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thethistlegirlwrites · 2 months

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Trapped

To her credit, Joey isn’t panicking. Yet. There are dried tear tracks on her face, but she’s not screaming or yelling.

Maybe it’s just practical. Nico had sure as hell screamed when that silver trap snapped shut on his leg, and no one came running. Maybe she’s already figured that out.

Joey is never one to waste her energy on a lost cause.

But Nico doesn’t know when to give up.

He lunges at the vamp beside her, trying to draw attention away from Joey and onto himself. He’s pretty sure she’s been bound to the dual I-beam support pole that’s one of the few parts still standing in this old factory, but if he can give her half a chance to get away, he’ll take it.

All he succeeds in doing is hitting the end of the chain that is apparently welded to one of the floor beams that’s now buried under a dense tangle of rank grass and decaying weeds. Which is also how he missed seeing the trap waiting for him.

That, and he was paying a little too much attention to Joey, and the monster holding a silver-bladed kukri to her throat, to watch where he was stepping.

He can’t pry the trap off his leg. Every surface is coated in silver. Touching it burns his hands. The kind of grip he’d need to pry it off would leave him in so much pain he’d never be strong enough to manage it.

He can feel the trap’s teeth sinking deeper into his leg with every move he makes, but still straining to reach the flat piece of rusting steel he can see beneath another tangle of brownish leaves. If he doesn’t have to touch the trap…

The vamp steps forward, glances down at the exact piece of metal Nico’s fingers are inches from, then catches it with his boot, sending it flying, clattering, to the far end of the crumbling room.

Nico bellows something between a scream and a roar, lunging at the vamp but nowhere near close to touching him. He falls back to the floor, leg burning as the trap’s teeth dig in even further. The more he struggles, the worse it will be.

He’s not sure exactly how this day went so badly wrong, but he does know when it did.

He’d thought it was taking Joey a long time to finish up on the third floor. But after he’d walked through every room calling for her, he’d found her mop bucket next to smashed glass with a note taped to the mop handle.

An address, and a warning. To come alone or get his mentee back in a coffin for good.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want my fledgling back.” The vamp snarls. “And you made sure I couldn’t take him.”

Nico’s first mentee was a mother of three, Roxie Conover. His second was Javier Avila. The third is Joey.

They’d never been able to determine who Javy Avila’s sire was.

Well, they know now.

Not that Nico has a name to put with the face.

A face staring down at him while holding a blade to the neck of his mentee.

“You took something of mine,” the vamp hisses. “Now, I’m going to take something of yours.”

“Don’t you touch her. You can do whatever you want to me, just let her go.”

“Oh, no, that just wouldn’t do. I want you to know that you are powerless to stop me. Nothing you can do but watch.” He steps back slightly and swings the blade with a practiced arc, and Joey flinches back from it. “Trapped, just like I was in one of the hunters’ cages, while you took away what was mine.”

It’s starting to make a certain amount of sense. Javy was bitten in Nevada. Nevada is quite literally the wild west of hunting. There’s one official agency operating in Las Vegas, but the rest of the state is more or less patrolled by vigilantes with all sorts of fringe attitudes toward vampires, who are hard to find, harder to shut down in any legal or effective manner. A group who likes holding onto their captures and experimenting with potential cures must have had this guy.

Nico can’t say he’ll be too sorry if this vamp left a trail of destruction in the wake of his escape, but nothing excuses what he’s doing right now.

He wouldn’t be surprised if both the knife and the trap are some of those vigilantes’ gear that this vamp decided to bring along; they’re not even close to common usage among vamps, but they’re exactly the kind of thing hunters who skirt the edges of legality are known to use. He’s not sure what group it is that favors this combination of weapons, traps, and long term captivity, but Sierra Stoker and her team probably know.

If he lasts long enough to pass that information along, he imagines they’ll be more than willing to at least find out if this guy left anyone standing.

But at the moment, it’s not his survival he's most concerned about.

“Listen to me. She’s not my fledgling. She’s not mine.”

“But you care about all these like they are. See, that’s the problem. You traitors are ruining the natural order. Sire and fledgling. How it’s meant to be. You step in, on the side of the humans that hunt our kind down like animals, and you separate us from our children. Weaken our bonds. Make it easier for the humans to pick us off, one by one.”

“Then you don’t wanna kill her. She’s one o’ us.”

“Don’t you get it yet? She’s not one of mine.” The vamp snarls. “Which means killing her is doing my fledglings a favor.”

The knife moves away from Joey’s neck, but Nico knows that’s not a good thing. Staking is the preferred method of killing vampires, since it’s far easier to conceal stakes than a knife big enough to do the job right, but decapitation will do the trick as long as you impale the heart after. It’s a more complicated, but flashier method, and enough Sunrisers favored it that Nico knows the basics. Like the fact that to get a quick, clean cut, you need the arc of a wide swing. Trying to cut with the blade close to the body is time consuming and messy.

He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is about to watch Joey die.

This time, the metal pinning him down is wrapped around his ankle instead of stabbed through his thigh, and this time the terrified face of the person he promised to protect but can’t is Joey, not Vin, but the past and the present are blurring around him, and he can’t quite tell if he’s in a warehouse in New York or a derelict factory in LA.

All he knows is, he’s going to have another person’s death on his conscience for the rest of his unnatural life.

Then Nico hears a footstep behind him.

“Put down the knife.”

He’s got to be hallucinating from the silver in his blood, because there’s no way Maira Lawson just happened to appear exactly when he needs backup.

The vamp moves in a flash, putting himself behind Joey and holding the knife to her throat, pressed tightly again, so much so that Nico can see and smell a bead of blood welling up and sliding down the blade.

“I think maybe you should put your weapons down.”

“Last chance.” Lawson’s voice is even. She’s a negotiator, a highly skilled diplomat. She knows when to push and when to back off.

Nico has to remind himself that Joey’s life is in the hands of the best possible person for the job.

The knife presses a little deeper, and a drop of blood splashes onto the cracked cement just as the crack of gunfire echoes through the space.

The vamp drops the knife and drops like a stone, howling.

Several figures move at once, feet shuffling while snapping repeated warnings of “don’t step in another one of those traps” with “you watch your own step” as the reply.

Someone kneels next to him, hands working around the trap’s springs and jaws. He’s dimly aware that it’s Kira Burke, who he’s passingly familiar with from the agency, but he’s paying the most attention to Joey. She’s slumped against whatever cable was holding her to the support beam, almost unmoving as two more of the hunters free her. Someone cuffs the vamp, then drags him away, but it’s hard to see anything right now with the lights the humans need in order to see cutting back and forth across the area, occasionally swinging to hit him directly in the eyes.

He just needs to see that Joey’s okay.

“I’ve got it. Pull your leg out, now.” Burke’s voice is strained, she’s got the jaws of the trap pried apart but he knows she won’t be able to hold it forever. He yanks his leg free and struggles to stand, shifting weight off his bad leg. He has to get to Joey.

He takes one step before he stumbles.

“She’s alright. Sit down before you fall down,” Lawson orders, stepping in front of him.

He does, mostly because if he fell, he’d fall on her, and no one would ever let him live that down.

She’s brought the cavalry, looks like. John and Sierra Stoker, and parts of both their teams. Burke from John’s, as well as Barrett from Sierra’s. John’s wrestling the vamp into cooperation, while Sierra and Barrett work on freeing Joey. Actually, it looks like Sierra’s doing most of the work getting her loose, and Barrett is keeping her calm. Of all of them aside from Nico, he’s the one she knows best.

He hasn’t actually realized Jemison is here as well until he catches a glimpse of the guy climbing down from a crumbling section of wall, slinging a well-worn rifle, without a scope, across his shoulder.

“Don’t you wear glasses?” Nico asks as the kid walks up. Not that he’s not grateful, but the slightest missed shot could have put that bullet through Joey’s skull.

“For reading. I’m farsighted.” Jemison replies. “I was barking squirrels with my dad since I was old enough to hold the rifle steady.”

Nico doesn’t want to even ask what that means.

He’s just glad that today, it means Joey is alive.

“Heard you were having a little trouble.” Lawson bends down beside him, inspecting the damage done by the silver-toothed trap with a grimace. “After he tried to get into the Avilas’ house, I got a call from Javy. He said his sire had shown up and tried to make Javy let him in, but thankfully Javy was able to refuse and block him out. We sent a team to his house as soon as we heard. Everyone’s okay, just shaken up. Unfortunately, given Javy’s one of the people who drives his work van home, I guess this vamp saw it in the driveway. The team found one of the windows punched out, and the clipboard with staff schedules that Javy said he always kept in the glove box was gone.” She frowns. “I tried to call you and warn you someone would probably be coming after you, but never could get hold of you.”

Probably because he left his phone behind at the last job in a rush when he realized Joey was missing.

“H-how’d you find us?”

“Nico. When you were getting your business started, who gave you vans?”

“You guys. You were replacin’ half the motor pool and…” He trails off. “You never pulled the trackers. You sneaky…”

“Don’t say what I think you’re going to say,” Lawson replies. “It was in the agreements you signed when you leased the fleet.”

Damn. He really needs to start paying more attention to fine print.

Although in this case, it probably saved him and Joey.

The vamp is hauled out past them, snarling and snapping at Nico until John Stoker wrestles him into the back of a holding van that’s just pulled up to what used to be a loading bay door.

“He won’t be a problem much longer. Once we match his venom to Javy’s kit, he’ll get the stake.”

Honestly, after what this vamp has been through, that might be a mercy.

Quick footsteps clatter across the open space, and then Joey is collapsing onto the floor beside Nico, a hand finding his and wrapping cold fingers through his own.

“What’s a vamp doing running around with gear from the Hawthorne Hedge?” Sierra Stoker asks, holding the knife up and tilting it as the light in Lawson’s hand catches the blade, running her fingers over a pair of branching, entangled H’s stamped into the metal near the hilt.

Knew she’d recognize the handiwork.

“Same with the trap,” Jemison answers, flipping it over and pointing out the stamp on the bottom of the plate. “Maybe he was a vigilante who got turned?”

“From what I could tell,” Nico manages, trying to sit up and wincing when it jars his leg, “he was one of their captives, managed to break himself out. There might not be anything left of that group, depending on how thorough he was.”

“Looks like we’re going to be heading to Nevada to check it out. Again.” Stoker grins. “And it’s gonna be my turn as road trip DJ.”

Jemison and Barrett both groan, but the Stokers just high-five as John returns from the van.

Sierra’s team move off in a cluster, discussing their next move, and Burke walks up with two small packs of blood in her hand.

“You’re both injured. No arguments.” She places a pack in each of their hands, then backs off, along with the others, to let the two of them feed in peace.

Nico ignores the blood in favor of putting an arm around Joey’s shoulder. She’s probably in some sort of shock, and while the blood will take care of the physical damage from tonight, there are deeper wounds he’s worried about.

“Hey. You okay?”

“No. I will be, but…not right now.” She’s shaking, the tension bleeding out of her. “You?”

It’s probably not wise to lie to her if she’s been honest with him. “Not really.” He pulls her in against him, running a hand over her hair the way he’s seen her do with Olivia. “I’m sorry.” It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. This vamp took her because of him. Because of what he’s done. “This is my fault.”

“For helping someone else just like me?” Joey’s voice is muffled in his sweatshirt. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He doesn’t have anything to say in response to that. Just sits there and holds her and wishes doing the right thing didn’t have so many consequences.

(You can read this story and more from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies @writeouswriter @whump-place @the-lovely-wren

#febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday17 #hostage situation #minor lady whump #in the sense that she's the hostage #bear trap #josefina quintero #domenico pontevecchio

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softielaces · 2 years

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Reading it ALL Wrong

"Look man," Mike starts, walking beside Will at some rest stop just west of Nevada, "I really want to know what I did to piss you off so much. I want to-" Mike breathes out in exasperation (he really hates apologizing), "I want to fucking fix whatever I did."

Will stops dead in his place. He turns his head to look at Mike. Mike's hair is all curls, down to his shoulders, cheeks red from the midday heat, lips chapped, lips in a straight line like he's focusing hard on something. Will guesses he must be.

"Mike, what in the hell are you talking about right now?"

"What am I-? Will, you can't deny that you're totally pissed at me! Ever since I got here, stepped off the plane, you've been, you've been weird. And I thought when we talked in your room that it would be over, but you're clearly not over whatever I did, so please, Will." Mike pleads, looking somewhere between exhausted and desperate.

Will can't help but laugh a little. Mike is so worked up over something he created in his damn head.

"I'm not angry. You didn't do anything wrong. I admit, it was shitty. The not writing and the way you totally blew me off for El, like she was more important and-"

"Will, that's just not true, I-"

"No, let me finish. I was going to say, and I was being a jerk, too. She's your girlfriend, Mike. I can't expect you to prioritize me. I know my place now." Will says, his voice a practiced kind of even.

For some reason, it broke Mike's heart.

"Why have you been acting so weird if you're not mad at me?"

Will scoffs, placing his hand on the door handle of the van. He's not going to answer that.

He begins to pull the door open before Mike puts his hand on top of Will's and Will's whole body freezes.

"Talk to me. I thought we were best friends."

They lock eyes, some stone-cold piece of Will that he locked away in a freezer years and years ago starts to thaw again. Every time Mike looks at him like that, he feels like he could just spill his guts about everything.

"Mike, let go." Is all he allows himself to say out loud. He can't open up now, not when Mike's already confused about his feelings about El, not when they've just had to bury a dead body not 2 days before, not when the fate of the world rests on their shoulders once again, he can't afford to be vulnerable. He has to be strong enough.

Mike doesn't, only uses his hand to pry Will's hand off of the handle. Before Will can get away, Mike grabs his wrists with both of his hands and pins him against the side of Argyle's van.

"No, I will not let go, Will. You're too fucking important to me and I will not keep avoiding this. You're pissed and I want to know why."

Mike's looking at him again, his dark eyes searching Will's soul for any real emotion. He finds nothing, or rather what Will has disguised as nothing.

"Get off of me, Mike. I told you, I'm not mad!" Will's voice is harsh. It makes Mike wince a little. He's never heard Will sound like that before. It kind of reminds him of the few times he heard Lonnie and Joyce arguing through the thin walls of the Byers' house in Hawkins when they were little. But, he's still holding onto Will's wrists tightly.

Will's wriggling underneath him, trying to get away.

"Will. Will!" Mike calls to him, tightening his grip ever so slightly.

It causes Will to stop struggling so much, Mike having hit a pressure point.

Mike doesn't even realize he's doing it, but he pushes his body against Will's, pressing him up against the van. Mike's legs are slotted in between Will's, and Will's all-tough demeanor is thrown out the fucking window.

"Mike..." Will whispers, almost like a prayer. He drops his head down and lets Mike's body hold him up.

Mike feels Will give in and loosens his grip on his wrists.

"Why the fuck are you so angry?" He finally asks, his own assertive demeanor gone. He sounds like maybe he's about to cry.

"I'm not angry. I just-" Will pauses for a minute.

"-just what, Will? What's wrong?" Mike lets Will's wrists slide out of his hands, but doesn't step away.

"Mike, do you love Eleven?"

Mike scoffs, "That's a weird thing to bring up."

"Do you? Yes or no."

"Well, it's complicated. I-"

"It's not. Yes or no. Do you love her?"

Mike looks past Will's shoulder, seeing his own reflection in the window. Getting a sense of just how close they're standing, finally letting himself feel close to Will.

"I think that there's-"

"Mike, yes or no."

"No! Okay? No, I don't love her. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it make you happy to hear me admit that I spent 3 years in a loveless relationship, Will?"

Will kind of freezes, staring into the distance.

"Will?"

He doesn't say anything, only lets his head fall forward onto Mike's shoulder. Mike steps closer out of instinct, cradling the smaller boy's head like he used to do when they were young.

"And me?" Will finally mutters under his breath.

"What?"

Mike heard him, but was confused about what he meant.

"Do you love me, Mike?" He looks up, meeting the taller boy's gaze. The world, the very same one they're supposed to be saving, seems to melt away.

Eye contact usually makes Mike uncomfortable, but it's never been hard to look into Will's eyes.

"Will, I-" His brain can't form cohesive thoughts, it only pumps out one-word answers, demands. One's he's been trying to ignore, avoid, for the longest time. He sort of feels, in a way, like he's hearing them for the first time.

"Yes or no, Mike." Will's voice finally gives away how emotional Will is right now. He sounds like he's on the verge of tears. He looks away.

"Yes." He doesn't miss another beat.

Will nods, biting back a smile, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

"Tell me." He finally responds.

"What?"

"Tell me you love me."

Mike puts a finger under Will's chin, picks up his head, "I love you, Will." He says it slowly, the world feels like it goes in slow motion.

"Mike?" Will's hand grips Mike's.

Mike's other hand grabs Will's wrists and suddenly it's a giant pile of hands and they're looking at each other so fondly.

"This whole time, years and years, it's because I loved you." Mike's voice is shakey.

"And this whole time, even longer than that, I've loved you more. That's why I was acting weird."

Mike scoffs in disbelief, "No. That's why?"

"Can I give you something?" Will asks instead of answering Mike's question.

Mike nods.

"Close your eyes." Will instructs and Mike does.

Will leans in and presses a soft yet firm kiss on Mike's lips.

It takes Mike a second to register that Will's kissing him and he starts kissing back the moment his brain starts functioning again.

They part a few seconds later, cheeks red and smiles so big their cheeks could pop.

"Mike, I know you're a nerd, but you've gotta stop reading it all wrong."

#byler is endgame #byler #stranger things

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sparksnevadas · 1 year

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SPARKS you asked me to do this last night but then I got distracted bhHhshsjsn.

I am. A Quackcicle enjoyer. So:

I think 1, 2, and 3 for hands works really well (tiny hands in big hands, calloused hands in soft hands, cold hands in warm hands) for them or possibly 14 (grabbing hand to show them something) OR 36 (unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping) all give me their vibes.

For hugs, 11 (clinging to each other) and 16 (‘not wanting to let go’ hugs) fit well I think :D

From kisses, 12 (kisses on the corner of their mouth) 14 (kissing each other breathless) 16 (nose kisses) and 54 (sleepy kisses) *nods* (and if you want angst,,,,60- kissing with their last dying breath 👁)

Some good touch ones are 2 (running fingers through hair) 3 (hiding face in neck) 9 (listening to others heartbeat [evaporates]) I COULD KEEP GOING BUT THIS IS ALREADY A LOT

Feel free to do these separately, never do some of these, combine some, ect. Brought to you by homosexual energy in my first period English class

Hi Blue!!! You sent this like a week ago and i am SO SORRY it took so long. Life's just been kinda (sad clown noises), and it's been hard to concentrate on anything, especially today, but luckily for you, I really wanted to write about avians nesting :) I used... two of the hands one, 1 of the kiss ones and two of the touch ones (and depending on how you look at it, the hug ones too). It's kinda silly and my writing feels rusty but hope you like it!!! Hope you're doing well Blue!! <3

----

Quackity has been feeling off the past few days. It feels like a headache without the pain, a pressure behind his eyes and under his skin that aches dully for some sort of relief. He has no idea when it started, but it’s inconvenient-- Las Nevadas still needed his full attention, like clay needed molding to get it into the perfect shape. So despite the way the world seems to spin and blur around him, he forces his legs to walk forward as he outlines a new build: everyone knew a casino town needed a loan shop.

It’s only when he’s shivering despite the hot sun on his back that he realizes the issue.

It must be nesting season for him.

Nesting season was different for all hybrids. Some grew possessive or territorial, some needed to isolate. Quackity had realized years ago that he was pretty low maintenance when it came down to it: all he needed was a warm bed and he could sleep it off.

Key words being a warm bed.

“Is something wrong, Quackity from Las Nevadas?” Slime called out to him. Quackity glanced up from where he was bent at the waist, gripping a storage chest for balance. He doesn’t remember getting into this position, but the world is still spinning in front of his eyes.

“Hm,” he hums softly, thinking about whether he should lie. There’s something vulnerable about getting caught in this state, about to pass out because he needs to get cuddled. Even if it’s a biological thing, it still feels embarrassing.

“Do you want water?” Slime says, already scavenging through their side bag of trinkets. They pull out a glass bottle of water and hold it towards Quackity. “Did you drink too much again?”

Ah, he thinks I’m hungover, Quackity realizes as he takes the bottle. He twists the top off and takes a few small tiny sips. It helps slightly, but his skin is still crawling unpleasantly. Quackity doesn’t know if Slime thinking that is any less shameful than just admitting his birds instincts are getting the most of him.

“Thanks buddy,” he says simply, handing back the bottle. Slime takes it and stuffs it away. They tilt their head curiously.

“You’re looking a little green today, Quackity! Did you eat some slime while I was gone?” they ask.

Quackity shakes his head, feeling his resolve crumble as all of Slime’s attention was on him. He pushes his shoulders back, trying to stand up straight.

“I’m fine, just feeling a little under the weather-”

“Do you need to fly above it?” Slime says, looking up. They stare at the clouds for a moment as Quackity struggles to figure out what dots were connected in the mob’s mind. “Being under the weather has never bothered you before, though, Quackity from Las Nevadas.”

“I-I don’t mean the actual weather, Charlie!” Quackity corrects them. “It’s a saying! It just means I’m feeling sick.”

“Oh!” Slime says, looking back at him.

Without any preamble, Slime grabs Quackity’s hand and tugs the man closer. Their slime skin is cool to the touch, a little moist but still pleasantly distracting. Quackity squeezes his hand mindlessly, digging into the relieving feeling. Slime’s hand is bigger than his own, but softer, more gentle as it squeezes back.

“Let’s go home then,” Slime calls to him. It feels far away despite Slime being right in front of him.

—

When Quackity sluggishly wakes up, he barely processes that he’s laying in soft blankets. Someone is softly finger combing through his hair, but for once in his life, Quackity isn’t immediately panicked by the lack of his beanie. There’s a happy chirp halfway through his mouth before he can think to stop it.

The pillow under his head chuckles a bit and the hand continues to press soothing pets into his head. Quackity doesn’t question it as he reaches out, grasping for… something. He has to uncurl and fight his way through about four blankets before he finds it. He squeezes the goopy hand that immediately tightens around his own.

“Good midnight, Quackity,” Slime greets him from above his head. Quackity almost chirps, but he swallows it down as he looks up. There’s not a lot of light in the room, and as Slime pointed out, it was night time. Still, with the weakest of lights from his bedside insomnia candle, Quackity sees Slime grinning at him.

