting. A cart down the way has a squeaky wheel and you can track it through the aisles. You ruminate on thoughts of violence perpetrated by the item in question itself, of picking it up and throwing it out the finger-smudged windows with the screeching baby still inside it.

Namjoon’s hand on yours squeezes reassuringly. It’s unclear to you whether he can sense your discomfort but you don’t think you’ll mention it if it’s possible to avoid doing so. You can’t imagine how unbearably smug he’d be to learn that you’d rather be around him than them. Once you’re in the store, he lifts his sunglasses, but leaves the hat on.

“Not gonna burn to a crisp in the sunlight?” You ask after a moment of watching a child attempt to shove his entire hand up one nostril.

“Nah. Just a little sensitive on the eyes.”

“The super cool, far-seeing, all-knowing vampire eyes.”

“Those ones.”

“I should have brought a flashlight to the club, is what you’re telling me.”

He chuckles, shrugging. “Maybe so.”

He leads you to the clothing section, still holding your hand, and there isn’t an atom in your body that is even vaguely alright with the idea of letting him out of your sight. There’s a feeling like you’d get swept up in this sea of people, lost in a world so entirely foreign to you. You know you used to belong here. This used to be yours.

But flicking numbly through shirts and pants, skirts, jackets, mumbling half-remembered guesses at measurements, listening to the cacophony around you, lost in the harsh overhead lights…you don’t belong here. You aren’t sure whether it’s more upsetting to think that you don’t now, or that once upon a time, you did. Once upon a time, you didn’t question it.

A gaggle of teenaged girls passes by. For a third time. They stare at Namjoon in turns, giggling and speeding up, skittering past, chattering to each other excitedly. Their idea of stealth leaves a lot to be desired.

“You have admirers.”

Namjoon cocks his head, lips pursing, as he pulls a t-shirt off the rack and holds it up to you appraisingly. “I’m ignoring them.”

“Not hungry?”

His eyes flit to yours. “Never teenagers.” He replies, low, firm. He sounds almost upset. “Never kids.”

You hear the click of a phone camera and a high-pitched giggle of embarrassment, the forcibly hushed whispers of ‘turn off the noise turn off the noise, oh my god!’.

“Not even annoying ones?”

“If you really want to discourage them, you could kiss me.” He says instead, lightly, but his eyes flick to yours and you can taste the heat behind them.

“That’ll do it, you think?” you echo sardonically.

He hums, nodding once in affirmation.

Before you can think too hard, you slide a hand over his on the shirt hanger, guiding it back towards the rack so that you can close the gap between you. Like the first time, he doesn’t move at first. Allows you to crane upwards, struggle to brush your lips together, before he finally acquiesces and takes the remaining space, laying a lingering kiss against your mouth. He’s warm, soft. His lips taste like him. Like how he smells. Like Namjoon. The two of you lock gazes as you part, and you willfully ignore the electricity shimmying down your body.

“I don’t like the color of that one,” you break the silence after a pause. He blinks slow, a grin crawling across his face.

“No?”

“No. But the one behind it is nice.”

“Anything for baby.”

You don’t allow him the warmth that curls inside of you at that.

The two of you end up standing in line, holding a modest armful of clothing that you’re pretty sure will fit, waiting for your turn at the checkout. It’s not even a matter of what you’re planning to buy at this point—your headache has only gotten worse and it’s all you can do not to lose your fucking mind. You reached the breaking point about ten minutes ago and you’re absolutely going to go batshit if you don’t leave this store immediately. Which is why when Joon starts doing that ‘patting himself down in surprise’ motion, you’re thrown into palpable despair.

“Oh, shit.”

“No. No, Namjoon.” You plead through gritted teeth, throwing him a desperate look.

“My wallet’s in the car.”

“Damn you, goddamn you—“

He grabs your arms with an apologetic smile that dimples his cheeks. “Just stand off to the side. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

“No, Namjoon. No.”

But he’s already skipping away from you, holding up two fingers and mouthing ‘two minutes’ back your way. You hate him. You hope he gets run over while he’s out there.

You trudge over to a nearby empty counter, dumping your armful onto it, resisting the urge to throw yourself on the pile and pull a pair of jeans over your head. Your brain hurts, your teeth are chattering, it’s too bright, it’s too loud, it smells, god, it smells, you had no idea you were so sensitive, you are so ready to go home. And by now you don’t even care that you’re calling it home. You can’t afford to care. What you wouldn’t do for more medication. For that turtle. Oh, how you lament the absence of that heavenly reptile.

“Hey.”

You start at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, sounding up and away but too close to the back of your head. You turn, casting your glance up at the tall man standing by the counter. He’s not a worker; instead of their overly bright getup he’s sporting a leather jacket and black jeans. You don’t understand why he’s talking to you, if that’s the case, and you’re not really in sure how to pretend otherwise at the moment. His grin is crooked, raising his eyebrows expectantly, but at your expression his mischievous look fades.

“…Sorry, I thought I knew you!” He says after an awkward moment. Your heart seizes. Knew you?

He gestures with his hands as he explains. “Y’know, from the back, you look—I thought I recognized you.”

“…O-oh.” You aren’t sure what to say to that. Fuck, you sincerely hope he was mistaken. You hadn’t even considered what would happen if someone who used to know you sees you. The person you were before…before this. You don’t think you recognize him.

There’s another pause, where you turn away slightly, willing this moment to be over, but he doesn’t move. The moment instead stretches into forever. You would like to cease existing.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine! I’m—“ God, it’s been a long time since you’ve spoken to real people. You crane back around, forcing a smile that you hope doesn’t look too forced. “I’m fine. Just waiting. My, um.” You stumble over a way to define Namjoon, deciding in the end to abandon it entirely. “He left his wallet in the car.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t look convinced, flashing you a cursory up-and-down glance. Actually, looking at him, he’s pretty handsome himself. Wide lips, strong nose. A jawline to kill for. His neck is thick. You wonder what else of him—no, no. No. No. You like his eyes, you decide weakly. He’s got kind eyes. Good, nice eyes.

“Do you mind if I talk to you?”

You frown, throwing him another glance. Misgiving pools in your stomach warningly. You really, really aren’t in any kind of state to be carrying conversations with strangers. “Uh.”

He casts a look around, casual if not for the serious slant to his strong brows. He leans forward, pulling one edge of his jacket to the side. You see a flash of silver, recognize the badge hooked to the inside, and it clicks in your head, despite the chaos spinning around the edges of the world like a sick carousel. You don’t see much of the ID badge underneath but for his name, and his serious-faced photo, before he tucks it back away. Jackson. His name is Jackson.

“…You’re a cop.”

“Nothing’s the matter,” he reassures, holding out a hand placatingly, eyes watching yours. “Just like to ask you a few questions.” He jerks his head at the entrance.

“Come with me.”

Oh. Relief floods your limbs so intense you almost sigh aloud. That’s okay, then. Yeah, that’s fine. The clothes’ll be alright here for a second longer, you’re sure. You’re already following him as he peels off the counter and starts walking casually, your doubts melting away, making your steps lighter. Local police. Just a few questions, yeah. You can handle that. God, you were so afraid for a minute. The thought makes you chuckle under your breath when his back is turned as he leads you out the door, turning the corner to an alcove by the entrance. You definitely can handle whatever this handsome stranger wants to dole out.

He turns when you get there, stepping to the side so you can tuck yourself by the side of the building, out of view of any nosy people.

“How can I help you, officer?” you ask demurely, a smile curling the edge of your lips. Just being out of that building is helping your headache immensely. It’s fading as you speak, releasing its grip on your jaw, your thoughts.

He cranes over his shoulder to survey the parking lot behind him and you take the brief respite to admire the way his shirt pulls across subtle pecs, across broad shoulders, underneath the jacket that does little to hide his physique. The way he fills those black jeans. You like the obvious power in what you can see. Is it weird to be checking the cop out? No. No, certainly not. You resist the urge to bite your lip when he looks back to you and grins again. He’s cute when he smiles.

“So where are you from?”

“Ah…not too far from here, actually,” you return, playing at shy.

“No?” he chuckles, and the giggle threatening to bubble up past your lips finally wins over. You sway a little with the girlish sound. It’s all part of the act. You’re a normal human girl talking to a normal, albeit strikingly handsome, police officer. Everything is fine. “You sure? You aren’t from a little further up north? Think very carefully.”

You shake your head, grinning. The world around you spins delightfully when you do, fuzzing slightly about the edges. It’s really warm out here. You didn’t notice that before. It’s nice. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think so?” he echoes, stepping closer. That’s good. You like that. Your heartbeat quickens in your throat. “Weird way to answer…are you having trouble remembering?”

“Maybe.” You giggle again, feeling a thrill wash through your frame when he takes another step forward, threatening to invade your space. You fall back to the wall, leaning your head against it to allow yourself a better view of his smirk. Your head doesn’t want to stay upright properly, but the wall helps. If you can just get him a little closer…maybe you could…he is very handsome. And his lips…You stare at them with hunger pooling in your gut, intently watching the way they pull when he scoffs. Very kissable. Check.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess,” he murmurs in that low growl of his, “About who you really are…”

One hand comes up to brace against the wall, caging you in. You can feel his warmth now. Can smell the mint on his breath. Your stomach twists in anticipation. There’s something familiar in his expression now. A darkness. A hunger. You’re beyond pleased to see it in a face so handsome.

“Going by these…” he hums, and you feel a finger dragging against the column of your neck, slipping underneath the scarf. You huff a pleased breath, craning to press more of your skin towards him, nearly moaning when he presses his hot palm against the bitemarks in a curious fashion. “And…this…” His hand slides down, disentangling from the fabric, fingertips grazing your sternum, too close to the mark at your breast. He’s finding your little secrets very easily, you think with a hushed giggle. You wonder if he’ll get the next one. You hope he gets the next one. Arousal crawls down your spine and you arch at the thought, suddenly desperate for it.

“Hah, fuck, wow, that’s a reaction, huh? They treat you nice?”

You’re nodding, whimpering when his hand starts towards your hip. He nuzzles forward, presses a testing peck against your lips but you surge towards him, clutching at his wide shoulders, pulling him closer. He chuckles breathlessly against your mouth as you kiss him, a free hand going to his wrist and tugging it towards your inner thigh. He tastes like mint gum, warm lips caressing yours firmly, supple and pliant.

“Are you good for them?” he whispers between kisses. “Hmm?”

“So good,” you simper, humming when he nips lightly at your mouth. “I’m so good.”

“What do they call you? Are you their little whore? Little pet? Hm?” he clutches the meat of your thigh suddenly, and your approving squeak is muffled by his tongue, wet, slippery, sloppy.

“Could you be good for me too?” he growls when you part, licking across your swollen lips. The sound of it, already so rough, so low, has you twitching. “Could you add one more to your little collection?”

“Yes,” you’re tugging him closer, writhing when his hand ghosts to cup you between the legs, firm, possessive, demonstrative. “Y-Yes, yes, I can be good.”

“Can you be quiet?” he adds with a hushed laugh, raising his eyebrows at your fevered expression as you continue to scrabble at him, yanking on his jacket, his wrist, begging and twisting. “You have to—shh,” he shushes you when you keen, pressing his fingers closer to your pussy through Yoongi’s sweatpants, feeling for your heat and finding it easily, “You’re too fucking loud. You have to be quiet, or else—“

“She’s very vocal.”

You almost cry out in pleasure when you hear the voice that breaks through the cop’s low mumbling, arching and trembling against the wall. But he told you to hush, so you bite down on your lip, vision swimming with sweet obedience and heady recognition.

“I can see that.” The dark-eyed officer chuckles after a beat, his hand slipping from your apex despite your muffled, disappointed noise and attempts to pull him back. “Shocked nobody’s been called in for domestic disturbance around yours yet.” He pulls his hand from you easily, leaning back and turning to better address the owner of voice behind him.

Arousal skitters up your spine, coiling in your limbs, at the way Namjoon flicks you a momentary, disapproving look, his jaw ticking. Is he thinking of punishing you for this? You hope so. But his plump lips curve into an overly-pleasant smile, eyes crinkling as they cast to the other man.

“By all means, don’t let me interrupt.” He says smoothly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“I’d hate to get in any real trouble,” is the reply, just as cool. “Have to set an example for Yugyeom, right?”

Your body itches. Everything is warm, soft, bubbly, and the heat of the man in front of you is like a furnace, the hot center of your universe. You sneak your fingers into his belt loops, scooting him closer to you, and he allows it with a vaguely smug expression.

Namjoon’s smile doesn’t move, frozen on his face. “Your border is a few miles north from here, isn’t it? You’re cutting it a little close, don’t you think? Jackson?”

Jackson blinks, straightening. He grabs your wandering hand by the wrist from where it had travelled around his side to his zipper (how on earth did it get there, you wonder with a snicker), holding it up and away from his body with one wide palm. You whine through your nose. “We’re just passing through.” His tone has turned more serious. Respectful. “Avoiding the main roads. Won’t be spending more than a few hours this close to your territory.”

“Passing through?”

Jackson hesitates.

“We’re leaving, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile falls, curving into a confused frown, his brow creasing. “What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“It’s too slim here. We’re not having any luck lately. It’s my turn to disappear anyways.”

You press up against Jackson’s side, trying to slide your other hand up under his shirt, but he catches that one, too, holding you prisoner against the tacky feel of leather and his body heat. You mewl pointedly, hands straining, rocking against him. What’s he so busy for? Can’t he see that you need it? Your mouth waters. You need it…Up against this wall, bent over—you imagine Namjoon joining in and the thought has you aching. You can always prove how good you are. Can always show your new friend how good you can be for him.

Namjoon’s frown takes his lips with it, bares his teeth in a grimace. “You can’t be serious. What, already? What are we supposed to do?”

Jackson cocks his head in your direction and returns your sly grin with a raise of his eyebrows, briefly looking you over with an expression that makes you wet. You hum, trying to send him psychic requests for touching, kissing, biting through your locked gaze.

“Looks like you’re already doing something.”

“She…she was an accident.”

“And here I thought you and Jin had finally made nice.” Jackson looks back to Namjoon, neck lolling with disbelief. He lets go of your hands, spinning and suddenly disentangling you from him in one smooth motion. He pushes your arms to your own chest and looks you dead in the eyes again. Hours pass where you’re lost in his eyes, caught in the endless depths of obsidian, floating in nothing and everything.

“Don’t. Move.”

A shiver wracks your body violently, and you have to throw yourself against the wall just to avoid crumpling to the ground with the pleasure that comes with obeying. You won’t move, you won’t move. You can do that for him. You press yourself to the brick, shuddering and panting quietly, eyes trained on his frame, watching how the world seems to heave with your every breath, lends him and Joon halos, makes heat spark and flare inside of you.

“You’re not actually leaving. We need you up north. Who’s taking your place?”

Jackson shakes his head, craning back to Namjoon. His tongue flits to wet his lips, gaze flicking upwards. You can think of better places his tongue could be. “No one. All of us are headed southwest.”

“Jaebum has better sense.”

“Back when it was an option.”

“You can’t just fucking leave, Jackson, we need cover. Now more than ever.”

“Wasn’t that the point of Jungkook?”

Ohh, Jungkook. You like Jungkook. Jungkook would take you. Press you up against the wall again, like when you met, but this time…you’re threatening to drool. Not moving is really hard.

“Jungkook is a kid. They’ll notice eventually. Jin isn’t thinking about the long term.”

“Then you’ll have to move anyways. You can’t just stubborn your way through everything, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile returns, but it’s tight, dangerous. He looks like a predator. It’s a good look, makes you warm and wet all over, but you know better than anyone how to smooth it off him.

“I appreciate your opinion.”

“Good. I like giving it.”

“Stay out of my territory.” He pulls the phrase through his grin, low and heavy with threat. “If I catch any of you with so much as a toe over the line, I’ll pull you apart.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Like I said, we’re just passing through. Thought we’d grab one for the road in between territories.” Jackson flashes you another glance and you shiver. “…I won’t say anything about her, though. For you.”

“I told you she was an accident. You know times are tough.”

“I don’t agree with taking them like this. I don’t know anyone who does.”

“It’s temporary.”

Jackson shrugs.

“I’ll leave her with you anyway.” He says finally, with a sniff. “From the smell of her, you’ve got enough to worry about with just the two of you involved.”

He ruffles the back of his hair as he starts to walk. Namjoon doesn’t step aside for him, only watching as he gets close. When he comes within distance, he reaches forward and takes his arm. It’s weirdly gentle, familiar. You wish he’d grab you instead. Less gently would be preferable. Be nice if you could move, also.

“Tell me someone is staying.” Namjoon pleads. His eyes are genuine as he searches the other man’s. “Someone, anyone. Tell me we’ve still got cover. That the riots won’t reach us.”

Jackson slowly, hesitantly, places his hand on top of Namjoon’s.

“…You said it yourself. Times are tough, Joon.” He replies, quiet. “I’m sorry.”

This time, when he moves to walk past, both hands slipping from his arm, Namjoon angles his body to the side to allow him the space to continue.

“By the way,” Jackson adds after a beat, “You might want to check the ‘most wanted’ lists for up north. I could be wrong, but I think you’ve got one more problem.”

Namjoon’s head drops into a defeated nod, worrying his lower lip through his teeth as Jackson turns the corner out of sight, back towards the entrance.

Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move. A particularly violent shudder courses through you and you whine at the feeling of disobedience, but your body is shaking, breath coming in irregular pants. You’ve broken out in a sweat, your entire frame twitching and needy. Namjoon’s form ahead of you has you wanting, knowing he could make it better, he could kiss and lick and bite and touch and fondle and you need him to. But he only stands there, brow furrowed at the concrete beneath his feet, scratching at the back of his neck distractedly.

“N-Namjoon,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, feeling a thrill race through you when he freezes. Jackson said you needed to be quiet, so you don’t dare say much else, but when Namjoon looks up and meets your eye with a steely glare, you bite back a whimper.

“And you,” he says, low. “What do you have to say for yourself, hm?”

You only watch him, shivering.

“Speak,” he commands.

“Please, please, Namjoon,” you’re begging, babbling loosed from your lips in a tidal wave, “Please, I’m so hot, I need, I need you, I’m so warm, Namjoon, I need—“

“Were you going to let him fuck you?”

“I—“

“Were you. Going to let Jackson fuck you?”

“….I…” your mouth goes dry. At his scathing look you crumble. “Y-yes, yes, I wanted—“

“You were going to let him bite you?”

Your voice has become small, hesitant, but the surface of your skin still buzzes and every time you answer him, pleasure rushes up your spine. “Yes.”

“After I told you not to.”

“I’m hazed,” you whine, shuffling your feet, squeezing your thighs together.

He shakes his head, casting his glance to the side with an expression that morphs into desperation mirroring your own. “…Fuck.”

Yes. Yes, exactly. You concur.

“Come—” He gestures, but the movement doesn’t even register until you’ve already thrown yourself into his outstretched arm, nuzzling into his shirt, pressing as much of you against you as you can manage.

“—here,” he cuts off with a shocked wheeze when you slide your palm down past the front of his pants, rubbing for his cock through his jeans. A thrill runs through you at the realization that he isn’t soft under there. You growl. He grabs for your wrists, shaking, eyes wide as he tries to meet yours. “Hey, whoah, no—fuck, goddamn it.” “Naaaaaamjooon,” you complain. “I was gonna let you fuck me, too…”

“I can see that.” His voice is strangled. He pauses, grip briefly tightening over your wrists and you purr at the feeling.

“Get in the car,” he says finally.

“You could haze me more to get in the car,” you waggle your eyebrows at him, chuckling under your breath at the bubbliness of the world in the corners of your vision.

“Or I could tell you to get in the fucking car and then you just do it.”

“I’ll do something fucking for you, Namjoon.”

“Get. In the car.” He sounds strained, but you’ll take it. Eventually, he’ll give you what you want. You don’t even have to worry about it! You stumble with him to the car, giggling when he tries to usher you into the passenger’s side and avoid the way you’re trying to pull him on top of you.

By the time he comes around the other side to sit behind the wheel, he’s already chattering to himself under his breath. He does like to talk a lot.

“Get Hoseok to pull some strings with one of his, get those clothes bought, look up the wanted section—wanted? What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Godammit, Jackson—gotta give this time to wear off. Maybe we can sneak you past Yoongi. Maybe he’s sleeping. God, I hope he’s sleeping.”

Your hands are wandering again. Drifting over the center console as the car jerks roughly under you and starts speeding smoothly into the sunset. It’s way more interesting to you, what’s happening inside the vehicle. Your fingers dance over to Namjoon’s lap, trailing, watching his face for any sign that he’s going to stop you. His jaw clenches again and he throws you a grim glance.

“Don’t think about it.”

“Think about what.”

“You know what.”

“Taking your cock out?” You clarify innocently, watching with interest the shuddering inhale he takes. “Putting your cock in my mouth?”

“Exactly that.” His teeth are gritted.

“Tasting the tip?” you continue, curious, brushing a palm against his crotch, feeling triumphant at the way the fabric stirs, the way he shifts underneath you. “Or deeper?” Your mouth isn’t working exactly the way you’d like, you’re slurring pretty hard, but you’re already drooling at the thought of sucking him off.

“I’m trying to fucking drive,” he whines, and the sound takes you aback slightly, watching his brow crease in frustration. Consent. Namjoon likes consent. He likes it when you ask.

“Can I suck your dick?” You ask with a polite smile, delighted with yourself for figuring him out so quickly. “Namjoon?” His hips rise of their own volition, stuttering. He doesn’t reply beyond a sharp breath and you frown. Not a ‘no’. But not a yes.

Wait a minute. You’re being so silly. You’ve forgotten the most important part!

“Can I suck your dick, sir?...”

He growls.

“No.” he says. You pout. You did so well, and this is what you get for it. You’re a good girl, why is he going to act like this?

“But I—“

“No buts.” He snaps. “Hands to yourself. Don’t move until we get home.”

Gold dust bursts beneath your eyelids, gathers under your skin, slinks up your throat, and you lean back into the car to watch it curl up through the atmosphere. Your hands are by your side. Where they belong. Where they’ve always been. You barely even notice how hard Namjoon is breathing.

By the time you get home, the soft lights and rounded corners of the world have faded some—not enough to be gone, but enough that your attention has returned to the wetness between your legs. You’re so wet. There’s even a patch forming on Yoongi’s sweatpants. You hope he won’t mind. You recall the way he licked you up in the diner and shudder. He definitely won’t mind.

Namjoon leads you quickly out of the car and up the stairs to the apartment, refusing to look at you, eyes wild, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring and jaw working. He looks like he’s thinking about lots of important things. One of them ought to be how good you’ve been, and how much you need him to touch you, but you’ll let him come to that conclusion himself.

He halts violently in the front hall eyes wide.

“Shit.”

“…Namjoon?” Yoongi’s voice comes from the living room, sounding surprised, almost…guilty?

Namjoon immediately takes a few steps forward, body angled between you and the room.

You peer around him to snag a peek anyways. Yoongi stares back at you from his position on the couch, belly down and hunched over something black. The bags under his eyes are almost a weird shade of purple, they’re so dark. He looks like he’s dying, drawn and fixated. When your gazes meet, his tongue slips over his lips, slow, heady. You whimper before you’re even aware you’re doing it.

“Really? Yoongi?” Namjoon sounds exasperated. Worn thin.

“Really yourself,” Yoongi bites back, but his tone is gravelly. “When you said you were going shopping I thought it would be for longer than five minutes.”