“Feeling better? The weather is alot cooler now-” Slime points out, lifting their hand from Quackity’s head to gesture towards his balcony. Quackity groans in annoyance at the loss, tilting his head back to chase after Slime’s hand. Slime gives him a curious look.

“Is something wrong?” Slime asks.

… It’d be so easy to just ask for their hand back, but…

Quackity leans further back, and then grapples with the blankets to pull his other hand free. He reaches out blindly, grabbing Slime’s wrist and pushing it back into his hair. After just a second of hesitation, Slime returns to gently pressing their fingers into his scalp, and Quackity sighs.

He returns to his more comfortable position on Slime’s chest, pulling Slime’s hand (still holding his hand) to his chest as he nuzzles closer. The blankets around him are warm and heavy, Slime’s hand in his own keeps him grounded even as his instincts threaten to spill over.

Still, something is a bit off about the situation. He presses further in Slime’s chest before he realizes.

Slime doesn’t have a heartbeat.

Wait, Did they always not have a heartbeat? Did Quackity never realize his best friend was gooping about with no heart?

That doesn’t seem right. He tilts his head back, again making eye contact.

“Do you have a heart?” He questions. Slime blinks.

“No,” they say easily.

“Since when?” Quackity presses.

“I think I ate chicken last week--” Slime begins to say, before Quackity cuts them off.

“No, I mean a beating heart, your own heart, like,” Quackity lets go of Slime’s hand and presses their palm against his chest, right above his heart. “Like this. Like mine.”

Slime’s eyebrows pinch in concentration as Quackity watches.

Then without a thought behind those eyes, Slime squeezes his chest firmly and makes a horn honking sound.

Quackity scrambles and pushes himself up into a seated position, pulling their hand away and covering his own chest.

“DID… DID YOU JUST HONK MY--,” Quackity yells, as Slime looks at him with eyes as wide as dinner plates and a huge grin.

“Yeah! That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?” Slime says back, and Quackity has to look down and bite his lip to keep from laughing in Slime’s face. When he barely has himself under control, he looks up.

“Noo,” he shakes his head, smiling at Slime. “How would you like it if I just came over and--”

Slime puffs their chest out. “I wouldn’t mind!”

It breaks any of the resolve Quackity has left. He giggles and then full on laughs as he leans down and presses his forehead against Slime’s chest. Slime seems to take it as an invite to wrap their arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. To be fair, it’s exactly what the bird part of him wants as he stretches his wings out and pulls Slime closer. A few chirps mix in with his laugh as he snorts, and Slime giggles softly into his hair.

“You’re- You’re so lucky that you’re cute,” Quackity giggles, looking up from his place in Slime’s arms. The dizzy, uncomfortable feeling from earlier has completely left him. He feels properly held, warm and loved. And as he looks at Slime grin under the praise, he can’t help but lean up and press a kiss against the corner of their mouth.

“Thank you,” Quackity says softly as he pulls away. “You didn’t have to bring me here, or-or even lay with me. I know I can get clingy this time of year-”

“When I tried to leave earlier, you held me down,” Slime says nonchalantly, grin still on their face. Quackity blushes with embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” He starts to push himself up, but Slime pulls him back down, shaking his head.

“I don’t mind. You’re really warm,” Slime says easily. “I like being with you.”

Quackity nestles closer to the crook of Slime’s neck, pressing his face into the warmth there while gripping Slime’s arms tightly.

“I like it too, Charlie,” he says back quietly.

The two stay like this until Quackity finally falls back asleep, his bird side perfectly satiated.

#quackcicle #this ficlet is also like projection city SDFGHJ #ALSO I DIDNT READ THIS FOR MISTAKES IM SORRY #okay ive edited it now so it should be mostly alright

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nevadas-night-time-novelist · 2 years

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Deimos x former lover turned vampire

CW: Body modification, angst, self harm, blood drinking

Stalking in the night, the beast seeks its easy prey, there’s plenty of pickings around the area, anyone would do. The blood lust was unquenchable, but the years of that constant hunger had turned it into a menial task. Find some unlucky bastard, bleed them dry, and move on to the next one. And it looks like your next meal just walked past.

Scrawny looking fella, alone too. No chance he’d be able to put up much of a fight, definitely not if you got him by surprise. The hunt was on, and your silent figure began to stalk. Once a thought that would make you sick, to kill another for ones on survival, had long since become a trivial matter, you kill or you die, simple as.

His heartbeat was such a heavenly sound, all that warm blood coursing through those veins, all ripe for the taking. The chance to strike presented itself, and you wrapped a clawed hand around his mouth and dragged him into a dark and narrow alley. You began a well rehearsed monologue.

“Look man, this isn’t anything personal, but I need to eat to survive, and you were just the easiest option. I’m sorry, but hey its Nevada, we do what we must.” His heart raced, you’d caught him unaware and you knew it, his body tried to jerk away from yours, oh how you loved the fighters, they made life a little more fun.

What you weren’t expecting was for him to actually manage to slam you against the brick building, your grip on him loosening as you were momentarily stunned. A moment was all it took for the man to have a gun pointed to your forehead. “That isn’t gonna be happening, not now, not ever, scumsucker.”

You weren’t worried about the gun, you could survive a few bullets to the head, no what really derailed your train of thought was the voice, once that was familiar but aged. “Wait-Deimos?” He gritted his teeth and hissed. “How the fuck do you know who I am?”

“It’s me,” You reintroduced yourself to your old flame. “I know I don’t look much like I did then, but a lot has happened. In case it wasn’t obvious, I got picked off by some vampires, ended up coming back as one. You still look good though. At least one of us kept our good looks, eh?”

Deimos was shaken to his fucking core, never in his whole life could he have imagined you’d befall such a cruel fate once your paths in life diverged. “I, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry this happened.” He couldn’t keep himself together, tears rolled freely down his cheeks. This was beyond fucked up.

As bittersweet as this reunion was, you still needed to feed, those hunger pains shutting down what humanity you had. You were a starved beast, and Deimos was still easy pickings. He had noticed you salivating and stepped back, rubbing his eyes to quell the tears still escaping. “Y'need blood, don’t ya?”

You licked your teeth in response. He went for the knife strapped to his leg. “Look, I’m going to put trust in you, because you were once everything to me. I’m going to let you feed on me, but only a little, you will stop when I tell you, or I will put you down. I don’t want to have to, but I know how to, you got that?”

You nodded slowly, watching as Deimos rolled his jacket sleeve up and exposed his wrist, pressing the blade to his skin and letting out a sigh. He hissed quietly as he cut into himself, just enough for the blood to seep out, and you lunged for him. “HEY-”

Your tongue rolled over the wound gently, looking up at him with those synthetic eyes, the little robot face starting with heart shaped eyes. Tongue swiping up the blood that came out, but not sucking it from his veins, not without his permission. There was a fragment of humanity left in you, no matter how small, how hard the beast side of you pushed, it wouldn’t die.

He sharply sighed. “Okay, you can suck the wound, but don’t bite me, and stop when I say so.” He twitched as your artificial jaw carefully fit around his wrist, and you began to feed properly. It was a strange sensation, one he didn’t enjoy. Sanford would flip his shit if he could see this, in fact all of his team would. Hank would’ve put you down ages ago, Doc would scream at Dei till he was red in the face because of how stupid he was being, and San would do much the same.

Deimos began to feel a little faint. “Stop,” He ordered. But his blood was so good, feeding the monster that had taken the place of your brain. “I said stop.” You relented reluctantly, craving more of his life force. He stared at his drool coated wrist, a bruise forming around the cut. You were panting, your brain screaming at you to shove him into the wall and tear his throat out, but that humanity in you stopped it. Barely.

A light fog rolled over his thoughts, memories of being with you, how you could handle your own in a fight, how your abilities would’ve been enhanced by your vampirism. Shit, you’d managed to get him alone without him realising. SQ could always use someone else capable of tearing through people. All the blood you could need from their enemies.

You could still be trusted, that much was obvious, you were holding back on attacking him again, he could see it in the way you stared at his wrist, shifted uncomfortably in place. “What are you going to do after this?” He questioned.

“Find someone else to drink from, get in shelter before the red rises, same as every night.” Your reply came honestly. What a sad life. “Come with me, lets get you out of the city. I know some people that could do with your help, myself included.” You looked at him, then at the shitty alley around you. “This isn’t a life worth living, come away with me.”

That was the second time you’d heard that phrase, the first was when he swept you off your feet, running away with you into a new and exciting life. Had your heart still pumped, it would be racing. “I’ve got a few blood packs in the van you can have.” And with that you were sold.

“Lead the way ‘Mos.”

Doc stared at this newcomer sitting on the hospital bed, legs swinging back and forth while they sucked on a blood pack like a popsicle. Deimos was pleading your case, while Sanford looked on with unease, and Hank with curiosity.

Your jaw was more fucked up than his, that was a first. “Can it even be trusted?” Doc shook his head. “They’re not an 'it’ Doc, they’re just like us, just with some body mods, like Hank.” Dei retorted.

Doc faced you, finally picking your brain. “And what motivates you, what’s stopping you from simply bleeding us dry?” You waved the nearly empty blood bag in his face. “Somebody else’s blood.”

Sanford weighed in for the first time. “And if you run out of that?” “I’ll go out and find some if its night. If not, I’ll just have to endure the pain until nightfall. I can steer off it for like a week at most, I don’t need to feed every night. Any more than that and I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from turning.”

“We know how to put them down if they do go rabid, we’ve fought vamps before. Can’t you put a little faith in 'em guys? If not for their sake, for mine?” Deimos pleaded.

Hank shrugged at Doc. “I.. wanna see what they can do.” His mind filled with images of AAHW agents being torn to shreds by your claws and teeth and it got him giddy. “Sanford, thoughts?” Doc turned to him.

“I don’t want those jaws anywhere near me. But I’ll admit, I do want to see what a vamp can do, y'know, when its not me they’re trying to kill.”

Doc exhaled slowly. “Alright. You know that we know how to destroy you should you betray us. Having said that, welcome to the SQ.”

#madness combat #madcom #madness combat x reader #madcom x reader #madness combat reader insert #madcom reader insert #x gon deliver to ya #deimos #deimos x reader

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xtruss · 2 months

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“Self Proclaimed ‘WHITE’ and Political Prostitute Nimarata ‘Nikki Haley’ Randhawa (Indian Sikhani)” Lost the South Carolina Primary Back When She Was Still Governor

In Her Home State, Haley Came to Power as an Outsider and Never Won Over the Good Ol’ Boys of the Local Republican Establishment. Now They’re Supporting Trump.

— By Antonia Hitchens | February 23, 2024

Haley was born Sikhani Nimarata Nikki Randhawa at Bamberg County Hospital in Bamberg, South Carolina, to Immigrant Sikh Parents From Amritsar, Punjab, India. Her father, Ajit Singh Randhawa, was a Professor at Punjab Agricultural University, and her mother, Raj Kaur Randhawa, received her Law Degree from the University of Delhi. Joker Haley (SIKHANI) listed her “RACE” as “WHITE” on her voter registration card. WTF? 😳 Photograph by Sam Wolfe/Reuters/Redux

On Tuesday Morning, after Nikki Haley announced that she was going to give a “State of the Race” speech in Greenville, South Carolina, Donald Trump’s Presidential campaign sent out a memo titled “The End Is Near for Nikki Haley,” calling her a “wailing loser hell-bent on an alternative reality and refusing to come to grips with her imminent political mortality.” In Greenville, a small, seated crowd waited for Haley’s remarks while her usual eighties soundtrack—Tom Petty, Queen, the Go-Go’s—played. “Some of you, perhaps a few of you in the media, came here today to see if I’m dropping out of the race,” Haley said, after taking the stage. “Instead of focussing on how to make America stronger tomorrow, some people want to know if I’m going to cave today.”

In Haley’s home state, Trump leads her by thirty-six points in the polls, and he has collected endorsements from almost the entire South Carolina Republican political establishment. Haley was resolute in her speech: “The only way you get to the blessing is by going through the pain.” She’s spent the past month on a “nevertheless, she persisted”-style crusade to stay in the race, living out what sometimes seems like a chapter from her book “If You Want Something Done: Leadership Lessons from Bold Women” who wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I’m not going to talk about an obituary,” she said in New Hampshire, responding to her party’s call for her to step aside and just anoint Trump as the nominee.

Haley had long hoped to become the last woman standing against Trump—“12 fellas down. 1 to go,” she tweeted—but she’s fared poorly in a two-person race. As the only candidate on the ballot for the Nevada primary, she was counting on at least a symbolic victory—Trump would automatically get all the delegates in that state’s caucus, in which he ran unopposed, but she could at least say she won something. She came in second, making history as the first Presidential candidate from either party to lose a race to “none of these candidates.” She set her hopes on the U.S. Virgin Islands as a possible surprise triumph; Trump beat her by forty-eight points. Campaigning across Iowa and New Hampshire all winter, she often told voters how cold she was, and gestured to her “sweet state of South Carolina” as a friendly beacon awaiting her just before springtime.

Haley’s home territory wasn’t hospitable. “You’re the senator of her state, and you endorsed me. You must really hate her,” Trump said to Tim Scott, the junior senator from South Carolina, appointed by Haley. Americans for Prosperity, the super pac backing Haley, admitted that South Carolina would be a steep road. Trump’s campaign responded, “How about a rocky road straight up a mountain lined by legions of maga supporters?” The governor who tapped Haley as his successor said that her only chance of winning is “a meteor strike.” The congresswoman Nancy Mace, who owes her career in South Carolina politics to Haley, hosted a press conference on “the repeated failures of Nikki Haley.” After Tuesday’s speech, Haley’s national spokesperson, Olivia Perez-Cubas, said, “Yesterday, Nikki told the political élite for the umpteenth time that she doesn’t care what they think of her.” But what about the voters?

With Two Weeks to Go Before the South Carolina Primary, Haley unveiled a bus tour with a new name, “the Beast of the Southeast”; the bus pulled up to its stops blasting Van Halen’s “Right Now.” I spent Presidents’ Day weekend on Haley’s swing through the state, and the events often seemed like a final sanctuary for crossover voters and maga refugees, adrift in today’s version of the Party. On Sunday evening, the Beast rolled into a high-end retirement community outside Fort Mill, a peaceful enclave where residents and locals—mostly seniors—assembled to welcome Haley. “We have a misogynist and then someone who’s mentally unfit,” Logan Hedges, a health-care administrator, told me. “It’s all a sea of bullshit. Most people are still cleaving to Trump like Tiberian bats in a cave. I’d rather vote for Genghis Khan than Donald Trump. I’m a moderate person.”

After Trump declared that Haley’s donors and supporters were “permanently barred from the maga camp,” Haley framed herself as the insurgent underdog—David going after Goliath, running against Trump as the establishment candidate. Though she rejects the label of the de-facto leader of the Never Trump movement, her long-shot campaign is heartening for those who like to imagine the Party as more than a subsidiary of Trump, Inc. Her rallies recently have something of a resistance-liberal energy to them, a release valve for the not small demographic who are sick of Trump and Joe Biden.

In Fort Mill, Haley descended from the bus as a Joan Jett song played. “Why wouldn’t we go forward and have a new generational conservative leader that can leave the negativity behind?” she asked the crowd. “This isn’t normal for our kids and grandkids.” At a rally of his own in North Charleston, Trump told the crowd, “The radical-left Democrats want Nikki Haley because they know she’s easy to beat . . . and she gets angrier, crazier, and suffers deeper scars from Trump derangement syndrome, she’s got a terminal case.”

A small handful of people with signs for Nikki Haley and Joe Biden congregate outside in New Hampshire. Photograph by Hilary Swift/New York Times/Redux

“Politics in South Carolina Has a Sad Reputation as a Blood Sport,” Haley wrote in her 2012 memoir, “Can’t Is Not an Option.” When Trump came to South Carolina, he moved from calling Haley “Birdbrain” to “Brain-dead.” He opened his rally with a video clip of fried chicken accompanied by text that read, “We all know how this ends. Stick a fork in Nikki Haley. SHE’S DONE.” Trump suggested that Haley’s husband, who is serving with the National Guard in Djibouti, got himself deployed as a way to get away from her. (“Where is he? He’s gone.”) Many trace the blood-sport nature of campaigns in South Carolina to Lee Atwater, who started as a Republican political operative in the state and was known for his scorched-earth tactics, in which no attack was too far below the belt. “South Carolina voters like that combative style,” Danielle Vinson, a professor of politics at Furman University, said. “We are the first state that seceded from the Union. I always have joked about South Carolina seceded not just over slavery but because they didn’t want anybody telling them what to do, not even North Carolina. It really is that individualism, and Trump is just the embodiment of all of that. It’s baked into our DNA.”

The bickering between the two remaining candidates has fuelled the race and Haley’s fund-raising: she brought in a million dollars in the forty-eight hours after Trump attacked her husband, campaign sources told the Wall Street Journal. After months of demurring when asked to denounce Trump, Haley’s decision to finally come out against him has been a successful refresh, even if it’s cast her more as a Liz Cheney figure—a martyred custodian of traditional conservative values—than as a winner. (“The Never Trumper transformation is complete,” Trump’s senior adviser responded, when Haley declined to confirm that she would support Trump as the nominee. “Haley is no longer a rino. Haley is a Democrat.”) “It’s lonely,” Chip Felkel, a conservative South Carolina strategist, said, of Haley’s place in the state today. “You become an external critic because the Party is Trump’s.”

At an event in Irmo, just outside Columbia, a crew was setting up American and South Carolina state flags around a gazebo in the middle of the grass. A white pickup truck flying “Trump 2024” flags—ultra-maga—silently circled the park. People filtered in, many of them wearing “Too Chicken to Debate” stickers, referring to Trump, who still refuses to take the stage opposite Haley. Karen Hess, a veteran in a U.S. Army sweatshirt, told me, “Haley’s trying to get a scrap. She’s the underdog.” The Trump pickup kept silently circling for the duration of the event. “I’m a born-again believer,” a schoolteacher named Amelia Schafer told me. “I believe in miracles. God can do the impossible.”

Haley’s Story in South Carolina Politics is often summarized as a Tea Party candidate who became the face of the new South. Her path to victory in South Carolina was always as an outsider in long-shot elections. For her first race, she ran for a seat in the state House of Representatives and took on Larry Koon, the longest-serving state legislator in Columbia at the time. In a deeply Christian, conservative, and white district, Koon referred to Haley, as Trump now does, by her birth name, Nimarata Randhawa, and sent out mailers showing her with her father in his Sikh turban. When she won, she arrived at the State House and was very much excluded by the good ol’ boys. Haley’s early years in the statehouse were molded by her reaction against the state’s Republican leaders, who despised her. She tried to force lawmakers to cast every vote on the record; this annoyed her colleagues so much that they stripped her of her committee assignments. “She was more antagonistic than cultivating,” Felkel, the conservative strategist, told me. She allied herself with the Tea Party and Governor Mark Sanford; they were both at war with the rest of the state’s G.O.P.

Sanford anointed Haley as his successor, but after he was politically defenestrated because what he said was a hike along the Appalachian Trail turned out to be a trip to Argentina to see his mistress, Haley thought it was probably all over for her. Without Sanford, she had no recognition and no money. She persuaded Sanford to give her four hundred thousand dollars of his. She won after getting endorsements from Mitt Romney, Sarah Palin, and the Tea Party. “She continued as the outsider from inside the governor’s mansion,” Felkel told me. After she took office, she axed everyone who was too establishment, including some people who’d helped her. She published public report cards on how members voted. “The nature of politics is that your enemy today is your ally tomorrow. She never got that part of it,” Felkel said.

The political class had long memories for what they recalled as her pettiness and her focus on retribution. “People ask me all the time, ‘Why are you the only one?’ Well, she upset the stature of the good-ol’-boys system,” Representative Ralph Norman, the only member of Congress who has endorsed her in South Carolina, told me. Another supporter, Katon Dawson, the former state party chairman of the South Carolina Republican Party, who met Haley when she first ran for office, told me that he saw her as the hope for an expanded, less insular version of the state’s G.O.P. that never came to be.

Trump ended up becoming a successor to the Tea Party, inheriting much of its constituency and taking up the mantle of draining the swamp. In the 2016 G.O.P. primary in South Carolina, Haley stumped for Marco Rubio and railed against Trump throughout the national election cycle. Then, when Trump won and called up the state’s lieutenant governor, Henry McMaster, to ask what job he wanted in the Administration, McMaster said he simply wanted to be the governor of South Carolina, so Trump agreed to find a position for Haley, as the U.N. Ambassador. (“She was O.K., but I didn’t put her there because I wanted her there,” Trump said at a recent rally in Conway, South Carolina.)

Haley has spent the past few years revising how to position herself in relation to Trump, and her delicate balance when it came to the former President got her further than any of the “fellas” in the race. The day after January 6, 2021, Haley gave a speech at the R.N.C. and condemned Trump; soon afterward, she said she considered him a friend, but she was certain he’d never run for federal office again. She was hoping to become the new generational leader of the post-Trump G.O.P. and built out her stump speech as the next part of her precarious Trump routine. As I listened to the speech for months of her campaign, it seemed carefully conceived by someone who intended to draw in the maga base to win, but perhaps didn’t realize she’d be running against the man himself.

Of course, at this point, both Trump and Haley are insiders; both of their main residences are adjacent to golf clubs, but Haley now plays the country-club Republican while Trump claims to stand for the blue-collar working class. Achievements of hers that have played well nationally—forcing transparency on lawmakers, taking down the Confederate flag from the State House—have alienated much of the conservative establishment in her state. She could paint herself as a moderate in Iowa or New Hampshire to appeal to crossover voters, but Democrats in South Carolina remember her as an ultra-conservative Tea Party union buster. In the past few months, her favorability in her home state has fallen, while Trump’s has improved.

Haley’s New Slogan is “Make America Normal Again.” She started the second weekend of her bus tour in a picturesque mall on Kiawah Island, where she lives on a waterfront estate next to a notably posh golf resort. A small crowd assembled in a grassy square at the center of the shopping center, the sort of place where Santa or other special guests would greet shoppers, between J. McLaughlin, Southern Tide, and a wine bar. Palm trees, pastel, vests over polo shirts, floral patterns, salmon pants, topiary; couples in athleisure ensembles walked with golden retrievers and copies of the weekend New York Times.