“On the couch?”

Yoongi’s upper row of teeth suddenly bare in a lopsided grin with a mild chuckle. “Not the worst thing to happen on the couch. Right?”

His smile drops suddenly, nostrils flaring. A shiver crawls up your spine as you watch his hips rock forwards and his eyes flutter back in his head. “A-ah, fuck. What the fuck have you two been doing?...”

It isn’t until you feel Namjoons arm raising to halt you at your chest that you realize you’ve been scooting forward in a trance, trying to catch a closer look at the fabric that Yoongi presses his face into now with a low groan.

“Yoongi…” Joon swallows, hard, “You should go back in your room.”

“She’s fucking hazed, isn’t she, Joon? Fuck, she’s so wet,” he continues to hiss under his breath, as if to himself. “Fuck, she’s so wet.”

This time you can see his arm shift, can hear a slick noise from underneath him, his breath catching. His jeans are hanging a little low on his hips, baring a black strip of underwear, you realize, and with that realization comes understanding. The fabric is Namjoon’s old hoodie. He’s got it pinned to the couch beneath him. When he nuzzles into it, you recognize the faded pattern from the hem brushing his nose. It’s upside down, so that his face is where…where your pussy was.

“It was a mistake,” Namjoon says while your world spins dizzyingly with arousal.

“Hmm…” Yoongi grunts, impossibly low in his throat. “Lots of those.” He doesn’t sound fully cognizant of what he’s saying. It’s absent, slurred. You see why when he twists his head again, mouth lolling open to lap secretively at the hoodie, his tongue pointed and firm. Arousal slips heat down your back, between your legs when you spot his bared teeth. Long, sharp, glistening with saliva as he exhales shakily. Oh, yes. That’s what you want.

Namjoon’s arm presses against you and he takes a half a step back, taking you with him even though you don’t really want to walk backwards. The way Yoongi tucks his head into the hoodie, his hair splaying against the fabric, inhales loudly, humps forward, hips curling with a sloppy sound that indicates just how wet he is in his own palm—it reminds you of an animal.

“Gonna bite holes in the couch, Joon,” he warns thick, muffled. “Mmm…I’m going to lose my fucking mind. She’s fucking hazed. God, I-I can’t do this.”

“It’s only been a day.” Namjoon’s voice is strained. You cast a curious look at him, but immediately your eye is drawn to the tent growing in his pants. He tries to move it, tries to casually tuck it out of view, but it’s too late, the damage is done, and a huff of desire escapes from your throat, eyes threatening to bulge out of your head. You like very much the way things are shaping up. “It’s only been a day—“

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“—We need to give her time to recover—“

Yoongi makes a noise that’s too close, too close, to a high-pitched whimper, his head still bent, hiding his face.

“Recover nothing, recover is bullshit,” he’s babbling, dark, frustrated, garbled by the pillows underneath him. “I need—“

“It’s not a good idea.”

“I need to be inside of her now, Namjoon.” Yoongi pulls his head back up, laying his cheek ontop of the hoodie. His eyes are blown wide, all traces of brown swallowed by obsidian, hooded and piercing as he meets your gaze, blazing a path straight through you. His delicate lips can barely keep his teeth at bay, bitten, abused pink playing peekaboo with glistening pinpricks of ivory. His jet hair spiders out across his forehead, stuck in places with sweat. “I need to drain her.”

“It isn’t a good—“

“I’ll kill you.” It fights its way past his lips, stuttering and stammering, like an addict denied his high, lent credence by the way he digs his nails into the sofa, ruts into his own hand. “I—I’ll, Joon, I’ll fucking kill you.”

There’s a pause of silence, punctuated only by your breathing and the soft fabric noises as Yoongi humps the couch.

“…No, you won’t.” Namjoon’s voice is soft. Quiet. He sighs through his nose, long and weary.

Yoongi opens his mouth to reply, but he stills at the same time you see movement in the corner of your eye. A hand drifting to the hem of Namjoon’s second hoodie. Its twin, on the other side. Shuffling its grip up, taking the hoodie and the scarf with it, peeling it up and over your head with all the gentleness of a caretaker. You can’t look away from Yoongi. He’s stopped moving entirely, too-bright eyes watching you from over the pillows, a snake in the grass ready to strike. You don’t think he’s breathing. Namjoon’s hands return, slipping long fingers beneath the elastic waistband. He shucks them off you, helping you step out by placing your hand on his shoulder. One leg at a time. You sway a little, completely nude, standing in the living room like a sacrificial offering to the heathen gods. And the intensity with which the creature on the couch watches you, your chest heaving with heady breath, tells you that analogy isn’t far off.

You next feel warmth at your hand, wandering fingers drifting to clutch yours in a show of unexpected softness.

“We aren’t going to hurt her,” Namjoon says, fighting to keep a tremble out of his voice. Is it excitement? Fear? “We’re going to take care of her. Right, Yoongi?”

“Fuck,” Yoongi whispers, eyes wide.

“We aren’t going to hurt her.”

“No.” Yoongi echoes.

“We’re going to take care of her.”

“Yes.”

“I will use force if I have to.”

“Mm.”

Namjoon nods, once. The hand at yours disappears, reappearing with a sudden grip of your hair, tugging your head back.

“You wanted so badly to suck cock, baby,” Namjoon snarls into your ear, sending hot breath coasting against your neck, making you squeal when he yanks unmercifully, his grip burning against your scalp, “Here’s your fucking chance. You’re going to take Yoongi down your throat like a good slut. I don’t want you coming up for breath. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir,” you mewl immediately, scrabbling upwards, delicate fingers flying to his with no effect. The switch has left you reeling with whiplash, but it makes you shake all the same. All the same, it makes you ache. He releases you, shoving forward, and you stumble, catching yourself on the arm of the couch, just beside Yoongi’s head.

Yoongi still hasn’t moved. You slide to the front of the sofa, eyes trained on his, unable to keep down the feeling of being a steak in a lion’s den. But he uncurls from his position, turning to reveal his dick to you, head cocked, hands clutching the cushions on either side of his legs like he has half a mind to tear them to shreds.

You almost choke, just looking at him. Flushed a painful red from tip to base, bright veins bulging angrily, twitching in the cold air apart from his hand. Coated in precum, streaks shining in the light down what you can see of his lower belly, wet patches soaked through the bottom of his white shirt, glazing his cock. Under your stare, it oozes another dribble, and suddenly you’re famished.

“Please.”

It doesn’t register as a word until he shifts, legs widening, hands kneading. You look back to his face. He looks half out of his mind, eyes dark.

“Please.” He repeats, hoarse.

You’re already falling to your knees, jaw dropping opening with the sick plop of your tongue leaving the roof of your mouth, reaching for his thighs. His hips flex when you get close, easing his head past your lips and you can taste the heat before you even descend on him, sucking, laving at his fevered skin.

The noise he makes is sin, lust, and velvet. Not far from a purr. His hands don’t move from where they’re digging into the cushions, allowing you to take as much of him as you want, as much as you can. You fill your senses with him greedily; his taste, his smell, every twitch of his thighs and every bob of his cock into your mouth.

You feel wandering fingers trace your spine, curling around your ass, alighting to your dripping pussy with intent. When two push inside, eased tremendously by the seemingly endless slick that drips from your entrance, you arch into him.

“Y-You fuck her first,” Namjoon’s murmuring from behind as he presses his fingers into you, scissoring, stretching, curling seekingly. You hump against his hand, trying to push him deeper even as you suck Yoongi’s cock down your throat with a slavering eagerness. “Or-or maybe I do…M-maybe we…”

“Both,” Yoongi growls, sharp. A moan bubbles up around his member from your throat and his hips rise to meet the sensation, almost lazy if not for the way he shakes. You feel a hand curling into your hair less than gently, by your face, tugging your head a little to the side so that he can look you in the eye while you suckle at his head. He’s grinning, feral and distant. As your gazes lock, he scrunches his nose at you in a playful snarl.

“You have two holes for a reason, don’t you think?” he drawls past a slur. “Let’s see how wide we can stretch them.”

Behind you, Namjoon grunts deep in his throat and his pace stutters. “Sh-shit, that’s—“

“She wants it. You want it, don’t you? You want me in your ass. You want Namjoon in your cunt. Admit it.” He tsks, his tone dropping somehow lower. “Admit it, and we’ll prepare you first.”

He pulls you off his cock with a fierce tug of your locks caught between his knuckles, teeth baring again in a half smirk, half grimace as he watches you take deep gasping breaths with all the tenderness of a hawk surveying its squeaking prey.

“I—I do.”

“Little whore.” The vampire in front of you hisses, murmurs, but the thumb brushing against your swollen lips is akin to fond. “I know you do. You want Namjoon’s fingers in your tight little hole?”

You’re nodding into his palm, trying to shift your weight more comfortably on your knees. Either he doesn’t notice or he’s pretending not to, perfectly fine with allowing you to arch, crane. Twitching when Namjoon’s fingers bump against those perfect places inside of you with slick, overly wet noises.

“You want him to stretch you wide for me. You want to beg us for it.”

“I do. I want it.”

“I don’t know that she can take it,” Namjoon mumbles, hoarse, but his fingers give you one more pump, squelching into your arousal, before they’re sliding slowly out, tracing up back towards your spine.

“She’ll fucking take it.” Yoongi’s leading you back to his cock, pressing your cheek to his strained member. His head throws back with a low groan when you obligingly lick up as much of his skin as you can, tasting salt and feeling the heat under your tongue. “She’ll take it and she’ll love it.”

“I’ll take it so good,” you agree between laves, between sloppy kisses and slurps. “I’ll take it.”

Warmth presses experimentally against the tight ring of muscles at your ass. When you tense thoughtlessly, it immediately disappears, Namjoon exhaling shakily.

“I don’t think—“ he mumbles.

“I think,” Yoongi snaps. “Stop fucking thinking, Namjoon. Just do it.”

There’s a pause, a shuffling from behind you, the sound of a bottlecap popping open. The fingers return, and this time you make sure to roll towards them, humming your approval as you lathe up and down Yoongi’s member sloppily. This time, you recognize a much slicker feeling—he must have found lube. Just for you. How nice of him. One digit presses deeper, sinking into you and you huff a sigh at the strange sensation; even with the lube, it hurts, just a little, just a sting, but it’s warm and smooth, filling you up. Another finger pad rubs comforting circles into your clit as he pumps his finger steadily into your asshole. Yoongi purrs with appreciation at the both of your compliances, hips twitching.

“Mm, yeah, stretch her good. Stretch her so good, so I can slip right inside of that tight little ass.”

Namjoon introduces a second finger and you have to stop sucking Yoongi’s cock to rest your head in his lap, keening at the intrusion. It burns, it burns, but the thought of taking his member inside of you, the thought of taking both of them, has you shaking with anticipation.

“Hoseok’s gonna be so mad,” Yoongi mutters, watching you whimper and carding lithe fingers through your hair. “His loss.”

Namjoon’s abrupt chuckle is humorless and short. “Hoseok is in big trouble for that stunt he pulled last night.”

“Hmm? What stunt?” The corner of Yoongi’s mouth twitches upwards in a knowing grin. A hand explodes against your ass, forcing you to jump, working yourself harder on Namjoon’s fingers, and you moan thickly.

“Tell him.”

“H-Hoseok came in the room while I was being pun-punished,” You stutter as Namjoon slides a third finger into your quivering hole, stretching you further with a deep grunt. “He-he fucked my chest.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Shh,” he hums, mock-comforting, stroking your hair with one hand as his other drifts to his own member, teasing at the purpled, leaking head absently, drifting to lock around his base. “I know. I know. Did you like it? Hm? You did, didn’t you? I bet it made you so fuckin’ wet for Hobi’s cock.”

He makes a thick noise deep in his throat. “Namjoon.”

“Gently,” is the response. Namjoon’s fingers slip out of you, even as your body clamps down on him as if trying to convince him deeper, and the rush of pleasure as they’re removed has you shuddering. “Go slow.”

But Yoongi’s gripping your hair, patting your cheek, is excited and rushed. Feverish.

“Turn around. Turn around,” he urges.

Obediently, you sit up shakily, assisted by an arm slipping beneath yours, and turn to face Namjoon. At some point, he’s taken his shirt off, unbuttoned his pants to better stroke at the bulge growing at his crotch. His eyes are hooded, his lips are red from his own worrying. He flicks his eyebrows at you when Yoongi’s hand comes up with a sharp crack on your asscheek, jolting you forward. You can hear him shuffling out of his pants entirely behind you.

“Ready?” Joon asks.

You nod, leaning up and seeking out his lips again. He kisses you back briefly, hands alighting on your waist to encourage you down. Yoongi’s hands drift over your ass, your thighs, tugging you closer, pulling you to meet the hot skin of his lap. His fingers as they dance over your cheeks, shifting you open so that he can rub the tip of his dick against your opening. The hot, slick feeling of his velvet head finally breaching the tight ring of muscle has you gasping, scrabbling at Namjon’s arms.

Yoongi is definitely bigger than Namjoon’s fingers. As you sink down on him, impaling yourself on his cock, you clutch forward at Namjoon desperately, mouth open to allow for the breathless mewls escaping your throat. Behind you, Yoongi grunts and hums directly into your ear, tsking through his teeth.

“Are you okay, baby?” Namjoon murmurs, almost sweet if not for the feverishly intent way he watches his elder penetrate you. “Is that still good?”

“Big,” you hiccup, unconsciously trying to shift your hips to accommodate the girth as it parts your walls. “It-it’s big.”

“I know,” he soothes. He keeps up petting your cunt, brushing your clit, rubbing your tits. He leans forward, pressing soothing kisses to your collarbone, up your neck, the edge of your mouth. “I know. You tell me if it’s too much.”

“Oh fuck,” Yoongi growls, low, when he finally bottoms out, sheathing himself completely inside you. “Oh fuck. God, you take it so good. You take it so well. Are you sure Jin’s boys didn’t do this for you?”

“N-No.” You’re glowing at the praise, at the attention, as you adjust. The pain quiets to an ache the longer you sit there, but you won’t deny the twitching in your limbs, the leaking of your pussy. It isn’t taking you too long to warm to the idea of taking both of them at the same time.

“No? No, just us, hm? Think they’ll be jealous, Namjoon?” Yoongi catches your earlobe with a bite that’s a little too sharp, humming.

“Jealous that we got to have so much of baby? Oh, yeah.” Namjoon mumbles, kissing you deep. His tongue slides across yours, sweet and gentle. Your lips smack obnoxiously when you part, the sound so loud in this enclosed space between your faces. “Jealous that she’s ours.”

“Is that right?” Yoongi’s hips move experimentally, thrusting shallow, and you moan at the sensation. It’s like he’s reaching through you to your guts, and you love it. “Are you ours? Hmm?”

“Y-yours,” you choke, humping with him.

Eyes caught in yours, Namjoon fishes his cock out of his underwear, giving the thick length a pump, two, before he’s edging closer. He’s kissing you again as he sinks into you, and you melt into the bliss of being held so intimately, so gently. Yoongi at your back, rocky steadily into your ass, Joon at your front, thrusting into your wet pussy, both humming and grunting with the effort as you writhe helplessly between them. You’re so full, so full, disallowed from resting between thrusts with the alternating rhythm they quickly fall into.

“F-fuck,” Namjoon growls. “So good, you’re doing so good for us, baby.”

When he thrusts especially hard, you can feel it criminally deep inside of you and you arch, hips lifting to meet him. The feeling of both of them fucking into you simultaneously, breathing into your ears, moaning, has you roiling in ecstasy, strong, warm arms holding you up, moving you against them, caressing breasts and rolling your clit.

“I-I’m not going to fucking last…” Joon warns.

Yoongi chuckles breathily, licking his lips so sloppily it’s loud.

“Cum in her,” he demands, hoarse, “Give her everything. I want to feel it.”

There’s the sound of the lock turning at the front door. Namjoon’s pace quickens with a groan. He starts pounding into your cunt, leaning over you with his brow furrowed, lips parted, sweat making his neck, his cheeks, glisten. His cock fucks so smoothly into your cunt, stretching you around his girth, bottoming out and slipping until he finally settles for rocking up deep into you. The sounds his pelvis makes as he fucks you perfectly are loud, stuttering.

“Gonna, gonna,” he mumbles, licking up your lips.

“Hoo!” Hoseok’s voice calls from the front hall, “What is going on in…here…?”

Joon stills inside you with a violent thrust, cock buried deep inside of your guts, pulsing as he paints your walls with wet warmth, exhaling a grunt into the crook of your neck. Yoongi stills completely, moaning low in your ear.

There’s a pause, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of everyone present. Namjoon presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, humping once, twice, sliding his spent cock from your gaping hole with a hiss.

When he moves to look to Hoseok, you get to see him too.

Standing in the hall, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair’s wet at his forehead with sweat. Under your stare, he licks his lips. His eyes are already smoldering, congenial grin faded into a hungry look.

“You guys having fun?” he asks, falsely conversational.

“No, it’s the worst.” Yoongi’s deadpan reply doesn’t earn him more than a flick of the eyes. “You should probably go back to the studio.”

“Sorry, Hope,” Namjoon interjects softly, still panting. “It—we didn’t mean to go this far.”

“I did.” Yoongi interrupts again in a whisper. You jolt at the feeling of his hot, slick tongue suddenly wetting a path up your neck to your ear. You squirm, both of you moaning quietly when you jostle his cock inside you.

Hoseok shrugs, lips curving into a pout. He slips his gym bag off his shoulder, tossing it carelessly to the ground as Joon flops to the side of the couch, far enough to be out of the way but close enough to keep a discerning eye on Yoongi.

“Well. I’m here now…” Hoseok says low, stalking closer. You’re suddenly very aware of how lewd you must look right now. Yoongi buried in your ass, Joon’s cum leaking out of your wrecked pussy.

“Hmmm about that…Hoseok misbehaved, didn’t he?” Yoongi murmurs into your ear, his breath tickling your neck. He shifts, beginning to roll into you again, stealing your breath. “Left you high and dry. What do you say we leave him?”

It’s impossible to concentrate, between his smooth fucking into your asshole, the way Joon’s rapidly cooling cum runs down your cunt, the smoldering glare that Hoseok throws your way.

“We can make him watch.” Yoongi’s next thrust is overly excited, and you jerk back into him with a loud moan, back arching as his cock parts your tight hole and slips up into your depths. It dislodges more of the cum inside you, encouraging it to ooze out in a fresh glob painting your slit. “Hmmm…we can make him watch and he can fucking cream all over himself in his ridiculous fucking pants. Make him clean it up, suck it up out of the fabric, no hands.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Hoseok’s smile is not friendly. It’s dark, dangerous—not far removed from an animalistic sneer.

“You don’t think I would?” is the glib response, heavy with promise, punctuated by a grunt when you clench around him. Hoseok’s smile disappears.

“Fuck, fuck,” Yoongi pants into your skin, tsking through his teeth. “What a fucking idea. What a fucking idea. You want to see it, too, don’t you?”

“P-promised,” you stammer, mind reeling, toes curling.

“What was that, slut?” Yoongi snarls, a free hand curving around your neck. Namjoon’s eyes dart to his fingers with an expression that betrays how ready he is to save you, even as he continues to recover from his position on the floor, but Yoongi doesn’t tighten his grip more than enough to choke your words and make it difficult to slur through them.

“He, H-Hoseok promised, he promised, t-to fuck me.”

“He promised to fuck you.”

“Mm,” you whimper, nodding, vision swimming with heady pleasure.

“You can’t get enough, is that what you’re telling me?”

“N-no.” You moan when he starts to thrust even harder into you.

“Never enough cock for you. Never stuffed full enough, never satiated. It would take all of us, wouldn’t it, and still you’d beg for more. Tell me I’m wrong.

Come here,” he barks, fevered, without waiting for your reply. “Get over here.”

Automatically, Hoseok moves, the edges of his expression softening as Yoongi’s haze pulls a veil over his eyes. He doesn’t even get a full step forward before Yoongi is commanding him again.

“Down. Knees.”

Hoseok’s legs buckle at the knees, his head flopping forward, eyes fixated on the unbelievably erotic sight of Yoongi’s cock disappearing into you and reappearing covered in juices and lube, the way your pussy weeps clear arousal and thick white seed down your thighs, soaking into the couch beneath you.

“Tell her you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” It escapes his mouth easily enough, but his lips twitch in a faint grimace afterwards, as though the words leave a bad taste on his tongue. Yoongi fucks harder into you, before grunting and suddenly grasping your hips with both hands, one on either side. You can feel him twitching deep inside of you, but he doesn’t cum yet, just rocks upwards, curls absently against your back.

“How sorry?”

“So sorry.”

“Prove it. Show her. How fucking sorry you are.”

Hoseok’s eyes flit upwards, catching you in their endless chocolatey depths. You feel warmth, palms, curling over your thighs, holding you splayed in front of him with long hands. Maintaining eye contact, he leans forward, jaw inching open, tongue presenting itself, before he makes contact with your pussy, licking a long, hot stripe upwards. A low moan claws its way out of your chest, your hips thrusting forwards and halted by their hands, Yoongi’s on your waist, Hoseok’s pinning you to Yoongi, forcing you to take it as he starts to eat you in earnest. He slurps up Namjoon’s cum like he daren’t waste a drop of it, sucking it off your lips, sliding his tongue everywhere but your clit, rubbing through your folds, dipping like a man possessed into your cunt to retrieve as much of it as he can taste. You convulse with every flick, humming and whining, sweating, straining against their grip as Hoseok tilts his head, maneuvering this way and that, as though determined to lick up every trace of Namjoon from you.

“That’s it,” Yoongi growls thickly. “That’s it, just like that. Make her cum and I’ll let you inside her.”

The response is immediate. Hoseok forces your thighs apart even further, lips finding your clit easily and attaching with a decadent slurp so loud and so obnoxious your ears ring, holding you down as you shake and arch into him, moaning unintelligible pleas for mercy as he sucks you up like his last meal. Your body wracks, shivering, and you hardly even realize how near you are until you’re finally shoved off the precipice. You’re cumming, hard, scrabbling for purchase on Yoongi’s thighs, the couch beneath you, Hoseok’s fingers. The scream that tears itself from your throat is raw, over-extended and cuts out entirely at the end as pleasure races through your entire body, forcing you to convulse and shake.

Yoongi’s steady fountain of curses barely registers until you realize he’s begging just as painfully, as desperately as you are.

“Fuck, Hoseok,” he hiccups, “Fuck, hurry up, get—get in her, fuck, I can—I’m gonna—“

“Was that nice?” Hoseok preens as he pulls away. His mouth and chin are shining, glazed with your arousal. He licks absently at it, slipping the waistband of his sweatpants down teasingly, catching your eyes with a hazy, prideful smirk. “Was that good? You want Hobi to fuck you now, pretty girl? You forgive me yet, hm?”

“Stop fucking around,” Yoongi bites, hands dashing to your thighs from around your back. He opens your folds for you, presenting you even more prettily to the other vampire, who watches you twitch with satisfaction and desire. “Come fuck the communal whore.”

Hoseok’s cock is thinner than Namjoon’s, but it’s longer. When he lines up with your entrance, guided easily by Yoongi’s fingers, and presses in with one smooth motion, you release a deep exhale, head thrown back over Yoongi’s shoulder.

“There you go. There you fucking go.” He encourages in a mumble, hands raising, one to your neck to caress and fondle, the other to your hip, to steady as he and Hoseok start thrusting in tandem.

Hobi’s hips flow into you effortlessly, curling, stroking the inside of your cunt with precision that leaves you breathless. The difference between the fevered way Yoongi now rams unevenly into your ass, drawing thick breaths through clenched teeth, has you clenching around the both of them.

You feel something against your palm, and you turn to look, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. He watches you caught between his brothers, expression heavy. He wraps his fingers around yours, and you realize his other hand is curled around his own dick, stroking himself to the time of Yoongi’s thrusts. He leans his head back, staring at you past hooded eyelids, plush lips parted in quiet huffs as he twitches and releases again, small spurts up his chest, decorating his abdomen. The sight of him, shining with sweat and cum, pleasuring himself as you bounce, filled up and defiled, makes you cry out, wrapping one thigh around Hosoeok’s ass.

“Gonna fill up this pretty ass,” Yoongi hisses, “Gonna fill you up so good, fuck.”

“Good girl,” Hobi soothes through his grin, “Good, just like that, take it, yeah, take it.”

Yoongi’s pace becomes even more erratic, even more uneven, his voice giving way to high pitched mewls and low grunts, burying his cock inside you with a growl.

“N-Nam—“ he pants suddenly, arching, pressing his lower half to your back.

Namjoon sits up with a rush, hand disentangling from yours to reach upwards, just over your shoulder, and you can feel the force as Yoongi’s head is thrown backwards into the cushion of the sofa. His prick twitches and throbs, finally emptying himself into the cavern of your asshole, filling you with wet warmth. Hobi pushes forward one last, long drawn-out time, and cums inside your cunt with a huffed breath almost of surprise.

Behind you, you can hear Yoongi hissing, growling, whimpering. You can feel the struggle as he thrashes against Namjoon’s hold, his fingernails beginning to dig into your hips.

“You fucker,” he spits, seething. “I’m so fucking hungry, you son of a bitch. It’s your fucking fault, you fuck.”

“Shh, Yoongi,” Namjoon soothes, brows knitted together. “Shh, I know. I know.”

“Fuck you, Namjoon, let me drain her fucking dry. You’re such a cunt.”

Hoseok slides out of you, watching your pussy leaking fresh cum with absent satisfaction, brushing a thumb against a flushed lip to collect some of it. He leans up, smearing it across your mouth and you lean forward into him, sucking the digit into your mouth with an exhausted moan.

“Hobi, get her off him.” Namjoon says, sharp.

“Alright, alright. Come on, pretty girl,” Hoseok urges gently, wrapping his palms underneath your ass to help lift you upwards. You try to prop your legs up under yourself, but you’re so sore, so used up, they’re almost completely useless. Yoongi’s member leaves your ass with a plop, his release already beginning to ooze down your thigh. His hands are hesitant to leave your waist, but eventually trail off, obeying hushed encouragement from Namjoon. Hoseok pulls you to stand, into his still-clothed chest, propping you up on your feet and letting you lean against him.

“Can you stand?” he murmurs into your ear. You’re shaky, disoriented, clutching everything you can reach of him. You shake your head ‘no’, burying your face into him, inhaling the comforting scent. “Okay.”

He slowly moves to collect his pants from the ground, keeping your hands on his shoulders as he bends. When he straightens, he pulls the soft material up your legs, wiping at the thick liquid flowing freely from your abused holes. When you flinch away at a slightly rougher tug, he apologizes quietly under his breath, craning to press a weirdly sweet kiss to your cheek.

“I’m gonna take her to get cleaned up,” he says over your shoulder, rubbing comforting circles into your lower back.

“Good,” Namjoon replies, distracted. Briefly, you feel a hand at your calf, stroking upwards in a soothing kind of manner. As Hoseok turns, leading you down to the hall, you catch a glimpse of Namjoon sitting beside Yoongi on the couch. They’re embracing now, both glistening, both panting. Their eyes are closed, Namjoon’s peacefully if not for the worry that creases his brow, Yoongi’s screwed tightly shut.

“Didn’t mean it.” You catch Yoongi’s deep mumble, choked with emotion, as he buries his face in Namjoon’s shoulder.

“I know. I know. It’s okay.” Namjoon’s hand brushes up his back reassuringly, even for how it shakes. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

Hoseok leads you slowly to the bathroom, props you up in the shower. The space is too tight, too small, to comfortably fit both of you, but he gets down to business washing you clean with the kind of care you’d expect from someone who’s done it a million times before. He keeps you upright, sudsing you up, rinsing you down, keeping your hands on his shoulders, occasionally placing a steadying arm around your waist while he cleans the rest of you with lukewarm water. He hums while he works, some absent tune you don’t recognize.

“Namu seems to really like you,” he pipes up. “I saw that handholding jerkoff thing.” He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “What a sap.”

You don’t have anything to respond with, so he continues.

“He’s not the type to like people easy, you know.” He sighs through his nose, craning to catch your eye with a nod to indicate how serious he’s being. “None of us are. I don’t know what Yoongi thinks…or if he does right now.”

He straightens to continue rinsing your hair, taking the utmost amount of care to avoid getting soap in your eyes. It feels nice. Warm.

“But if Namjoon likes you…I guess we’re going to have to take better care of you.”

There’s a pause.

“I am sorry.” He says finally. He sounds sincere. “For the tit job.”

Now you look up at him, too tired to really say or think much, but hoping he gets the expression you mean to send him. He grins, wide, and boops your nose with the loofah with a giggle.

“It was really hot, though.” He adds, in a mock-defensive pout. “Really hot. I jacked off earlier today just thinking about it, you know. Shit, maybe I’m falling for you.”

That makes him laugh, his signature cackle bouncing off the tiles of the bathroom.

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#moth to flame #bts x reader #bts smut #bts vampire au #namjoon x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #do you see now #do you understand #why it took me so long #none of this was originally in it ok #(hey anon i hope this soothes our relationship. <3 u #sorry again)#FUCK yoongis fuckin MOUTH in this one #i dont know WHO i was CHANNELING #hand to god it only gets worse i just kEEP GETTING W O R S E #am i retconning hoseok being an asshole #eeeeeeyup lmao do what i wanna shrug #oh oh did you get my reference #w the other vampires #eeyyyyyy im not gonna put them in the tags cos its such a small bit part but eeeeeYYY #i dont actually listen to anyone but BTS im sorry i just wanted smone else to exist in this world that WASNT them ok #ive heard some of their stuff just havnt like #idk i dont follow anyone #i was incredibly into super junior when i started listening to kpop but thats cos i used it to write other smut :)#cos i couldn't understand korean #hey how you doing this is a lot of tags huh #well its been a long day alright #its been a day #ive been writing this chapter for so long i just wanna write my FEELINGS now

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yxlenas · 3 years

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Isaac, new betas, growing pains, and a supernatural hit list complete with professional killers Clearly canon divergent s4 AU. Allisaac, because duh. I am convinced that Liam and Isaac would not like each other, at least at face value. for Alyssa, like always @electricbluebutterflies

“I don’t like him,” Isaac grumbles into her bare chest, head pushed up between her boobs. Allison cards her fingers through his hair and works through another math problem, trying not to laugh.

“I know,” she says, and Isaac makes an angry cat noise.

“I’m serious,” he whines, “he was already too good at lacrosse and now he’s a werewolf. We didn’t need another beta.”

“Was Scott supposed to let him fall off the roof, then?” Allison asks him, erasing a step and reworking it with the right method. Her phone buzzes with a text from Lydia, saying she’s coming over. Allison sends her a picture of Isaac’s curly head nestled between the soft cups of her bra and a grumpy faced emoji. Lydia texts back that she’ll bring snacks. Isaac makes another subvocal sound of displeasure.

“Yes,” he says, no real heat in his voice. He doesn’t mean it, he’s not that heartless, he’s just feeling territorial. Scott is his alpha and his brother, and Isaac was used to being the only wolf beta. He and Malia get along like a house on fire (which gives Allison a migraine, sometimes) and she knows he’s secretly anxious that a new pack member is going to upset the balance.

“Lydia is coming over,” Allison tells him, pushing at the side of his head until he lifts it, “which means I have to put on a shirt, and you should probably at least have on a pair of boxers.”

“Mmm,” Isaac grunts, biting at her belly and grinning when her muscles contract, “are you sure?”

“You’re fucking incorrigible,” Allison tells him, flicking the tip of his nose gently, “now get dressed.”

Liam is very aware Isaac doesn’t like him, because Isaac isn’t exactly a master of subtlety. Allison thinks Liam is more than a little scared of him too, because Isaac is definitely more lupine than Scott and less clueless than Malia. It does have some benefits from what Allison can tell from up in the bleachers at the scrimmage, though, when Isaac grabs him by the collar of his jersey and tosses him into the dirt before he can rip one of Devenford Prep’s midfielders a new asshole. She watches as he struggles against Isaac’s grip, looking for all the world like a very angry puppy, but Isaac is taller and stronger and much, much better at being a werewolf than Liam is.

Allison gathers her purse and picks her way down the bleachers, Lydia and Malia on her heels. They shove their way into a spot closer to the actual field, and Isaac lopes over to her, pulls his helmet off, and kisses her hard. Allison giggles, then pushes at his chest.

“Try not to kill the kid or break his spine, please,” she tells him, cupping his cheek. Isaac nods once and presses their lips together again. Stiles wolf whistles and Isaac flips him off.

“You two are disgusting,” Malia says. Allison can’t tell if she’s joking or not, but she bumps her with a shoulder gently. On the bench, Liam glowers at Isaac, and Isaac grins nastily back.

When they both go missing a few days after the discovery of the Deadpool and the terrifying realization that everyone she loves is on a hit list, there’s a part of Allison that hopes Isaac finally got sick of Liam and threw him in a lake or something.

The alternative is much, much more terrifying.

Isaac wakes up on his back at the bottom of a ravine in agonizing pain, a 15 year old kid hovering over him and looking terrified. Isaac does not feel terrified. Isaac feels annoyed, and achy, and like he might throw up.

Liam is babbling, and whatever head injury Isaac definitely sustained? Liam’s babbling is making it much, much worse.

“Shut. Up.” he groans.

“Oh, oh god you’re awake-”

“Liam,” Isaac grunts, “Liam, shut up, please. If you don’t shut up I will puke on you.”

“Sorry,” the kid gasps, “Sorry, sorry, sorry-”

“Liam,” Isaac says, feeling much more strained this time around, “Please.”

Liam shuts up. Isaac realizes that Liam is pressing two shaky hands to Isaac’s chest, and that those hands are covered in blood and black goo. Oh, yay. Great. Today is going very badly. Isaac tries to sit up, but can’t. He tries to move a leg, but can’t.

“You’re uh, kind of paralyzed,” Liam says, “I think. I think I saw your spine through your skin.”

“Where the fuck are we,” Isaac snarls, and Liam goes white.

“Um. I don’t know? In the woods. You broke my fall. With-with your body,”

“Call Allison, then call Derek and Scott” Isaac grunts.

“Both phones are...broken?” Liam says. He looks about five seconds away from passing out even though Isaac is the one probably dying.

“So call Scott,” Isaac rasps. His head is starting to spin, and his spine definitely isn’t healing. He isn’t going to heal, not as long as the bullets are in his chest.

“Just so you know,” Isaac slurs out, feeling dazed and sick, “I’m never taking bullets for you again.”

“What do you mean call Scott,” Liam says, “I told you the phones were broken.”

“I mean roar,” Isaac says. His stomach finally gives up completely and he turns his head to the side and throws up greyish black bile. Liam gags himself, and Isaac rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know how,” Liam hisses, looking completely frantic, “You and Scott haven’t taught me.”

“So figure it out,” Isaac says, coughing up a mouthful of sludge, “because I am not dying in this place with only you for company.”

Liam looks guilty. Good. If he wasn’t such an idiot and hadn’t gone careening into the woods after lacrosse practice because he was pissed off they wouldn’t be in this mess. Isaac coughs up another mouthful of black gunk.

“Allison will kill you,” Isaac tells him, “If I die here, by the way. She’s kind of attached to me, if you haven’t noticed.”

Liam just stares at him. Isaac would absolutely strangle the little shit if he was strong enough to move.

“Okay,” he slurs, “Alright, fine. I will do it. I will immediately pass out, and then you’re on your own.”

Isaac tilts his head back and howls miserably, as loud as he can, even as his vision greys out and his stomach rolls. He keeps howling until he passes out.

Scott finds them first. Liam has never been happier to see Scott in his life, especially since he’s being trailed by Derek and Stiles and Allison. Isaac is still very unconscious, and looking worse by the second. Every time he breathes more black stuff foams out of his mouth, and Liam is very concerned that Allison is going to kill him. Isaac likes to make empty threats to scare him, because Isaac is terrifying, but Liam isn’t sure that one is so empty.

Isaac may be terrifying, but Allison is 10 times worse.

“Liam?”

“Down here!” he yells, voice shaking. Isaac makes an awful gasping sound when Scott lands in the dirt next to them, grabbing Isaac’s face.

“Isaac,” Scott says, “Isaac. Wake up. Derek! Get down here.”

“Is he okay? Are they both okay?”

That’s Allison’s voice, sounding high and strained. He can smell her fear which is a new and terrifying ability.

Derek lands hard next to Liam and Liam lets out a very undignified yelp of fear. Isaac groans, eyes opening.

“Derek,” he slurs, and with Scott’s help Derek hefts Isaac into his arms. Isaac screams. Scott gags a little suddenly, and Liam sees why. Isaac’s back is definitely broken, compound fracture, and he can see bloody vertebrae.

Yep. Allison is definitely going to kill him.

“He needs a hospital,” Allison says, curled over Isaac protectively where he lays on his side, “Deaton can’t fix his back when it’s like that, can he? There’s no way.”

Scott is pacing, looking from Liam to Isaac to Derek to Stiles. Derek is taking Isaac’s pain, and Liam is bouncing from foot to foot. Someone tried to kill him. Someone tried to kill him, and he’s only been a werewolf for like a month and a half, and now Allison is going to kill him because someone trying to kill him almost got her scary werewolf boyfriend killed-

Stilles grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a little shake. Liam takes a deep breath.

“Take him to Deaton,” Derek says, “And if Deaton can’t fix him we take him to the hospital.”

Isaac bites Derek in the shoulder when he moves him. Derek snarls at him. Isaac snarls back weakly, eyes flashing golden. Allison approaches him and Liam flinches away, but then she takes his hand and squeezes. Isaac’s blood is still wet on both their palms.

“Are you okay,” she asks him, and Liam does a double take.

“Isaac-”

“I know how Isaac is,” Allison soothes, “But Derek and Scott have him, and he can heal.”

“I’m so sorry-” and then he’s babbling again, and Allison reaches for him and Liam flinches away from her but she’s not stabbing him, she’s hugging him.

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Isaac said you were gonna kill me,” Liam stutters. Allison rolls her eyes.

“You really have to stop listening to him.” Allison says, “90% of the time he’s just fucking with you, because he’s an asshole.”

“I heard that,” Isaac slurs weakly from Derek’s arms.

Deaton it turns out can patch up Isaac, and Liam gets bullied into helping hold him down. Lydia, Kira, and Malia meet them at the vet clinic, and Liam watches in a nauseating combination of awe, fear, and confusion as Lydia starts stroking through Isaac’s hair even as he snaps at her fingers.

“Yes, yes. You’re very scary. Calm down, I just got my nails done and if you keep trying to take my hands off I’ll make you pay for my ruined manicure.

Deaton resets Isaac’s spine. Allison is helping, deftly avoiding claws and teeth while she pulls shotgun pellets out of her boyfriend’s chest.

“Why are you all so calm?” Liam bursts out suddenly where he’s holding Isaac’s legs on the metal table.

“This happens more than you might think,” Allison says drily, dropping another shotgun pellet into a bowl.

Liam barely makes it to a chair before he has a stress inducing fainting episode.

Isaac wakes up in Allison’s bed with Derek sitting next to him, feeling like he got run over by a bus, then a train, then another bus. He groans, taking a deep shuddery breath and catching Derek’s earth-cedar-leather scent and Allison’s when he turns his head into the pillow, mostly the lavender of her soap. Chris is there too, and Melissa, and Lydia.

“Hey,” Derek says, and the hand not in his brushes across Isaac’s forehead, “You okay?”

“Feel like shit,” he moans, “Liam?”

“Uh, terrified,” Derek says, “and very stressed, because he watched Allison pull shotgun pellets out of your chest, but in one piece.”

“Little shit,” Isaac mumbles, “Told him not to go running off without warning.”

“I told you not to do stuff fairly often that you did anyway,” Derek says, and Isaac groans, rolling his eyes. It makes his brain throb, which makes his neck hurt, then the rest of his spine. He bites down on his lip, hard. Derek grips his wrist tightly, black veins running up his arm, and after a few seconds Isaac can breathe again.

“Can I get up,” he asks after a few seconds. Derek shakes his head.

“Your spine is still healing. So is the rest of you. Stay down. I can go get everyone, or whoever you want, yeah?”

“Allison,” Isaac says, “And Lydia?”

“Melissa is probably going to come too, you know,” Derek says. Reluctantly Isaac lets go of his hand.

Allison comes in with Lydia hot on her heels, Allison sitting on the bed next to him and kissing his face. Melissa and Chris are hanging back in the doorway

“Please don’t ever do that to me again.” She says, trying for stern. Isaac grins at her weakly, trying to ignore the fact that without Derek’s hand in his, his pain is ramping up. Lydia sits neatly in Derek’s recently vacant chair and squeezes his hand.

“You,” she says, twining his fingers with hers, “Almost bit my fingers off.”

“Sorry,” he rasps. He can feel sweat standing out on his forehead, and he digs the back of his head into the pillows.

“Here, honey,” Melissa says gently, and then she’s placing a pill on his tongue and a cup to his mouth. Painkillers. Hopefully, at least, painkillers. He swallows, and a hand curls around the one Lydia isn’t holding, a big rough one that Isaac knows is Derek’s. The pain lessens. Isaac sags against the pillows of the bed.

“I knew you liked him,” Allison murmurs, “You’re just full of shit.”

“Just because I didn’t let some weird professional assassins kill him doesn’t mean I like him,” Isaac slurs. It’s just them now, curled together on the mattress. Whatever Melissa had given him had kicked in, and he feels floaty and a little sick. Lydia is playing on her phone, still holding Isaac’s hand. When he squeezes it she squeezes back indulgently.

“You like him,” Allison says, kissing his temple.

“If I agree with you will you shut up about it?” he grumbles. Allison snickers, and he kisses her on the mouth,

“Yep.”

“Fine,” he says tiredly, half slurred, half floating on the pain and the medication, “I like him.”

#Allisaac #Derek Hale #lydia martin #Allison Argent #Isaac Lahey #Scott McCall #Liam Dunbar #McCall Pack #Cecilia Writes #electricbluebutterflies #teen wolf

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zzozoa · 3 years

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ARC HEADCANONS : gonzo, of the lost revenge

PRE-D1 / ARC I, BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS : Gonzo has been a proud and dedicated crewmate of the Lost Revenge for over three years and is loyal to his Captain and crew to a fault. When he is not actively working alongside Uma and the rest of the crew, he is operating out of the Blacksmith forge and has been under the tutelage of the Isle Blacksmith, Reeva since she rescued him from the Horned King's dungeon.

Tensions are building between the pirates and Maleficent's posse and allies. Gonzo and the crew have had multiple encounters which have all exclusively turned into open conflict and violent skirmishes. Gonzo works closely with the crew to destabilize Maleficent's territory by targeting supply routes, hitting dead drops and harrassing those loyal to Maleficent.

Gonzo is also struggling to break away completely from the Horned King, as Creeper and the Horned King's Gwythaints have been spotted lurking around the forge.

D1 / ARC II, LIGHT THE MATCH & IGNITE : A temporary ceasefire over all factionwide hostilities is declared across the Isle as Mal, Evie, Jay and Carlos are invited by Prince Ben to attend Auradon Prep. Men, women, children of both first and second generation begin to prepare for an invasion into Auradon after Maleficent's promises that her daughter would destroy the barrier and free them all.

Hungry for the chance of freedom, Gonzo works tirelessly crafting, upgrading and mending the weapons of the crew in the forge as well as crafting light armor plating for several Cauldron Born who intend to act as the Isle's vanguard.

The Isle is apprehensive and tensions are high. As Prince Ben attends his coronation, and Maleficent escapes through a tear in the barrier, the Isle streets flood with both factionless and factioned, gathering at the bridge in the hope of being the first to leave the island.

However, the barrier is not destroyed and all those at the bridge bear witness to the Auradon celebrations of Maleficent's defeat. With nowhere to go, and no one to blame, fear and rage instigates riots in the streets which spread across the island. Gonzo and the crew rally to Uma as they fight for their lives.

POST-D1 / ARC III, OPEN YOUR MOUTH & CONSUME : Gonzo suffers a near fatal injury during the Coronation Riots, that lasted for two days and two nights. While he successfully managed to cut off access to the docks, he was impaled on the blade of a rioter and taken to Dr. Facilier's arcade that had been made into a temporary first aid station for the wounded and the dying. Gonzo was nursed by the crew's surgeon, Noelani, but his life hung at death's door for several days due to loss of blood, immense pain and the threat of infection.

Gonzo remained bedridden in the arcade for over a week before Noelani finally declared him well enough to be moved. He was taken aboard the Lost Revenge, where Noelani overlooked his recovery. After three weeks, he was able to leave the surgeon's room. After four, he was able to return to light deck duty and after eight he was well enough to return to heavy deck duty, the forge and resume his combat training.

Once he was able, Gonzo joined in aiding in the expansion of Uma's territory. Claiming the majority of what had once been Maleficent or Mal's.

D2 / ARC IV, IT’S OUR TIME TO RISE UP : Fully recovered from the injuries sustained during the Coronation Riots, Gonzo is an active member of the Lost Revenge crew's Vanguard, acting primarily as combat support and as a street scrapper during open conflicts with rival factions or enemies.

Gonzo works closely with Harry and Gil in maintaining and holding Uma's territory as well as mastering his skill in the blacksmith forge. Reeva has taught Gonzo almost everything she knows about how to bend metal and iron to their will and Gonzo has proved himself to be an exceptionally gifted and creative innovator. Creating metalwork automen, figurines and mobile prosthetics as well as puzzle boxes, vaults and intricately designed clock faces and compasses.

Later, Gonzo aids in the abduction of King Ben, and leads the first watch over the King's imprisonment aboard the Lost Revenge and fights against Mal and her allies when they break their deal.

POST-D2 / ARC V, THIS CUTS DEEPER THAN ANY KNIFE : Following Uma's failed attempt to bring the barrier down, riots once again spread throughout the streets of the Isle, however, these riots are far more devastating. Lasting for four days and four nights, the rage of the island spreads and all are swept up within the frenzy of it. Gonzo fights alongside Harry and the rest of the crew to beat back rioters, looters and instigators from Uma's territory and carve out a safe zone for themselves as well as any that pledged loyalty to Uma and the crew.

As the riots finally died upon the morning of the fourth night, Gonzo, along with the rest of the crew, voted Harry in as their Captain until Uma's return. As the Isle agrees to a temporary ceasefire to rebuild, Gonzo discovers that Reeva, his mentor and mother figure, was killed during the Cotillion Riots.

Gonzo is devastated and near inconsolable, throwing himself into his duty as a crewmate. It takes almost two years before Gonzo reconciles Reeva's death and reopens the forge that Reeva left to him.