“Right Now,” by Van Halen, played as an Escalade and a sheriff’s S.U.V. drove up trailed by the Beast of the Southeast bus. A man named Scott McGovern, who wore a Red Sox cap, said, “Who knows what’s going to happen to those two other guys? Biden’s done a wonderful job, but he’s doddering now. Maybe he has Parkinson’s.” McGovern was attending the event with his wife, who was setting up lawn chairs for the two of them. “I embrace her ambition to hang in there and not quit. It’s a real redneck state. Trump controls the state.” Many of Haley’s events had been interrupted by protesters and Trump supporters; this morning, a man walking by on his way to brunch screamed “Free Palestine!”

“A lot of people are bad-mouthing her,” Jerry Smoak, a retired advertising executive from Charleston, told me. Two Australian shepherds under the table had Haley stickers on their fur. The event was a pleasant vessel for Never Trump hope, but it also had a sense of resignation to a likely fate. Smoak went on, “We see Trump pulling in thousands of people. I’m tickled to death at the crowd here, but if Trump were here you couldn’t even get to the beach!”

The gathering in Kiawah was a slice of Haley’s imagined idyll of a normal weekend morning. “Meet Virginia,” by Train, played as moms browsed in Lilly Pulitzer with their daughters, then got Ben & Jerry’s. American flags blew peacefully in the ocean breeze, but nobody was chanting “U.S.A.!” as Trump hugged the flag. The Beaufort Bonnet Company advertised fashions “for babies & children born with a refined sense of style.” It felt like cosplaying a bygone era in politics, one that I had read about in campaign memoirs, a time when candidates took bus tours around their states and walked out to classic-rock hits as families clapped politely.

On Sunday, Haley continued on to a wedding venue in Rock Hill, where a crowd under a chandelier included young kids, many of whom took pictures with the candidate. The event seemed designed as a poignant expression of a desire for bipartisanship over polarization; Democrats cheered for Congressman Norman, of the ultra-right Freedom Caucus, one of Haley’s only backers in the state. “Don’t give up!” the crowd shouted.

South Carolina is a winner-take-all state, so even an encouraging amount of support for Haley won’t translate to delegates. In every Presidential race since 1980, save for a fluke in 2012, the G.O.P. nominee has always won the South Carolina primary. Times have changed since the last time Haley won an election, in 2014. Trump handily took South Carolina in 2016, when Haley was, as she is now, speaking her hard truths about his shortcomings. South Carolina is the fastest-growing state in the nation, and also far more demographically representative of the country than other early states—a failed inroad here does not bode well for future contests. Even if some voters like Haley, they love Trump, just as they strongly preferred his style over those of Jeb Bush and Marco Rubio eight years ago. Still, Haley’s speech reaffirming her dedication to running was her stern reminder that she won’t be bullied out of the race by Trump. “We don’t anoint kings in this country, we have elections,” she repeats.

In the ballroom in Rock Hill, I stopped to talk to Wayne, a Vietnam veteran who had just retired to the area because his kids lived there. “He’s here because he wants to be open to democracy, open to listen,” his daughter told me. Wayne said, “I don’t think Haley has the strength to turn this country around. Just another puppet. She’s going to subscribe to the current deep-state crap.” He went on, “Trump is fighting a battle against the current regime. The only thing we have is we’re waiting for the military to finally come in and take control of this country. He’s a wartime President. That’s the posse comitatus. What’s going to happen, it’s going to be martial law, what they’re going to do is clean out all the deep state to whatever extent they can.”

On Tuesday, in Haley’s “State of the Race” remarks, for the first time, when she got to the part of her stump speech in which she mentions her husband’s deployment, her voice broke, and she started to cry for a second. “Look at this normal, real person we could have as president,” Haley’s communications director tweeted, as the Internet parsed her rare display of emotion. In 2008, when Hillary Clinton teared up while talking to a group of undecided voters in New Hampshire, many treated the episode as a ploy, studying the tape, analyzing the tears against her chances, and declaring that she pretended to cry as a strategy. Now Haley’s last stand seemed conceived as a moving counterpoint to Biden and Trump’s bids for office. “My own political future is of zero concern,” she said.

As Haley delivered a classic political speech, talking about childhood-literacy rates and e-mails she gets from a mom who wants America to be normal again, a crowd of hundreds of Trump supporters was gathering nearby at an airport to welcome the former President when he landed in his plane, which he calls Trump Force One. He took a motorcade to the Greenville Convention Center, to do a town hall with Laura Ingraham. Jesse Absher, an electrician who came to Haley’s Rock Hill event alone, having cut ties with much of his family over their support for Trump, told me, “She’s the only damn alternative.” Haley still maintains that, as President, she would pardon Trump if he were convicted of a crime—to help the country heal, instead of dividing it further. It seems like much of her party isn’t ready to go back to normal yet. “He normalized crime—these things that we all have a part of us that wants, he made these things O.K.,” Absher said. “He made the government fail, and our people see that as a good thing.” I asked Absher if she could win any of them over. “No,” he said. “It’s a drug. They’re hooked.” ♦

Nikki Haley with her Indian Parents, Father and Mother. Hypocritically she proclaimed herself “WHITE 😂😂😂.”

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teddy06writes · 3 years

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You Didn't Need Us Then, We Don't Need You Now

Requested by this anon: "Okay I thought of this idea during Fundy's stream. Quackity and reader were engaged to Karl and Sapnap, but they left because of Karl losing his memory and Sapnap paying more attention to him. Quackity and reader then created Las Navadas to try and cope with everything that's happened to them. They created a little wedding area where they planned to get married with Sap and Karl. Flash forward to a year or two later, Karl and Sap stumble across Las Navadas and their two former fiancees. And they see everything they've done, including the little wedding area. which is perfectly designed as to how they wanted their wedding together. That's is as far as I got to the imagine in my head. If you could make a fic out of it that would be cool. If not at least you have this cute imagine in your head! 😊"

{Okay, so- so man feels, so many ideas. I haven't seen all of the Los Nevadas streams yet because I've got a lot of school stuff going on, but, I think I have a pretty good idea of what's going on. [also Slime from The Ground my beloved]}

Quackity x reader; Past: Sapnap x Karl x Quackity x reader

trigger warnings: maybe some swearing, slight descriptions of a panic attack, slight drinking

premise: After L'manburg was destroyed, two of your fiancées seemed to disappear. With just Sapnap left, you had been scared, but he assured you that the right thing to do was split up to try and find Quackity and Karl. And, well, you found Quackity, but when He found Karl.... something else had taken over, and suddenly Kinoko Kingdom was more important than finding you and quackity again. But thats fine. You and Quackity had been together in the begining, so what did you need from the other two? Las Nevadas could fill the void they left,,, and it did, until they happened to come knocking, right as you were finally moving on.

{Also, parental unit for everyone in Las Nevadas, I love it, brain is going brr so hard}

{also also, purpled is the forgotten eldest child of the server and no the ufo does not get blown up}

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It's gone, (y/n) it's all gone," You said with disbelief, staring over the barren, ashy place that had once been L'manburg and El Rapids, "We couldn't stop him."

Sapnap took in a shaky breath, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, "We were never could have. Even if the supplies weren't destroyed."

The remaining people had already cleared out, but you had only now come to see the damage, having been forced away from the battle by your fiancées.

"I could have helped." You fell to your knees, still staring at the wreckage.

Sapnap could only sigh at the broken look on your face. You had lost the only home you'd ever known, but what had he lost? Well, for one thing, Karl.

Karl was still no where to be found, and now it seemed that Quackity had disappeared.

He fiddled with the purple band that circled one of his fingers, "Look- we- we need to find Quackity and Karl. Q looked pretty bad the last time I saw him, and Karl-"

Resolutely you nodded, dragging yourself to stand, "Karl is Karl. He'll be happy that his statue missed being blown up. I think its Q we should be worried about. This place- El Rapids- that was everything to him."

"Well- how about you go find Quackity, and I go find Karl. We're bound to find them eventually if we split up." He offered.

You studied the look on his face, "You're covering for him. What's going on?"

Sapnap only shook his head.

Crossing your arms you turned toward the hill, and what was left of the prime path, "Quackity has the deed to some land. North of Spawn. Meet us there once you kind K, alright?"

"Okay." He said softly, leaning over to press a soft kiss on your cheek.

"Be safe." You advised, already starting away.

It didn't take you very long to track down your Fiancé, in all the time you'd known him (much longer than you'd known the others), he hadn't changed too much.

So, when you made your way through the twisted paths near Pogtopia, he was up on the ridge, sitting on the rock that had for so long, doubled as a bench.

"It's good to see you're safe." You hugged your arms to your body, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

As soon as you were sitting next to him, he was leaning on you, "He destroyed everything- all that work- El Rapids-"

"I know." You wrapped your arms around him, finally letting your own tears fall, "I know."

"What are we gonna do? I just wanted a place for us- I just- I wanted to make a place for us- all we asked for was recognition- and now the only place that saw was recognizing us is gone."

It had taken a while for Quackity to stop talking about everything that had been destroyed. Even then he kept asking, "But- Just wanted to make a place for you guys, how are we gonna do that now?"

"We can still make a place," You assured him, even as you yourself were unsure, "We'll make our own little country. So far out where no one will be able to blow it up."

He seemed to take to the idea quickly, and that night, as the two of you sat together in the camp that had been made within the caverns of Pogtopia, he talked feverently of the country you two would make.

He talked of buildings, of businesses, and of wedding venues. The plans he made up that night, they were almost enough to make you forget about what had happened to your home.

"What about that land north of spawn?" You suggested, letting your head rest back on his shoulder.

Quackity thought about it for a moment, "I mean- its just some desert, but I think we could make it work."

"Good, I told Sap to meet us there once he found Karl."

He nodded, "We'll head up there, and start getting everything ready, and then when they're ready they can come up."

~~ This was how three months came to pass, with the busyness of planning the new city, the beginning of construction, the meetings with Sam to plan for the new economic system that the new country would spread through the lands.

Yet you still felt off. It had been that long and Karl and Sapnap had never returned, something must have gone horribly, horribly wrong. It nagged at you, constantly, Drove you sick with anxiety somedays.

"(y/n)."

You looked up from the designs for the next casino you had been going over, "Sam! I didn't know you were visiting today! What can I do for you?"

"Uhhh, I wasn't planning on it, you better come out here- it's Quackity, we had been discussing- some things. I don't know what happened but when he passed back through-" The creeper hybrid trailed off.

You quickly stood, rushing passed him and through the hall to the courtyard where Sam had left him, gasping for breath and tugging at his hair.

In an instant you were kneeling beside him, "Breath baby, breath."

"They- he- George- Kinoko- Sap- left- on purpose-" He blubbered.

"Hey, Q," You took his hands as gently as you could, "look at me. Breath, breath with me. Come on, breath."

Slowly, he began to calm down, and by the time Sam was long gone he slowly began to explain what happened.

"I was heading back from talking with Sam, I saw George outside the prison. He kept talking about something- about- Kinoko Kingdom..." He sighed.

"Kinoko- what?" You asked, confused.

He let his head drop into his hands, "Karl and Sapnap.... started another country- called Kinoko Kingdom... they didn't even wait for us."

You felt your heart drop, if you hadn't been holding his hands yours would've been shaking, "What-"

Quackity could only nod shakily as he pulled you into his arms.

"I told him to come back here- I told- why didn't they-" You muttered absently.

The only noise in the courtyard was from the fountains, and the small sniffles from the two of you.

You were still in a state of semi-shock and sadness when you felt his arms tighten around you.

"We don't need them anyway. Las Nevada's can prosper without them."

~~ "Purpled? You want to get him in on this?" Quackity frowned.

You shrugged, "He's a mercenary, he could be of some help around here."

Your fiancé studied your face for a moment, "No, that's not it. Why do you really want him here?"

"Look, he's-" You sighed, "The kids been through a lot. He doesn't really have anything anymore, he needs somewhere, someone at least. We owe that too him at least."

After a moment, he nodded, "I haven't spoken to him since I paid him for his help with that egg mess. He- didn't seem to like me being around."

"I'll try to find him, he'd talk to me, I'm sure of it." You stood up from your seat at the table.

"You're going now?" He asked, following you across to the coat room.

You nodded, tugging on your boots, "If I want to make it through to the Greater SMP before it gets dark. I'll see if Eret will let me stay the night, then I'll head out again."

"Be careful." Quackity advised once you were ready.

You pecked at his lips, "I always am."

The journey to the Greater SMP went quickly, and after a nights stay in Eret's castle, you had made your way to the UFO, disappointed to find it seemingly abandoned.

"How the hell am I supposed to find him if the one place he ever seems to be is empty." You muttered, glancing around the base of the UFO.

You shrugged off your knapsack, dropping it to the side, followed by the sword that had been at your hip, and then you began to climb.

Even the inside of the UFO was completely empty, devoid of any chests, crafting tables, or furnaces.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

You jumped, turning to find Purpled, in full netherite, sword gripped tight in his hand.

"I- We've been looking for you." You fumbled for an explanation, holding up your hands in a sort of surrender.

He scoffed, "I already did a job for you people, I'm busy now."

"Not for a job Purpled!" You couldn't help but exclaim, "Some people actually try to find you for more than just that."

"Then what do you want?" He snapped.

"Did Q tell you about Nevadas?"

Purpled frowned, "Yeah, he mentioned it."

"Well, I think you should join. Come in on the project."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

You sighed, "Look, Purpled, you- everyone here, in this smp, they don't care, they don't bother to know you. You- you don't really have a place here-"

"You think I don't know that?" Purpled's grip on his sword tightened.

"So, If you come with us, join Las Nevadas, you can have a place- have people who care. You need people, Purpled."

"I don't Need anyone." He insisted.

You sighed, "Someday your going to have to see that that's not true. Please consider joining Las Nevadas, no one here cares, but we do."

"That's not true," He said bitterly, "You just need me to do another god damned job."

With a shake of your head you turned, preparing for the climb back down, "Purpled, this smp isn't kind to children, but I think it's been the most unfair to you. Out here your being forgotten, but you might not be if you join us."

At the base of the UFO you were surprised to find a strange, slimly looking boy digging through your bag.

"Hey!" You yelled, "Don't touch that! It's not yours!"

He looked up and froze, realizing he'd been caught.

You snatched your things away from him, quickly unsheathing your sword, "Who are you?"

"Uhhhh, I'm a meat person- same as you!" He offered.

"You- you're- uh-" You sputtered for a moment confused, "Why were you touching my things?"

"Uhhhhh, Dap me up!" He said avoiding the question.

You stared at him for a moment, "I don't have time for this."

As you started back toward the prime path you heard him call, "Nice to meet you (y/n) from Las Nevadas!"

"How do you know my name?" You demanded, whirling around.

"Oh, I know a lot of things." He laughed, "I see lots 'a stuff."

You frowned, "Uh huh. I'm gonna- walk away now."

~~ A week had passed, and there was still no signs of Purpled, nor Fundy or Foolish, (both of whom Quackity had gone to speak to whilst you were away), coming to Las Nevadas.

You were sure that Purpled would come around eventually, but had no faith that anyone else would join Las Nevadas, until you had heard a strange noise in the night.

It had been a cross between a clang and a yell, and then almost like something being dragged.

You had been going over some of the contracts you had been preparing for if anyone ever did show up when you'd heard it, and your fiancé seem to be gone from his own office, and your bedroom even, so quickly you armed yourself with your sword before hurrying out after the noise.

The streets of Las Nevadas were still partially lit by street lamps as you hurried along, it didn't take you long to find your fiancé, just outside of city limits, pacing In front of a strange looking hole.

"What the hell are you doing?" You hissed.

"Hey! It's (y/n) from Las Nevadas!"

You jumped at the voice, turning to see that no, the hole wasn't green, that the same slime boy from before was sitting in it.

"You! What are you doing here?!" You exclaimed.

"Quackity from Las Nevadas put me in this hole!" He said cheerfully.

Quackity grabbed your shoulder, turning you away from Slime and the hole, "You know him?"

"He was trying to look through my stuff after I talked to Purpled," You explained, glancing back over at the hole, "Said he sees just about everything, uhh, as far as I can tell, he's like the hybrids- but- weirder."

"Nope! I'm just a totally goopless guy! I'm bones and stuff!" He called from the hole.

"Oh god we have crazy people here." Quackity muttered scrubbing a hand over his face.

You moved to crouch next to the hole, "What- uh- What are you doing here buddy?"

"Oh I'm just oozing around. Dap me up!"

Confused, you complied, nervously laughing as he grinned at the handshake.

"I found him spying in the restaurant." Quackity sighed.

"What's spying?" The boy in the hole asked, "I just listen."

"Yeah well tell me exactly what you heard or I'll ill you right now!" Quackity threatened, pulling out his sword.

He hummed, "Well, I saw you, and I saw (y/n) from Las Nevadas. And there was a green guy, and a purple guy. I know of a Red guy, dead guy but he's not dead anymore-"

Your breath hitched, "Dead guy?"

"Yeah, looked real ashy- maybe even ...sooty?..." He confirmed.

Quackity glanced back at you, "And he's not dead anymore?"

"No. He's weird now. Got gray hair instead of grey skin. Used to run a country- got blown up though."

"How much have you seen man?" You asked, incredulous.

He shrugged, "I mean, I move slow but I've seen a lot. Lately a lot of conversations about taking advantage of the ever so fragile human psyche through gambling."

"Holy shit." you muttered.

Quackity glared up into the night sky, almost looking for an answer.

Shifting closer too look at the boy you frowned, "What's all that green stuff?"

"Oh- those are just- my totally normal- human parts! I'm a person!" He grinned.

You sighed, "Uhh, look, what's your name? Like how I'm (y/n) from Las Nevadas, who are you?"

"Oh, I'm goop from the ground!" He smiled for a moment before realizing his mistake, "I mean- I'm a meat person!"

Quackity still seemed to be praying to the sky, not paying any attention.

"Goop from the ground," You muttered, slowly connecting the dots, "Well, uhh, goop, how bout I give you a regular person name?"

"A person name? Oh boy!" He laughed.

You thought for a moment longer, "How about- Charlie?"

Charlie grinned, somehow even wider than before, "Woah! I have a real human name! Like any other regular human meat person!"

"Yep, you do." You chuckled.

"And, to be clear, I definitely am one of those, and not a piece of goop, that's slowly come to the surface, hiding as a person!"

As you continued to talk with Charlie, Quackity seemed to come to a realization, "He's like an accidental spy!"

And, when you helped him out of the hole Quackity was quick to say, "Well, this- this- was- was uh a formal greeting! Yeah that's what we call them!"

"Wow!" Charlie mused.

The walk back to Las Nevadas was quiet, until Charlie turned to you, "(y/n) from Las Nevadas, if I'm Charlie- where- where?"

You smiled, "Do you want to be Charlie from Las Nevadas?"

By the end of the same week, after having gotten Charlie fully on board, and slight agreement from Foolish, word finally came from Purpled.

You'd been working on the next phase of the whole Nevadas Project when Charlie rushed in, "(y/n) from Las Nevadas! There's someone here!"

You frowned, "Who?"

"Purpled from UFO!" He practically yelled.

Standing, you tucked your papers away, "That's perfect Charlie, thank you. Do you want to come with to help show him around?"

He nodded, following you out of your office.

Outside, you found Purpled, along with his dog, looking up at the casino in awe.

"Purpled! You came!" You called cheerfully.

The boy turned, a strange expression you couldn't read on his face, "What? No 'I told you so'? No 'I knew you'd come around eventually'?"

You shrugged, "I'm just glad you finally came."

He sighed, "It's not like they needed me anywhere else."

You put a hand on his shoulder, "That's alright, We need you here."

"They- I went to tell Ponk I was leaving," Purpled sounded too broken, too tired, "He said he was too busy to talk to me."

Before you could say anything, he continued, "I had a house, near L'Manhole. I- I uh blew it up, to see what would happen," His shoulders began to shake, ever so slightly, as he finished in a whisper, "No one even noticed."

In one quick move you wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him into a hug, "It's okay Kid, it'll be okay now."

That was how your fiancé found you, standing outside the main casino, a teen all but sobbing into your shirt, Charlie looking on confused.

And so, the time passed, Las Nevadas grew, and you and your new little family did along with it.

Quackity found it funny, really, your ability to bring people onto your side be connecting with them emotionally, and as he put it, all but adopting them.

Charlie still took up a room in the apartments you and Quackity staid in above the offices. Purpled would come over when things around the country weren't so busy, and you'd talk for hours, Foolish joining in some of the time.

Fundy, on his first night in the city, had broken down to you, the same as Purpled, but you'd helped him put himself together. Though Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo didn't have official places in Las Nevadas, it seemed a chunk of their time was spent there.

Yep, that was your new strange family. You, Your fiancé and the kids but not really young enough to still be kids you accidently adopted.

Now, you reflected on this quietly, from the top of the needle.

"You okay?" Quackity asked softly, looking over at you.

You chuckled softly, "Can you believe that it's been two years?"

"No, can you?"

You shook your head, "You know, I've been thinking. A long time ago, you told me we were better off with out Karl and Sapnap."

He watched silently, as you pulled the other two rings that you had kept, holding them up by the chain they were strung on.

"Maybe- you were right- and maybe it's finally time to get married. Just us. We didn't need them to get here, we won't need them for anything else."

A small smile slipped onto Quackity's lips, "Would you marry me?"

"You already know the answer to that." You chuckled.

"So it's a yes?"

"Obviously." You scoffed.

"When should we have the ceremony then?" He asked.

"Right now," You mused, "We opened that wedding hall for a reason, right? We could get married proper, right now. It's already decorated the way Tubbo originally planed."

He laughed, "Let's do it tomorrow that way we have time to get like, notices out and shit."

You smiled, "Of course."

The sun had begun to set during this discussion, and you looked out over the peaceful landscape with a soft sigh, yes, this, this was home.

And even as you heard Charlie tripping and crashing his way up the stairs, the thought still filled your head.

"Quackity and (y/n) from Las Nevadas!" He exclaimed, "Purpled from Las Nevadas found some people by the border!"

In an instant, both you and Quackity were standing, "What were they doing?"

"Looking around, real weird like. Fundy From Las Nevadas said they might be here to attack us! I hope they aren't."

You followed Quackity past him and back down from the tower, drawing your sword as Charlie called out where he had left Purpled and the mystery people.

What you found was not what you expected.

Purpled stood, sword drawn and pointed at the men you least expected to see now.

Karl looked scared, tucked back behind Sapnap who was moving to draw his own sword.

Not another move!" You barked, moving to stand in line with Purpled.

Karl's face light up upon seeing you, "(y/n)! Quackity! I missed you!"

"Did you?" Quackity spit.

"Sapnap drop your sword." You commanded, not paying attention to the strange look on their faces, no one, and I mean no, pulled a sword on your family.

He frowned, "Wh- (y/n) don't be like that. I get it- but- why..."