D3 / ARC VI, THIS IS THE LINE THAT WE HOLD : Gonzo has reopened the blacksmith forge, with the opening hours between 8AM and 1PM, allowing him to continue as an active member of the Lost Revenge crew from 2PM onwards. Gonzo manages his time efficiently and is incredibly selective on his clientele, crafting primarily for the Pirates of the Isle and the Cauldron Born. He monitors his buyers obsessively in order to keep track of who is ordering what and is an invaluable resource to the Isle itself.

Gonzo is among those that helps steal the bikes from Mal and her allies, and follows Harry's orders of Jonas becoming temporary Captain of the Lost Revenge when he and Gil escape the Isle. While Auradon suffers at the hands of Audrey, Gonzo and the crew face multiple attacks from rival factions and crews believing the crew to be vulnerable without their Captain and Quartermaster. However, under Jonas' leadership, they beat back their enemies and reunite with Uma, Harry and Gil in full control of their territory.

POST-D3 / ARC VII, HEART OF THE ROTTING KING : After discovering Reeva's prototype designs for advanced prosthetics, Gonzo agrees to attend Auradon Prep for his final year of schooling. He chooses to study mechanical engineering as well as take several classes on biology and physiology and begins building and perfecting Reeva's original designs for advanced prosthetics.

However, as Gonzo finds himself free of the barrier, he begins to experience sudden and prolonged blackouts, losing time and failing to recall his own actions. He begins experiencing crippling migraines, intense and vivid hallucinations, and finds himself capable of extreme and inhuman feats of strength, athleticism and agility.

Things come to a tipping point when Gonzo is cornered by a group of Auradonians who despise Isle Borns. Gonzo lashes out and brutally attacks the group of Auradonians and would have killed them if Uma had not stepped in to stop him. Gonzo just barely manages to break free of the black out and passes out shortly thereafter.

Upon waking, Gonzo is forced to reveal what he has been experiencing since being freed from the barrier. With help, Gonzo uncovers the truth of his origins, that he holds within himself a piece of the Chernabog’s soul and that the Horned King has been attempting to possess his mind and body.

Gonzo must face the Horned King to break himself free from his control once and for all and along the way, discover the truth of his true identity and the identity of the other Chernabog vessels.

POST-D3 / ARC VIII, HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS : With the Horned King defeated, Gonzo finds himself swept up in another dangerous game against a far more dangerous adversary as the Chernabog’s main body begins to take shape once more. Gonzo, and his fellow Chernabog vessel’s find themselves being called towards the Chernabog as it attempts to reform and repair it’s fractured powers by devouring its pieces that it had scattered across the Isle.

Unwilling to allow themselves to be devoured and lose the lives that they now had for themselves, Gonzo and the others set out to trap the Chernabog while it is within its weakened state and to consume it in order to become truly free of its influence once and for all.

It is during the final confrontation against the Chernabog that Gonzo finally and truly unleashes the full power of his abilities. Uncovering that he has fed upon conflict and discord as a passive ability until the barrier’s fall, Gonzo and the other vessel’s are able to overpower the Chernabog and in a haze, devour his remains.

Gonzo finds himself in full control of his new abilities and struggles to reconcile what he is and what it means.

POST-D3 / ARC IX, LET THESE HANDS CREATE : Gonzo returns to school and finds himself on the receiving end of direct and indirect opposition to his presence in Auradon as his powers often cause others to become irritable, suspicious and highly confrontational and any negative thoughts and feelings are made manifest. Gonzo, as an Isle Born and being easily distinguished as such, causes him to be made the target of many anti-Isle Born propaganda and arguments which cause Gonzo to lash out with violence often.

Gonzo is regretfully expelled from Auradon Prep following one of his many fights and later enrols into Auradon City High School where his treatment isn't that much better. Gonzo struggles immensely with controlling his powers and abilities and finds himself relying upon his sibling vessels to learn how to maintain a normal life without his powers taking control of him.

It takes a lot of effort for Gonzo to graduate high school, and rather than attend university, Gonzo returns to the Isle where he creates his first fully autonomous prosthetic pieces.

Gonzo continues working as a master Blacksmith but is most known for his autonomous prosthetics and metalwork guardians. He still considers himself a member of the Lost Revenge crew, and has become extremely close to his vessel siblings.

#〤 — show me what it means to belong. 「 meta. 」#〤 — bite the hand that feeds. 「 arc i. 」#〤 — light the match & ignite. 「 arc ii. 」#〤 — open your mouth & consume. 「 arc iii. 」#〤 — it’s our time to rise up. 「 arc iv. 」#〤 — this cuts deeper than any knife. 「 arc v. 」#〤 — this is the line that we hold. 「 arc vi. 」#〤 — heart of the rotting king. 「 arc vii. 」#〤 — home is where the heart is. 「 arc viii. 」#〤 — let these hands create. 「 arc xi. 」

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aloe-casia · 4 years

Text

Ostracism

Day 1, Netflix/Books, Mild Gore/Canon-typical Witcher Racism, 5,417 Words

Summary: Geralt receives help from a group of cruel villagers for the sole reason that they want him out of their town. Needless to say, the situation is not ideal.

@geraltwhumpweek

So often, Geralt found emptiness where others felt full. It had been this way for as long as he could remember, except for the few vague memories he had of being Visenna’s son before she gave him over to the Law of Surprise. Where humans went to fill themselves to the brim with interaction, the markets and towns, were places Geralt avoided more than he would avoid a plague-ridden burial ground. He wasn’t sure entirely how this habit had started, just that it had become necessary, particularly after Blaviken. Not only did the noise and smell overwhelm his sensitive mind, but people cursed and spat. Called him unnatural, disgusting when he rode into town carrying the head of the beast that would likely have killed them all. They said he was mutant scum, good for nothing but killing and being killed, a shield to keep others safe but not worthy of gratitude.

Normally, this was a nonissue for Geralt. It bothered him a bit, to hear them curse and spit on Roach’s hooves. But he avoided their towns and cities anyways, did exactly as they wanted because it was also beneficial for him. The sensory overload of venturing into a town without absolute necessity was often enough to push him over the edge into the territory of dangerously debilitating migraines. However, it was different when he needed the people who hated him. It did not happen often, most of the time Geralt was capable of patching himself up, caring for his wounds as best he could and then continuing on his way as they healed up on their own. But there were some times when this was simply impossible. And then he had, in the past, relied solely on luck to keep him surviving. Luck, and the fact that he had been told over and over that he was destined for something more than dying in some farmer’s field.

However, Geralt was beginning to question if this was really the truth. Something about the way his blood was soaking the golden wheat around him, dyed almost amber in the sunset, made him feel like this was where he would die. It was almost beautiful, he thought dizzily. There were flies buzzing above him, the sound of their quickly beating wings almost soothing, letting him drift off to sleep. Far above, he could hear carrion birds crowing. That was never a good sign. Carrion birds were intuitive sensors of death. They would never have wasted their energy flying to him unless he was truly dying.

Rolling on his side, Geralt lazily trailed his finger through his blood, pooling on the ground underneath him. He drew a figure eight in the dirt, and watched as his blood filled the grooves, the same consistency as molasses. The birds crowed, and the insects buzzed, and the sun continued to sink over the horizon. He was reminded of the fact that even if he died here today, which was a considerably likely occurrence, the sun would keep setting. The bugs would keep flying. The birds would fly off after they were done devouring his corpse and go find some other decaying body to gorge themselves on. It was a strangely comforting thought.

Geralt was ripped from his wandering path of thoughts by the feeling of rough hands rolling him on his side. He started with pain and fear. The fact that anyone had managed to come all the way up to him and touch him before he noticed they were there was damnably frightening. Even dying, Geralt had always hoped he would be in complete command of himself until the end. Although, now that he was experiencing it, he realized this was an impossibility. Death conquered all, even Witchers. A small whimper escaped his chest as whoever was rolling him over dug their fingers right into the open, bloody chasm carved into his side. Geralt would have screamed, but he was too weak. The world felt hot and heavy, and he could barely even bring himself to feel concerned as the person lifted him up carelessly. One hand was still half in the wound, using it as a kind of handhold to keep Geralt upright. He groaned again, feeling the hot blood trickling down his sides. As he was dragged away, the dirt of the farmer's field squelched under his boots. It was red and rusty in the sunset. Feeling ill, Geralt swallowed convulsively, feeling the tips of his boots making tiny furrows in the mud. Somewhere along the way, his eyes had drifted shut, even the painful grip not enough to keep him conscious. Vaguely, he heard voices. Gruff, harsh, indistinct. He tried to raise his head, tried to get a faint understanding of what was happening to him, but he was so damnably weak. He'd let himself lose too much blood. If Vesemir had been there, he would have whipped Geralt within an inch of his life for being so careless.

But Vesemir wasn't here. Geralt was alone, in a strange and inhospitable world, wounded and too weak to even lift his head and see who was taking him. At this point, with most of his blood having seeped out onto the ground, Geralt felt too listless to even care about who it was. Everything was cold. He shivered, clenching his toes and hands in a final, desperate attempt to keep himself from betraying any weakness. A rough, work-worn hand grabbed his chin and yanked it upwards roughly.

“You’re fucking useless, you know that?” A deep voice grumbled, “We hire you to do one thing. Just kill the fucking rusalkas and leave us in peace, and you can’t even do that. We want you gone, and the sooner you’re able to sit on your horse and get out of here the better.”

Geralt blinked blearily, disliking the way the man was squishing his face in his tight grip. He couldn’t see anything, the blood loss was taking a heavy toll on him, and even if he had been able to understand the man over the roaring in his ears he guessed he wouldn’t have been able to make sense of the words. He was too weak, too tired. He just wanted to be left in peace, to lie down and expire in the dirt.

However, it was not to be. Geralt had a moment’s notice before the man who was holding his face released the tight grip on his chin, causing Geralt’s chin to thump painfully against his sternum. His boots swam in a blurry haze under his feet. Then, he felt strong, thick arms wrapping around his waist, and a rush of air as he was tossed unceremoniously against something hard and wooden. There was a dull thud, and underneath a slightly sickening sound of hot blood dripping onto the boards. The moment Geralt hit the wood, stars swam in front of his eyes and an audible groan escaped his lips. He reached around, trying desperately to find something to anchor himself to, something to hold onto as the world spun dizzyingly around him. His stomach was on fire, and he gasped as he tried to inhale. His head, which had taken quite a knock when he had been thrown, was aching fiercely, his vision tunnelling. Having been unable to find anything solid to grip, anything to anchor him to consciousness or to help him understand what was happening, Geralt allowed himself to slip. Whatever was to become of him, there was nothing he could do about it now anyways.

----

When next he awoke, Geralt was only aware that whatever he was lying on was jolting horrendously, and that it was probably this jolting that had caused his return to consciousness. His body certainly did not feel ready to be awake. He was covered in his own blood, sticky and hot, and in so much pain that the only way he could draw breath was by leaving his mouth open and taking gasping breaths like a beached fish. There was a vague sound of trotting horses, and men talking and laughing amongst one another. Their voices were harsh, and sounded cruel.

Peeling back his eyelids with considerable difficulty, Geralt was able to make out the green leaves of trees and the bright light of sunlight filtering down between them. He had always loved the dappling of the sunlight on the forest floor, but now even that had been turned into a feverish, painful nightmare. The light passed over him as they moved, so quickly and unpredictably that it completely overwhelmed his sensitive eyes. Feeling nauseous, Geralt tried to lift a hand to rub at his eyes and block out the light, but found that his hands were unable to move. At first, he thought this was due to weakness brought on by blood loss. After all, he was covered in his own blood, sticky and hot and sickening on such a warm day. But when he tried to move again, he heard a rattle and felt the sharp bite of metal against his skin. Whoever had him had bound him tightly, weak though he was.

A horse trotted up next to what Geralt had confusedly determined was a wagon. He couldn’t truly make out the person sitting on it, or the horse for that matter, but the scent of animal and unclean human suddenly became stronger as a brown blob floated into his vision. Under different circumstances, Geralt would have been tempted to laugh at his own weakness. And then probably slap himself upside the head for having been so stupid as to get into this situation in the first place. But thinking was too hard, and all the thoughts he had were disordered and made his head ache even worse. He focused on the stench, but that only made his aching stomach roll.

“I see you’re awake, beast,” a voice, the same one from earlier, sneered down at him, “Best not to move. Monsters can’t be trusted not to lash out, even when they say they’re here to help.”

Geralt blinked up at him, eyes aching, trying to understand what was happening to him. There was a bandage wound tightly around his side, he could feel the itch of the fabric pressing against his skin as the wagon jolted. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why people who so obviously detested him were keeping him alive at all. He allowed his head to bounce on the floor of the cart, hoping perhaps it would knock him out again. Every pebble on the road was agony for his stomach, sliced open as it was. The man must have seen the confused look in his eyes, though. He leaned over off his horse, and Geralt gagged at the stench of his breath — onions and rotting teeth.

“Probably wondering why we’re bothering to save your worthless hide, eh?” The man chortled, breathing hot air all over Geralt’s face, “Not that there’s much to save. But we can’t have a Witcher’s rotten corpse sullying our fields and killing our crops. We’ll heal you up well enough to send you on your way, and then you can go die somewhere far away from here. And take your thrice-damned cursed body with you.”

Ah. So this was one of the places where the myths about Witchers bringing curses and bad luck still persisted. Geralt supposed he should be grateful they were willing to patch him up at all, instead of just dumping his body in a river and hoping he floated away. However, the circumstances were less than ideal. Geralt creased his eyebrows and nodded meekly. He was too weak to fight this right now, and so far they seemed intent on not outrightly harming him, if not exactly being gentle either.

He turned his head to the other side, mostly to escape the man’s fetid breath. There were poplar trees sliding by as the wagon jolted on, each bump withdrawing a small gasp from Geralt’s parted lips. As he watched, the trees began to blur together, turning into a mass of white and brown bark. He couldn’t hear the bugs or carrion birds anymore. Perhaps they had gone off to find someone more determined to die.

----

There was no more rest for Geralt all the way back to the village where he had taken the contract. He tried to pick his brain for the name, but came up empty-handed. His thoughts had been reduced to the bare minimum to keep him distracted from the hot pain in his gut. All the way back, his eyes had continuously slid shut, with every rock on the dirt path snapping them back open. He was exhausted, and freezing cold. His body trembled from lack of blood, and every breath hurt. A bed and soft blanket would be more than acceptable right now. And Roach. She was always gentler on him when he collapsed against her neck after an injury. Much gentler than these men, who had taken it upon themselves to spit on and kick at him every time he let out a noise of pain. Geralt couldn’t really hear their jeering anymore, but the kicks hurt, and the spit covered the few parts of him that hadn’t already been soaked with blood. He just wanted some damn peace and sleep.

When the wagon finally rattled to a stop with a jingling of harnesses and whinnying of horses, Geralt realized he hadn’t even noticed when the scenery sliding by him had turned from trees and bushes to the brown of mud brick and timber houses. He blinked, wishing he could lift a hand to rub across his eyes. They were full of sand and dirt from the journey, and ached every time he closed them.

There was a clattering of boots and spurs as the men, Geralt hadn’t been able to count how many, dismounted. Then, the same man who had spoken to Geralt earlier clambered up next to him in the wagon and placed his face uncomfortably close to the Witcher’s. Geralt winced and turned his head away from the hot breath.

“Welcome home, bastard. My wife is waiting to bandage and stitch your wounds, and then you’ll be left alone until you heal. And if you get any ideas with her, know that I will flay you alive and throw you in the river, curses be damned. Do you understand me?”

The man grasped Geralt’s face viciously and pulled it so close to his own that Geralt could feel his stubble brushing up against his cheek. Several answers came to his mind involving the impropriety of his actions, and how his wife would probably be relieved to have an out. However, he dismissed these responses as being unlikely to help and as products of what was probably a burgeoning fever. Normally he had better self-preservation instincts.

“Yes…” he breathed through his teeth, wincing as the cold air passing through them caused them to ache, “Just for fuck’s sake, let me sleep.”

The man cackled obscenely and backhanded Geralt roughly, unlocking the shackles around his arms so he could sling him over his broad shoulder. Then, he trudged inside, all while the other men who had accompanied them back to the village elbowed and jeered at Geralt. He closed his eyes and let his head hang. The blood loss he was experiencing wouldn’t let him do much else. He trembled a bit, although he tried clenching his muscles to keep it under control.

When the man carrying Geralt bounced up the steps to what must have been his home, the Witcher nearly blacked out. He was lying with the injured portion of his stomach digging straight into the man’s shoulder, and with every stair his vision tunnelled a bit more. He could smell what must have been stew cooking inside the house, but his stomach ached at the mere thought of ingesting anything. Vaguely, Geralt wondered if all of his stomach was still inside him. The rusalka had swiped at him with deadly precision, and he had fallen before he was able to truly assess the wound. However, he supposed, he wouldn’t have survived the trip back in the wagon if the rusalka had mortally wounded him. Vesemir had once told him that if he could make it past two hours, he would be almost certain to recover.

Inside the home, Geralt found himself being dropped unceremoniously onto something bouncy that must have been a bed. He would have been grateful for this but for the way the mattress bouncing aggravated his wounds, and the fact that the man had bound his hands to the sides of the bed with what felt like leather horse reins. Not that those would have been likely to restrain him if he had been a bit stronger. Geralt had a feeling that the man knew this, and was doing it more because it was humiliating and pulled at his wounds uncomfortably. He tried not to wince, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but was unsuccessful.

The house was a cacophony of smells and sounds, and Geralt tried to close his eyes and tune it out as the man stomped out of the room, hollering that he was hungry and wanted dinner. Geralt felt so weak. His legs and arms trembled from a combination of cold and pain. He was still dressed in his blood-soaked shirt and pants, and the blood had congealed into a cold, slippery mass. Geralt felt like he might freeze, and it was all the more torturous because he could feel blankets underneath him. Freezing and miserable and too weak to roll over, Geralt tried to settle for burying his head in the pillow. It was still to noisy and bright in here to sleep, but his mind was sluggish and slow and his thoughts were scattered. Blood loss was not conducive to entering a meditative state, so Geralt had no choice but to curl up and tremble, hoping whoever came to stitch his wounds would have mercy and give him something to help him sleep. Normally, he eschewed opioids. But just this once, it would be a blessing.

----

It felt like many hours later when the wooden door banged open again. Geralt had long since lost all feeling in his hands; the reins cutting deep into his wrists. He thought he could feel blood dripping onto the floor, which made his heart speed up. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood tonight.

The woman who entered the room had sleek brown hair and big brown eyes. She was wearing a hand-woven dress and flowered apron, although Geralt only acknowledged this as a way of confirming that at least his eyesight had improved since he had been lying in the farmer’s field. She also smelled considerably better than her husband; like stewed meat and dirt. Geralt had always liked the smell of dirt. It reminded him of Vesemir. He shook himself violently, wincing when he realized his attention span was nowhere near what it should be in such a situation.

While Geralt had been reflecting on dirt (another thought that would have made him snort a bit under different circumstances), the woman had seated herself none toi gently on the edge of the bed, jostling Geralt’s abdomen. He wished he could bring up a hand to grip at it, but the reins were too short. She smiled cruelly at him, although her huge eyes widened innocently.

“Dear Witcher,” she simpered, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in a way that made him shiver from something other than the cold, “I’ve been instructed to tend your wounds. And I assure you, that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from bleeding you and sending your horse galloping out of this town with you tied to it. You’re the bastard that couldn’t even save us without getting himself completely butchered. What is the point of you, then?”

Geralt blinked up at her and tried not to squint too much. His eyes were still full of grit and sand, and more than anything he wished she would wipe it away, sew up his wounds, and leave him in peace. Her wide, childlike eyes made his skin crawl.

“Oh, do your poor eyes hurt?” She smiled down at him, “I imagine they do all the time. That’s what happens when you have the devil in your eyes. Surely a little sand won’t hurt after all that.”

Resigning himself to healing that only involved the bare minimum of what he needed to do to survive, Geralt tried to summon some tears in the hope they would wash out the sand. While the ability to cry from emotion had been taken from him during his Trials, tears were still an important defence mechanism used to rid the body of unwanted toxins. But he was so tired, and couldn’t even focus enough to dilate his pupils in the light, let alone wash away the sand from his eyes. He settled in for a miserable time, unsure why he had expected anything else. Humans didn’t willingly offer help to monsters, after all.

“You may call me Tara,” the woman continued as she watched Geralt blink exhaustedly with a toothy smile, “Although I don’t expect you’ll be saying much for quite some time. Those rusalkas really did get the jump on you, no?”

He glared at her, watching as she unpacked some bandages and a wicked-looking needle and thread. She also set a butcher’s knife down on the table beside her other healing things. Geralt wondered what she intended to use it for that would still leave him alive at the end. He twisted a bit, face pinched with the discomfort of his wounds. The dried blood on his skin itched, and he was so weak and tired. A very small part of him that still indulged human emotion missed Eskel. His brother always took good care of him when he was wounded. It had been a long time since Geralt had experienced a tender touch. And, weak with blood loss as he was, he ached for it. He coughed a bit.

Tara seated herself on a short stool next to the bed and began threading what appeared to be a long darning needle with thick black thread. Geralt tried to keep his eyes from rolling back completely in his head. He didn’t feel comfortable passing out while she was in the room, but with every blink he fell closer to sleep, cold though he was.

“Oh! I almost forgot. With all that blood loss, you must be in sore need of water. Perhaps I could get you some…after we’ve stitched your side. I don’t need to keep you comfortable, just make sure you don’t die on my watch.”

That rendered all Geralt’s hopes for a painkilling herbs null and void, then. Clearly, Tara was set on doing this as cruelly and painfully as she possibly could without killing him. Geralt hazily wondered if her hatred of Witchers came simply from the damning legends about his kind, or there was something greater at work. He had never experienced such raw hatred without warrant before.

Using the butcher’s knife, Tara slit Geralt’s shirt down the front, making a disgusted face as she flicked congealed blood off herself. She frowned at the wound underneath.

“Clearly whoever said Witchers are unmatched warriors never saw you fight. I know at least twenty men in the village who could have dodged such an obvious blow.”

“Why didn’t you send one of them to kill the rusalkas, then?” Geralt slurred out before he could stop himself. The blood loss was making him lose all his inhibitions. Tara frowned and pushed hard on his wound, making Geralt groan a bit as stars flashed before his eyes. Once again, he wished he had full movement of his arms, if only to push her away. Somehow, he doubted he was strong enough to push her off at the moment.

“Because they are valuable. They have families, and lives, and feelings. They aren’t tools. They deserve better than to spend their lives hunting beasts. No, that’s work for more…base creatures.”

Geralt found himself no longer able to speak as Tara wiped a cloth roughly along the sides of the long cut in his belly. He had tried to lift his head to see how damaged he was, but his neck quivered and shook, and he had had to abandon the attempt. Now, he floated in a semi-aware state between sleep and wakefulness, in too much pain to drift off but too exhausted to truly pay attention. His eyes fluttered at half mast as Tara finished cleaning the wound with wicked swipes of the cloth and began drawing the sides together to stitch it shut.

“Let’s hope that Witchers’ pain resistance hasn’t been as vastly exaggerated as your fighting abilities. I don’t have any needles smaller than this. Or, if I do, I couldn’t be bothered to find them.”