"What are your intentions? Why have you come here?" You asked.

"We wanted to find you!" Karl said, "We missed you (y/n)."

"Uhh, that's (y/n) from Las Nevadas to you." Charlie said.

Quackity sighed, grabbing Charlie by the collar and pulling him back, "Sorry- he's been learning sass and sarcasm lately."

"Still, what are you doing here?" You pushed.

"We wanted to find you! You've been gone so long, we thought we'd go looking." Sapnap explained.

"We've been gone?" You scoffed, "You were the ones who disappeared."

Karl moved forward, grabbing your left hand, and Quackity's right, "We just wanted to come back, to finally get married."

You pulled away, slowly sheathing your sword, "You can't be serious?"

"What do you mean?" Karl asked, the smile just beginning to drip off his face.

"You fucking left us- We were just trying to make a place for the four of us to be safe and you left us! And now you want back? Out of the blue?" Your voice steadily grew louder, "You cannot show up here after abandoning us like that!"

Quackity gently took your hand, murmuring, "(y/n)..."

"No. They don't get to do this!" You turned to him, watching his face change upon seeing the mix of anger and sadness in your eyes.

"W- We'll talk about this tomorrow, away from the kids," He asserted, for once not earning any protest about age from Purpled or Fundy, "Charlie, you think you can take these guys on a tour of the place?"

He nodded eagerly, "This way this way!"

As Sapnap, Karl, Purpled and FUndy began to trudge after him, Quackity turned to you, "(y/n)?"

You just shook your head, pulling your hand out of his and starting away.

~~ Purpled had followed the tour party quietly, taking a page from Charlie's book and watching, observing everything.

He had seen the pain in your face at the suggestion of marriage, and the anger in Quackity's just upon seeing them.

So, he followed the men warily, watching the way Karl exclaimed about how he had built an Effile tower just like the one in the city in Manberg, and the way that Sapnap mentioned fondly how the décor at the wedding hall matched the ones you two had always spoken about.

Hearing it nearly drove him mad. Did they not realize that it had all been for them? That dreams of them arriving were the only thing that had ruled Your and Quackity's minds?

When Charlie had directed the group, which by now included some of the other tourists, past one of the bars, he stopped.

Inside, Quackity was slumped at the bar, a bottle of whiskey in hand.

"Drinking away your problems won't solve them." Purpled sighed, pulling the bottle away from him.

"We were doing so good without them. You know that Purp. But here they are, back and ready to fuck things up again. That's how it's always been." He muttered.

The boy shook his head, "They don't realize how destructive they are? Do they?"

"Never have." He sighed.

"Lets get you back home."

Quackity allowed himself to be manhandled into standing, and then led out of the bar, back toward the offices, and toward the apartment.

"(y/n) will figure it out. They always do." Purpled assured him, pulling open the apartment door and ushering him in.

"But they shouldn't have too," He sighed, running a hand through his hair, not bothered by the way his beanie fell to the floor, "They've dealt with so much without help. Yet they're always the ones to help us."

Once he had wrangled Quackity into the bedroom, Purpled headed back out, finding Fundy at the base of the Needle, "They up there?"

"Yeah," The hybrid sighed, "Quackity?"

"Got drunk. He's- painfully coherent though." He winced.

Fundy ran a hand through his hair, "It's hard to believe one of the nicest people around is the one to fuck them up like this."

"Makes perfect sense to me," Purpled said as they began to make their way toward the stairs, "My first night here- I was having a hard time, because- the whole server acted like I didn't exist. (y/n) told me about how Sapnap and Karl had abandoned them."

"Did it seem this bad though?" Fundy asked.

"No- but that was before they turned up again talking about marriage."

By now they had reached the top of the tower, and Purpled could see where you sat by the ledge, feet dangling over. Quietly, they both sat down on either side of you.

"How's Q?" You asked quietly after a moment.

"Drunk, but back at your apartment, well supplied with water." Purpled reported.

You nodded, "And K and- Karl and Sapnap?"

"Waaay to blissfully ignorant." Fundy said.

Quiet held you three in silence for a moment, until at last Purpled sighed, asking, almost bitterly, "So- are you gonna marry them? You were going to once."

"Even if I did it wouldn't change anything here." You mumbled.

"Sapnap was talking about how cool it would be to come back and visit from Kinoko after the honeymoon." Fundy admitted.

Before you could say anything Purpled drew one of his knees to his chest, "I- don't- it feels like they'd be taking you away from us- I like it the way it is. Things are nice, and they're just fucking it up."

Fundy nodded, "As much as I hate to say it, he's right. If you people all get married nothing will be the same. I kind of liked having parental figures, I don't want them messing that up."

"They won't." You promised softly.

By god, if you hadn't already made up your mind, their words would've swayed you.

~~ After a while, you stood, "Let's go home."

They followed you tiredly, Charlie joining the mini procession at one intersection, telling you that Sapnap and Karl had gone to get a hotel room.

At the apartment, Quackity was sitting on the couch, already seeming more sober than Purpled had told you. When you sat next to him, his arms were quick to wrap around you, holding you like a lifeline.

Charlie took his place on the other side of the couch, Purpled curled up in the armchair, and Fundy dug around until he found one of the old projectors he'd left there, queuing up a movie.

"Hey, just like on Nightmare's days!" Charlie laughed, referring to the infamous 16th, where, just about every month it seemed you, Fundy, Quackity and sometime Purpled would have nightmares of the Manburg Pogtopia war, and everyone would congregate in the living room to watch one of Fundy's movies.

"Sure as hell feels like one." Quackity muttered.

And so you watched the movie, though your thoughts drifted, thinking of how you would deal with your reappearing ex-fiancés.

As you thought, you created a mini script in your head. Exactly what you would say came you.

"You didn't need us then, and we don't need you now."

Yes, you thought, leaning more into Quackity's side, thats what you'd say, after you talked about your new family.

(and the next day, you did just that)

#mcyt x reader #quackity x reader #quackity imagines #sapnap x karl x quackity x reader #karlnapity #karlnapity x reader #teddy 06 writes #teddy06 #teddy 06 #I was going to write the full confrontaion #but I didn't have it in me

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anagentinwriting · 3 years

Text

Lifeline - Part 18

Summary: (First Responders!AU) Moving to Los Angeles and living with your brother, Thor, was never part of your plan nor was being a 9-1-1 dispatcher, but plans change when you are faced with your own emergencies. In your case, it was leaving behind a relationship that wasn’t as perfect as it seemed. Will this be the fresh start you were hoping for or will your past find a way to catch up with you?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Odinson!Sister Reader

Word Count: 3800+

Warnings: Angst, blood, violence

Lifeline Masterlist / Main Masterlist

After receiving information from dispatch about the location of Billy’s cell phone, Thor called in an anonymous tip to Fury’s team, but instead of waiting around, Nat and Thor pulled onto the interstate, following the cellphone south to San Diego.

Thor stared out the window, resting his elbow on the window railing with his chin in his hand. “I’m sorry, Natasha, for acting like a jerk earlier. I know you were doing your job and following orders. I would’ve done the same.”

“We’ve good,” Nat replied, giving him a once over. “You doing okay?”

“I keep thinking everything will be okay, and everything will work out--” he rubbed his eyes “--but um, I don’t know… I don’t know what we are going to find when we get there? Is she gonna be mad at me, is she going to be hurt, is she gonna be…” Thor took in a sharp breath, clearing his throat. “Billy threatened to kill her once before, you know, and he almost killed Steve. I’m afraid of what we are going to find.”

“Don’t think like that,” Natasha reassured, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll find her.” She bit her lip, nodding to herself for her own reassurance. “YN’s strong…and with everything she went through, she rebuilt her life and herself. Billy might have her, but I have a feeling he has no idea who he is dealing with now.”

Thor nodded, “If Billy lays another one of his grimy hands on her, he will suffer a fate worse than death. He’ll be…”

“More dead?” Nat asked, trying to contain a chuckle in this highly stressed situation.

“Yes, but I was thinking more like being stuck in rush hour traffic for the rest of his life,” Thor smirked, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Oh yes, that sounds so much worse.”

_____________

“Where are we going?” You questioned, sneaking a peek at Billy, gripping the steering wheel.

“We’re starting over. I’m saving us from this tricky situation you put us in.”

You leaned back into your seat, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Right, because everything is my fault,” you grimaced, rolling your eyes. “Why don’t you get it over with and kill me? I mean, isn’t that your plan.”

“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA,” Billy retorted, widening his eyes. “I can’t imagine my life without you. Why would I want to kill you, YN; I love you. You’re all I have.”

“But, that’s it, you don’t have me,” you mumbled, wringing your hands together. “I just never got a say in the matter.”

He huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “What’s with this attitude?”

“Well…what more do I have to lose? I lost my friends and family…like yesterday, and now, you’re all I have,” you admitted with a shrug. “It’s what you wanted, right? Me and you, both ghosts, living in the shadows, or did this car come with new identities, too? Oh wait, is that what’s in the duffle bag in the backseat?”

“Why would you think that?” He narrowed his eyes, licking his lips.

“Well, a creepy guy with a scar and milky eye drops off a car at a gas station. Now, doesn't that sound like the start of a bad joke? I mean, he definitely didn’t look like a criminal or a bad guy in his dark suit, and his name sounded so original, Agent Orange. I think I know a few people by that name.” You pressed your lips together, tilting your head. “On the other hand, if he looked like a dad, wearing crispy white boys on his feet, jean shorts, and a polo shirt. It would have been an immediate red flag.”

Billy smirked, shaking his head. “Luckily for you, you don’t have to worry. I have our lives all planned out, but I did miss your snarky attitude. Whatever happened to it?”

“I will give you a hint,” you leaned over the center console, “if you look in a mirror, you could probably spot the reason.”

“Touche,” He added, cracking a smile, making the corners of his dark eyes crinkle. He gently grabbed your hand in his, sending an unpleasant shiver through your body, and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of your hand. You tried not to make a face as he lowered your conjoined hands back onto the center console.

“I want you to know it isn’t going to be like this forever. We’ll get past this like we always do. I will forgive you, you will forgive me, and we’ll start over in this new city, meet new people, and create a whole new life for ourselves.” He squeezed your hand. “You can forget about the life you created yourself because you're never going back to that. This is our chance to start over...together.”

____________

Nat pulled up behind two other police cruisers and a Chrysler 300 Black Sedan. Thor jumped out before she could get it into park and jogged up to the Chrysler but was stopped by Fury's hand.

“Thor, for what do I owe this pleasure?” Fury asked, his one eye-widening, looking him up and down.

“Is she here? Is my sister here?” Thor gulped, looking past Fury to try and get a better look, but the officers were retreating away from the vehicle.

“No, she’s not.” Thor’s shoulder sank, letting out a breath. “But, I assume you were the one who called in the anonymous tip.”

“Me… anonymous tip…no, no, that doesn’t sound like something I would do.” He shook his head while Nick stared him down.

“Odinson, I listened to the tape, and it sounded just like you.”

“Did it? Huh?” Thor rubbed his chin, staring hard at the ground.

“Seeing it will be better if we just work together at this point. I want you to know that we were able to recover the video surveillance from your sister's home, and we can confirm it was her husband, Billy Russo.”

“I told you this. I told you the night it happened.” Thor shook his head. “And it’s her ex. Ex-husband,” Thor corrected, placing his hands on his hips. “So what…we have nothing now?”

“Russo is smart and is playing his moves carefully. He knows what he is doing, making all the right moves, but he'll mess up, and when he does, we will find him.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from him given his background,” Nat stated, coming up to stand next to Thor. “Are we even sure this is the right vehicle?”

Fury narrowed his eyes at her, raising his voice. “Believe it or not Ms. Romanoff, but we do know how to track a phone and find a vehicle.” She smirked at his change in attitude. “And for your information, there was a 911 call placed earlier this morning from a gas station near San Diego. A mother and daughter found a note with YN’s name, Russo’s name, the vehicle description, and the license plate number. It said to give this information to the police. This would explain how Russo’s phone ended up in this car.” Nick pointed over his shoulder at the Chrysler. “YN made a smart move, but Russo must have pulled a fast one on her and switched cars at the last minute, so it doesn’t do us much good right now.”

“Did they see YN at all? Was she okay? Was she hurt...”

Fury held up his hand, and Thor shut his mouth. “Yes. The woman mentioned her looking a little beaten up but seemed hopeful.”

“When I find this bastard, I am going to…” Thor bit his tongue, clenching his fist and punching it into his palm. He mumbled to himself, shaking his head, stepping away from them.

“How’s your friend in the hospital? Any word yet?” Fury asked Nat, who narrowed her eyes at the scene behind him.

“He’s in recovery now. They're keeping a close eye on him.”

“Good.” Fury’s eye caught on to Thor’s unexplainable gestures while he paced back and forth. “What would you say about getting your friend a bulletproof vest; he looks like he could do something reckless.”

“I do have an extra one in the cab; I’ll give it to him for safe measure.”

“Excellent.”

“Since this is the correct car, who is the man behind the wheel? Any connection to Russo?” Nat questioned, staring at the black sedan. Thor returned, giving Nat a reassuring nod.

“We haven’t looked into much yet, but his name is William Rawlins. He is the COO of Cerberus and says it’s a company vehicle but doesn’t know who used it before him. He checked it out to run a quick errand over his lunch break, but we are headed back to his office now to look over the record logs.”

“What’s Cerberus?” Thor asked, looking between Nat and Nick for more information.

“It’s a security firm in San Diego, but I think they have different branches all over the country now. It protects public officials, and they also have a private investigating sector that started up a few years ago. I was on a case with one of their ‘agents’ as they call themselves, and he was an asshole.” Nat informed him, Nick nodded in agreement.

“Sounds a lot like Anvil,” Thor added, rubbing a hand over his scruff. “If this is a company vehicle, then someone must be helping Billy. For all we know it’s this Rawlins, and he’s playing us.”

“As much as we want to speculate at this point, it’s too early to tell.” Nat shrugged, and Fury nodded.

“Why would Cerberus remind you of Anvil? What is this Anvil?” Nick inquired, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, it’s a security firm Billy works at in New York City. He’s in the private investigating sector there.”

“Is there any reason to believe that Anvil is a branch of Cerberus?” Nat raised a brow at him, and Thor narrowed his eyes, processing the information.

“If there is a connection between the two, this could be it,” Nick answered.

_____________

You sat back in the passenger seat, opening up the glove box, seeing a map of California, New Mexico, Nevada, and Arizona. “Where is this new home of ours going to be?”

“You’ll see,” Billy replied with his elbow resting on the door and his head in his hand.

“What are you going to expect me to do? Am I going to get a job, or are you going to make me stay at home and be your trophy wife?”

“Would that be a bad thing? It’s not like you liked being a 911 dispatcher.”

You swallowed, wringing your hands together. “But, I did.”

He scoffed, shaking his head.“You like being in the action, getting dirty in the line of duty, and seeing it first hand. You don’t like being behind a desk, waiting to answer a monitor every time a call comes in.”

“I might not be where the action is, but I am still helping people. I might not see them or get to meet them, but I’m here to help them with whatever they are going through. Using your voice to help is hard, but sometimes that’s all people need to hear to put them at ease and give them a sense of safety.”

“Hmmm, okay,” he snorted, smirking into his hand.

“You have to give me something.”

“I don’t have to give you anything,” he grumbled, running his hand through his hair.

“Well, how do you expect me to trust you again if you don’t tell me what’s going on?”

He licked his lips, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “Trust me; You want to know how you can trust me? That’s rich because I could ask you the same question. Can I trust you?”

“You don’t have to trust me, but don’t you think I should know what we are getting into. Shouldn’t we at least have a plan once we get to where we are going? People ask questions, Billy, and don’t you think it would be a good idea to figure it out before we get there?”

Billy remained silent, gripping the steering wheel tight. He licked his lips, scrunching up his face enough to form a crease on his forehead. “Do you think I’m an idiot? How do I know that if I tell you, you aren’t going to use the first phone you find to call someone.”

“You don’t,” you answered with a shrug. “But you’re gonna have to trust me a little eventually if you want to make us work again.”

He glanced between you and the road, fighting a battle in his head. He clenched his jaw, letting out a defeated breath. “You’re right; you’re always right.” He licked his lips, shaking his head. “I’m giving us the fresh start we both need, and everything we need is in the bag in the back.”

You turn in your seat, reaching for the bag, and put it on your lap. You unzip it, staring at the contents inside. A rubber band was wrapped around new Arizona IDs and new passports with new names on them. A container with an assortment of keys and enough cash that could get you through at least a few months.

You reached into the bottom of the bag and pulled out three framed pictures of you and Billy. One of you posing and smiling at each other when you first started seeing each other, another one of you at the wedding altar saying I do, and the third, standing close to each other on your honeymoon with the ocean behind you. You swallowed, staring at each one. They were supposed to bring back happy memories, but it only brought back the nightmares this relationship turned into.

“It’s not a home without a few personal touches, right?” Billy shot you a warm smile, and as much as you wished it was sincere, you knew it wasn’t.

“Right,” you breathed, putting everything back and tossing it in the backseat. “So we are moving to Phoenix, then what?”

Billy raised his eyebrows. “We’re going to lay low for a bit until this mess dies down, and I can trust you again.” He throws you a quick glance, rubbing his gauze-wrapped wrist where Cosmo bit him. “Then, once we are a happy couple again, I’ll be taking on a new position at the Cerberus Phoenix branch.”

“What do you expect me to do once we are a happy couple again?” You bit your lip, feeling a lump rise in your throat.

“Let’s not get into specifics right now.” He reached over and grabbed your hand. “I want you to focus on forgetting about your life in LA and everyone in it. They’re not important anymore. It’s you and me, together forever, like we always planned.” He nodded, squeezing your hand for reassurance.

You gave him a quick nod, fighting the tears threatening to escape. You turned your head to look out the passenger side window. The world outside was becoming a blur, and you were stuck inside with Billy, and there was no way to get out. He had a solid plan that left little room for error. Once they arrived in Phoenix, you wouldn’t exist anymore; Billy wouldn’t exist anymore. You would disappear, and those you cared about would be left wondering. Wondering if you were okay; wondering if you were even still alive; wondering how they let this happen to you. You blinked, feeling a few tears escape down your cheeks as you swallowed back a sob. Your friends, family, and Steve were gone, and right now, you might as well be too.

____________

The police unit pulled into Cerberus, following the Chrysler through the electric gate and up the short drive until they came across a facility beyond the gate. It was a modern building, heavily secured and well secluded from the main road.

Fury and Nat walked behind Rawlins while Thor stayed towards the back, taking everything in. He readjusted his bullet-proof vest underneath his shirt and sweatshirt, trying to get used to the tight feeling around his upper body. He didn’t want to wear it, but Nat insisted.

Inside the building, everything had white and gray tones to it from the furniture to the walls. Everything looked pristine and clean, almost like they were hiding something. Thor smiled at the lady behind the front desk, causing her to blush. He continued following the rest of the group up the floating steps to the second floor to an office at the end of the hall.

Fury and Nat began questioning Rawlins, sitting behind his desk. Thor stood off towards the back of the room, half-listening and half scanning his surroundings. If something was connecting him to Russo, he wasn’t going to talk about it; instead, he would have to search for it.

His office looked like every big wig’s office he’d seen in the movies. Floor to ceiling windows, showcasing a beautiful view of the trees on the property. Another wall was lined with artwork and a few bookshelves, filled with books that were probably more for show than actual reading. Thor’s eyes traveled to the walls behind him, noticing a bunch of framed photos hanging on the wall in sort of a college way. He took a step closer, noticing how each frame had an engraved plate under it, stating what branch of Cerberus it was and its location.

“Would anyone else have access to company vehicles?” Fury asked with his pad and pen in hand.

“No, only company employees.”

“Does that include employees from other branches of Cerberus or just current in-house employees, so to speak.”

“Nope, all employees from any branch are welcome to a vehicle as long as they have proper ID,” Rawlins answered, leaning back in his chair. “Who is the young lady that is missing? Maybe one of my teams can assist you. We don’t do many missing person cases, but we are more than happy to help.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” Fury replied, holding up his hand. “But, we do have reason to believe you know the captor.”

“I’m sorry.” Rawlins looked taken aback, and in some ways, offended. “But this is news to me. I have many employees, so you will have to be more specific.”

Thor read off the frames one by one and glanced at every single picture. He needed to find a connection so he could find you. He clenched his jaw, reading the plates: Vistacorp, Arizona; Vancorp, Texas, and his eyes stopped on the next photo. He didn’t even need to read the plate to know it said Anvil, New York City. He narrowed his eyes at the picture, seeing Rawlins shaking Billy’s hand, and he had that stupid smile on his face that could win everyone over.

“His name is Billy Russo.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

Thor growled, tearing the picture off the wall, starling everyone, and marched across the room. “Don’t know him, then why are you shaking his hand in this picture,” Thor shouted, throwing the picture on the desk.

“Oh, look at that he works at the New York branch.” Rawlins scanned the picture before placing it back on the table. “Why are you including me in this accusation? I don’t have anything to do with him or this abduction. I didn’t even know he was in town.” He sat up straighter in his chair, folding his hands together, and placed them on the desk in front of him.

An officer opening the door pulled everyone’s attention away from Rawlins and to the female officer. She handed Fury a piece of paper, whispering something in his ear. Fury nodded, dismissing her. He unfolded the paper, reading what it said before folding it backup and stuffing it in his pocket. “It’s a bit funny how this picture is saying one thing, and you’re saying something completely different. It’s like the picture is lying, and you are telling the truth. I don’t know what I am supposed to believe.”

“I am telling the truth. I have had no contact with--” he pulls the picture back to him “--this Russo since this picture.”

“Then, why was Russo the last person to check out the car, and according to this, he has yet to return the vehicle back to this facility. So how did you check the car out at noon if it wasn’t even on-site?”

Rawlins sat on the other side of the table, staring blankly at the three of them. He licked his lips and tilted his head at them. “Huh? How about that?” He let out a dark chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, I honestly thought it was going to take you longer to figure it out, Detective Fury, but you surprised me. All of you did.” He pointed to each of them, his sinister smile never faltering.

“Where is she?” Thor growled, leaning over the table mere inches from Rawlins's face.

“That’s the thing about Billy,” he licked his lips, challenging Thor. “He is sneaky and quiet. He can hide in plain sight, is fast on his feet, and knows just the right time to strike. If you haven’t found them yet, you aren’t going to. They're both gone, and you’re going to have to live with the fact that you failed her.”