Geralt tried to open his eyes and summon some version of the glare that normally reduced men to quivering masses, but his eyes stubbornly refused to cooperate. With his luck, he would probably be unable to see her clearly anyways, and end up glaring in an entirely different direction. The sand had moved around in his eyes and was clouding his vision again, and the blood loss-induced weakness wasn’t helping matters. He steeled himself by wrapping his shaking hands around the reins, suppressing another small cough of pain.

With what Geralt was sure was a wicked smile, Tara dug her needle far deeper within the Witcher’s flesh than was strictly necessary and pulled the two sides together with a malicious tug. He clenched his hands around the reins and tried, unsuccessfully to suppress a whimper.

“Oh, does it hurt?” She said with exaggerated false sympathy, “I’m sure it’s nothing for someone as strong and unbeatable as you.”

Geralt tried to focus on his breaths as she continued tugging ruthlessly at his lacerated side. He was exhausted, and eventually drifted back to his half-asleep state as she finished knotting the thick stitches and pulled a bandage uncomfortably tightly around his side.

“There we are. Sweet dreams, Witcher. I’ll be back tomorrow to see if you’re still alive. If you try anything, rest assured you will be shown no mercy, mutant bastard.”

He was sure she was smiling down at him, even though he had lost the ability to open his eyes somewhere during his ordeal. He turned his head tiredly into the sheets. It was impossible to get comfortable — the way they had bound his arms pulled at the haphazard stitches in his side. He could feel the sides of the wound expanding a bit every time he tried to move, stitches straining to hold him together. However, discomfort was something that was all too familiar to Geralt. Letting a breath of pain escape through his clenched teeth, the Witcher turned his head onto a cooler part of the pillow and closed his eyes.

Rest did not find him easily.

----

Three days later found Geralt, with his wound barely scarred over, bundled up on Roach as she cantered away from the town. Tara and her husband had left him tied up in the barn after it had become clear he was no longer in mortal danger, and they had sent him on his way in the wee hours of the morning by slicing the ropes that bound him and dumping a bucket of ice cold water over his head. He was still suffering a bit from the blood loss — having lost all his potions in the fight with the rusalkas, he would have to replenish his blood supply the normal way. However, it left him uncomfortably cold, and as Roach cantered away he bundled himself deeper into his cloak to ward off the chill morning breeze.

“Come on girl, we just need to collect my swords and then we can get out of this shithole of a town.” His teeth were clenched to keep them from clacking together, and one aching wrist was wrapped around his stomach, which twinged a bit with every step Roach took. He slowed her to a trot as they continued down the road, hoping none of the less superstitious villagers had taken it upon themselves to follow him.

They reached the swamp where the rusalkas had been living as the sun had begun to set. Wrapped up in his cloak and shivering miserably, Geralt was reminded of the sunset when he had been lying in the field not far from here. Briefly, he wondered if he should stop taking contracts in villages where the people were obviously full of hatred for his kind. He had survived this time, but only due to malicious rumours that his flesh was cursed. And he would need to find somewhere a bit more welcoming to hole up for a few days, to make potions and let his stomach heal. He wished he was closer to the Temple of Melitele. Nenneke, despite all her grumbling, always took him in and gave him somewhere warm to sleep. However, he would have preferred to continue on the path unhindered.

Dismounting painfully, Geralt tried to find his swords with as little bending over as possible. Even standing up straight was a bit of a stretch for him at the moment. Roach nosed him gently until he nearly tripped over the hilt of his silver sword, decorated with the jewels from Renfri’s brooch, which gleamed dully in the sun.

“Thanks, Roach,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around his middle as he reached down to collect both swords, wincing a bit as they squelched in the mud, “Probably would’ve spent all evening stumbling around this fucking swamp.”

His attention to detail was also suffering greatly, probably due to a lack of sleep from the uncomfortable position he had been tied up in while staying with Tara and her husband. Not for the first time, he was incredibly grateful for Roach’s intelligence. She always seemed to know precisely how and when she was needed.

“Let’s head a bit further down the road tonight,” Geralt sighed as he heaved himself back into the saddle, strapping his swords behind him to save himself the weight on his shoulders, “I don’t want to camp any closer than this town than I have to, but I’m not sure how much further we should go on.”

Roach turned around and nosed his knee sympathetically, letting a soft breath out through her nose. She kept her pace at a walk, sensing Geralt’s sharp intake of breath whenever her gait shifted. As the sun continued to set, and the Witcher felt his eyes drifting shut, he allowed himself to slowly slump forwards. Tara’s stitches had been woefully placed at best, and they pulled tightly at his skin when he slumped. Sighing and wincing when that hurt as well, Geralt crossed his wrists, raw from the rope that had been used to tie him in the stables, across Roach’s neck. Sensing what her master was about to do, the chestnut mare raised her head a bit to provide a more comfortable rest. With an audible whimper (these were the wilds, and there was no one but the birds around to hear), Geralt collapsed weakly into her neck, cramping hands fisting her main as his stomach ached again. He would just rest his eyes a bit, just for a little longer up the road. There would be no respite in an inn tonight, nowhere to lie down and rest his head, which ached with exhaustion and a residual fever. He was a tool, a killing machine, nothing more. And in these parts, that meant he was undeserving of rest. After all, monsters slept by the side of the road, not in beds or taverns.

He fell asleep fitfully, brow creased with pain, the spiteful voices of the farmers filling his mind. Butcher, mutant bastard, cursed. An emptiness settled in the pit of his stomach, below the wound he had taken in defence of those people. Roach’s head swayed beneath him.

He did not truly rest that night, or for many nights to come. Alone, outcast, left to his devices, he lay awake on Roach’s back and blearily watched the trees as they passed him by.

#geralt whump #geraltwhumpweek #my writing #whump fanfiction #fanfiction

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gryffindormischief · 5 years

Text

requested by @shining-jul-of-hope

also available on FF and Ao3

____

When Hermione says he needs to get out and have a drink, Harry knows he’s a mess. She’s about as straight edge as you can get without actually abstaining completely and in their near decade of friendship, he can count the number of times Hermione’s told him to take a break on one hand. So now, here he is, eardrums throbbing while Hermione leads the way toward the bar.

Honestly, if it were just for his sake, he might not have given in. But she’s been at it non-stop and finally finished negotiations on his new contract with the studio, so he knows if Hermione’s suggesting it, she probably needed a night out a month ago. That scenario may make him sound like a slave driver, but a casual review of his messaging history would likely reveal the large majority of his texts are comprised of variations on ‘Hermione please go to sleep’ and ‘Hermione have you eaten’ and the like. Hermione is about as Type A, perfectionistic as you can get.

She’s also impeccable at getting things done exactly how and when she wants them - as is evidenced by her already completed drink orders despite the wall to wall crowding in the bar. “Bottoms up, Harry.”

“Cheers.”

After two rounds of shots and a couple of quick pints to chase them down, Harry and Hermione are both pleasantly buzzed for another out of character move for both of them - hitting the dancefloor. He’s buzzed, but not out of it enough to not catalogue the strange little groupings on writhing together. There’s the ‘we’re here to get some’ grinders, the ‘stay away it’s girls nighters’ and then the group they slip into, which apparently contains mostly DJ groupies.

Hermione’s hair glows in the blue lights, his shoelaces bright white in the dark club. He grins at Hermione as another rhythmic number begins thudding over the speakers. “Thanks for making me come out tonight!”

She grins. “Anytime. You know I love to be bossy.”

The teasing agreement Harry was about to deliver slips away as his eyes find a flash of red twisting and twirling somewhere in between the girls nighters and the DJ groupies and Harry’s really hoping she’s negotiable on the ‘stay away’ bit. It’s odd - usually this level of rudeness would earn him a talking to from Hermione but she’s fallen still, not even jostled into movement until she trips headlong into Harry’s chest and he ends up with a mouthful of curls.

Once they right themselves, Harry notices the flush on her cheeks, the wideness of her eyes and her overall fidgety demeanor that’s highly out of character. Except for very specific circumstances. “Where’s the guy?”

And if she wasn’t two shots, one pint, slightly overtired Hermione she would definitely put up a fight, beginning with steadfast denial. Instead, they skip past all the back and forth and she simply points one pink-nailed finger toward the bar at a tall, slightly gangly redhead with a long nose and booming laugh. “Gonna make a move then?”

“I need another shot for that.”

“And look who’s right at the bar?”

Her eyes narrow and Harry simply prods her shoulder. “Off you get.”

Once Hermione’s absorbed into the crowd and he’s got nobody to scream lyrics to, Harry’s head seems to clear and he realizes that he is indeed still a gawky dancer with barely there rhythm and no style outside the pre-set clothing for official appearances.

To add insult to misery, the mysterious woman has disappeared and he’s been shuffled into the sticky floor section which also happens to be in prime DJ induced migraine territory. He twists again and finds Hermione at the bar, downing a shot and straightening her spine before tapping Mr Gangly on the shoulder. Ah, young love .

His musings are cut short when he’s jostled again and nearly falls headlong into the land of boa festooned bridesmaids, would have too if not for a freckled hand grasping his forearm. He’s pulled upright and comes face to face - or as close as possible given the twelve inch or so height difference - with a sunkissed, red haired, freckled woman he’s fairly sure is a siren. “Alright?”

Harry nods, running a hand through his hair, “Sure - uh. You?”

And then her eyes light up in that way he’s come to view with a feeling of dread. Sure, he knows an actor who’s not recognizable likely doesn’t get much work and that’s certainly not what he wants. But still, he’d like to have a woman’s eyes light up just because she fancies him.

Perhaps his feelings are readable - Variety did say he conveyed a thousand emotions with one look - because the mystery woman bites her lip and tips her head in invitation. “Care for a dance?”

With one glance back at Hermione, she’s currently cozied up with Gangly, mid argument. The ideal first date for his best friend. He glances back at the fiery temptress still gripping his arm and smiles, “Lead the way.”

She winks, “I’m Ginny, by the way.”

Somehow his hands end up on her hips as she draws him in with dark whiskey eyes and he manages to stutter out, “I’m uh - Harry.”

“I know,” she yells in his ear, “I’ve seen you around - ” and just as he’s bracing for the autograph and or photo request, she continues, “I was at the studio mixer which in my opinion was just an unpleasantly elongated photo op.”

Harry grins, “I know - Hermione says I can’t complain since I decided to be a telly actor but taking photos is just - ”

“Not the same!” Ginny finishes and they wander toward the far end of the dance floor, “And it’s not like I should be obligated to give up my privacy for all this - nobody needs to know who’s warming my bed to like my film!”

And then it clicks, “You’re - the dystopian thing?”

Ginny nods, “And you’re - ”

“Boy superhero turned cold-hearted detective.”

She twirls herself out and then back into his arms, somehow still flowery and fresh even amidst the stale sweaty mass of club goers. “S’pose no privacy is old hat for you.”

“The network just - well,” Harry’s tongue is loose, but not enough to forget he’s not particularly allowed to disclose certain ‘romantic’ arrangements with a faux ex girlfriend.

Ginny eyes him for a moment. “You are quite good at the heartbroken act,” she holds his gaze before continuing, “Detective Somers mourning the loss of his partner brought tears to my Mum’s eyes. Dad locked himself in his shed for a week.”

They wander close enough to the bar that Harry’s able to get them a couple of pints, each draining half as if they’re somehow rehydrating. “And you?”

“It was moving.”

Harry lets his fingers tease the side of her hand resting on the sticky bartop. “You know you’dve been right in my target boy hero market back in the day.”

“So?”

“Any posters? Tiger Beat did a nice spread when I turned fourteen - very foxy.”

She blinks at him, “Sure. If you’ve got a thing for knobby knees and dorky jokes about Roman numerals.”

And just as the words leave her lips, Ginny realizes what she’s admitted and Harry pounces. “Just know me from the network mixer, eh?”

“You think you’re so smooth - you’re just ticking me off,” Ginny grumbles, though she doesn’t pull her hand away.

“And yet you stay.”

“Seriously, you’re tragic,” she leans close and mutters, “No wonder they had to give you a fake girlfriend.”

Harry ruffles his hair. “Well,” she blinks up at him, “Maybe if you become my real one I’ll learn to be smooth.”

“Damnit if that’s not working a bit.”

Taking a chance, he leans down and presses his lips to hers, short but heated, “That’s how I got syndication.”

Ginny blinks up at him, her fingers lingering in his messy waves, “Better not be.”

#blarg writes things #blarg writes euterpe #blarg writes hinny #harry x ginny #hinny #hinny fic #harry potter #ginny weasley #harry potter x ginny weasley #harry #ginny #euterpe 30

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1-1snailxd-art · 5 years

Text

Sides of a Hero

Chapter index ------------ Chapter 19

Chapter 20 - Who I am now

Summary: A hero is someone who others admire for their courage, achievements and qualities. Anyone can potentially be a hero to someone because we are all capable of showing the qualities of a hero in different ways. Many looked to Thomas as a hero, and he looked at them in the same light. All of Thomas’ sides were heroic, in their own right, even if they didn’t always see it in themselves. After loosing Virgil, they each moved on in their own way; striving to be the best they could be to make their lost hero proud.

————————————————————————

As the days went by, the mindscape settled, and the sides were able to confirm that Guilt was the only impulse to return during the reset. The dragon guard continued their search of the mindscape for impulses and aspects, with Ledelit visiting Roman nightly to give an updated report. Despite two consecutive days free of any changes, Roman didn’t adjust his directive and Ledelit was not about to defy the prince’s orders. Patton forged an appropriate path that ran from his territory, past Virgil’s old mountain, and ended in the imagination kingdom. He even adjusted the cubby houses in his territory to act as hangout spaces for roaming impulses; which Dee, Rage and Guilt were thankful for. The mindscape was becoming much less segmented, though one side kept their territory well concealed.

Logan had ignored Roman and Patton’s excited discussion about how they were going to connect their territories to make the roaming impulses feel more comfortable. As much as Logan appreciated what the others were trying to do, he valued the comfort and security of his secluded hideaway. His lab was his own and the idea of opening it up to others made Logan feel extremely uncomfortable. To save himself an explanation, Logan dismissed himself whenever the conversation inevitably went to the structure of the mindscape. Eventually though, he was caught during one of his casual exits from Roman’s kingdom.

“Very clever, Logan.” Guilt stood at the entry to the castle and followed Logan as he continued his journey to Roman’s room. “Avoiding the conversation to avoid lying. Keeps Dee in the dark, but you can’t hide from me.”

“I am not attempting to hide from you, Guilt.”

“Then what’s the hurry?”

“There is no hurry. I am simply eager to return to my lab and go over some facts for a video.” Logan paused as he reached the door to Roman’s room. “Why are you following me?”

“Because you feel guilty.” He lent casually against the wall next to the door. “The question is, are you going to continue to let your guilt grow and strengthen, or lessen it by talking to someone?”

Logan looked away and Guilt knew he was on the right path. It had been clear to him that Logan was hiding something, and he was glad he took the plunge in approaching the logical side as he opened the door and gestured for Guilt to enter. The two remained silent as Logan led Guilt through Roman’s common area door, into his own room and paused at the door to his lab.

“I have a confession to make…. but you must promise not to tell the others.”

Guilt nodded and Logan unlocked the door and walked into the lab. A chill ran up Guilts spine as he entered the room and practically jogged to catch up to Logan after shutting the door.

“What’s the rush, Logan?”

No reply came, so Guilt continued to follow in silence until they reached a wooden door, tucked away behind a shelf at the back of the lab. The rough wood did not match the cleanliness of the rest of the lab and Guilt’s eyes widened when the door opened to reveal a dark rocky tunnel.

“Does this go where I think it does?” Guilt whispered, following Logan into the tunnel as the side conjured a powerful torch to his hand. “When did you find this?”

“After the migraine finally past.” Logan kept his tone level and his focus straight ahead. “I was cleaning up when I found the door.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone because?”

“Because I didn’t want to get their hopes up.”

The torch light found the edge of the cave and illuminated the blackened remains of a forest. The torch served as the only source of light, and Guilt looked around in shock as he took in what little he could see. Their footsteps were muffled by soft soil that was neither dry nor wet and not a single piece of foliage was left on the skeletal trees.

“Why isn’t there any light?”

“From my inspections, the top of the mountain is actually sealed. The formally named Oasis, is no longer able to live up to its name.”

Reaching the clearing, Logan cast his torchlight across the dried-up stream. Guilt grabbed Logan’s hand to aim the torch towards where Virgil’s room portal used to be located. The rocky surface was blank and smooth. Kneeling, Guilt pressed his hands against the ground and closed his eyes, trying to get a sense of the area or at least make a connection like he used to.

“This place is completely separated from the mindscape.” Guilt looked up towards Logan, but Logan kept his eyes trained on the rock wall. “It isn’t even neutral space. I doubt I could even sink out from a place like this.”

“You can’t. I’ve tried.” Logan took a deep breath in and slowly let it out before speaking again. “Do you think the others need to know? Will learning the location of my underground lab, and its connection to Virgil’s mountain, make any difference?”

Guilt looked around, straining his eyes into the darkness. He imagined bringing the others there and giving them yet another visual reminder that Virgil was gone. Standing, Guilt brushed his hands off against his pants and made eye contact with Logan.

“They don’t need to see this. You were right to keep this to yourself.”

“Thank you.” Logan felt the weight of his guilt lift with the affirmation that he had made the right choice. “I needed to hear that.”

The two aspects headed back towards Logan’s lab, eager to regain their sense of connection with the mindscape again. Once back in the lab, Logan shut the door and set the torch down on the nearby shelf.

“Logan?” Pausing, Logan turned to face Guilt. “Would you mind if I visited the Oasis on occasion?”

Although unsure of his reasoning, Logan nodded and continued down the aisle with Guilt only a few steps behind.

After their discussion, Guilt made a daily habit of visiting the Oasis. With Logan’s permission, he would teleport to the door in the lab to collect the torch before heading through the tunnel and making his way back to the dry creek bed. Sitting in the darkness satisfied the invisible itch that had plagued him since his return, though he still didn’t understand why.

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

It had been a whole two weeks since the incident. Two weeks since they had watched Hood and Jacket jump over the cliff edge. Two weeks of recovery. 14 days of reshaping the mindscape. 336 hours to accept their new reality.

Laptop balancing on his knees, Thomas sat on his lounge reviewing costume images for the next video and felt thankful that they were taking the time to make the costumes properly. It had been frustrating to delay the video, but now he was very thankful.

Logan sat at the other end of the couch reading a psychology textbook and reflecting on the revised script that Thomas had read out earlier. Frustration built in Logan’s throat and he finally had to speak.

“Do you really have to dress me as Frankenstein’s monster?”

Thomas sighed loudly, “for the third time, yes, Logan.”

“I am happy to pass up the Roman insult if it means you portray me as Dr. Frankenstein.”

“Oh, let it go, Dr. Dribble.” Roman rose up in his usual spot, his arms folded as he faced off with Logan. “It works for the story and I’m giving you a free pass to insult me. Just take the hand you’ve been dealt and move on.”

Logan rolled his eyes; lighting a fire in Roman and the creative side opened his mouth to argue just as Patton rose up.

“Hey, Hey, hey. It’s meeeeeee, Patton!”

The other three stared at Patton in confusion as the side giggled to himself.

“Wha-what was that about, Patton?” Thomas questioned, very confused by the sudden and loud entry.

“I dunno. I wanted to make an entrance.”

“Mission weirdly accomplished.” Roman laughed, forgetting his prepared argument for Logan.

“Okay then,” Thomas turned back to his computer and continued scrolling. “So, how are the other impulses going? Are they all settled into the new mindscape?”

“That would be a big old Y-E-S!” Beamed Patton, “They are loving Roman’s new…”

Déjà vu is a funny thing. As Thomas opened a new email and his eyes took in the sentence "Please, join us for a live charity stream on Twitch," the sensation hit him hard. Déjà vu. Roman and Patton were filled with excitement. Déjà vu. Logan recognised the benefits of participating in such an event. Déjà vu. Thomas felt his heart rate increase and his hands took on a mild shake as his mind started producing a list of possible scenarios as long as a CVS receipt. Logan froze as he registered what Thomas was feeling; rising to his feet, his book hit the floor with a surprisingly loud thud that stopped Roman and Patton in their tracks.

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

Can we do it right this time?

We shouldn't be afraid of who we are. We aren't here to hurt; we are here to help.

But what if we do hurt Thomas?

We won't.

But we did before.

Yeah, that was how this whole thing started.

And did you sense the size of that migraine we triggered? What if we do that again.

I don't want to hurt Thomas again.

We only hurt Thomas because we tried to deny who we are. We let one single incident define our whole existence. Thomas was young. The mindscape was still developing. Since then, Thomas accepted Anxiety. He learnt how to deal with it, and he has been dealing with those negative and depressive thoughts for years. He is more than capable of dealing with us. We are capable of being more than just darkness. The big question is, are you all ready to believe in your capabilities?

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

Guilt lay on his back in the clearing of the Oasis, feeling satisfied in the rich darkness. The torch was off and laying by his side, but he wasn't interested in looking around. With the light out he swore he could hear voices whispering into the air; though he never dared to mention it to Logan. Every day he came the voices seemed to get clearer.

Are you in?

Guilt smiled as an electrical tingling ran up his spine and he felt no fear as the ground beneath him dissolved. He found himself falling back into the faded darkness. He should have been afraid. It made sense to fear being torn and spread across the mindscape again; but instead Guilt felt happy.

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

If we do this, we won't be the same.

Let’s be honest, nothing is going to be the same around here.

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

*THUD* *THUD*

"Ow, jeez! Would you guys just stop and think for a moment." The impulse sat up from their landing spot on the floor, pushing back their black hood with purple plaid patches. "I mean come on; we only just survived our last social outing."

Logan skidded onto his knees to embrace the impulse; tears falling freely from his eyes. "You frickin came back."

"Flipping flapjacks, he came back!" Patton through his arms around the stunned Roman and smiled over at Thomas.

The impulse gave Logan a comforting squeeze, "You do know you shouldn't hug random strangers, right?"

Logan loosened his grip and the two separated as Thomas slipped down onto the floor and wrapped his arms around the impulses neck.

"Shut up, Virgil. We know it's you."

Virgil let out a mischievous laugh, "Wow, rude much."

Thomas let Virgil go and held him at arm’s length by his shoulders, taking in the sides new look. His jacket was like before, only the sleeves seemed longer, so they came down lower over his hands. His purple undershirt was now a dark grey, with the tears exposing more purple plaid. Thomas tilted his head as he looked at Virgil's face; his eye shadow seemed more like an actual skin tone and he was acutely aware that he had two fangs for some reason. Virgil squinted at Thomas' admiring face, feeling annoyingly self-conscious.

"Can I stand up or are you just going to keep staring at me?"

"Oh, yeah, of course."

Thomas and Logan both shuffled back to allow Virgil to stand, but the moment he was upright Patton was squeezing him from behind.

"Emo sandwich!" Roman laughed, as he hugged Virgil from the front; squishing him between himself and Patton. Virgil groaned but smiled at the ridiculous antics of the two sides.

"I can't fully comprehend what has transpired," Logan helped pull Thomas up to his feet so they were all standing, "but I don't care. We are truly glad to have you back."

"Like you wouldn't believe it." Roman laughed as he and Patton finally released the anxious side.

"Yeah, well..." Virgil rubbed the back of his neck and smiled; flashing one of his fangs. " You can't get rid of me that easily. Thomas wouldn't survive if only you guys ran the show."

"I take offence to that, Twilight," Roman gasped and dramatically clutched his chest. "What's with the costume anyway? Halloween is well and truly over."

"Halloween is never over, Princey, and this isn't a costume by the way. This is just...who I am now."