Without further hesitation, Thor punched him straight in the face and knocked him to the floor. Thor slid across the desk to find Rawlins, clutching his broken nose as it bled into his mouth. Thor grabbed him by the collar and punched him again when an officer rushed over and dragged Thor off of him. Thor grunted, pushing the officer into the wall with his nostrils flaring. He headed right back for Rawlins, but Nat stood in his path, pushing on his chest and forcing him to stop.

“Forget about him. Don’t listen to him, Thor,” Nat commanded. “He’s not worth it; put this energy into finding YN and Russo, and then take it out on him.” Thor stopped in an instant, giving her a quick nod.

The officer that held Thor back went over to Rawlins and put his face down on the hardwood floor. He started reading him his Miranda Rights and slipped the cuffs around his wrists.

“You’re lucky only your nose is broken, and both your eyes don’t match, asshole,” Thor threatened as Rawlins was escorted out of the office.

“Feel better?” Fury asked, standing up from his seat.

“No,” Thor answered in a gruff voice, leaning against Rawlins desk and crossing his arms across his chest. “He’s right, you know…Billy is good at hiding. I mean, we didn’t even know he was following her.” He ran a hand down his face. “He does this for a living. Reads crime scenes, follows the evidence, finds suspects, and solves cases. He knows what we are looking for and makes sure to drive us in the opposite direction. He is good at what he does and probably even better at making someone disappear.”

______

AN: Thanks for reading Part 18! Just when you think they have something to go on, they are one more step behind. Thor sure did sack Rawlins pretty good though, but he did deserve it. And it's a good thing Rawlins was slacking on his paperwork, or maybe he just didn't have time to change the name to who checked the car out! 🤷‍♀️ On the plus side, at least they were able to track Billy's cellphone (the wrong one, but it was something), they know about the note she left in the gas station, found 'the other guy' but still got nothing...or do they?! 🤔 Not sure if any of you understood the crispy white boys reference, but it's usually the white tennis shoes dads wear on their feet! It's an Instagram reference me and my friends use all the time now! 😂😂 I will say she is getting more confident and seems to be pushing all the right buttons to get information from him, but he isn't giving much away. And can she trust him enough to know that he is telling the truth? The plot thickens...as always thanks for reading! Comments are always welcome!

140 notes · View notes

tearh0seok · 3 years

Text

For all you c!Wilbur and c!Quackity enthusiasts/ people who just like some good old fashioned c!karlnapity angst, this ones for you. Enjoy!!

—————

My Tears Ricochet

And I still talk to you

(when I'm screaming at the sky)

And when you can't sleep at night

(you hear my stolen lullabies)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The bag hits his back with a solid thump, causing him to stumble forward and grunt from the weight of it. He instinctively reaches out for the nearest wall and steadies himself. He holds his breath for a second, prepared to hear the rustling of bed sheets as someone wakes up due to the noise, before he releases it in a quiet, cynical laugh. He is, as he had been for a while now, alone. No one around for him to hold, to talk to, to wake up, to care about. As he makes his way out into the streets of Las Nevada’s, he scans the area for any sign of life. Slime and Fundy must have turned in early enough, and Foolish had long stopped working on his latest big project. He strolls through the streets quietly, humming to himself as he takes in the nation, his nation. At night, the buildings and area look like a mirror image of the man who owned them: empty, cold and alone. He shakes his head trying not to think about it too much. Now was not a time for self-pity or grief. No, now was the time for revenge. The kind of revenge that he just couldn’t drag the others into, they’d never understand. In fact, they’d all think he was insane. They’d leave him behind, all alone, just like before, with-

“Quackity?”

The voice causes Quackity to drop his bag, the thud echoing against the pristine buildings of his city. He looks up at the road ahead of him, and finds Wilbur Soot leaning against the Las Nevada’s sign, a shadow under the bright lights, with his face illuminated only by the red hot glow of his cigarette. Quackity sees his lips twitch up into a tired smirk, and it immediately makes him want to punch the other man in the face. “You’re on my land, Wilbur,” he growls, picking the bag back up, and throwing it back over his shoulder. His grip on the straps tighten as he hears Wilbur laugh quietly. “I thought we put that in the past, Big Q. You know, healthy competition and all that jazz?” Wilbur says tauntingly. Quackity barely spares him a glance as he trudges past the sign, staring straight over Wilbur’s shoulder to where he can see the glow of the burger van in the distance.

“Yeah well, we’re both closed for the day so I didn’t see a need for any of the formalities,” Quackity mutters, praying that the conversation ends there. But of course, to no avail, as soon Quackity hears footsteps behind him and has to resist the oh so demanding urge to punch this guy in the nose. “Then, off the record and completely out of curiosity, as an old friend, may I ask where we’re going?” Wilbur says, as he falls into step beside the smaller man. Quackity digs his heels into the tarmac and stops, turning to the man beside him. “ We are not going anywhere, I have some business to attend to, and you are going back to wherever you came from and forgetting you saw me,” he grunts, poking Wilbur in the middle of his chest to emphasize his point.

He continues walking, and due to the lack of footsteps he assumes the other man has taken the hint and is heading home. However, he hears the sound of shoes approaching, and suddenly Wilbur is at his side once more. “Oh but now you see, my friend,” Wilbur sighs, voice laced with amusement, “now I’m intrigued. What is this so-called business, why is it so secret, and why-“ Quackity feels a slight pull on his back as Wilbur tries to peek into the bag. He quickly whips around, face to face with Wilbur, hoping the other hadn’t seen the contents of the bag. Unfortunately, the fire dancing in Wilbur’s eyes and the wild grin that covers his face suggests otherwise.

“- Why do you have so much TNT and a flint and steel, Quackity?”

It’s said quietly, but the tone of his voice is so menacing that it causes Quackity to shudder. This is really not how tonight was supposed to go, and the more time Quackity spends here talking to Wilbur, the more time he has to contemplate and regret the decision he’s about to make. So he lets his guard down, briefly, and murmurs, “It’s personal, Will, and I’m already starting to regret it, so the last thing I need is to feel guilty about dragging someone else into this too.” And with that, he slowly turns away, head hanging, and begins mentally bracing for what he’s about to do. He just needs to clear his head, and remind himself that this isn’t his fault, it’s everyone else’s for pushing him away, pushing him to this point, and for leaving him alone, AGAIN-

“Do you need some company?”

The voice is quiet and wavering, and if they hadn’t known each other for so long, Quackity wouldn’t have recognized the unsure tone of Wilbur’s voice. He looks over his shoulder at the other man, whose face, illuminated by the moon, is covered with hesitation.

“Wilbur, I just told you, I don’t want to drag anyone else-“

“I didn’t ask if you wanted company, I asked if you needed it, Quackity.”

The words stop him in his tracks. He feels all the air rush out of his lungs and finds himself struggling to breathe. He looks down at the freshly paved road below him, willing away the hot sting of tears. No one, not even Slime, has asked him that in a very long time. The last person to ever say that to him was probably-

“Listen, I know what it’s like, carrying all of this awful stuff on your shoulders. And I have no doubt that what you’re about to do is going to be something you add to the list of things you regret, but you had to do in the moment. I’m not offering to help, as I can tell this is something you need to do for yourself.” He feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks up to see Wilbur with a grim, but soft smile. “What I’m offering is my presence, just so you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Quackity pauses for a moment, taking in the weight of Wilbur’s words, but soon realizes that if he thinks about them too much, he might break down in tears. So he takes the bag off his back and dumps it into Wilbur’s arms. The other catches it with a quiet “oof”, as Quackity grunts, “Let’s go then, we need to get this done by sunrise.”

And just like that, they head off into the night.

~~~~~~~

Wilbur soon realizes that, in hindsight, he should have known where Quackity was headed all along. Quackity didn’t have any major enemies that Wilbur knew of besides Dream and Techno, but Dream is in prison and Techno is god knows where. Quackity also doesn’t seem like the type to commit an act of violence without some sort of motivation, and Wilbur’s 90% sure he wouldn’t do it to threaten someone. Really, using that reasoning, Wilbur should have known their destination. Even as they trekked across the hills and plains, Wilbur should have noticed the direction they were going in. However, it wasn’t until they came to a clearing that opened up onto a shoreline, that he saw their target. While he knows there’s no other option it could be, he still asks the question.

“Why are we at Kinoko Kingdom?”

There it stood, across the water in all its shining glory. Though it was silent in the dead of night, the nation still looked warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to Las Nevada’s at this hour. Wilbur looked at the man at his side, hoping to gauge a reaction, but Quackity’s face was hard as he stared across at the nation like it was the bane of his existence. “I thought you were here to keep me company, not question me,” Quackity grinds out, looking like he’s holding himself back from screaming, or crying, or both. And so Wilbur just shrugs, and places the bag down. Immediately, Quackity throws it open and so the work begins.

Wilbur watches silently as Quackity takes out as much as he can carry and starts making his way around the edge of the shore to the first building he can find. He looks back briefly at Wilbur, indicating for the other man to follow. And while his face remains stony, just as he turns away Wilbur catches a glimpse of the other man’s face crumpling. He watches Quackity let out an unsteady breath, before readjusting the materials in his arms and marching into Kinoko Kingdom.

Quackity, Wilbur is learning, is quite the expert when it comes to TNT. The man is methodical, precise in his placement, ensuring that each piece is in the perfect location to do maximum damage. Although Wilbur said he wouldn’t help, he eventually can’t take the boredom of just standing around, and starts to help. He hears no objection from Quackity, and so he assumes that he is alright to continue. They work in near silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional animal or monster in the distance. Suddenly, a thought comes to Wilbur’s head, and so he stands up and walks over to where Quackity is kneeling, fixing a stick of TNT into place. “Quackity, what about Sapnap and Karl?” He asks, and immediately realizes his mistake. He watches Quackity’s entire body tense up, and the man turns to him, face thunderous.

“What about them?” He asks coldly, and for the first time in a very long time, Wilbur is fearful of the man in front of him.

“Are you just going to leave them here? To…. you know….?”

Wilbur doesn’t finish his sentence, knowing that one wrong word could lead to him having a similar fate to Kinoko Kingdom. However, Quackity relaxes, ever so slightly, and turns back to his work. “They’re not here. They went hunting this morning and I heard from Foolish that they would be gone until tomorrow,” he states, voice wavering slightly, but otherwise filled with certainty. Satisfied with Quackity’s answer, Wilbur picks up some more TNT and begins positioning it near a massive pond in the heart of the kingdom. As he’s working, he hears a small voice cut through the silence.“I couldn’t do it with them here. It’s hard enough without them around, but if they were here - it would be impossible.” Quackity has never sounded more vulnerable, his voice soft yet even, but Wilbur can tell there’s a whole world of pain built within those words. So he leaves any questions he had to the side and continues to work through the silence, with only the moon, stars and the loneliest man in the world for company.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When everything’s done, despite the circumstances, Quackity is weirdly proud of himself. He doesn’t take too long to admire his handy work though, as it may cause him to just take it all back and go home. He begins connecting everything together with one long line of red stone. This surprisingly doesn’t take him too long, and soon he and Wilbur are making their way out of Kinoko Kingdom and back to their perch on the other side of the shore, trailing red stone behind them. Once he’s far enough away, Quackity dares to look back, and regrets it instantly. He sees Kinoko Kingdom for all it is- a clear representation of who Sapnap and Karl are, to others, to each other ,and it’s almost as if you can see the love that lives there. And then, on top of it all, protruding and ugly, is the TNT- Quackity’s doing. Quackity’s mark on the place. That is all he represents; destruction and ruin. Quackity knew there must have been a reason they left him behind, and now he sees it; pure, unadulterated evil . He is the cause of his own pain, his own problems. He gets left behind because when people get to know him- when Sapnap and Karl, his boys, got to know him, all they could do is run in fear. From now on, he is the one calling the shots, because Quackity refuses to ever be left behind again. And if that means being alone, forever, then so be it.

He sniffs and wipes his eyes as he walks, feeling like all of the armour he had put on his heart has fallen away, his wounds have reopened and he’s bleeding out. Over the dull white nose in his ears, he hears Wilbur’s voice in the distance, asking if he’s ok. However he doesn’t pay it any attention, simply connecting the chain of red stone to a button placed on the floor in front of him. He looks up one last time, at the place the loves of his life call home. And then, he presses the button.

If you’d asked him how he wanted this to go, Quackity would’ve described it exactly like this; quick, so quick that you’d miss it if you blink, and then so, so, slowly, like you were watching the life drain from the place. That was exactly what they got. The TNT detonated almost all at once, sending earth and debris flying everywhere. It was almost mesmerizing to watch as in the blink of an eye, something so beautiful was completely maimed. Then came the fire, spreading ever so slowly through what remained of the godforsaken place. As Quackity watched the flames grow, he felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. He let out a light chuckle, until soon he was gasping for breath as he cackled, all the while tears rolled down his face. Soon his laughter mixed with heavy sobs, and he felt Wilbur grip his shoulder, pulling him to face the other man. Wilbur’s face was glowing orange, almost as if it was ablaze along with the city they had just destroyed.

“QUACKITY! Pull yourself together!” He shouted sternly, shaking Quackity by the shoulders harshly. Quackity shoved him off, pushing him away with such force that Wilbur fell back into the sand.

“NO! You know what, fuck you Wilbur!” He spits, pointing down at the man beneath him, “ you don’t get to fucking tell me what to do, when you did the exact same fucking thing not too long ago. Remember that? You did it too, so fuck you. Fuck you for being here, for helping, for listening to me, and fuck you for all the shit you did in the past.” With that, Quackity whips himself around to face the destroyed kingdom in front of him.

“And fuck you!” He screams, not caring who hears or how much his voice wants to give out, “Fuck you and your perfect little kingdom, and your perfect little life. Fuck you guys for telling me you loved me.” His voice cracks at the end of the sentence and slowly his screams turn into heart-wrenching sobs. “Fuck you for pretending you cared. Fuck you for promising me that you’d stay .”

He rips both rings off of his left ring finger and throws them into the water, with such a force that he stumbles forward. He collapses to the ground, the weight of his own heartbreak too much to bear. He feels Wilbur drag him up into his lap, cradling him like a child. When he looks up at Wilbur, the other man gently brings a hand to his face, and wipes the tears from his cheeks. It’s been so long since Quackity has been held like this, that it just makes him cry even harder. He buries his head into Wilbur’s shoulder, crying hysterically into the rough fabric of his coat. His last sentence comes out as nothing more than a whisper, broken and defeated by the pain in his heart.

“F-fuck you guys for promising you would never leave me, a-and then doing it anyway.”

~~~~~~~~~

Wilbur sits in silence as Quackity continues to sob into his chest. He watches the last of what was once Kinoko Kingdom burn and crumble, until there is nothing left but smoldering rubble. The sight was almost soothing, like the quiet that comes after a hurricane. He watches as the sun rises, the night turning into a pale, eerie dawn, sky almost grey, and the tide lapping gently against the shore. The only sound for a long time is Quackity’s uneven breathing, along with the occasional hiccup, until he hears voices in the distance. “Quackity, be quiet,” Wilbur hushes him. Quackity looks up, about to say something when the voices get louder in the distance. They both pause and look over at the remains of Kinoko Kingdom, just as Sapnap and Karl emerge from the tree line. Wilbur hears Quackity suck in a breath as they watch the couple’s faces fall in horror. Karl immediately runs forward, and even from this distance, Wilbur hears him gasp and say, “Oh my god, what happened?”. Meanwhile, Sapnap remains silent, shock plastered across his face as he takes in the rubble. Karl turns back to his fiancé, and Wilbur sees the moment Karl’s shoulders sag and his head drops. “It’s all gone, Sapnap,” he hears him say, and then Sapnap is running forward to catch Karl as he collapses into his arms, crying quietly. Sapnap just bundles his lover up into his arms, tears streaming silently down his own face. After a moment, Sapnap begins to lead them back into the forest, presumably headed for a place to stay near everyone else.

Only when the pair have gone, does Wilbur notice the whimpering. He looks down and finds that Quackity is crying again, quietly this time, and is already staring up at Wilbur. He clutches Wilbur’s jacket and stares at him, eyes pleading for an answer.

“W-why don’t I feel better, Wilbur? Why did that make me feel so much worse?”