Virgil spread his arms out and tried to act confident, but their stares had him plunging his hands back into his jacket pockets.

"Wait, are you still anxiety? Is your name still Virgil? We shouldn't have just assumed..."

Thomas was now very aware that they had all just assumed that this was still Virgil. He hadn't considered that he may have been like Deceit and returned with a new identity.

"Woah, woah, calm down. It's all good." Virgil adjusted his jacket and slid one of his hands into the front pocket of his purple skinny jeans, using the other hand to gesture as he spoke. "Virgil still feels...right to me. I can't see myself with any other name. And I guess anxiety is still a part of me, but so is negativity or...well, depression."

"So, what happened to the shadows?" Logan asked, thinking about the darkness that had caused them so much pain.

"It's still around, obviously." A black shadow swirled around Virgil's free hand, and his eyes flashed grey as the shadow snaked back up his sleeve. "It's a bit more manageable; a lot less hostile. Still potential for it to become overwhelming, but I'm sure you guys will be able to help with that."

The others all nodded, and Patton exclaimed, "You bet your ass we will."

Thomas, Roman, Logan and Virgil exchanged a confused glance, confirming that they had all heard the same thing.

"Wow, Pat. You got edgy while I was gone. How do you go from referencing pancakes to language like that?"

"Pancakes? Oh, you mean flippin' flapjacks?"

"Yes, I do not understand the significance of breakfast food during a surprising situation." Logan adjusted his glasses, thinking about Patton's exclamation when Virgil had appeared.

"Oh, that’s just something I say instead of saying fuck."

Roman, Logan and Thomas felt their jaws drop, while Virgil burst out laughing and put his arm around Patton's shoulder.

"Patton, don't you dare ever change."

Eventually, Thomas summoned Rage and Dee to his lounge room and the group filled Virgil in on the events since his disappearance. Admittedly, the others were mad when Logan revealed his discovery of the Oasis, but Virgil was quick to defend his decision and thanked Logan for giving Guilt time.

"It was because Guilt spent time alone in the Oasis that I was able to come back together. It's hard to pull yourself together without a central meeting point. Oh and no offence, but you guys have such chaotic energy, we couldn't focus at all."

"Well at least Guilt is in a proper fusion now." Rage smiled, "better than being faded from what I hear."

"Truuuue," Thomas stretched out the word with a yawn and Logan recognised the late hour.

"We should be going. Thomas requires rest, especially if he is going to get all of his tasks completed tomorrow."

The others outwardly whined and Logan firmly shook his head and pointed down; waiting until only Virgil and Thomas remained before sinking out himself.

Thomas pushed himself up from the couch with another yawn and headed for the stairs. Virgil followed in silence until Thomas was ready for bed. Leaning against the doorframe, Virgil watched Thomas sit on his bed and smile over at his anxious side.

"You're all good now, right Thomas?"

"Yeah... Look, I know you don't think I need to say it, but I'm going to say it anyway; I'm sorry...for everything."

"What the heck are you talking about? You've got nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I should be apologising to you. I was the one that messed up."

"No, but..." Thomas grunted in frustration as he quickly realised that this was an argument neither of them would win. "Why don't we just agree that we were both at fault. But everything should be better now. We can accept ourselves for who we are. All that we are. The good and the... perceived to be bad parts."

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

"I know." Thomas smiled at Virgil, playing on the fact that he had just used Logan's voice.

Shaking his head, Virgil pushed himself off the doorframe and folded his arms; flashing a fanged smile at his host.

"Guess I'll see you tomorrow when we read that email again."

Virgil sunk out as Thomas threw a pillow across the room in frustration. He knew why Joan did it now, it was a very satisfying action.

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

"Oil stained oak with brass finishes," Roman nodded at the door in the hallway, "I approve of his new sense of taste."

Logan, Patton, Rage and Dee were spread out around the lounge and dining area as Roman walked in from the hallway. They had given up waiting in the hall for Virgil to return, with Logan assuring them that he was probably still conversating with Thomas privately.

"Wow, you guys just let anyone in here now," Virgil appeared at the top of the hallway behind Roman, gesturing towards Dee and Rage on the couch. "I feel like your standards have dropped since I was gone."

"Very funny, Dark Shadow." Rage smirked, " I think we bring some variety to this place."

"Leave the name calling to Princey, Rage. It isn't your strong point."

"Alright, Kiddos. That'll do. We are all friends here." Patton walked over to Virgil with a plate of his Crofters biscuits. "Care for a cookie, Virge?"

The smell of the warm biscuits made Virgil smile and he couldn't resist taking one and looking over to Logan who had been assessing them with his eyes.

"Thanks, Pat. So, what are you guys all hanging around here for?"

Virgil could suspect the answer, but he enjoyed watching the others stumble over their words to avoid their admission.

"I wanted to bake cookies."

"I was just ensuring Patton wasn't wasting any of my Crofters."

"Rage and Dee need supervision to be in here, so I thought I would hang around."

"This couch keeps me calm."

Dee lit up his eye and they all spoke in unison, "We wanted to see the Oasis."

"Well at least there is one honest one among you," Virgil snapped his fingers and his hallway door swung open with a slight squeak. "You can come into my room on one condition; you three in particular."

Virgil eyed the three sides, "You don't touch anything, and you walk straight through to my territory. I don't need anyone ripping off my eyeshadow look."

"Agreed"

"Absolutely."

"Admittedly, I would pull off the look much better than you, but I will agree to your terms."

Rage vanished from the couch and reappeared at Virgil's door, giving Virgil the finger as the side fixed him with an annoyed stare.

"I mean it, Rage! Don't touch my stuff."

Virgil vanished and the others walked down the hall to poke their heads into the room just as Virgil chased Rage through the wardrobe portal. The room was well lit with a light purple hue, and the walls were lined with shelves of books, figurines and photo frames. Depressions old wardrobe was replaced with a drawing table, a curved lounged took up the middle of the room, and Virgil's bed sat in the centre of the back wall with beanbags sitting either side.

Patton and Dee walked eagerly through the room to reach the Oasis, while Roman and Logan lingered in the room a little longer.

"Clearly, he is still obsessed with spiders." Roman pointed to the webs that covered the shelving and ceiling of the room.

"Indeed."

Logan continued to inspect the shelves while Roman headed through the portal. He paused and ran his finger over the spine of a book entitled 'Logan's Advice'.

"Don't let it get to your head, Lo."

Logan jumped and turned to find Virgil next to him grinning as he swept his bangs away from his face.

"Let's just say that I value your opinion and we'll leave it at that, ok?"

"Oh, don't you worry." Logan smiled and turned to start walking towards the portal with Virgil. "I will only bring it up in order to seek validation or cause you some form of embarrassment."

"Be careful, Logan, your Roman is showing."

Stepping through the portal was like stepping into paradise and something that Logan never would have expected from Virgil's territory. The mountain top was open again filling the space with natural light and the green foliage reflected the light further.

"Bet you were expecting some kind of haunted forest, hey Logan?"

Logan glanced sideways at Virgil's fanged smile, "It's definitely an improvement on what I previously saw."

"This place puts the cliff edge to shame!" Roman called from his place in a tree he and Patton were climbing.

"It wasn't called the Oasis for ironies sake" Dee called from his spot next to Rage, leaning back against the base of the tree. "This place actually feels a lot better than it used to."

"Well, I need a place to calm down." Snapping his fingers, two deck chairs appeared near the stream and Virgil gestured for Logan to sit. "I'd wear myself out if I was at my peak all the time."

Logan took a seat and looked over at the other sides in the tree, analysing how high Roman and Patton would be able to climb based on the trees structure. Virgil paused at the water’s edge, looking at his reflection with a half-smile. He couldn't help but appreciate the irony of having fangs after his vampire Halloween costume and the next script. His reflection split in the water, and for a moment white glowing eyes stared back before fading to his old face.

Things are going to be different; that much is for sure. Thomas isn't going to stop stepping outside of our comfort zone and we are going to have to adapt to this new life pretty quickly.

Just remember, we're not alone.

The reflections merged back together, and Virgil turned to look at the sides and impulses in his territory. Each of them was important to Thomas and helped him in some way, and Virgil was ready to use them to help him as well.

I can go to Patton for comfort and Roman for protection if the shadows get out of control. I'm sure Logan would always be willing to help me refocus if my worries become overly exaggerated. Dee can help conceal my fear when Thomas needs to be brave, just like he always has. And Rage... Is an impulsive pain, but he has a good heart.

"Virgil?" Logan turned in his chair to look at the side still staring at the water. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Virgil moved to sit on the chair next to Logan, "I think it will be." Until something else comes up.

End note:

Thank you to every past, present and future reader for reading this and sticking with me as I embraced the challenge of story writing. At the time of me uploading this, I just finished watching season 4&5 of Steven Universe and boy do I now see just how similar that story is to my own (no spoilers). Honestly, when I planned this fic, I had only seen the first 2 seasons and that really inspired the initial concept. I can see now why Thomas and his friends like the show.

Sides of a Hero was always meant to end like this – despite diverging story arcs to get here (I abandoned so many ideas along the way). There is obviously potential for this fic to go further as either short fics to fill in plot holes or expand on events, or a complete second instalment. If there was interest, I would endeavour to continue making content.

Thanks again for reading and showing support with kudos and comments. I really appreciated the support and you all are amazing for doing that.

Happy time zone everyone *waves and returns to work*

Chapter index ------------

Tags (Thank you for being supportive)

@atseipl

@k9cat

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henryzhxng · 5 years

Text

22.12 | THE CASTELVECCHIO RUBBLE | 1 AM.

Henry was amazed it wasn’t crushed by the bomb’s fall-out. To most, it was just a tree near the Castelvecchio. To him, it was a place for him and Rafaella to hide. Eventually he’d shown Hector, too, but this place was sanctuary from his father’s demands for a long time. Only when he realized he couldn’t escape, when he’d fully given in, did Henry stop using this place and the shadow of neutral territory to protect him from the truth.

The note complicated things. Tainted a place that was meant to be sacred. He felt his hand tighten into a fist around it, where it lay innocuously in his pocket, nothing more than fragile paper.

Fragile as the skin around his bones, fragile as his heart had felt ever since the video of Hector had released. He’d moved on autopilot, knowing he was being watched, knowing he would be expected to prove his loyalty in the wake of Hector’s betrayal. Even with his “death” he would be carefully monitored whenever he left his home; he constantly swept for bugs within, and the biometric security would ensure relative safety, but carelessness was unaffordable.

His eyes were still red-rimmed as he took the flask from his pocket, draining it dry. It hadn’t taken much to make the grief real; he’d been imagining Hector dying for real ever since the video came out. Leaving his vulnerability out for everyone to see had been the perfect alibi. Henry, reserved and detached, dramatic and cool at once, crying where someone could see? Surely not, but there it was.

It felt like cutting out his heart for Damiano, but it was a willing price to pay. There was no price too high where Hector was concerned. He would beg, humiliate himself, crawl across the floor and kiss Damiano’s boots if it meant Hector could live even one more day.

He only needed one more before he could get him out of the country. One more day, and for the first time in over a decade, he prayed.

It was a bit of a climb over the rubble, but eventually Henry got to the base of the Castelvecchio. There were no workers helping to clear things this late, but it was only lit by the waning moon, and his pen-light shone rather obviously when he used it. Sighing, he switched it out for the lighter in his pocket. It provided far less light, but it was less noticeable from above, as well.

Most of the branches had been cleared from the tree by fallen stones, and he looked around for any sign of deliberate disturbance, hunting in the flickering yellow-orange light for a sign. There was a hollow around the roots of the tree, probably because they were prioritizing wildlife preservation if anything could be salvaged, maybe 3 feet wide around the roots, but there was nothing there.

Maybe it had been a prank. Some trick by one of his low-level soldiers, or even Grace. He wouldn’t put anything past her.

None of them would’ve known about this place, he rationalized, fear crawling up his spine. The note had discussed his sins. Who that knew of this place would betray him?

A creeping suspicion began in his mind, one he was loathe to consider. It didn’t matter how many people had told him he should try. Instead, he brushed his fingers over the crumbled stone, searching for something. He stopped at a flash of white, turning abruptly back to where he’d moved on from.

The corner of white cloth stuck out just barely from the stone. It wasn’t noticeable if you weren’t looking for it, but it may easily have been discovered if he’d let the note sit for even one day. Henry suppressed his horror in favor of clearing the stones from around the area, lifting the one above the cloth to reveal more fabric.

It was the only pure white corner on the handkerchief, for the rest was near-soaked in dried blood.

Fingers trembling, he did not yet reach for the handkerchief, instead pulling a second flask from his other inside pocket. He took a healthy swig out of it and shook his head, almost like a dog shaking water from its fur. There was something familiar about it, something he didn’t want to look at. Henry’s first instinct was to tightly shut his eyes.

With effort, he opened them and tucked the flask away, reaching out with now-steady hands toward the bloodied half-memory. He’d seen that thing before, sticking out of the pocket of a well-tailored suit. He’d seen it a thousand times.

He snatched it away, looking for the monogram he knew he would find. A. The letter was blood-red even without the blood; he could see it perfectly in his mind’s eye. Years of watching his father walk side-by-side with the man wearing it were plenty fresh in his mind.

Temples throbbing, he shut his eyes, overcome with a memory he wasn’t aware he had. Dark hands that had ruffled his hair as a child, darker eyes that were horrified by what he was saying.

❝ He trusted you! ❞ ❝ Please, Henry, listen to me. Let me help you.❞ ❝ Like you helped my father ? ❞

He felt his breathing accelerate as panic set in. This wasn’t right. He would have remembered something like that. It would have dominated his worldview, eclipsed everything else in his life. He’d been searching for his father’s killer for months...

Another memory assaulted him, for that was what it felt like. An assault from within his own mind, against his soul itself.

❝ You shouldn’t be here. ❞ Maybe not, but liquor tasted just as good anywhere. Without a break in his father’s case, maybe he deserved what he got. ❝ You’re lucky. Foolish, but lucky. ❞ ❝ Maybe you’re the fool. Maybe Damiano sent me to kill you. ❞ ❝ You can barely stand. Why should I have anything to fear ? ❞

Henry held his liquor very well. He knew, in that moment, that he shouldn’t have felt dizzy, or nauseous, or any of the other things he felt. He remembered trying to stand, but quickly remaining in the stool. He remembered Cosimo Capulet placing a folder in front of him, remembered the sound of his voice, quiet but firm in the low din of the bar...

❝ Alvise killed 爸. ❞

His tongue had felt too thick for his mouth, the empty glass swimming in his vision before it cleared again. He read the words again, some transcript of... communication. What communication? It was fuzzy, like his mind had been layered with holes. Even as he began to remember, things still eluded him. What had convinced him to believe Cosimo in the first place?

The thought of his name sent rage through him, and Henry began to see. The Capulets had new drugs on the market. It was possible they’d seen something in development.

As the thought came, so did a fragment, not a true memory but enough of a piece for him to latch onto. Maybe it was hope, or maybe desperation. In any case, Cosimo’s voice filtered back through his head.

❝ You may feel nauseous. Please give a verbal warning if you do. ❞

His own toneless response had been a simple affirmative. They had gone through the file again and again, and each time, it had filled Henry with blinding rage. He’d nearly thrown his glass at the wall, before Cosimo Capulet caught his wrist and told him to save his strength in that same calming tone.

Henry had never known anger like that. Impossible to see through or understand. Unrelenting and violent, and absolutely unfamiliar. Cosimo’s hands were cold on his shoulders as he pushed him down into the back of a nondescript car. There was something cold in his hands, tucked back into the holster at his side after he nodded along with something Cosimo was saying.

He looked down at the divot in the rubble and saw the pistol, and something inside him broke entirely.

❝ I loved your father. ❞ Stop talking! Henry was screaming in Chinese. He hadn’t noticed the switch. ❝ I want to find who killed him too. Henry, we can do it together, if you — ❞

He’d unloaded every single round in the pistol. Again and again he’d pulled the trigger, listening to the click with a vicious sort of satisfaction. He’d avenged his father, done his memory proud. The anger didn’t abate, but something in him had settled. He had done... what he was meant to do. The thought was strange, and he’d pushed it from his mind at the time, focusing on exiting the building. The silencer had done most of the work for him, but he couldn’t be seen here.

Henry calmly walked back to the car. He took the clothes offered by Cosimo Capulet, similar to what he’d been wearing, and traded in his, which were splattered with blood.

His head felt blissfully empty. The anger had been poured out of his head, and it felt good to be calm. He could not remember what peace felt like. Maybe this was close.

They’d taken the gun from him at some point, though it had been his. Was still his. He was deposited in the same stool, poured another drink, and barely had enough wherewithal to call Hector before his head hit the bar and he was dead to the world.

His last instruction had been do what you always do. At the end of the night, if he couldn’t walk, he had to call Hector.

It was the only thing that had broken the dizzy haze, the thick, sweet taste on his tongue, and the beginning migraine.

He remembered waking up from that night before he remembered the other things. He’d put it off at the time as a particularly bad hangover, thinking he must’ve gone past his limit somehow. He couldn’t remember anything after 11 that night, but he had chalked it up to a particularly good night and forgotten all about it.

Henry had felt guilty, afterward, that he hadn’t been there to help Alvise. That he’d been carousing while Alvise was dying.

He felt very dizzy, and when he put a hand to his chest, Henry realized it was rising and falling very quickly. I can’t breathe. He took the gun in one hand, knowing it would be empty of bullets, and the handkerchief in the other, scrambling down the stone toward the roots of the tree.

When he was mostly hidden by the rubble around him, he crumpled, his head thunking painfully against the trunk. He used breathing exercises to get over the attack, though how long it took, he wasn’t sure.

I killed Alvise Vernon.

It didn’t matter that he’d been drugged and pushed by Cosimo Capulet. He’d held the gun in his hand and felt a sick sense of satisfaction watching Alvise crumple to the ground. A man he’d called uncle, someone he thought even loved him, in his own twisted way. He didn’t notice as tears streaked his face, pulling his knees up to his chest. He thought of the grief and pain on Lawrence and Odessa’s faces, how he’d held Odessa so often after the death of her father. How he’d mourned with her, commiserated with her, shared her pain. How he’d promised her he’d kill the man who took her father from her.

A promise is a promise.

He’d tried not to break them. It was impossible to know if he succeeded, all things considered. He’d certainly broken promises to Damiano, and more than that. But he’d tried.

This one he could certainly uphold. It would be easier than the others, in fact.

Whatever monster did this, I’ll find them. We’ll find them.

Those words held a delicious irony. What could he do when the monster was him?

He sat for a long while. Until the tears dried on his face, his eyes bloodshot and grim. Until he heard the sounds of traffic in the city once more. Until the sun peeked out at him around the rubble piled above his head, dawn breaking over a world quite different than the one he thought he’d been living in. As he sat, still and quiet in the remains of one of Verona’s most sacred places, a plan began to form. It was new, barely born, yet it showed a certain promise.

Henry would keep his promise. The monster that killed Alvise Vernon would die.

But he would not die before doing what he could to make it up to those he’d hurt, and not without sowing the seeds to taking a few other monsters with him.

#♛┈⛧┈┈•༶ CUE | DECEMBER 22.#♛┈⛧┈┈•༶ ACTING OPPOSITE | SELF.#( first of all pls don't kill me )

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angel-of-death-2015 · 5 years

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Surprise! Surprise! Merry Christmas @kireiscorner from your LoliRock Secret Santa! I know you wanted something with Talisto but the direction I was trying to go for went far left lol. I know you wanted something related to your culture and religion so I decided to go with having a parranda! I know how much Christianity means to you and I didn’t want to botch it so I had to kinda redo it all. But it all worked out! Also I didn’t know what was a good song for a parranda so I decided to use the one called “Let Love Light the Way” from Elena of Avalor. I hope you enjoy it!

Let Love Light the Way

The entire place was beautiful. Nothing but pristine decorations everywhere. Garland of the colors of silver, crystal blue, and white wrapped around the banisters all around the palace. Crystal gems that looked like stars hung from the ceiling like chandeliers. The palace looked enchanting. Despite the enthralling look of the building, a lingering atmosphere of disappointment and frustration filled the room with a pair of siblings. Two thirteen year-olds were reading some comic books while listening to music. The male twin sighed in frustration

“I hate this! Why did mom and dad have to be away of all times?” He angrily turned a page in the book. He heard his sister sigh.

“I know, I know Damien. I hate that mom and dad are away too but they’ll be back in a few days! Then we can ring in the new year together!”

“It’s not the same though Ana!” Damien sighed as he closed the book. “Stupid council. Always trying to keep everyone busy just because they’re grumpy and smell weird.” Ana laughed at her twin’s comment. “Not to mention that our parents won’t be here with us to share and open presents. It’s not fun if they aren’t here.”

Ana nodded in agreement. “Do you still have any ideas on what to get them too?” The girl closed the comic and took out a notebook. She smiled at some of the lyrics she came up with several months ago. It wasn’t easy to make them either. Ana looked up when she heard Damien humming to himself.

“I...got nothing.”

“...Dude, really. We need an idea.”

Damien pulled his silver hair a bit. “I literally don’t have any idea! It’s not like we can just buy them something! We’re royalty for Ephedian sake! Mom could easily just request for something to be made in no time flat! And knowing dad, if it’s not something he could use to give to mom or prank Auntie Prax with, he won’t use it.” The little prince sighed again. “We’re not really small kids anymore Ana. It’s hard to figure out what to get for the best parents ever this time of year. Not to mention that they won’t be home to have it. The magic of it all won’t be there.”

Damien’s elder twin frowned. Her brother was right. It’s not like they can just make any little drawing or bracelet. Something has to be from the heart. But what exactly can they do? Anastasia flipped through some of the pages in her song book. She carefully read the lyrics she stayed up all night for. A gentle tune went through her mind as she looked over her recent song. An idea suddenly hit her like a bolt of lightning.

“I got it!” Her younger twin almost fell out of his chair from the sudden outburst.

“Got what?”

“We’ll write a song! That’s their gift!” Damien blinked his honey eyes a few times.

“A song? That’s our gift to them?” Damien pondered over it. “Keep talking sis.”

“Okay, so we can just call them and sing our own song to them. That way, they can get their gift from us and the magic can be there!”

“Not bad! Not bad at all! How many days do we got left?”

“Not sure. Let me check.” Ana grabbed a calendar from her brother’s desk. Her shoulders slumped in a bit of disappointment.

“We only have today…”

“Not a problem! To the music room!” Damien gathered two books and Anastasia’s song books. He grabbed his twin’s hand and ran out of the room.

“What’s another word that rhymes with ‘holiday’?” The younger twin huffed as he thought.

“Um…’goliday’?”

Ana frowned. “That’s not even a word.” She sighed out loud. They’ve been in the music room for an hour and so far, they haven’t gotten anywhere aside from one or two lines. It also didn’t help that the siblings were getting hungry.

“Sorry but I’m not the songwriter here! That’s in your territory.”

Ana sighed again. “Let’s just go and get lunch. I’m starving.”

Damien shrugged in agreement. He hopped off of the piano and opened the door for his sister. Both siblings walked down a long hallway to reach the dining hall.

“This songwriting thing is a lot harder than it looks. How do you even manage to do it?”

His sister shrugged. “I dunno. Sometimes it just comes to me. It can get super annoying too.”