And because he doesn’t have an answer, Wilbur just embraces him once more, holding the man close to his chest as he cries.

~~~~~~~~~

“Hello Quackity of Las Nevadas, where have you been?”

If Slime notices Quackity’s puffy eyes, he doesn’t say anything. Wilbur had left him in the same place they began their journey, by the sign at the entrance to the nation. Quackity had been hoping to sneak back in undetected, but of course the innocent creature had been waiting for him at the base of the tower. At least it wasn’t someone like Foolish or Fundy, who would’ve been able to see right through him in his current state. Quackity runs a hand through his hair, and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry Slime, I went out for a walk early this morning.”

Slime simply tilts his head, curiosity written all over his face.

“Where did you go?”

Quackity sighs, racking his brain for an excuse. It’s too early, and he’s too tired to be doing this. He gives up on trying to lie.

“It doesn’t matter.”

He starts making his way back to his tower, ready to fall into bed, when Slimes pipes up once more.

“It doesn’t matter? Why? Is it because you’re home now?”

Quackity stops.

He takes a breath, willing the tears down.

He turns around, eyes shining and gives his friend, his true friend, a small, sad smile.

“Yeah Slime. I’m home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Sapnap kicks a stone out of his way absentmindedly, strolling through what’s left of his kingdom. He came back to see what he could salvage from the wreckage, after dropping Karl off at Bad’s house to rest. As he strolls by the beach, he stops to pick up a piece of wood lying in the sand. As he does so, he spots something shiny lying just on the edge of the water. He crouches down, and picks it up, only to find 2 engagement rings, each with an initial engraved on them.

He clenches his fist around the rings, heart breaking all over again. He’d recognize those rings anywhere, and he knows what it means, finding them here. He brings his fist up to his lips, pressing a kiss against it, hoping, in vain, that his other love will feel it. He looks out at the water, tears flowing, and prays that someday, they can be what they once were. For now, he places the rings in his pocket carefully, thumbing them over slowly. Before he leaves, he turns back to look at his kingdom once more, and whispers,

“I’m sorry.”

And with that, he heads back to Karl, his fiancé, his home .

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

I didn't have it in myself to go with grace

'Cause when I'd fight, you used to tell me I was brave

And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake?

Cursing my name, wishing I stayed

Look at how my tears ricochet

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karlnapity · 3 years

Text

I Think I've Lost My Mind, Blurring the Fact and the Fiction

AO3 link • Sam-centric

The cell is a crime scene as you rush over. There’s blood on the walls, on the floor where you almost slip on it, and in the middle are Quackity and Technoblade.

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen Techno caught off guard. He’s bloody, himself, practically covered in it, and some of you doesn’t want to know how much is his.

And still Quackity’s going after him, weapon in hand, and even if you don’t know what Techno did to anger him it can’t be enough.

You pull him off, and he’s snarling, angrier than you’ve ever seen him.

He throws you off, never once looking in your direction as his gaze is still fixed on the pig.

He’s saying something you don’t quite understand, though it seems Techno does, and he launches forward before you can grab at his shoulder again.

And Techno is gone.

Your heart feels like it’s about to explode, like it’s about to pop out of your chest and join the blood on the floor. You can’t quite breathe right, but that happens often enough that it doesn’t much bother you anymore.

Quackity is yelling and it all feels like it’s a bit of a dream, like this can’t possibly be happening, and it only gets worse when-

He’s gone.

No, no, no, no.

It doesn’t matter that Quackity is shouting, now, that he’s threatening your life, that you can hardly hear him over the fucking alarm, it doesn’t matter, because you’ve failed.

You’ve destroyed any chance to save this.

There’s some muted pain, and you should probably be more upset, probably feel the need to do something more about all this, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

And all you can feel is an aching numbness. It hurts, certainly, there’s no doubt in that, but it feels meaningless, ultimately.

Quackity runs off, and you’re left with the overwhelming burden to attempt to fix any of this.

There’s almost a want to give up, to give in, whatever it may be. Because the worst thing imaginable has happened, and what is there to do now other than curl up and let it consume you?

And you search, anyways, because you’re nothing if not able to drag yourself to face another day.

There’s something immutably satisfying about how absolutely pathetic he is.

That’s more of the Warden than you care to admit. The server has always been a vying for power, in the end, he who has the prison has the power.

Or you would, ideally, and you did, in the beginning.

And for how undeniably pathetic he is, for how much he should be powerless, for how much you want to crush him under your heel, you can’t.

Because he still has fucking power.

And you form an uneasy, deplorable alliance. > Las Nevadas is no longer a welcome sight.

You don’t quite remember the last time you felt safe, but it’s perhaps least of all when you’re facing down Quackity.

“Did you find him?” Quackity asks, peering out over his ever-endangered land. He grips a cigarette in his hand. He doesn’t usually smoke.

“No,” you lie easily enough. It’s always come easy to you despite your facade of straight-laced honesty.

“Fuck, dude,” Quackity murmurs, running a hand over his face.

“What’s your plan?”

“I’ll have Slime look for them both. They won’t kill it, you know? In the meantime, get everyone together and reinforce Las Nevadas. I already talked to Foolish.” Quackity’s hand tightens on his cigarette. Something in it lights whatever remaining shred of fatherhood you had left in you, whatever care you have for him.

You should tell him. You really should.

“Will you really kill Dream if you find him?”

He looks at you for a moment and you freeze, thinking he must have found you out some way or another, but he looks away quick enough.

“Yeah.”

And you can’t.

> The prison has never quite been a safe place, or reassuring or relaxing or whatever emotion you really can’t feel much anymore.

But it used to have something- a sense of satisfaction, maybe, that you couldn’t quite replicate anywhere else.

But it’s not there anymore, and that almost hurts more than the fact you’ve failed in your duty, your only job, the thing you sacrificed everything- relationships, friends, your own fucking sense of morality- for.

Because what did you have left other than what barely-there positive emotions were left there?

The prison is as much for you than it is for him, you suppose.

But whatever it had left is gone now. It’s just a hunk of stone, same as it’s ever been, but whatever safety it ever promised to provide is as dead as the stone itself.

> It hurts to lie to Quackity. You had some sort of relationship, at some point, you cared for him, and you’re watching it crumble between you.

You’re not quite sure if it’s more him or you.

Is it your fault, for lying to him, for watching the paranoia wreck him and doing nothing, or is it him, is it his fault for whatever horrific course he’s taken for his life, for threatening your life, for being so fucking violent in the first place?

Or is it something greater than the both of you? Is it Dream? Is it Technoblade? Is it the whole damn server?

Or are you just looking for excuses?

> You think of what Dream said. That he genuinely thinks of himself as the good guy.

You wonder if he really does believe it, or if it’s all an act much like yourself. That he’s just doing his best to convince himself he’s the one right, like yourself.

It’s getting harder to think you’re in the right.

And maybe you’re not, maybe you’re just as bad as him, maybe this is all for nothing, but you can’t give it up now.

It’s too late now. Maybe you’re all in the wrong, in the end.

Maybe it will be clearer in the morning.

#personal #be quiet i'm writing #awesamdude #technoblade #dreamwastaken #quackity #dream smp #dsmp #mcyt #fanfiction #dsmp analysis #dsmp fanfic

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dr3amofagame · 3 years

Text

more of the vegas team 2.0 !! time for a group therapy session* :D

*includes very little therapy

tw: TORTURE (doesnt happen in the scene but is Absolutely talked about), abuse, beatings, violence, manipulation, toxic relationship, prison arc, mental instability, emotional distress, trauma, dehumanization

"So!" Wilbur claps his hands, smiling widely. "Are we ready to start?"

"This is fuckin' stupid."

Ignoring Quackity, Wilbur looks out over his handiwork; Quackity, Sam, and Dream and himself are sat down in a circle on the ground, all looking like they're at varying levels of get me the fuck out of here. Quackity glares up at him with his one good eye with a scowl on his face, while Sam looks pointedly at the opposite wall like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Across from him, from where he is sandwiched between Quackity and Sam, Dream gives him a pleading look that Wilbur deliberately ignores.

"Big Q is right," Sam sighs, anxiety making his voice slightly tinny, "We're wasting a lot of time, Wilbur. We all have a lot of stuff to get done to get ready for tomorrow-"

Wilbur's arm snaps out, pressing on Sam's shoulder as the taller moves his hands to the ground in an effort to push himself up.

"No- come on, Sam. Don't be like that, man. It'll be fun! We're a team," he stretches the word just to watch the others flinch, feeling a cold sweep of satisfaction when they do, "It'll be good for all of us- what do you think, Dream?"

Dream freezes, wide eyes turning to look into Wilbur's, lip beginning to tremble. Wilbur smiles serenely, watches as he shakes worse with every second of Quackity's angry glare and Sam's cold gaze directed at him with equal parts curiosity and excitement, smiles wider when he finally wilts under the weight of all of their eyes.

"I think- I think that it's a good idea, Wil," he mumbles, flinching back when Quackity's eyes narrow further, and Wilbur bites down his laughter.

"Wonderful!" Quackity turns the fury of his expression back over at him, all but snarling, lips curled and wings fluttering in anger on his back.

"What the fuck- no I'm not helping with this- this stupid fuckin' group therapy bullshit- what is this, a fuckin' AA meeting?" He accompanies his words with a series of jerky gestures, seemingly oblivious to the way that they make Dream curl more and more into himself, and Wilbur digs into his inventory-

"Yeah, that's exactly what this is like, Big Q!" He drops the result of his search unceremoniously into the other's lap, grinning at the look he's given when Quackity finally stops fumbling with the item.

"Is this a stick of dynamite?"

"It's your talking stick!" Quackity looks about three seconds away from cursing him out or burying a sword in his neck, while Sam and Dream look like they would rather be anywhere else at the minute, and this is the best decision that Wilbur's made in his life. "I was thinking that because there's clearly been some tension between us-"

"Quackity tried to kill Dream three times this week."

"-that it would be good for us to talk about our feelings!"

Sam looks entirely unimpressed, a flash of frustration breaking through his usual mask of cold indifference.

"Wilbur, what are you-"

"Ah ah ah!" Wilbur gestures at Quackity, smoothing down a smirk at Sam's irritation, "You can't speak."

"And why am I not allowed to speak, again?"

"Big Q has the talking stick, so he's the only one that can talk right now."

"Wilbur," Sam's hand moves to his face, palms digging into his eyes, "you don't have the talking stick, either."

"Oh, sorry," Wilbur reaches over, easily plucking the dynamite out of Quackity's hands and ignoring the younger's protests, "As I was saying, only the person with the talking stick can speak!"

"...sure."

Wilbur turns his eyes to sweep over the three again, feeling a cold thrill growing in his chest; Dream has hidden himself entirely behind the cloth of his hoodie, knees drawn to his chest and hood pulled up over his head. Quackity, to his left, mutters angry curses, directing his glare at anyone that he deems worthy of his ire - which, per usual, means just about everybody. Sam holds his gaze with a cold stare of his own, a knowing look in his eye, and Wilbur smiles wider in challenge; you going to try and stop me?

Sam doesn't speak, looking away. That's what I thought.

"Anyway!" Wilbur claps his hands together, dynamite still held in his right hand, "Anyone want to go first?"

"...this is fuckin' stupid as hell-"

"You don't have the talking stick, Big Q."

"Fuck off."

"Would you like the talking stick first, then?"

Quackity grits his teeth, opens his mouth to begin what will no doubt be another expletive-filled rant, when he catches Wilbur's line of sight and his eyebrows narrow, lips pressing back together. The electric feeling in Wilbur's ribcage grows further, amusement piquing; interesting.

"Actually," Quackity smiles tightly, forced civility entering his voice, "I would love the talking stick first, Wilbur."

"Of course!" He reaches his hand out, dynamite held loosely in his fingers, "I was thinking that we could talk about our feelings, what's making us upset, you know? So we can all work together better."

"You know- I get that, I get that," Quackity's smile gets sharper, voice growing crueler as he yanks the dynamite out of Wilbur's grip, brings it to his chest, "I see what you're saying, Wilbur. And I think that this is a great idea."

Wilbur's eyes flick to the others as he nods along; it seems like he wasn't the only one to notice the change in Quackity's tone. Sam looks noticeably more uneasy, shifting in his seat and tapping at the floor by his side. Dream looks like he's praying to the gods for the ground to swallow him whole.

Sorry, mate, but there's no one listening in hell.

"Las Nevadas, this place- I've put a lot of fuckin' time into this, ok?" Quackity drums his fingers on the side of the dynamite as he talks, and something in Wilbur shifts, settles, at the symbolism, "This isn't a country, isn't some- ideal, or egg, or some shit. It's power, plain and simple, and it's mine." His lips curl back, his golden tooth glinting in the light, "And I get the feeling that some people aren't taking this place nearly as seriously as they should be."

Dream's head snaps to the side, the pale face of his mask peeking out from where it had been pressed into his arms.

"What do you mean-"

"Dream-" Quackity reaches out, making Dream scramble backwards as Quackity's hand lands on his shoulder and grips it tightly. "I'm sorry. I don't think that you have the talking stick?"

Dream shakes, tugs unsuccessfully at the hand locked around his upper arm, breathing shuddery as he ducks away to look at the floor again.

"...sorry."

"Thank you," Quackity grins, lips curving cruelly. "As I was saying, all I want is for everyone to take a little more responsibility and shit, you know? We have to be efficient if we want this place to get off the ground, and we can't be efficient if everyone is fuckin' complaining all the time. I just think that it's about time that we let go of old grudges, move on already, you know? Focus on what really fuckin' matters-"

Dream's shoulders tense, and in the sliver of his face that isn't covered by his mask, Wilbur watches with unbridled glee as his eyes flash.

"Oh- you've got to be fucking kidding me-"

Quackity sneers. "Dream-"

Wilbur doesn't even catch the man moving, but between one blink and the next, the bright red stick in Quackity's hand has been ripped away from him, held in Dream's white-knuckled grip above his head as he scowls at Quackity.

"No- it's my time to talk now, ok? I have the talking stick- it's- it's my time to talk now. You fucking asshole- move on? You tortured me!"

"Oh- don't be so fuckin' overdramatic-"

"Overdramatic? You- you kicked my ribs in! You carved your name into my skin! You ripped out my fucking nails just to hear me scream-"

"What the fuck was I supposed to do? You weren't giving up the information!"

"You didn't have to fucking torture me-"

"Watch your fuckin' mouth or I'll do it again, dickhead," Quackity hisses, a sword suddenly in hand, the blade pressed against the underside of Dream's chin- which would usually be the end of it, but Dream, who must be running on too much adrenaline to register the familiarity of the position, narrows his eyes and bares his teeth at the winged man.

"Yeah- go on, kill me, and we'll see what happens when I respawn, Quackity. I hope you like explosions-"

"Big Q, Dream." Sam's voice, deep and heavy with exhaustion, finally seems to snap the two out of their bloodlust, because Quackity stumbles back into where he was sitting and Dream immediately curls back into himself, breathing loud and rattling in his panic. Sam directs a disapproving glare in Wilbur's direction, "Wilbur, where did you even get popcorn from?"

"Oh- sorry," Wilbur smiles, lets the red and white striped bag fall back into his inventory. "I guess that might've been a bit rude."

"You guess?" Sam mumbles, massaging his temples with a heavy sigh. Quackity glares back and forth at all of them before standing and stomping away to sulk, his footsteps loud and heavy against the marble floor. Sam ignores him, pushes at Dream's shoulder with one hand, gets no response, and Wilbur laughs.

"You know, Sam, I think that went great."

#-> vegas team au 2.0 #tw torture #tw abuse #tw trauma #tw mental instability #q stream aftermath #tw beating #tw toxic relationship #tw unhealthy relationship #tw emotional distress #tw dehumanization #queue <3 #long post #my writing :D #my asks !!

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slut-for-mothman · 3 years

Text

Hell is For Children

Requested: Yes|No

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid

A/N: Special thanks to @oliverbrnch for editing this chapter and making it into what is is !!! I hope you all enjoy my first CM fanfiction !!!

Summary: After 13 years of trying to forget the man he was supposed to call his father, Spencer finds his phone riddled with messages from his father trying to catch up on "old times". He's met with criticism and shame when he reveals he has no want to talk to him. Everyone seems to think his father deserves a second chance. Everyone except for him. Aaron Hotchner. Logically it made no sense, Aaron had a kid of his own, would he not sympathize with his father for wanting to have a relationship with his son? Spencer finds comfort in the older man. Everytime his phone buzzes with a notification from William Reid, Aaron is always there to comfort him and distract him from the burning hole in his back pocket.

Chapter warnings: Angst, allusions to physical abuse. descriptions of violence and gore, swearing, and I think that's it.

Chapter One

December 16th, 5:15pm

"Hey son, I haven't seen or heard from you in a while. I hope you're doing okay."

Seeing that message was enough to twist the young doctors stomach in such intricate and painful knots he thought he might become violently ill.

"A while?" Spencer muttered to himself as he reread the message over and over. "it's been thirteen years, that's more than a while-"

A second message interrupted his train of thought.

December 16th, 5:27pm

"Why don't you come over sometime? My wife would love to see you, just something to think about..."

This message made something inside him break, the world shattering as his knees failed him. He swore he felt time stop as he reread those nauseating characters.

Wife? Since when was he remarried?

'Does she even know what he did to my mom, to me?' Spencer wondered, unable to tear his eyes away from his phone.

Does she even know she left a ten-year-old alone with his mentally-ill mother? Did she know what a selfish bastard he was?

Did they have kids?

Were they really that easily replaced?

Spencers mind was spinning, his apartment floor unsteady underfoot as his vision blurred. Tears stung his eyes, threatening to slip down his cheeks if he dared to blink.

His misery was interrupted as his phone buzzed once more in his palm.

Thankfully, it wasn't from the dreaded unsaved number, just Hotch.

December 16th, 7:14pm

"We have a case."

Spencer gathered his things, wiping the tears from his eyes on the cuff of his sleeve. He'd never been more grateful to hear those four words in his entire life.

His ride on the metro felt infinitely slower than normal, much to the young doctors dismay. The extra free time gave his mind permission to run away from his as much as it pleased.

His phone vibrated again and again with more messages from the unsaved number, each one more hostile and manipulative than the next when Spencer glanced at the device.

December 16th, 7:23pm

"Will you at least give me an answer? I know I screwed up, but that was a long time ago! I have a right to get to know my son."

December 16th, 7:25pm

"Imagine how I feel, not knowing my son has 3 PhD's and having to find out from my ex-wifes nurse. You're not the only one suffering here kid, remember that."

Spencer snapped his battered phone shut in frustration.

How did he even manage to make himself out to be the victim in this?

He's the one who left me.

'I don't owe him shit, not after what he did to me', Spencer thought furiously to himself, his knuckles white where they gripped his messenger bag.

'Maybe I should give him some kind of answer, let him know where he can stick-'

By the time the sentence popped into his head, his chest aching, he had reached his stop. Although cases weren't particularly a positive thing, anything was better than thinking about the man who had abandoned him and, subsequently, essentially ruined his entire life.

As soon as he stepped off the elevator and into the bullpen, he could feel his co-workers' eyes pierce right through him. It was almost like they could sense something was off with him the moment he entered Quantico.

Of course, while they were profilers, it's not like they were mind-readers.

He fled to the break room and poured himself a generous cup of coffee. He wanted to focus on what was important, which was certainly not the unread messages from a fetid man on his cellphone.

While pouring practically the entire container of sugar into his travel mug, he felt someone's hand touch his shoulder. He flinched slightly at the unexpected touch, and he turned to see Morgan, his eyebrows scrunched together in a confused and worried look.

"Slow down, kid. Have some coffee with your sugar." He said, his voice half-joking as he, presumably, tried to ease the tension practically emitting off of Spencer.

His phone vibrated once more from somewhere in his pockets, and Spencer's face twisted in fervent discomfort.

"Earth to Pretty Boy. You good?"

Spencer realized he was getting absorbed into his thoughts again and tried to brush it off with a quick sip of the sickly-sweet caffeinated concoction in his hand and a quick nod.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking." as if Spencer ever stopped thinking in the first place.

"Well, I'm here if you need anything, kid. But for right now, let's go find out about this case." Derek clapped Spencer on the shoulder again, which earned an instinctual flinch.

Instead of dwelling on that, Derek and Spencer strode towards the conference room, where everyone else had already begun piling in ad Garcia and Prentiss introduced them to their present case.

"Three men were found dead on the streets of a Nevada strip mall last night," Garcia began, pulling up the crime scene photos onto the screen.

Spencer flipped through the folder that was handed to him, scanning over the photos while distantly listening to the rather gruesome but ultimately unhelpful details Prentiss and Garcia were describing.

All three men had one of their fingers removed, yet their wedding bands were later found in their stab wounds upon closer investigation. They were all three found in close proximity to different hotels and known "lover's lanes".

The incessant vibrations and noise emitting from the dreaded device in his pocket was enough to make Spencer have a brain aneurysm.

He retrieved the phone from his pocket only to switch it off and shove it into the deep depths of his messenger bag. It wasn't necessary for a plane ride anyway.

His sudden movements earned him a few more concerned glances, but their attention was quickly diverted as Prentiss announced, "Wheels up in 30." effectively dismissing the team to get their things.

Spencer was restless the entire plane ride. It was only thirty minutes into the trip, with an hour and ten minutes left.

Normally, he'd be playing chess or even reading, but neither of those things seemed to tempt him, as all he could think of were the numerous messages probably flooding his discarded phone banished to the bottom of his messenger bag.

The last message he'd read replayed repeatedly in his mind like some awful alarm.

'Imagine how I feel...'

It made fiery anger swirl in his chest.

He could imagine how he felt. Because the pain William Reid inflicted before he finally left was enough to make Spencer understand what it was like to be sent to Hell and back, if such a place existed.

The memory of watching his own father leave his house at age 10 was enough to make him feel nauseous. His father leaving was the final stake through the young man's heart.

The physical pain, he could probably forgive him for. He would never forget, but maybe he could understand.

But leaving your young on to care for his mentally-ill mother? After all the pain he put him through, that kick while Spencer was already down was a new low.

For all Spencer cared, the man could rot. It was almost funny, thirteen years of healing down the drain with just a few text messages.

Once again, Spencer was ripped from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, It was Hotch, with a guarded but concerned look on his face.

"You've been way too quiet; is everything alright?"

'No', Spencer thought to himself. But he couldn't admit he wasn't okay, especially not before a case. More important things needed to be tended for than his own "daddy issues".

"I'll be okay," Spencer settled for. "Just some weird stuff has been happening lately. It's nothing I can't take care of, though."

It didn't dissuade Hotch's concerned look. If anything, it intensified the worry Spencer found there.

"Is it your mother? Is she alright?" He asked, leaning forward with furrowed eyebrows.

"She's okay! I actually just called her the other night," Spencer assured him. He bit his lip and gripped his messenger bag. "It's actually, uh, my dad. He's been messaging me, and I haven't spoken to him in thirteen years."

"Are you okay? Have you messaged him back any?" Hotch asked, releasing the worried lines on his forehead.

"I haven't, yet. I figured I'd wait until the case was over. That way, there's nothing in the way." Spencer explained, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as his eyes darted around the jet cabin.

Hotch must have picked up the signal to wrap up the conversation, because he gently reminded the young man that he could talk to him whenever he needs to, or just whenever he wants to.

Spencer smiled and inclined his head slightly. "Thanks, Hotch."

"It's not a problem, Reid. Now, let's get back to work."

Spencer flicked through the gruesome photos once more, the swirling anger in his chest dwindling for the first time since his phone at first pinged with that dreaded message.

For once, Spencer was able to completely forget about the slightly outdated phone burning a hole in the bottom of his messenger bag.

#spencer reid #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #spencer reid angst #hotchreid #aaron hotchner x spencer reid

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insomniamamma · 3 years

Text

Liminal: Ezra and Cee

A/N: Contemporary AU in which Ezra becomes his niece, Cee's caretaker after an automobile accident kills his brother, Damon, and costs him his arm. Same AU as "Ferris wheels are for old people." No reader insert character, just Ezra and Cee on the road. Written for @autumnleaves1991-blog ‘s Writer’s Wednesday.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma/injury. Drug references in a song. Some language. I tried to research body powered transhumeral prosthetics to get some idea of how Ezra's prosthetic arm might work, but then I fell into an overthinking morass, any inaccuracies are mine.