Green eyes looked up to see a painted family portrait on the wall. In the painting was a woman with beautiful dark brown skin and short crystal blue hair. She was sitting in a chair, wearing a white and dark blue gown with sheer material at the bottom to show off her nice legs. Her honey-colored eyes showed warmth and love that can draw anyone to them. Next to her was a man with porcelain skin with numerous scars that hold many untold stories. His hair was long and the color of sweet red wine. His snake-like eyes were green: playful and inviting. A royal robe of dark and light green fitted him perfectly. He smiled to show off his fangs. Both royals were holding two small children smiling widely. Anastasia smiled from seeing the painting. She was so lucky to have such amazing and beautiful parents. A small frown graced her face when she felt a twinge of pain coming from her arm.

“You’re too busy staring into space to see you almost ran into the door Miss Daisy!” Damien smirked after pinching his sister. Both teens walked into the large dining hall and took their seats. A smell of roasted meat coming from the kitchen made their mouths water in anticipation.

“Afternoon your Highnesses!” A servant with long purple locs came from the double doors with two silver domes covering their trays. He sets them before the young royals and uncovers the food. “Today you will have vunelury sandwiches: one with onatoes and the other without. Along for your sides, you will have funnel fries and a helping of your favorite fruits. For your drinks, we have zunnilade and abble juice.”

“Thanks Kylo!” Both twins said in unison before digging into their food.

“You’re very welcome!” The servant spotted Anastasia’s notebook on the table. “Writing another song Ms. Ana?”

The elder twin swallowed her food. “Yeah! We’re trying to-”

“Don’t give it away Miss Daisy! It’s supposed to be a secret!” Damien chided with his mouth full.

“It’s a secret present from our parents doofus! Kylo wouldn’t tell them anything!” Green eyes narrowed at the younger Ydinoran prince.

“A present you say? For the holiday tomorrow?” Asked Kylo, arching his eyebrow in curiosity.

“Yeah. We know they can’t be here nor did we have any ideas on what to get them. So we decided to write a song instead!” Anastasia briefly shifted her eyes downward. “We just wish they’d be here instead of having to come home way later. And yes, we know it’s for the kingdom’s business but it still sucks.”

The brown-skinned man smiled. He took a pitcher and poured more juice into his prince’s cup. “You kids are something special. Your idea is wonderful.” He briefly thought of an idea. “Perhaps you can give your parents their gift along with something that can make it more special.”

The “special” part piqued the twin’s interest.

“What do you mean by ‘special’?” Ana asked as she peeled a munana.

“Do you mind if I take a rest?”

“Of course you can! You’re family Sly-Ky!” Damien smiled from hearing the elder man chuckle. Kylo took a seat in front of the young royals.

“Well...Before you were born and before the war with Gramorr,” The servant took a small breath from mentioning the evil wizard’s name, “there was a tradition that we Xerins loved to do for this holiday every year. We used to gather in large groups and sing songs together. We’d bring anyone that wanted to come along and we’d go to the town square. It became a large celebration with food, some games, and a lot of fellowship. We call the custom a ‘parranda’.” Kylo gave a small smile. “Your mother and Aunt Izira led a parranda once when they were children.”

“They did?!”

“Yes! It was such a wonderful time!” The elder servant gave a sad smile. “The tradition seems to be lost now. It would be splendid if everyone could remember the parranda.”

The twins finished their food and looked at each other. To think that an entire tradition was forgotten because of a war that happened before they were born! As if they had telepathy, the siblings smiled and nodded to each other in agreement. They turned to the servant and gave wide smiles.

“Kylo? Can you help us with our gift? For everyone?”

The man widened his eyes in shock. Tears threatened to spill from the overwhelming emotion. These kids are truly special. He smiled and nodded.

“Of course!”

Anastasia and her brother rose from the table and took Kylo’s hands.

“Then let’s get moving! We have to get this finished by tonight!”

A sigh came from the woman’s lips. She was exhausted from attending that four hour long meeting. Why couldn’t she just stay home for this? She felt a migraine coming on and she didn’t like it one bit.

“Talia? You okay?” Honey-colored orbs looked up to see a man with burgundy hair holding a platter of tea and an assortment of desserts. He sets the platter down on the table in front of Talia.

“I guess I am.” The tone in her voice didn’t ease his worries.

“Talk to me.” The man sat down next to his wife and hugged her. He felt Talia relax in his hold.

“I just...Mephisto, that meeting was longer than necessary all because the council of Zexon and Martine were complete morons! And it didn’t help that three of them questioned my authority!” Talia fought tears of frustration from leaking. “Not to mention that it’s the holiday and we can’t be with Dami and Ana. We made sure to not leave the kids by themselves on holidays. I don’t want them to go through that like how we did!” Talia felt her husband’s embrace grow tighter.

“I know...But we just need to last a little longer. I hate not being with my juice bugs right now. I got their presents ready to knock their socks off!” Mephisto pumped his fist into the air, causing his wife to chuckle.

“The sooner we sort out everything, the sooner we can go home.”

“Okay, let’s go over this one more time.” Declared Anastasia as she strummed the chords of her guitar. Her brother had his own guitar in his arms, tuning one of the chords correctly. The pair began to sing their song in harmony, striking the correct chords to their specific notes. Once they were done, Kylo stood up to give an ovation.

“You two are definitely ready.”

“We are?”

Kylo nodded. “Yes, you are. We’ve practiced more than enough. Now is the time!” Both twins grinned widely. “I’ll let the maids prepare your clothing at once. Be sure to pick the best footwear for walking!” On that note, the servant left the room.

The elder twin released a breath. “We did it! And just in time too.”

“I know! I just hope that mom and dad will like it.”

“They will! I guarantee it! It’s your nerves talking you dork.”

Honey eyes rolled in amusement of the nickname. “Come on. We gotta get going.”

The royal twins of Ydinora quickly made their way to their chambers. Their robes for the holiday were laid across their beds, waiting to be worn. Both siblings quickly changed into their royal holiday robes and grabbed their guitars. They met each other in the hallway.

“Do I look okay?” Ana did a three-sixty to show off her robe. It was white with a sheer tail cascading down below her waist. Her arms were laced with a design of a wild Edenian flower vine that sparkled in the light. The bust was covered with sparkly diamonds as well as the waist. Anastasia’s hair was pulled into a high ponytail with a Xuna flower accenting the silver locks.

Damien looked up and down and smiled. “Like a sparkly dork.” His sister rolled her eyes.

“Whatever. At least you look decent.” Ana smiled and rolled her eyes as her brother did a three-sixty as well. He was wearing a similar robe but had on a sheer cape and fancy bow tie. The design on his sleeves were the vines of a different Ephedian wildflower with a different glittered color.

“I look amazing! In any case, we need to meet with Kylo. We gotta get started somewhere.”

The elder twin nodded as she led her brother down the hall. The twins reached the gate of the palace and saw several servants and guards waiting for them to arrive. Kylo was among them.

“Evening your Highnesses! Are you prepared?”

They both nodded. “As prepared as we’ll ever be!”

“Then let us begin!”

Anastasia strummed her guitar first before Damien joined in. “It’s holiday time! The most special of seasons! So come gather round to remember the reason.” The group exits out of the main gate and start walking into the villages.

Damien smiled as he saw people coming out of their homes with bright smiles. He took his turn to sing next. “So come walk with me! Sing along and you’ll see! On this holiday, let love light the way!”

Both twins joined together in harmony. “You need nothing more! Than those you adore! On this holiday, let love light the way!”

The group got larger and larger with more Ydinorian citizens joining in. Many young adults and elders were overjoyed to reunite with their tradition that was buried those years ago. Some citizens brought snacks and actual meals to share with everyone as they traveled to the destination the twins were leading to. Everyone was able to catch on to the chorus of the song in no-time flat as they continued to walk through the realm of Ignus. Many villagers of the realm came out of their homes to join in as well. The young royals of Ydinora beamed when the citizens of Ignus marched out with their traditional instruments and joined in. Their traditional foods were shared among the Ydinorians and vice-versa. The large crowd came by the royal palace where a young princess ran out with her traditional holiday robe on. Three guards and an advisor came out with her as well.

“I can’t believe it! An actual parranda!” The princess exclaimed, running straight for the twins at the gate.

“Hey Karina! Are you joining in too?”

“No, I’m just standing outside looking fancy for the grass. Of course I’m joining in!” The Ignus princess stood next to Anastasia and started marching. “Where are we headed by the way?”

“To give a special gift for two special people.”

Talia stretched to the ceiling and felt a gentle pop from her back. That tension is finally gone. She changed into a casual outfit consisting a blue blouse with dark blue pants and black ballet flats. It’s almost dinner time and all she wanted to do was eat and stay in her room. It’s enough that she won’t be home with her babies for the holiday but to deal with more idiocy from those council members? If she didn’t have that restraint and poise, she would’ve done something she wouldn’t be proud of but wouldn’t care. She was about to take a book out from her bag but stopped when she heard the door slam open.

“Crystal-offensio!” Talia stopped the barrage of crystals when she heard several familiar screams.

“Honey! It’s only me and the others!” Mephisto yelled as he let down his shield.

“Well I wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t burst through the door like that!” She crossed her arms, trying to lessen her racing heartbeat.

A woman with flowing pink hair stepped into the room. Another woman with an orange ponytail stepped in. “We’re sorry for scaring you!”

Honey-colored orbs rolled in annoyance. “Well, can anyone please tell me why you guys just busted into my room like something happened?”

The woman with the orange ponytail bounced up and down like she used to as a teenager. “Ooohh! Talia! You gotta come see this! You’re gonna love it!”

“Love exactly what Auriana? You got any idea what she’s talking about Iris?”

Blue eyes shined with excitement. The Ephedian queen gently pushed her friend outside of the room. “It’d be much better if you just come and see for yourself.”

Talia briefly huffed as she was pushed to the main hallway. The group walked to the end then took a right to lead out to the balcony that oversees the very large courtyard. Mephisto opened the door and escorted his wife out.

“On this holiday, let love light the way!” The voices of hundreds rang in the air. Talia was stunned by how many people came to the realm and sang their hearts out. Where did they come from?! Why are they here?!

“Talia! Look down there at the fountain!” Exclaimed Auriana with sheer excitement.

Talia looked at the fountain and felt tears spring to her eyes. She felt her husband wrap his arm around her to keep her from falling to her knees. On the large fountain stood the young Ydinorian twins in their festive robes, strumming their guitars and singing out. Beside both of them were the princesses of the realms of Ignus, Volta, Calix, Sirius, and Zuron, Kylo, Queen Izira and Praxina. They were surrounded by guards from each realm that came to join the parranda.

“So come sing with me! All together we’ll be! On this holiday, let love light the way!” The instruments from each realm was heard. Love and warmth radiated from the entire crowd. Tears finally shed from Talia’s eyes from happiness. She hasn’t had a parranda since she was a child nor has she seen such a large crowd of many Ephedians come together to attend a Xerin tradition.

Without another second to spare, Talia raced back inside and flew down the stairs. Her husband and friends were right on her heels. She came out of the main door and raced to the sea of singing Ephedians. The guards stepped aside to let the twins meet their parents. The twins stopped singing while the crowd continued.

“Hi mom! Hi dad!” Anastasia grinned as she set her guitar down on the side.

Talia sniffed, taking a hanky from Mephisto and dabbed her eyes. “What is all of this? What are you two doing here?”

“I’d like to know myself kiddos.” Praxina’s brother wasn’t upset, but he was still concerned considering how the kids had to walk for miles upon miles just to get here.

The twins looked at each other and nodded. “This is your gift from us to you!”

“We thought it’d be okay if we came to you guys for the holiday. It’s not fun if you two are away! And we didn’t know what to get you. So, here you go!”

Both parents laughed as they brought their children into their arms and hugged them tightly. The crowd cheered from seeing the Ydinorian royal family reunite. Talia and Mephisto released the twins but kept them at a close length.

“You two really outdid yourselves. I’m truly speechless! From the song to reviving the parranda? This is the greatest gift I’ve ever received!” Talia kissed her babies’ foreheads. “I love you so much!”

“Kids, you must’ve done something right to make your mother this speechless. The last time that happened was when you first got your powers!” Mephisto winced in pain from receiving a hard punch from his older twin.

“Don’t ruin the moment fool!”

The group of royals laughed as Mephisto rubbed his arm.

“Ana? Dami? Can we join in too?”

The twins’ eyes light up like fireworks bursting in the sky. They grabbed their guitars and started strumming the strings.

“Follow our lead!” The group nodded as Ana and her twin began to sing once more.

“And down every street are new friends we can meet! On this holiday, let love light the way!” Several dancers from Ignus readied their stances and used their magic to perform a series of fireworks to burst in the evening sky. “So come walk with me! Sing along and you’ll see! On this holiday, let love light the way!”

The queens of Ephedia and Volta paired together and locked arms with each other. Praxina did the same thing with her sister-in-law despite frowning from the loud volume of villagers singing and performing with their instruments. Mephisto held Talia with one arm while wrapping the other around Ana. Talia wrapped both of her arms around both of the twins.

“You need nothing more! Than those you adore! On this holiday, let love-”

“Let love-”

“Let love light the way!” More fireworks popped into the night. The large crowd consisting of various realms cheered as they fellowshipped with each other. The twins set their guitars down and tightly hugged their parents.

“We love you mom and dad! And happy holidays!” Talia and Mephisto exhaled with love and happiness as they squeezed their children.

“And we love you too! Thank you for the best presents ever!”

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addicted-to-dc · 7 years

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The Batfamily X Reader- Rescuing You?

Warning: Swearing, kidnapping, guns, fighting

Groaning, you groggily sat up, gasping at the pain in your head. It felt like the beginning of a migraine, but it was fading slowly. It was dark, allowing your headache to be less painful, and smelled like something took a long dump after going to a Mexican restaurant and then died, maybe vomiting a little bit before dying. Faint footsteps and voices could be heard a couple rooms away, but from where you were you could tell that you were not at the manor. Alfred would chop off his own hand before he’d let the manor smell like this, especially since Dick attempted to cook a meal. Pushing those thoughts aside, you focused on the room, trying to figure out where you were. Grasping a table, you pushed yourself up, barely able to stand properly. Yeah, you were definitely drugged. Scanning the room, you walked over to a boarded window and looked through the space in between the wooden planks. You could see a few buildings, but the most important clue was the homemade sign that had ‘Memory Lane’ poorly spray painted onto it. You were in the Joker’s territory, and that meant you had to deal with that asshole.

Knowing what you had to do, you looked up to see the wooden beams supporting the roof, smiling as a plan formulated in your head. You looked over to the door, listening for any movement before you climbed onto the table and pulled yourself into the rafters. Moving silently, you climbed through the rafters until you were right above the door, waiting for anyone to open the door.

“-let’s just hope she’s still knocked out when we get her. Joker wants her ready for the- What the hell?”

The door slammed open, two men entered with guns raised. You watched as they walked over to where you originally were, silently making your way down the rafters.

“You sure this is the right room?”

“Of course it’s the right room!”

Using this distraction, you ran up to the men and wrapped your arm around one of their necks while locking your ankles around the other’s, taking them down with your body weight. They crashed to the floor, grasping your arm or leg in vain before they lost consciousness.

“Two down, a shit ton to go.”

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

“Multiple gunshots are coming from the building, guys!” Dick shouted while navigating through traffic. “Are any of you guys close to (Y/N)’s location?”

“I’m about two minutes away,” Jason responded. “Make that one.”

“We are close, Grayson,” Damian informed him. “Father has also added multiple contusions to myself and the Batmobile with his infernal driving.” “Thank you for your much needed input,” Jason said sarcastically. “Tim, what about you?”

“I’m here,” he said, watching as the rest of the Batfamily stops in front of the building, “and I don’t think (Y/N) is okay.”

“There are still gunshots,” Bruce said, getting out of the Batmobile. “Let’s go.”

Nodding, they attached their grappling hooks to the roof and broke through the windows of the first floor room, readying their weapons for a fight.

“Guys,” Dick said, peering over a crate, “I don’t think (Y/N) needs our help.”

“What?” Jason asked, peering over the crate just in time to see you throw a gun at a goon’s head and take him down with a few hits. “What the fuck?”

“Language, Todd,” Damian scowled, watching you fight. “I agree with Grayson, sister does not need our help.”

They watched as you finished off the last criminal with one punch to the nose and a kick to the stomach, making some of the boys flinch.

Turning around, you say the boys and your father staring at you, “Hey, guys, what are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you?” Tim said confusedly, still trying to process what he saw. “How in the world did you learn how to fight like that?”

You scoffed, “Alfred taught me how to fight, I’m not that surprised that you didn’t find out.”

“Wait,” Dick said, “you know?”

“We live in the same damn house, Dick,” you scoffed, “and don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I was only kidnapped and scarred for life for a couple of hours.”

“I’m impressed, sister,” Damian said, glancing around the room.

“Of course you are, Alfred is the most bad ass member of this family,” you said, walking out of the room, “and you didn’t have to crash through the window like that. I swear you guys are more dramatic than telenovela actors.”

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musicprincess655 · 5 years

Link

Aya stared at her media feed. If the Red Hood so much as sneezed, she’d know about it, and she’d be on him. She just let the feeds continuously update, giving her search for his identity a rest for now.

He was a ghost in a way almost no one could be. No matter how isolated people thought they were, they left traces. Even if they actively tried to hide, there were ways to find anyone.

Except the Red Hood, apparently. As far as Aya could tell, he’d sprung fully formed into being when that video had surfaced. Since then, his influence had started spreading across the city. Heavy drug smuggling was up, but to Aya’s confusion and vexation, all other crime was down. It seemed like the more the Red Hood took over the drug trade, the more he controlled all facets of crime in the city, and he was using that control to contain it.

If Aya gave credit for antiheroes, she would have called him one.

Of course, between the obvious training and the goals he seemed to be pursuing, there was someone who could fit the description of the Red Hood perfectly. But he was already dead. Aya had learned years ago not to hope for the impossible.

But still.

Her alerts going off barely registered as she flung herself from her seat. The Red Hood had surfaced again, and Aya was going to catch him this time. He was too busy fighting off four enemies to run away.

By the time Aya got to his location, the Red Hood was already on the ground, the four enemies advancing. She swooped in to land gracefully beside him.

“What took you so long?” he asked. Aya carefully pushed all her emotions aside.

“Shut up and fight.”

And he did. He stood behind her, though he didn’t stay there for long. He wove around her attacks, moving into the spaces she left, almost like he’d been trained to fight at her side. But he also had moves she’d never taught any of her children, and they were ruthless.

Not even Sanada had been like this, although he’d certainly been brutal. She’d yelled at him more than once for excessive force.

He yelped in pain, and out of the corner of her eye, Aya watched him cup his arm where one of their foes had slashed him with a sword. It didn’t seem to slow him down at all, though, so she let it slide.

Aya sent one of their attackers flying off with a well-placed explosive, and knocked another to the ground. She turned to see the Red Hood standing over the woman with swords.

“Gotta say, I’ve really missed this,” he said. Before Aya could reply, one of their attackers came back. Naturally, it was the one that could shoot lasers out of his mask, and he aimed right for her head. “Look out!”

The Red Hood shoved her aside, taking the hit in the chest. Aya ran forward, determined to end this, but the attacker was faster now, and he kicked her to the ground hard enough to daze her. Instead of finishing her off, he went for the Red Hood.

“Buy me a drink first,” the Red Hood snarked as the attacker pinned him down.

“The Red Hood just wants a body,” the attacker hissed. “He doesn’t care what condition it’s in.”

“Let him go.” Aya got to her feet, pulling a taser from her belt. The attacker pulled the Red Hood to his feet, using him as a shield.

“Nail me, and you get both of us,” he said. “Or maybe that’s your goal?”

Before anyone could reply, the Red Hood stabbed a taser of his own into the attacker’s eyes, sending him reeling back. It was a lot more powerful than Aya’s. Powerful enough that when the mask exploded, so did the attacker’s head.

“That was overkill,” Aya said after a beat of silence.

“Just be glad I only killed one,” the Red Hood said. “They’re all assassins. This city is better off with this one gone.”

“So what does that make you?”

“I’m cleaning up Gotham!” The Red Hood turned, clearly agitated.

“You’re stealing territory from Black Mask, and you’re becoming a crime lord.”

“All part of the plan.” Now this was the good stuff. Aya hadn’t been sure he actually had a plan. “You can’t stop crime. The best you can do is control it. What do you think I’m doing?”

“Killing, from what I can tell.”

“Some of them can’t be controlled,” the Red Hood said, nudging the body at his feet. “A few lives are worth it to protect everyone else.”

“What happened to you?” Aya asked softly. She couldn’t help the beat of hope in her chest. It didn’t make sense, but it was also the only explanation that did.

“More than you can understand,” he finally replied. “And I’m just getting started.”

He dropped a smoke bomb. Aya probably could’ve tracked him, but...she let him go. She wanted to be sure of something first.

The Red Hood was good, but he’d forgotten something. The swords that had nicked his arm still had his blood on them.

The first thing she did when she made it back to the Batcave was to set the sample to run against one that was already in the system. It was a test that would take hours to run to a complete profile, but she had to be sure. She tried to focus on anything else while it ran, but it was impossible.

Finally, the test finished, flashing the results on her screen. Aya caught her breath. Breaking glass sounded behind her.

Alfred hadn’t dropped a tea tray in all the time she’d known him, but there was a set of broken glasses at his feet as he stared at her screen in equal parts shock and hope. Ryou was by his side, eyes open wide for once in surprise.

“Master Shunpei?” Alfred asked.

“Why do you have his DNA labelled as the Red Hood?” Ryou asked. Aya could already see his mind coming to the same conclusion as she had, but he was refusing to let himself believe.

Rather than answer either of them, Aya reached for her phone. There was only one person who could possibly be responsible for this.

“Hey there,” a sultry voice picked up after only one ring. “Bit of a late call, isn’t it? What are you wearing right now? The costume? Lingerie? Both?”

“Cut the shit, Talia,” Aya snarled. Sleeping with Talia al Ghul was one of the biggest mistakes she’d ever made. She’d known Talia was dangerous, but she’d been young, stupid, and addicted to danger. “What did you do to my son?”

“Oh, he finally made his way back to you?”

“Now!”

“Alright, alright. If I’m honest with you? I didn’t mean to kill him. Joker was just supposed to be a distraction so I could play with you alone. I didn’t think he’d actually kill your little Robin like that.”

“So this is amends?” Aya asked. She had a migraine. She could feel it coming on.

“It’s me cleaning up my mess,” Talia said. “You know the healing properties of the Lazarus pits? Turns out they work on more than just old age. They brought him back.”

“Whose ashes do I have in the family grave?”

“No clue,” Talia said. “Could be anyone’s. I just know I paid the funeral home off to give me the body before they cremated him. And now he’s back. And even better! I gave him some training.”

“You trained my son?” Aya asked, voice dangerously low.

“League of Shadows training is worth a lot,” Talia protested. “Anyway. Mess cleaned up. Your son is back. Anything you want to say to me?”

“Yes, actually.” Aya dropped her voice into a dangerous growl. “Go anywhere near my family again, and I’ll make you beg for death a thousand times over. Your fixation on me is bad enough, but never touch my children again.”

Aya hung up the phone. She turned back to Ryou and Alfred.

“Shunpei isn’t dead,” she said. “He’s the Red Hood.”