"Willin'" is written by Lowell George. The version referenced in the story is recorded by Linda Ronstadt.

lim·i·nal /ˈlimənl/

adjective: liminal

1.relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process. 2.occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

--"Willin'"--

"’... been warped by the rain, driven by the snow,’" Cee sings along with the music rattling through the truck's speakers, "I'm drunk and dirty, don't you know. But I'm still willin'..."

The road stretches long and straight in front of them, harsh, rust-colored land dotted with scrub under the arc of an impossibly blue sky. Ezra asked Cee to compile the playlist. You are my co-pilot for this mission, he'd told her, and as such your duties include, but are not limited to, navigator, snack supervisor and DJ. DJ? Really? Make us a playlist, Little Bird, every adventure needs some good road music. And she had really delivered. "’...Out on the road late last night, I'd see my pretty Alice in every headlight, Alice, Dallas Alice...’" Ezra'd expected hours of auto-tuned pop or loud screamy music where he couldn't understand the words, and while there was some of that, Cee had taken her duties as DJ very seriously, creating a huge genre-bending list that all worked together.

He knew a lot of it. When he was still weird Uncle Ezra and not Legal Guardian Ezra, Cee made a habit of pawing through his vinyl collection when she and Damon would visit, picking a record to play and then peppering him with questions about it. Still, some of the tracks she picked surprised him, like this one, Linda Ronstadt's version of "Willin'" a road trip anthem if there ever was one, but something he didn't expect Cee to be familiar with. On their first go through the playlist, he'd asked her, where'd you hear this one, Birdie? You remember that movie, The Abyss? It's in that movie, the director's cut though, not the theatrical cut, the theatrical cut is bullshit--and he'd just listened to her go off about all the things wrong with the theatrical cut, the movie itself he barely remembered, something about divers finding aliens underwater, he'd listened and grinned, Cee could go so quiet sometimes. It was always a relief to hear her sound alive and interested, especially after-- "’And I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari," Cee sings and Ezra joins her, "Tehachapi to Tonopah...’" Cee's voice is sweet. Ezra's voice is not, but that's never stopped him. They've got the windows down. The AC started smelling funny a couple days ago, and, in this part of the world, a breeze to evaporate the sweat is just as good as AC. Cee's hair makes a flyaway halo as they sing-- "’Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, Driven the backroads so I wouldn't get weighed. And if you give me...’" Ezra and Cee smile at each other, suck in deep breaths for the big chorus, "’...Weed, whites and wine, and you show me a sign...And I'll be willin' to be movin'"

--Petroglyph--

The rust colored forms on pale stone walls peer out at them. Some loom large in the foreground, others recede into the background as if the weathered rock is a portal a window into some other place that lives just below the skin of the world. The back of Ezra's neck prickles. Sometimes the world is thin. Sometimes he feels as if there is a larger world moving and shifting beneath the surface of this one. Sometimes he feels like things are happening out of order, reality stripping and skipping like a loose bicycle chain-- Cee's warm hand creeps into his, "They're a little scary, aren't they?" She says. "Indeed they are," says Ezra, "One has to wonder what they were thinking. What they were trying to say. Are these gods in these pictures? Or just regular men?" "Does it matter?" Asks Cee, and he jerks his head to look at her. She is utterly entranced by the red figures and sigils. "Of course it does," he says, "You don't think so?" "I mean, it matters, I guess, but what matters more is that people made these," she says, "People like us. People with hands. Not that Ancient Aliens bullshit." Ezra laughs. Cee squeezes his hand. "C'mon," she says, "let's see more."

--Rest Stop--

"Hey MOM!," a child's voice snaps Ezra out of his reverie. Cee is in the truck stop, using the restroom and restocking their snack supply. At these stops he fuels up and then gives her some cash and sets her loose inside. And then they stretch their legs and sit outside for a spell. Ezra sits at a picnic bench letting the sun hit his closed eyelids, "MOM! That guy's got a ROBOT ARM! Like WINTER SOLDIER!" Ezra opens his eyes to a little boy, maybe four with a bunch of curly hair and big eyes, pointing at him. "Daniel!" His mother hisses, and pinches at his arm, "That's rude. I'm so sorry. Danny, what did I tell you about staring--" "Ma'am? It's quite alright, Ma'am," says Ezra, and hunkers down so he's eye level with the little boy. "Hi there," he says, "Daniel, is it? I'm Ezra." He offers his right arm, the double hook at the end open, titanium alloy padded with silicone. Daniel solemnly grips the hooks and shakes. "You've got stickers!" Says Daniel, and for a second Ezra is confused, and then he grins, looking down at the bedecked black plastic of his prosthesis. He stands. "My girl decided that I must have a sticker for every state we stop in," says Ezra, he stands and smiles at Daniel's mom, "Like an old steamer trunk. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name--" Cee steps out of the air-conditioned cavern of the truck stop, slits her eyes against the brightness of midday sun glittering up from the concrete, plastic bags full of crap-snacks and energy drinks threaded over her arms. Ezra handed her a couple twenties and told her to go nuts. Re-supply runs have turned into their own sort of game. She always grabs the usual stuff, chips and Snickers bars and Paydays (Ezra has an absolute weakness for Paydays. They don't taste like they used to, he'd griped, but that didn't stop him from eating them), but somewhere along the line, Cee decided to turn this into a battle of the wills. Her unspoken mission is to find something so utterly weird at one of these stops that Ezra won't eat it. So far, she has been unsuccessful. The closest thing was an aloe juice and cucumber drink that smelled amazing, but felt like swallowing cold snot. That one was a draw. She has high hopes for the dill pickle-sriracha gummy worms nestled in the bottom of the bag. The packaging looked like Christmas in hell. More important than the snacks is the plain, flat paper bag she holds. Ezra's near the picnic benches chattering at some lady with a kid. Menace, she thinks, but smiles. Ezra was always the extrovert before, and it's good to him smiling so big and open in the sunshine, making friends with random people at a truck stop. She sees an echo of her and him before, when she and Dad would visit when she was small and he'd tell her some outrageous tale and she'd say Uncle Ezra, you're so weird, and he'd scoop her up and swing her around, planting a prickly kiss on her cheek and saying oh, little bird, you have no idea, and this always made Dad laugh.

"Oh, Ez-ra," Cee calls, and when he turns, he sees her devilish grin, holding a small brown paper bag up beside her face like it's contraband, "Look what I found." "So I get to witness the sacred stickering?" Asks Ezra's new friend. "Indeed you do," says Ezra, "This is Cee. Cee, meet Jody, and that little man playing in the dirt there is Daniel." "Nice to meet you," says Cee, "Stick your arm out, old man." "Don't you want to document this momentous occasion?" "Oh, right," Cee pulls out her phone, "Hey, uh, miss Jody? Can you take some video? I got it all set up." "Cee is documenting our adventures for posterity," says Ezra. He extends his prosthetic, already covered in overlapping ovoids, enough that they are starting to resemble dragon scales, "What do you think?" Cee and Daniel circle round. "How bout here?" asks Daniel, tapping just above the articulated elbow. "That's a good spot," says Cee and peels the sticker from it's backing with a flourish. She smiles up at her phone recording in a stranger's hand, "We have now infiltrated the state of Nevada," she grins, "Evil-doers beware." "Yeah!" Says the little boy, pudgy hands planted on his hips for the benefit of the camera, "Or Winter Soldier will KICK YOUR ASS!" "Daniel!"

--Stars--

Cee wakes in the dead of night, disoriented, a darkness so thick that for a moment she's not sure where she is, and then she hears Ezra's rhythmic snoring off to her side, reaches out and brushes fabric of the tent and lays back, puzzled, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent scrabbling up and down eroded granite boulders that looked like they belonged on Mars or Tatooine, walking trails and marveling at the strange ecology of the high-desert, so unlike back home. Bad dream? She wonders, probably. She feels her eyes getting heavy, feels herself lulled by Ezra's sleep sounds, snores punctuated by mumbles. Sometimes full sentences, his side of whatever dream-conversation he's having. Probably has no idea he does it-- Cee sits bolt upright, hands clutched in fists against her chest, a high-pitched wail cuts the cold night, a sound like a woman screaming, and another wail threads through the first, so loud it could be right outside the tent, and then a sound like gruesome laughter. The back of her neck prickles and her heart pounds in her throat. She tells herself that it's just some wild animal making noise, some desert bird maybe, but wasn't the California desert the last known home of the Manson family? Maybe not this desert, but still-- "Ezra," she hisses, and he mumbles something incoherent, "Ezra, wake up!" She reaches and pokes him hard, "Ezra!" "Whazzit birdie?" "Listen!" The screams rise and fall again like something from a horror movie. "s'just coyotes," says Ezra, "probly next county over. They don't hurt people, they're just loud." "You sure?" "Go back to sleep, Cee."

"Ezra," He's dreaming, some place with Joshua trees the size of skyscrapers, spiked limbs under a red sky. Cee's with him somewhere in the bloodlight but he can't see her, just hears her calling-- "Ezra!" He blinks awake, the red sky receding. Cee is shaking him. "Yuh. M'awake birdie," "I gotta pee," she says. "You know where the outhouses are, just right down the trail," "I'm not going by myself! Not with those things out there!" Ezra pushes himself up and shakes his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He can just make out Cee's form against the faint light of the sky leaking through the tent. "Alright, just gimme a second," he says. "I'll get the light," "We don't need it," he says. "Ez-" "We got night eyes now," he says, "No light pollution out here. You'll see."

Ezra stands transfixed in the chill dark, head cocked upward. The more he looks, the more he can see. More stars than he's ever seen in his life spread across the vast inverted bowl of the sky, no summer haze out here, no light-wash from streetlights. He is dizzy with it, the vast sweep of the sky, and as he stares and his eyes adjust further, he can see the arm of the Milky Way angled across the black, can actually see the dark band of dust threaded through the silver-blue light. He doesn't hear the outhouse door shutting, doesn't notice Cee beside him until she folds his hand into hers. "Look up, Little Bird," he breathes and it feels like a prayer, his heart suddenly full, squeezing in his chest, Cee small and warm next to him. "Oh, wow," she says, barely a whisper, "That's the Milky Way isn't it?" Tears blur the stars and fall hot against his cheeks. "It is." He looks at her, her face upturned, cheeks and hair frosted in star shine, limning her eyes, her smile. They've lost so much, him and Cee, but they've gained each other, and that's not nothing is it? "We're so small," says Cee, "Us. People. This whole planet. All of us. We're just a little dot." Ezra smiles in the dark, even as tears dry in his lashes. He squeezes her fingers in his. "C'mon, let's get back in the tent before we freeze."

--Hoodoo--

Cee sleeps in the passenger's seat. She'd helped break camp and pack everything up even though it was early for her. They had spent an extra night in Joshua Tree and now had to make up the difference. It's time to go home. There are things he wants to do before Cee goes back to school, things they need to take care of. So he woke them early, promising Cee that she could sleep in the car as long as she needed. She'd helped him get ready, half-peeling a couple candy bars and putting them were he could easily reach. "You want the playlist?" She asked, "I can get it going." "Not right now. I want some quiet." “'Kay," and Cee was asleep before they were to the next mile marker.

Hoodoos rise on either side of the highway, striated red cliffs against the slowly lightening sky, cut into improbable formations by long gone rivers, thin spires topped with boulders, first glints of sun hitting the higher cliffs while everything else still exists in that liminal space between day and night. Ezra glances over at Cee, hair in a messy halo, face slack in sleep, cheeks sun-reddened and newly freckled, closed eyes moving, dreaming. Ezra thinks of those first days, wracked with pain and trying to navigate the new, dark-shrowded territory of her and him, each of them crippled by loss, each willing to lash out at the other. Ezra thinks of how far they've come since then, uncurling like relaxing fists and learning to be with each other. They drive into the dawn and the first bit of light touches her hair, turning it to fire. She shifts in her sleep, turning away from that first hint of sun. He doesn't know if she's awake or not. "I love you, Cee." "Love you to, Ez," she murmurs and settles back into sleep. Ezra looks out over hoodoo country spread red tinged and stark against the rising light, the miles of road ahead. We're gonna be ok, he thinks and means it.

#writer wednesday #ezra prospect #cee prospect #contemporary AU #ezra and cee

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

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if you're in the mood for requests i would absolutely LOVE something from the hidebehind au? (maybe including blindfold sex??)

Here you go! I decided to do this for monster march. We’ll figure this counts as prompt 18: claws.

All things considered, Duck is lucky. He’s employed which, given when the newspapers are calling the great depression raging across the country, is a blessing. His days are spent among the mighty trees of the Pacific Coast, he has a small cabin all to himself, and a cat to keep the mice away.

He just wishes he wasn’t working for a fucking logging company hundreds of miles away from anyone he’s ever known.

Winthrop Logging needed someone with an arborist or botanists training to make sure the woods stayed healthy before they were chopped down. So they pay Duck a fine sum to make sure diseases or pests don’t send their prospects toppling like dominos. As he traverses his usual route between the trees, he wonders if there will ever be a way to convince them to preserve some of the land rather than profit from it.

He stops, studying a pine. There it is again, the feeling that someone, or something, is behind him. Watching. Waiting.

It started three weeks ago, when he was deeper in the woods than usual, humming to himself and occasionally talking to the trees. The skin on his neck prickled, all his senses forcing him from his thoughts and into the present moment; something was there, tracking him as he moved. Not a bear, our a cougar, as the birds still called and the insects chorused. Whatever it was stood directly behind him, yet when he turned to look, there was nothing but the path.

For the first few days he tried to spot it, never got more than a flicker in the corner of his eye. He came home exhausted, the day spent on high alert as the primal part of his mind demanded he remain on guard for the moment his hunter decided to strike.

The moment hasn’t come, and Duck is growing used to the gaze crawling up his spine. He decided to ignore it, pretend it was just his imagination and some days that worked.

Today, there’s no getting around the fact that something is peering over his shoulder. Twice now he’s felt fingers millimeters from his neck. When he feels them again, he reaches his arm back, eyes firmly on his notes, and grabs hold of his stalker.

----------------------------------------------

Humans are not known for their speed. Indrid’s foresight showed this one as no exception, so when the man is fast enough to grab his leg, he chirps in surprise.

“Fuckin knew it, there is someone back there.” Warm fingers smooth across the short down of his leg.

Indrid appreciates being called a someone instead of a thing, but not the position of Duck’s hand.

“Please let go. That is my thigh you are grabbing. My upper thigh.”

The hand stays put, “Anyone ever tell you it’s mighty rude to stand right behind a fella when he’s tryin to work?”

“I cannot stand anywhere else, though the proximity is due to-”

“Uh huh, sure, just like you can’t help but play and hide and seek whenever I try to figure out what’s goin on. Lemme guess, you’re one of the other fellas from the loggin camp playin tricks on the new guy?”

“I am nothing of the kind.” Indrid contemplates moving the hand himself, but it feels so very nice.

“One of the locals then? I keep tellin you, I’m a country boy, I’m not gonna get scared by campfire tales or weird noises in the woods. Try that government fella instead.”

“What about the part of me you are touching suggests I am human?”

“Probably a left-over monkey suit or somethin’ from Halloween.”

“I am not a costume, I am a Hidebehind.”

The human pauses, then shakes his head, “No such thing.”

“You are literally touching one.” Indrid stamps his foot, frustrated by the turn this is taking and the fact that futures do not show the human believing him any time soon.

“Don’t believe I am.” The human turns his head. Indrid’s body whips sideways, keeping him from view. The human holds on, tries again from the opposite direction, only for Indrid to be wrenched back the way he came.

“Stop movin!”

“Stop trying to look at me!” He’s twisted to the side once more, wrenching the humans arm in the process.

“Ow!” The grip on him tightens, “quit this fuckin game right now. You don’t lemme see you, I’ll drag you right back to camp with me.”

“I can’t!” Indrid chirps, panicked, the noise continuing into a wail of alarm at what might happen if he’s surrounded with nowhere to hide.

His fear must register as genuine, as the human releases him with a sigh. After a moment he removes his hat, running his fingers through his hair but not turning around.

“You still there?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you even followin me in the first place?”

A peek at the futures says the truth will be most effective, though almost all timelines end with the human telling him to “get gone.”

“I find you intriguing. You do not chop or hack at my home, you study it. You speak to the trees when you think you are alone. You look soft to touch, especially the fur on your head. I like looking at you and being near you. That was why I stood so close.”

“...You been followin me because you’re sweet on me?” The drawl, as soothing as movement of water through plant limbs, seems confused.

“I do not find you sweet. I could only do that if I ate you. Which I do not want to do.

A chuckle, “Not quite what I meant. You been hangin around me because you think I’m swell and wanna get to know me. Guess I can’t fault you for that, I'm a decent fella to know if I do say so myself. You got a name?”

“Indrid.” This is an unexpected turn of the timelines.

“Nice to meet you, Indrid. I’m-”

“-Duck” Indrid says along with him, “apologies, I can see the future and am thus a bit ahead in conversations.”

“Huh. Well, I gotta head back to town. If you wanna talk again, I won’t mind. Just tell me you want to instead of lurkin, you hear?”

Indrid grins, “Yes. I hear you perfectly.”

----------------------------------------------------

“Fuck” Duck picks himself up from the dirt where he fell, brushing pine needles from his coat. He’d been angling for a better look at a set of roots and tripped over a different set in the process.

“Are you alright?” A now familiar voice asks from behind a tree to his left.

“Depends. You see me make a fool of myself by fallin on my face?”

“Yes.”

“Then my body is fine but my dignity is real wounded.”

A laugh like spring breeze through new leaves, “I suspect it will recover. You do have quite a deal of leaves in your hair. May I help you with them?”

Duck nods. Slender fingers pluck at his hair.

“Ohhh, it is just as soft as I thought it would be.” Indrid murmurs, “does it feel nice?”

“Don’t feel like much--oh, uh, fuck, that does though. Feels damn good.” Duck groans as claws scritch his scalp. The first time he felt them on his shoulder when Indrid was talking, he tensed; The hidebehind isn’t small, and the claws suggest he could shred Duck to bits and scatter him across the woods. But after weeks of keeping him company, Duck knows the worst Indrid might do to him is steal too much of his lunch.

The hidebehind, endlessly fascinated by Duck’s job, will sit out of sight as he works. Duck asked him if he only watched Duck the entire time. It turns out the creature draws as well, and Duck now recognizes the sound of a pencil under the rustle of leaves and calls of wildlife. Indrid also spares Duck dangerous climbs into the trees, offering to look at marks or discoloration and describe them if they’re too high for the human to see.

Turns out he also gives a mean rubdown, his claws moving from Duck’s head to his neck, banishing the knot that’s been bothering him all morning.

“I like touching you.” Indrid chirps. Duck hasn’t forgotten their first meeting; if a man had come to him with such flattering shyness in his voice and an interest in Ducks body, he’d have been in Duck’s bed by the end of the night.

He’s not ready to take a hidebehind home, but he’s ready to tease one.

“Seems mighty unfair that you get to touch and I don’t.”

“You would have to close your eyes to so much as shake my hand. My form does not care how little of me you would see, it will pull me into hiding regardless.”

“Then I’ll close my eyes.” Duck does just that, tips his head back so Indrid can see it’s safe. One hand continues massaging his head, while a spindly arm reaches around his chest.

“Bring your arms up, towards you a bit more, yes, there we are.”

Duck runs his hands over the limb; it reminds him of Manzanita bark he saw in the Sierra Nevadas, smooth but unmistakably of the woods. Towards the elbow the texture changes to soft, short feathers, like the ones on Indrids leg.

The hidebehind tightens his hold, pulling Duck to his torso. More feathers prickle the back of his neck and the creature shudders.

“You alright back there?”

“I...it has been so very long since anyone or anything touched me. I foresaw my body being sensitive to it but the intensity is, is-” he lets go so suddenly Duck stumbles, “I am sorry, it was too much and yet I wanted, wanted more.”

Images of Indrid surrounding him, chirping and purring as Duck touches him all over, flood his mind. The embarrassment in his voice keeps the arborist from acting on them.

“You, uh, gonna show me that Saw-Whet Owl nest?”

“Of course, sweet human. Take the right fork of that deer trail just ahead, and we shall go from there.”

------------------------------------------

“I have something for you. Close your eyes.”

Duck, still perching on the stump he was using as a lunch chair, does as instructed. Indrid sets a piece of paper in his right hand.

“You may now look.”

An illustration fills the entire page. It shows a being with stick-like arms and legs leading to a narrow body covered in short, leaf shaped feathers in mottled browns and greens. The face is angular, shaded to suggest it’s dusted with fuzz, and leads to several stick-shaped horns. The eyes are wide and black, the claws long, and there are short, triangular shapes behind its shoulders.

“Holy fuck, you’ve got wings?”

“Indeed. I do not use them much. I believe they help my kind migrate when our habitats dwindle.”

Duck traces the face on the paper, “How long did it take you to make this?”

“Two days, as the lakes I use to study my reflection tend to attract townspeople and loggers looking to take a break from their toil.”

“You did all this just ‘cause I said I wished I knew what you looked like.”

“Not solely. I...I wanted to show you it as well. So you might know the face of the one who, ah, whose days you brighten.”

Carefully, Duck folds the portrait and tucks it into the inside pocket of his coat, “Find I like my work even better with your company too, ‘Drid. Would you, uh, be okay if I tried to match what you showed me to what I can feel?”

An intrigued chirr floats through the air as Duck shuts his eyes and waves to the ground in front of him. A scuff and rustle of dirt and leaves, and then he feels Indrid in front of him. Cool hands guide his own onto the multicolored feathers.

“Shoulders?”

“Correct.” Indrid moves their joined hands upwards, stopping on velvet-dusted cheeks, “oh, oh goodness, I have always wanted to be held like this.”

“Yeah?” Duck’s heartbeat is in his fingertips, “what else have you always wanted?”

“To, to be touched, to be known, toMMMphohh” a rough tongue laps at his lips as he pulls Indrid into an awkward, bowed kiss.

“How’s that, darlin?” Duck kisses along what he thinks is Indrids’ jaw, “that the kind of knowin’ you in the mood for?”

“Yes, oh my sweet human you spoil me, oh” claws grab his shoulders, “I, do you really wish this, with me? This was in so few timelines I assumedAH” he squirms adorably as Duck gropes the feathers of his chest.

“You better believe it, sugar. It’s the weirdest goddamn thing I ever wanted and I want it, want you, more than I’ve wanted anything in a long fuckin time.” Curious and eager to fill every one of his senses with Indrid, he buries his face against his upper chest, finds skin beneath all the camouflage and bites down. The hidebehind keens, pulling Duck from his seat into his lap. Duck laughs, bites down once more and gets a nose full of fluff.

“AhCHOO!” His eyes pop open on reflex after he sneezes, sending the hidebehind out of view and Duck flat on the ground.

“Blasted physiology” Indrid chirrs, frustrated.

Duck sits up, Indrid’s cries of pleasure ringing in his ears and giving him all kinds of reckless ideas.

“Don’t worry, darlin. If my hidebehind wants to romancin’, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

-------------------------------------------------

He takes to wearing a kerchief around his neck at work. The loggers and company pencil pushers assume it’s an affectation, not a tool for covering his eyes for some uninterrupted kisses while deep in the woods. Today, he’s not sure kisses will be enough.

Duck woke up hard, dream of Indrid looming above him in bed fading into the morning sun. His hidebehind has yet to show himself, so the humans mind has nothing but his fantasies to distract him on his trek through the woods.

He’s ahead on his tasks for the day. He’s five miles deep in the woods. And he’s got an idea.

After rinsing his hands with water from his canteen, he leans back against a tree and undoes his suspenders, followed by his fly. Closing his eyes, he slips his fingers into his underwear, teasing himself and sending soft moans into the air. It doesn’t take long before he’s wet enough to push two up into himself with ease.

“‘Drid” he gasps, letting his head loll back, “‘Drid, fuck, that feels so fuckin good.”

A single leaf crunches in front of him, and his kerchief slowly slides up his face to shield his eyes.

“It is about to feel much better, dear one.” Indrid kisses the top of his head, “Shall I take this shameless display as evidence that you wish for me to, ah, fuck you?”

“That it does. And I’ll have you know I got plenty of shaAAmeWHoah.” Duck flails as his pants fall down and his body flies up in one smooth motion. Indrids claws prick his thighs as he spreads them open, holding him against the trunk with ease.

“So very polite of my sweet one to prepare himself for me. It makes this all the easier.” A round, bumpy cock teases his folds, pressing in with a stretch that makes Duck twist in his lovers hold.

“Fuck, fuck, that’s so fucking good but holy fuck, are you packin a fuckin pine tree down thereOH, ohfuckdarlin, that’s, that’s as far as it’s gonna go.”

“Half of it? My, who knew my human could take so much? Wait, it is not too much, correct?”