#kuraryou #miyusawa #daiya no a #dna #dc!au #utbh #my writing

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tigerlilynoh · 7 years

Text

Big Trouble in Little China (spn ficlet)

Part 8 of the fic series The Uncomfortable Adventures of Sam in Law School. Series theme: Sam chose law school over hunting, but it wasn't exactly how he'd imagined it. This ficlet: Sam seeks out help from some witches and his life get very complicated very quickly. Word count: 5,053

Sam hit his head on a low hanging plastic sign that he couldn’t read. He ducked slightly and made a more concerted effort to watch where he was going. In the five years that he’d lived in the Bay Area, he had never actually visited San Francisco’s Chinatown. The streets were narrow. The sidewalks were packed with goods for sale, pedestrians, wooden crates, stray cats, & more. At least half of the signage was in Chinese.

“Yeah, you better watch yourself big guy.” Stacy said when she noticed him rubbing his head.

She stopped at one of the merchants on the sidewalk. They spoke for a moment, then the man pulled six dark brown eggs from a pot of nearly black liquid, put them into a plastic baggie and handed it to her. She gave him a few dollars as they parted. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what sort of health code and income tax violations had just occurred. He shook those thoughts from his mind, they weren’t here for that sort of work. He was there to see a witch.

Stacy led him into a long skinny bakery at the base of a four story building. They went passed a dozen people going about their business, down a hall, and up two flights of stairs. The sound of televisions & talking bled through the thin walls. Stacy pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door to one of the apartments, but she also knocked twice to announce herself before opening the door.

The apartment was small, cluttered, & dingy, but strangely cozy. The two of them could barely squeeze into the space between the overstuffed floral print living room furniture. An elderly Chinese couple were seated on a couch watching a medieval Chinese soap opera. When they looked up at Stacy & Sam, Stacy explained something to them in Cantonese. It made Sam a little uncomfortable to presumably have the others talking about them.

“Hi, I’m Sam.”

“This is my grandma, Mei. I'm pretty sure she's the one in the neighborhood with the most demon knowledge.” Stacy explained.

“Thank you for helping me.” Sam spoke to the old woman, who nodded and waved her hand dismissing the magnitude of the aid she would be providing.

Mei got up from the couch and fetched a tray containing a tea set from the kitchen. Sam moved to help her carry it, but she pointedly ignored the gesture. She poured three cups of tea, then said something he couldn't understand.

“She asked if you’d like some tea?” Stacy translated.

“Sure.” Sam nodded, then accepted a cup. He waited until Stacy had some before he began sipping his tea.

“Jung, my grandfather,” Stacy nodded to the old man, who was largely ignoring them in order to keep watching his soaps. “He owns the building, including the bakery. All the tenants are associated with the coven, if not full members- we’re spread out over about four blocks, but this is our oldest building.”

“I didn't realize covens got so big.” Sam commented. “I’d only heard of five members at most.”

“We have roots here going back 150 years.” Stacy pointed out. “Our coven is an institution in the community. We used to be the main form of protection in the neighborhood. It's less of an issue nowadays, but still.”

“Do you fight with the other covens?” Her description was reminded him of gangs.

“We’ve been known to remove them from our territory, but we don't fight in neutral territory. That's a sure way to get the norms spooked.” Stacy observed as she finished her tea. She swirled the dregs in her cup a bit before setting it back on the tray.

“Do you need the leaves?” Sam asked uncertainly.

Stacy's grandma started laughing at him and muttered something in Cantonese. Stacy covered her own face in her hand in a gesture of mild embarrassment, then responded to her grandma.

"That was the wrong thing for me to say." Sam guessed. "Did I offend her?"

"You're fine.” Stacy assured. “She jokingly called you a gweilo."

"Gweilo?"

"Ghost- not a real ghost. It's slang- kinda racist, think honkey." Stacy explained. Sam nodded uncomfortably. "I told her to cut you some slack. You mean well."

Sam & Stacy watched as Mei carefully turned the living room’s coffee table into an altar. He couldn't help but feel a little anxious. This was his first time watching a seasoned witch performing her craft, and it was sort of a gift for him. He felt a bit sick when the old woman began pulling animal innards from a Tupperware container and positioning them on the altar. It was clearly heavy magic- though he quickly realized how heavy when Mei fetched what looked like a human skull from a cupboard.

“Is that a-” Sam started, then shook his head. “you know what don't tell me.”

“It's a-”

“Stop. I don't want to know.” He wasn't sure exactly how well willful ignorance worked as a legal defense, that was another thing to study when he got back to his dorm.

“It's really old. I don't think the cops-” Stacy began, but he held up his hand.

“Stop, just stop.”

The last reagent for the spell was a six ounce glass bottle full of crimson liquid. Mei uncorked it, then placed it nearby, but not on the altar.

“What's that?”

“Blood of the demon.”

“I thought demons didn't have bodies…” His stomach sank. “That's human blood?”

“I mean if you want to get technical.” Stacy shrugged.

“Jesus.”

“Jesus doesn't really come around when we start our work.”

“You don't actually invoke demons & that kind of stuff though, do you?” He glanced around, suddenly unsure what he'd gotten himself into.

“Demons are too much trouble for the payoff.” Stacy commented. “If you see anything really weird in Chinatown it's either a more benevolent spirit or unwelcome- now the Sunset coven, those guys will-”

The old woman muttered something to Stacy, who shrugged. Stacy cleared some space on the couch in front of the coffee table altar, then gestured for Sam to sit down. Mei sat on a chair across from him while Stacy stood close by, ready to help if needed.

“Should I do anything?” Sam asked.

“Just try to relax.”

He took a deep breath and regretted not taking more of his anxiety meds that morning. Not only was he nervous about being at the mercy of an old witch, who he wasn't sure if she knew he used to be a hunter, but there was the additional fear about the weird aura. It'd been driving him nuts the last fourteen hours- Had he been cursed on an old hunt? Had he screwed up a spell when he was a kid and its damage had gone undetected? He had no idea what he was supposed to do about having some kind of magic aura. Stacy had been the one to spot it, so hopefully a more experienced witch of her sort might be able to identify it and hopefully know how to deal with it.

He watched Mei begin the ritual. For some reason his throat felt tight as she poured the demon blood in the shape of a sigil in front of him. It was taking all his mental energy to try to stay calm. The stress was creating a very fast onset migraine behind his eyes. He started feeling a bit nauseous and when the old woman spoke her words echoed a bit in his head. Stacy opened her mouth to translate, but hesitated for a second.

“She says that your soul has the shadow of a demon.” Stacy told him.

“Demon?”

Mei continued explaining something to Stacy, who quickly got up. She ran around the room flipping several small mirrors so that they were facing away from Sam.

“What's going on?” Sam's heart was starting to race.

“Magic mirrors repel spirits & demons-”

“Isn't that what we want?”

“Not if you're part demon.”

He was getting lightheaded. This whole thing wasn't making any sense. They were talking about auras and demons- even when he was hunting he'd never had a run in with a demon. Demons were a whole other level above the kind of things his family hunted. The suggestion that he was somehow associated with demonic elements was laughable at best, and subtly unnerving.

“I'm not, something's wrong.” Sam rejected the idea, but his voice wasn't as confident as he would've hoped.

“Hey, if you want to hold the skull and look at a mirror, you should be able to see-” Sam reached out and picked up the skull, eager to disprove the old witch’s claim, but he didn't get the chance to argue.

The moment he touched the skull the migraine exploded, overwhelming him. His vision was obscured with flashes of memories, nightmares, & scenes he didn't understand. There were dozens of random deaths- a woman lighting herself on fire. Yellow eyes. A man being stabbed in a parking lot. A bar full of people suddenly began screaming in pain before falling to the ground and convulsing. A man with yellow eyes. A fire burning down a home while a young mother watched, holding her baby on the front lawn. Five young adults were gunned down in the city streets by a group of men. A man with yellow eyes cutting open a vein on his wrist.

“Stop it!” Sam heard himself yell from far away.

“Let go.” He could feel a hand on his wrist, but with the scenes flashing so quickly he couldn't see his surroundings. “Sam, you gotta relax. Let go of the skull.”

He wasn't sure what was happening. Everything smelled of sulphur & burning flesh. Images & sounds rattled in his brain creating vibrations that crippled him. It was all too much to parse. There was a sharp pain in his right shoulder, then everything faded to black.

Sam woke up on a bed that was far too small for him. Despite the insignificant size of the bed, it took up at least 80% of the floor space in the tiny bedroom. The walls were lined with cubbyholes filled with personal effects. Stacy slid open the bedroom door and smiled at him as she entered.

“Thanks for not throwing up on my bed.” Stacy sat down on the bed next to him and handed him a damp washcloth. “How’re you feeling?”

“My backpack.”

He extended a hand, indicating that he wanted it. She fetched the bag for him, then followed his direction to locate some beta blockers & pain killers. He popped one of each, then laid back on the bed with the washcloth over his eyes. There were about a million questions in his mind, but it was still too painful to speak.

“Your boyfriend texted you a couple times. I didn't reply or anything.” Stacy said to help fill the silence. “I'm sorry you got fried. That wasn't supposed to happen.”

“What happened?” Sam whispered.

“There was a little mix up during the ritual.” Sam rolled his eyes at her understatement, though she couldn't see it. “Touching the skull was supposed to help with you seeing the whole demon situation, but she didn't know you were a seer so you got overloaded.”

“I'm a what?” Sam asked after pulling the cloth off his face so that he could see her reaction.

“You… you're a seer, a psychic.” Stacy’s normally confident posture recoiled inward as she realized mid sentence that she might be delivering news. “Maybe it's clairvoyance or precognition, maybe it hadn't kicked in until you touched the skull-”

“I have nightmares & hallucinations, but they're part of my PTSD or my condition.” He corrected. “They aren't real.”

“What condition?”

“I have neurological problems.” Technically he'd never been diagnosed with a specific condition. His scans had all turned up unusual activity, but there wasn't any physical or chemical indicators that his doctors had been able to point to as the source of his problems. “I think I have neurological problems…”

“What if you're just an undiagnosed psychic?” She suggested.

“No, I'm actually sick. I don't just see stuff- I get migraines & blackout- nose bleeds, like physical ill.” He was a bit uncomfortable with the way he felt like the need to defend himself. He thought of the hallucinations of Dean he'd had in the middle of his exam. That had felt strangely detailed- all of the hallucinations were vivid, lifelike. “I'm… I think I’m sick.”

“Can't you be both?” Stacy suggested a morbid compromise. “Like, I'm sorry, but you shouldn't’ve reacted to the skull that way unless you see stuff on your own.”

“I don't know how to see- I didn't do anything.” Sam couldn't begin to understand how he was supposed to have an ability like that, let alone be able to use it. “How did it happen? How do I make it stop?”

“I don't know. I've never met a seer before. I'm not sure how people become seers, but if it's related to you being part demon-”

“I'm not…” Sam sighed. He was too exhausted to be having that kind of argument. “I’m human, let's just leave it at that.”

“Okay.” Stacy dropped it, but he could tell she wasn't remotely convinced. “Human or human with a little something extra, you're seeing stuff and that's gonna mess up all sorts of divination spells. You gotta be careful with those or else you'll get in another feedback loop.”

“The stuff that I saw…” If divining had made it more intense- the images had been real. They looked so much like his hallucinations and they were real- maybe they were all real? He covered his face with the washcloth, partially to hide his shame & partially to hide his watering eyes. “I’ve been watching people die for years and didn't do anything to stop it. I don’t even know how many have died, dozens? Maybe hundreds?”

“You couldn’t save them. You didn’t even know them.” Stacy offered as some measure of comfort.

“My girlfriend died. I saw her die, a week before it happened.” Sam confessed for the first time.

“You didn’t know.”

There was a long silence that felt to Sam to be full of crushing static. Everything was a bit too numb. His heart was tight with guilt & old wounds reopened, but he was too lost to know what to do or how to function. He didn't even feel out of his element anymore- His whole world had been shattered in the course of a day.

“I don't know how to save them.” Sam whispered. It was his responsibility to help somehow, he just didn't know how. “I don't even know who they are.”

“I can ask around. See if anyone knows how your soul could've gotten all mucked up.” Stacy offered. “I don't really know what it'll get ya.”

“I could tell…” Sam stopped himself. He didn't want to tell his family. It scared him to imagine how they'd react, to finding out he was a psychic- that some witches told him he was part demon. Maybe they wouldn't kill him, but it wouldn't be good. “I need to figure this out. I need to save those people if I can… When I was a kid this kind of thing was driving around looking for leads, beating leads out of-”

“Hunting.”

“I'm not a hunter. I'm out.” He wanted to recite his mantra, but it wasn't true anymore. It never really had been. “I'm not out.”

Sam pressed the washcloth to his eyes to help disguise the fact that he was crying. He didn't want to be dragged back into the life. More than anything he wanted to finish school, put down roots, & make something of himself- something he could be proud of. He was halfway through getting his J.D. and things were finally getting better with Brady. The thought of leaving- he wasn't sure he could take that kind of loss with all of his other problems wearing him down. Hunting might just kill him after all.

“You don't need to be a hunter to deal with the flip side.” Stacy countered. “You don't need to drive around and beat people up the rest of your life. This is the Bay Area, do you have any idea how much supernatural stuff is right in your backyard?”

“It's dangerous to hunt where you're staying.” Sam recited. That's why hunters traveled so much.

“Hunters hunt, everyone else manages. You don't have to beat people up to get answers.” Stacy assured. “We can't all be nomads. Some of us have to have day jobs and pay for our reagents.”

“I don't know how I'm gonna do this.” Sam groaned. “I can barely afford food. My tuition is all through a scholarship. I can't buy intel or help.”

“What do you know about ground leases?”

Sam pulled the washcloth off of his face and stared at her.

Sam was sitting on the living room floor trying to decypher the Chen family's ground lease agreement on a nearby building. The original contract had been written in English, but there were dozens of handwritten alterations in traditional Hanzi. Stacy tried her best to help make sense of the additions and they were about halfway through the 29 page document when several groups of people arrived. A handful of women went to work in the tiny kitchen, while a seemingly endless collection of family members filled the entire communal section of the apartment. After his fifth awkward introduction, Sam & Stacy retreated to her bedroom to keep working.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” Sam asked after closing the bedroom’s pocket door behind them.

“My cousin's visiting from SoCal. We're having a family dinner.”

He'd never seen such a large family gathering before, there had to be eighteen people. It made him uncomfortable to be in the midst of such a warm family interaction. The sharp contrast to his own upbringing made him want to find some familiar isolation.

“I can come back another time.”

“We're almost done with this stupid thing.” She threw the file folder of papers at him and plopped herself down on the bed. “It's not like they're gonna come in with the door closed.”

He glanced between her, the paperwork, & the door. Despite the unpleasant outcome, her family had tried to help him and he would need more help going forward if he was going to figure out what was happening to him without having to leave town. Maybe he wasn't actually a lawyer yet, but he had something of a talent for contracts- giving the ground lease a quick glance was a small price for him to pay. Being in a social setting that made him uncomfortable raised the price a bit, but he could manage.

They worked for another hour before there was a knock at the door. As soon as Stacy got the door they were ushered out of the bedroom in the chaos of setting a string of several small tables for dinner. Sam was trying to sneak out of the apartment when an elderly woman took his arm and guided him to a free seat at the table. He started to decline the surprisingly forceful invitation, but resigned himself to joining them as soon as he saw the spread of dishes.

To Sam’s relief Stacy's brother, who was seated next to him, was actually a very interesting person to speak with. Calvin was a forensic accountant for a local residential financing firm. They spent a good amount of time chatting about the housing market crash and the impact it'd had on the regional rental market. The way Calvin was excitedly expounding on the joy of mortgage interest deductions, Sam got the impression that the black sheep in the family of witches was equally grateful for his company.

Part way through dinner, Calvin was juggling his infant son & serving up an extra helping of steamed fish when the kid knocked a dish of hot mustard onto his dad’s lap. With a small curse, he glanced around for someone to hand the baby off to while he cleaned himself up. Sam was the closest person with his hands free, so he was handed the six month old.

The kid was cute, but Sam wasn't sure how to interact with babies. He stared at the baby, who awkwardly stared back at him. Several of the older women began talking to each other in Cantonese while looking at him. His suspicion that they were gossiping about him was confirmed when Stacy started chewing them out. He mentally kicked himself at the realization that he'd spent the hour leading up to dinner in Stacy's bedroom that was little more than a bed.

“They know we're not dating, right?”

“That's what I keep telling them.”

“Please take this baby.” Sam whispered, then handed her the kid and got up from his seat.

“You okay?”

“I need some anxiety meds.”

Sam popped some pills, then grabbed a joint & his lighter. He left the apartment to go find a window in the hallway that he could smoke near. After a few puffs, he noticed a silver 1978 Chrysler New Yorker parked across the street. The full-sized car stood out in San Francisco, it must've been a huge pain in the ass to find parking- probably a tourist. Sam watched the driver, who was seated in the car, while he smoked. The grey haired man was flipping through several wallets and Sam mistook him for a thief- until he recognized the collection of fake badges.

Sam threw his half smoked joint out the window, then ran down the hall. He burst in the door to the apartment, catching everyone's attention.

“There's a hunter outside.” Despite any language barrier that may have existed, everyone seemed to know the word hunter.

“Where?” Stacy’s dad asked as he got up from the table, along with nearly everyone else between the ages of 18 & 60. One of the women hurried to a candle on the media stand and lit it. As soon as it was lit Sam could hear hurried footsteps upstairs.

“Across the street, on the west side of the building.” Sam answered.

“How many?”

“I just saw one. I don't know for sure.” Sam saw Stacy's dad go into a bedroom, then return with two pistols. “Wait a second-”

“Sam it's best if you just get out of the way.” Stacy suggested. “The top floor is warded, you can stay up there-”

“Jesus Christ- don't kill him!” Sam exclaimed partially positioning himself between them & the front door. He didn't know the hunter, but all of a sudden there were weapons and he didn't want anyone getting hurt.

“This is our home.” Calvin said, visibly disappointed to be in that situation.

“If… if I can get him to leave- will you let me try to settle this without guns?”

The doorknob rattled as the hunter picked the lock. When he was partially into the bakery, Sam turned on a flashlight that he'd duct taped to the side of an industrial refrigerator. The hunter kept his gun aimed forward, but shielded his eyes with his offhand.

"Who are you?" Sam asked from behind the industrial appliance. Calvin, Stacy, & their dad were also armed and hidden behind cover, ready to fight if things took a bad turn.

"Agent Holt, FBI." The hunter held up a badge.

"This is private property. You're trespassing." Sam warned.

"I just want to talk."

"That doesn't mean you aren't trespassing. We've called the cops." Sam lied.

"There's no reason to get the local police involved. I'm just doing a routine investigation.”

“That's why you're breaking & entering?”

“I'm authorized to-”

“Where's your warrant?” Sam cut him off. Only the most detail-oriented hunters ever bothered carrying fake warrants. They were too time consuming to make look credible for any given instance of poking around, and getting caught with one was highly frowned upon by the law enforcement community.

“Listen, if you want you can call my supervisor, I have his card-" The hunter tried to evade the request for the warrant, but Sam was familiar with the standard dodge.

"What office are you based out of?" Sam shot back.

"Dallas."

"Drop the card on the floor.” Sam demanded. After a pause the hunter let go of the card and it fell to the ground.

“You aren't going to come get it?”

“Not right now. I'm pulling up the Dallas office’s number myself." Sam lied. "You can wait there with your hands up while I call or you can turn around and leave while this gets sorted out."

"Listen, kid, you don't want to mess with me-" The hunter's tone turned a little colder.

"No, you don't want to mess with us. You don't have a search warrant. You didn't follow knock-notice protocol. You don't have probable cause or a necessity to enter. Any evidence you get as soon as you walked through that door will be worthless- and if you're really a cop that should be a problem for you. But what's more of a problem for you is that you're trespassing. Your photograph has already been taken. You left fingerprints. If you really are a fed, you'll walk away because you don't feel threatened by me following up with your office and you know there wasn't really any harm done. But if you aren't a peacekeeper, this is your warning. Turn around & leave because if you threaten the safety of those who reside here we will be justified in shooting you."

"You're serious?" The hunter said in disbelief.

"Leave with your life, then get a warrant or fuck off."

Sam & the others watched the security monitor as the man left. The hunter stopped just short of the street to check on top of the doorjamb. For a moment, Sam held his breath hoping that there weren't any harewither twigs or other protective charms above the entryway. When the man ended up empty handed, he slammed the door and hurried to his car.

“They never check the air vent above the door.” Calvin whispered.

"For fuck’s sake, I almost had a heart attack.” Sam muttered as he leaned against the wall. His heart was pounding and he was trembling. “I think I might've just practiced law without a license."

"You're a fake lawyer, he's a fake cop." Stacy smiled at him.

“It's not funny.”

“It's a little funny.”

He'd just been on the wrong side of an encounter with a hunter- well, it wasn't exactly the wrong side… it was just the other side. He didn't feel like the villain in this scenario. They were just having a nice dinner and this guy broke in probably with the intention to kill some of them. If push came to shove, the hunter probably would've killed him and he wasn't even a witch.

“Should we follow him?” Calvin asked. The last thing Sam wanted was for Calvin to stumble into a hunters’ bar and make his wife a widow.

“It's too dangerous.” Sam warned. “He might just back off if you're lucky. He struck out checking the door and for all he knows you guys are just paranoid about DEA-”

“Immigration.” Stacy corrected.

“Whatever.” Sam shrugged as he took a deep breath. “The thing hunters hate the most is being caught by the system. They know how their jobs look to people outside of the flip side. If they're arrested they could be put away for really serious crimes. That's why the law is our friend.”

“You think he's actually scared off?”

“If he's smart.”

“I'll go set up some extra defenses, just in case.” Calvin said before heading back up stairs.

Stacy asked her dad something and he replied before following his son up to the rest of the family.

“I should get out of here.” Sam told her. He was too jittery to hold still. “I've got about a pint of adrenaline in my system- I'm fucking shaking.”

“He's waiting in his car out front.” She warned. “And the way out the back is a big mess. It's a construction site, so you may be able to get through it, but it’ll be awkward with you climbing through a bunch of scaffolding. Not the quietest exit.”

“I'll try to slip out-” Sam started.

“You're a 6’5” white guy in Chinatown, you aren't slipping anywhere.” Stacy pointed out. “In at most two hours, he’ll have to move his car or it'll be towed. You can leave then.”

“Great- I don't suppose any of your neighbors have a treadmill or maybe I can just run a few laps-” Stacy started snickering at something. “What?”

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a pack of condoms. A grin of false innocence formed on her face as she nodded toward the pantry. He looked around at the dark quiet kitchen.

“I think that's a health code violation.” Sam said, but he let her take him by the hand.

“Just don't fuck me on a work surface.”

As soon as Sam got off the train back to Santa Clara he lit up a joint. He diligently smoked the whole thing before walking across the street to campus. In the last eight hours he’d found out he was a psychic & possibly part demon, had a complete nervous breakdown, given legal advice without a license twice, threatened an armed hunter, and had sex on 200 pounds of flour. Somehow his simple life had become very complicated. He wanted to bury himself in his bed and sleep for a month.

The next morning there was a knock at his door. By the time he got some pants on the person was gone, but a plastic bag of to go containers had been left for him. As he started unpacking the collection, he realized they were full of leftovers from the night before. He shook his head for a moment, then that noticed one of the boxes was lighter than the others. He opened it to find $2,000 in small bills and a note “Until next time.” He stared at the money for a long while, then hid it away in his nightstand. With a little discomfort he realized, come next January, he would not be receiving a 1099 income statement.

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