“N-nope, just the right amount” the bumps rub every inch inside him, one on the shaft catching his cock as Indrid thrusts and wiggles his hips.

“Wonderful” Indrid purrs, “I have dreamed of this all dayAHnnncareful” he chides after Duck bites the part of his arm he’s able to reach, “or I shall take you so roughly your back will wear imprints of bark for days.”

Duck whimpers excitedly, very aware of thick pre-cum dripping into him, “Yeah lets do that.”

He can hear the grin.

“If you insist.”

“FUCKohfuckohfuck” his hands scrabble at the tree and at Indrid’s arms, “that’s it darlin, that’s it, fuck, gonna give you the best goddamn rub-down after this, touch you until your body forgets what it’s like to be without my fuckin hands on it.” Leaves scatter in his hair and down the back of his shirt as Indrids fucking turns frantic.

“I, I shall hold you to that AHhnn, sweet one, you are so tight, so deliciously slick and inviting, I, I am not going to last long, you are too perfect, just touching you makes me burn like wildfire” His thrusts sharpen, never pushing too deep but making Duck feel like a log split beneath an axe of ecstasy, “Duck, sweetheart, yes, yesyesyes” Indrid spills into him, cum running out of Ducks body and back down his shaft.

For a minute, Duck is nothing more than a pinned specimen, spread eagle on the tree as Indrid shudders, purrs, and drags fuzzy kisses along his throat. Then his shirt rides up as he slips down the tree, but Indrid doesn’t put him down. Instead, a rough tongue glides up one thigh and then the other. The human gasps, gripping Indrid’s horns for balance as Indrid buries his face between his legs.

“Ohhhhhh, oh I do so love tasting how we mingle together.” Indrid’s breath is ragged and hot against his dick, “I am going to do this every day.”

“Please” Duck squeezes his horns, his orgasm painfully close, “please ‘Drid, wanna cum on your tongue, want you holdin me up while I, I-ohfuck.” His legs kick weakly as Indrid sucks him off, tongue lavishing his cock with so much friction he goes hoarse from moaning. The fact he cannot see makes it all the better, makes his world nothing more than Indrids mouth, his claws, his desire that wraps around Duck like vines.

He cums, arching his hips into the “thank yous” Indrid presses to his legs.

When his boots touch the ground, deft claws begin pulling his clothes into order, Indrid kissing and caressing him as he does.

“Y’know, I can get my own britches up.” Duck ruffles a nearby patch of feathers.

“I know, but I wish to take care of you. Hidebehinds are attentive to our mates, and while I cannot build you a nest, and I can least clean you up after you let me do something so wonderful with you.”

Duck wraps his arms around the cryptid, resting his cheek against him, “Would you wanna do this, uh, wonderful somethin again?”

“Of course.”

The human smiles, reaches his hand up to stroke Indrids cheek. This means he feels the hidebehind smile when Duck says, “Glad to hear it. But I’ll have you know, one of these days I’m gonna expect a nest.”

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #monster march #reader request #trans duck newton

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radicallovin · 2 years

Text

Sense And Sensuous, Ch.2

[READ IT HERE ON AO3]

Summary: It's 1984. Rhys Strongfork is the manager of The Lucky Striker, a bowling alley in Paradise Nevada. He wants more out of life than just his explosive on-again-off-again relationship with his high school sweetheart and running his father's businesses.

Handsome Jack is a cocky, arrogant mob boss who owns The Handsome Jackpot, an obnoxious, thriving casino on the Las Vegas strip. His life is exciting and violent, but beneath it all he's a vulnerable widow and father, trying to make it all work.

They both have a little slice of heaven that the other yearns for.

Chapter Two:

Time After Time

It's not often Rhys ventures into the hustle and bustle of central Vegas, but every time he has, he's gone with Hugo. Living in Paradise Nevada was rather hectic in and of itself, he didn't feel the need to explore the place pride goes to die. His father used to say Las Vegas was a dumb man's excuse to feel rich, but tourists are a smart man's cash cow - hence why they live and operate on the outskirts of the busy Paradise strip.

The same strip connects to the one and only wonderland, which Hugo is speeding down.

Lights flash by like the blurring flutter of a hummingbird's wings, blinding Rhys with their invitations to thrills. It's a neon rainbow against Hugo's window. Whenever Hugo stops at a red light, Rhys would take in the scenery of scantily clad women stalking the streets in their skimpy outfits and high boots. He ponders at the moment what their lives must be like if their thin frames were the result of too many drugs, or wonders how long they could smile before their sharp cheekbones jutting out would tear their skin. The sidewalks, when not covered by a venue's entrance carpet, are smooth grey stones, their joints almost invisible. They act as instruments for stilettos and heeled boots to play. The plethora of clubs, casinos and attractions shine so brightly, it's easy for Rhys to forget there is even a night sky above them.

It’s not a long drive, but the quiet between him and Hugo makes things seem slow. Rhys has a million and one thoughts filling every inch of space in his head, but he knows Hugo won’t care about any of them. It’s not tense, it’s just normal. All there is is the quiet hum of ‘ The Who ’ playing on his cassette.

Eventually, Hugo finds the club and a space on the curb to park. Rhys jumps out of the beloved Jaguar Convertible (not waiting for any inevitable snarky comments) and flattens down his clothes. He stares up at the flashy casino lights.

The building is obnoxious, and humongous, painted red and white, somehow managing to stand out like a sore thumb among familiar tacky buildings. Above the entrance hangs giant glowing letters, The Handsome Jackpot , flashing to the beat of an epileptics nightmare. It's a spectacle - Water features, lights pounding through the windows, a height that gives Rhys the worst case of vertigo he’s ever experienced, and of course a chorus of drunken ramblings and screams coming from inside. The entire street is thriving similarly, but it seems this is the most lively and popular casino of the night.

Either side of the dark tinted glass doors is two broad bouncers dressed in silk yellow shirts and black waistcoats. Their faces are expressionless, and their stances are intimidating.

Suddenly he’s nervous. He grips the sleeves of his jumper tight in his fists, taking deep, calming breaths.

He settled on an acid wash yellow mesh jumper, with a noodle strap tank top beneath, and tight high-rise leather pants he stole from his mother. Looking at his arm in dim lights, it's hard to tell it's prosthetic, but the see-through material of his jumper had aggravated Hugo all the same. He'd groaned when Rhys had first got in the car.

"You know disabled spots don't matter for valet parking, right?" Hugo remarks to Rhys as he walks around the car and drops his keys into the hands of the teen working valet. He makes sure to snarl at the sweaty kid, glaring as he gets in to drive the vehicle into the car park tucked around the corner. Rhys rolls his eyes out of Hugo's view.

"I can't just stop having a prosthetic arm because it makes you uncomfortable." Rhys rolls his shoulder, trying not to let insecurities get the better of him.

They don't need to wait in the queue behind the golden velvet ropes, nor do they have to bribe the bouncer at the front door. Hugo gives them his name, and though the security guard looks over Rhys suspiciously, Hugo’s name and status are enough to buy his trust. They enter through a red hall with stairs at the far end, one set going up, the other going down. There's a door on their left that emits booming music, and the sound of a slurred voice over a mic echoes through the base. Hugo and Rhys walk past as a man in neon orange flared pants walks out, arm in arm with two women giggling like hyenas.

The stairs feel like they'll never end. Rhys takes long strides going two steps at a time. The walls are dark blood red, and on the second floor, they sparkle like a cascade of stars. Hugo has a sleazy grin plastered across his face as he bursts through the double doors and stands triumphantly before the glitz and glamour of gambling alcoholics as if they're gathered for him. Rhys is taken aback by the luxury and delusions of grandeur dripping off the walls.

Rhys has gone to the same clubs since he turned 18, with only a handful of exceptions accommodating special occasions. The underground gay men’s bar he goes to with Hugo, or the place owned by Sasha’s on again off again boyfriend, August, that serves the best beer Rhys has ever tasted, imported all the way from Germany. He’s never felt a need to venture outside of his comfort zone, but suddenly seeing the vibrancy behind the walls of The Handsome Jackpot, he starts to wonder what he’s been missing all this time.

Most of the men are wearing suits, with their ties loosened, or shirts undid to show an ungodly amount of chest hair. Women vary from formal evening dresses to low rider jeans and a boob tube. Hugo has a wide Cheshire-cat grin plastered across his face as he waltzes through the scene, greeting strangers like he's an old friend, and Rhys scurries along behind him pathetically. It's a wide, open floor, but is almost half the size of downstairs, and has golden railings for the balcony looking over the room they walked past coming in. Rhys peers over and sees the blinding lights reflecting off a stage, occupied by scantily clad dancers and the money of desperate businessmen. He can’t see much other than blurry clusters he assumes are people grouped together.

It’s sensory overload. Sure the bowling alley is loud, but this is sinister chaos he’s not prepared himself for. He looks around as he consciously reminds himself how to breathe before his head explodes. The ringing of various slot machines, and the racketing noise of their levers being yanked harshly, followed by a barrage of jingling quarters. The sounds of cards whirring in the hands of the dealers, or glasses clinking as bartenders and alcoholics exchange secrets. The deafening whispers from losers, the soft yelling of winners, dancing together in a tango no one can catch. He blinks rapidly, trying to disperse the ache of the assault from the playground of neon and strobing lights. Mixed in the red are a plethora of gold and silver and bronze and exquisite fountains and statuary.

Is this what it feels like to matter? To be surrounded by luxury without any kind of worry or discomfort? Rhys feels bad to admit he likes it.

"Rhys, hurry up!"

Rhys sighs under his breath and gathers his cool as he spins on the balls of his feet toward Hugo. He whips past the gamblers that move between tables and lands beside Hugo, who without a word of warning or patience, grabs Rhys' wrist and bullies his way past a few people, gaining them front row seats to the infamous golden roulette table Hugo had been boasting about.

Rhys knew very little about gambling as a whole, let alone this casino, but even he feels something guttural about the importance of this table. The luxury of its presence, and the desire to soak up its wealth. Looking around, he can see stars in everyone's eyes as they count their luck. Possibly the biggest stars are right beside him taking up Hugo's pupils. They don’t immediately spring into action so it seems. They spend a few minutes admiring the art, studying it like there’s any sport in lady luck. The clicking of the roulette wheel is harsh on Rhys’ ears. He watches with reluctant interest the way gold and white rush together as it spins.

The woman tending the roulette table is intimidatingly gorgeous. She has blood red hair, flat as an ironing board down to her lower back, and a form-fitting grey waistcoat with a formal black shirt, modestly unbuttoned beneath. She's a stoic woman, with a sharp intimidating gaze, and the men around stare like she’s the prize they win. She knows it too, and it disgusts her. She’s used to feeling men’s heavy lustful eyes on her, and it’s clear without the smoke and mirrors that she wants to choke them with their own sticky, itchy fingers. She catches Rhys’ gaze briefly, and in that nanosecond, he feels like she’s shoved her hand down his throat to squeeze his heart. Rhys breaks their eye contact by turning to Hugo. His line of sight is focused on the felt numbers on the table, though he possesses the same dark allure for the game that the men around have for her .

"So what's the big deal about this casino?" He asks without looking at Hugo. The other man is unfocused too, busy watching the wheel spinning from the previous round.

"The jackpot hasn't been won yet, so its value has gone up. It's the highest cash prize currently in all of Las Vegas, which pretty much translates to all of America." He looks over his shoulder to see if anyone's listening before whispering "and rumour has it there are exclusive rooms dedicated to fucking here too, but it's all kept real hush-hush. VIP's only…"

Rhys involuntarily scoffs. "You looking to get lucky in more than one way then?"

"God knows it would be nice to get some from someone that puts out."

Hugo looks him up and down like he's dirt on the bottom of his shoe, resenting the truth that is Rhys' existence. Someone at the table stands to leave and Hugo slips in their place, flattening his hands over the wooden rim. Rhys should be used to his smart ass remarks, but they still manage to catch him off guard.

"So that rumour isn't an exclusive offer, but more of an open invitation for any poor bastard here that falls for your charm?" Rhys crosses his arms when Hugo whips around and snarls at him.

"You're a real jokester, ain't ya?"

It's pretty common for them to snap at each other every other interaction. Nerves Rhys used to have can't compete anymore with his repressed anger. Why does he tolerate this? The reasons get fewer and fewer every day.

“I don’t know if this is exactly the best way for us to afford a spa day, Vasquez,” He tugs on Hugo’s shirt and ignores the obvious annoyance from his partner’s scoff. “What’s wrong with going old school and just, you know, saving up?”

Rhys expects some backhanded response or caveman grunt, but instead, Hugo hits back with something malicious. He leans in close, keeps his tone level, and whispers;

“You really are as stupid as you look to believe I’d spend my winnings on a shitty spa day with you .”

He’s grinning as he pulls away. He knows he’s hurt Rhys by saying that, and that’s exactly what he wanted. He wanted it to feel like a bullet to the heart. Rhys feels it run through him.

He decides to stay quiet after that. His opinion isn't necessary or welcome. Hugo wants to impress Rhys, but he doesn't want to look too eager in their dynamic. He doesn't want anyone around them to think Hugo cares about Rhys. The fear that someone might think they have sex, or worse, kiss , and like each other...the idea makes Hugo dizzy with dread.

Every so often, wait staff come by the table to take orders. Hugo shouts out for a beer, with no regard for the fact he’s driving, and before Rhys can give his own order he’s answered for. A Strawberry Daiquiri. Rhys doesn’t like cocktails. When the drinks come back, Rhys takes his glass and sighs.

Sadness drains through him. He stirs his thick drink with the umbrella stick and watches the gamblers around cheer on their wins, happy to be alive. Hugo has moments of victory and his gratitude booms through like a stampede. Rhys doesn’t even flinch when he jumps up to celebrate, or balls up his fists in misery. The regret that he came along runs through every cell of his body. He feels hollow and uncomfortably familiar with that feeling.

Hugo and Rhys met when they were in high school. Rhys was never the spriest of athletes, but Hugo was on several sports teams and excelled in gym class like someone had threatened his life to be the very best. Hugo was beloved by almost the entirety of their school, bringing them home a couple dozen game wins against rival high schools. Baseball, basketball, football, and thanks to Rhys' dad striking up a sponsorship with the school, bowling.

That's when Rhys' invisibility became a thing of the past. Suddenly the kings of his school knew who he was, in particular, Hugo Vasquez. The bowling team had free access to the alley on weekdays, and Rhys of course, forced by his father to work the evening shift after a full day of school, became their comical "mascot". He was playfully teased by a team of Neanderthals, and affectionately bullied outside of The Lucky Striker , to keep the status quo of the school food chain... except for Hugo.

Hugo was kind to Rhys in their short interactions. He asked how Rhys' weekends were when he saw him Monday morning at school. He complimented Rhys' eccentric shirts when he exchanged his shoes over the counter. He walked Rhys home on nights where his father would leave him to lock up at 11 pm. For some reason, Hugo was willing to give Rhys the time of day he didn't even fully give his own teammates, and eventually, that led to something more.

At the beginning of his fairytale, Rhys was sitting on a bench in the boy's locker room, his head tilted upward for Hugo to inspect and check if his nose was broken. Rhys’ skin was sticky hot, with adrenaline, only getting warmer the longer Hugo touched him. Innocent strokes under his chin, a thumb cascading across his cheek...he was so gentle.

“Wouldn’t take you to be the fighting type? ” Hugo’s voice was low and gruff even in high school. It used to make Rhys melt.

“Don’t see the point letting some douchebag push me around without at least doing something. Even if it is...useless.”

Hugo was smiling. He always looked so happy around Rhys. It was so natural for Hugo to be carefree and thrive off worldly wonder. Rhys’ heart felt like it was lodged in his throat.

“You’re real feisty, Strongfork, ya know that? ” But there was something more intense deep in his eyes as he spoke. A curiosity begging to be torn apart. Rhys didn’t care about blood dripping out his nose and coating his lips anymore. He didn’t care about the iron taste or the world outside the locker room. Nothing mattered but Hugo…

The feeling was too strong to not be mutual.

Next thing they knew, they were locking lips, caught in a frenzy of heat and passion that surprised them both. Blood slipped between the gaps of their lips and coated both their teeth, but they didn’t care. All that mattered was where their hands were going and how much closer they could get. Hugo’s hot breath made Rhys moan like nothing ever had. The bashful crooked smile that greeted him when they pulled away was so perfect and pure. Hugo’s swollen lips and blood-stained teeth made Rhys want to rip his heart out of his chest as an offering...it was a sublime moment of absolute purity, Rhys truly believed he had found his forever love.

Now he’s an addict chasing that high. He yearns so desperately for more, to numb the pain he’s trying to pretend isn’t there. Hugo gave him butterflies and sweaty palms and a light at the end of the tunnel. All Rhys wants is to know the light's still there, to guide him home, wrap him up and keep him safe. He wants what they once had.

The slim hope that is near extinction now is all he’s got...

This Hugo is sleazy and egotistical. This Hugo before him, wearing his finest satin shirt that clings to his pecs, a cologne that seeps into every pore, and mistakes common decency with the need to assert his dominance - this isn't his love, but it's the closest he's got.

Round after round goes by, and Hugo's luck is never consistent. With every spin of the roulette wheel, the clicking of the ball bouncing off the metal pockets substitutes hands on a clock, and Rhys becomes more anxious about Hugo’s money dwindling away. He had some success, winning about $500...before just as quickly losing double the amount in the next round. Rhys wants to just pull him away and pour alcohol down his throat till he’s passed out and unable to irritate him.

Maybe he could throw his fruity cocktail at him and lead him away via a chase scene?

He’s pulled out of his daydream when Hugo curses loudly and necks the rest of his beer aggressively, spilling suds down his beard. A few guests give him a suspicious look or smirk, but it’s nothing too noticeable. Rhys peers over to see a collection of checkered chips huddled together and whisked away by the dealer, styled with the champion cheers of people across the table. When Rhys looks at Hugo, he's grumbling under his breath while preparing a new set of chips to place on the numbers printed on the table's felt board.

This time there's a success though. The ball lands within the pocket Hugo needs and chips are pushed toward Hugo for his enjoyment. $1300 in total. Rhys is quiet as Hugo boasts. His arrogance clearly annoys the other players, and Rhys wants to laugh. They have no idea , he thinks, rolling his eyes when Hugo clicks at a waitress to order them more drinks. Another beer and another fruity cocktail.

Rhys is timid to even breathe too loudly, but he finds the courage to place his hand on Hugo's shoulder as he's moving a big amount of chips toward the felt numbers.

"Hugo, I think you should stop now while you're ahead," Rhys makes the attempt to care, but his suggestion falls on ignorant ears. He'd almost prefer if Hugo just ignored him, the condescending smirk and snort is blood boiling. Surely enough after another round, all the money he won just as easily disappears into the hands of another. The cheers from his side of the table boom through the already lively sounds of the casino, and they rattle through Hugo's skull, taunting him. Rhys wants to gloat, but even without a trace of delight over the misery that exudes off him, Hugo whips round to give him a death glare all the same.

"Now look what'cha did!"

Rhys' hates how his instincts shrink him down. Hugo thrusts himself from the stool and towers over Rhys, his rage like hanging ivy-covered in thorns. Hugo is Rhys' height, but he's broad, built like a brick wall, and that makes Rhys feel the size of a mouse. He stumbles back clumsily.

"Uh oh, lovers spat!" Someone at the table shouts out. What follows is a collection of snooty laughter and dirty looks - the looks Hugo fears most - and Rhys prepares himself for the fury to descend upon him. He can already see it brewing, tightening in the knots of Hugo's shoulders as he slowly turns to face the stranger. He can feel the fingers grabbing at his shirt already, his back slamming against the wall, hours before it's even happened.

"What did you say, buck?" Hugo's voice drops. He laughs mockingly, then hauntingly stops. He leans against the roulette table, digging his nails into the golden wood. "You talking to me?"

The man - an average businessman with his suit undone to allow him to relax - scoffs and rolls his eyes, aggravating Hugo further. "You and your boyfriend, yeah."

The B-word. A forbidden secret. Hearing it is like fingers around his throat. Hugo's back may be to him now, but he knows how he must look. His thick black eyebrows knitted into a suspicious frown, and his dark brown eyes bared through the bullseye he's imagining. His top lip is hooked on an imaginary rod, and he snarls his pearly whites like a feral dog. Hugo doesn't suit anger, but he holds it well all the same.

"Watch your fucking mouth." He grunts. The guests around them turn sour at the tone, and Rhys tries to shrink down into himself and disappear.

"What's the problem, I was just joshing y'all."

As the man turns to face his friend, giving her a stink eye on behalf of how Hugo's left the air, Hugo slams his hands down on the table and startles them all. Rhys is officially mortified.

"Do you know who I am, huh?! I'm Hugo God damn Vasquez, got it?! I'm a motherfucking VIP, champion sportsman and winner! I’m not some weak, pathetic, miserable little--"

"Hay."

A hauntingly quiet English accent stops him in his tracks, and when Rhys looks, it's the intimidating woman manning the roulette table. She's glaring at him, a simple but sinister raised eyebrow, but it's effective like the barrel of a gun pushed against his temple would be. Rhys feels an icy shiver run down his spine…

Hugo grunts out a disinterested "What?" And the corner of the woman's lips curl.

"Unless you want to lose your front teeth, I'd suggest quietly escorting yourself out of my vicinity."

Rhys stares at Hugo, waiting for a reaction. Rhys can't see Hugo's face, but he can guess it's stuck as he furiously racks his brain for a fitting reaction. Eventually, he decides on a chuckle.

"Is this a joke?"

But all he gets is a cold stare, and something about the stiffness of the woman makes Hugo retreat. He straightens up and flicks the collar of his shirt out before whipping around on his heels. He motions for Rhys to follow him, and the hesitation in Rhys' feet makes him impatient as he grabs Rhys' wrist to drag him out of the roulette section. Rhys winces, looking back at the judgemental eyes grateful for their departure.

Hugo pulls Rhys through the crowd to step out on the balcony, tossing Rhys to stagger in front of him. No one around them seems to even notice they exist let alone the obvious tension

"You just lost me 3 freakin' grand!"

Rhys' eyes bulge wide at the accusation. "In what way can I possibly even do that with a roulette table, even if I want to?! You owe me $1000, I wouldn't root for you to lose!"

"Oh you love bringing that one up, don't you? If you're so precious about your money, princess, you shouldn't have offered it to me."

Rhys wants to make a remark about how he didn't exactly offer the money like Hugo implies, but was rather guilt-tripped with threats, but he figures now isn't the time for being pedantic.

Instead, he sighs and crosses his arms. "If you really hate people thinking we're a couple, you probably shouldn't invite me out all the time."

"Maybe you shouldn't dress so obvious-- "

"I wear this to the club all the time with Vaughn and we have no problem picking girls up, so that's really not the problem." He knows he shouldn't talk back to Hugo, especially about this kind of thing, but he's tired of the internalised homophobia biting him in the ass.

Hugo raises a brow, silently taking in his words, before bellowing out in laughter mockingly. He doubles over, holding his stomach like it's funny enough to give him cramps, and wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. When he straightens back up and composes himself, he's got that slimy self egregious smirk he likes to parade around with. His dark features burn through Rhys.

“It’s hard to believe you get any attention from men, let alone drunk, slutty women with standards, no matter how low they may be!” He moves in to close the space between them. His breath pours over Rhys’ face like volcanic lava. He raises his hand to pinch Rhys’ chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Rhys flinches back so hard he accidentally bumps the railing of the balcony. A sharp panic bolts through him as he imagines how easy it would be for Hugo to toss him over the edge and end his miserable existence.

Why do you give me attention then? He thinks to himself as he stares back into Hugo’s sinister gaze. His heart literally aches in these moments, facing the man who used to bring him such joy and feeling an intense hatred brew. He would give anything for those butterflies he got in High school when they’d sneak away just to be alone and drink up the affection in something as small as a look. Now he feels compelled to tolerate the abuse, to withstand the trials of time and wait for the good again. If Hugo was once sweet and compassionate, and he stuck around despite his own detestable ego, then surely the heart Rhys fell for was still in there…

Right?

“You better hope I win back my money tonight, Strongfork, or things won’t be pretty…”

He pushes against Rhys’s jaw lightly and strolls toward a group of women smoking. He leans up against the wall with an arm high above the nearest girl's head, and they all immediately flash bulging heart eyes. Rhys watches for a few seconds, feeling hollow, before finally deciding to save himself from the pathetic charade altogether...

He quickly moves through the casino grounds to rush downstairs. The music feels better than the clatter of levers being pulled, or money spilling down on metal. It's nearly a relief when he walks through the doors into the--

Strip club .

Oh, right...

There’s a huge, extravagant stage as long as half the room, currently occupied by a curvaceous woman wearing thigh-high rhinestone boots and low riding leather shorts, with sinful fluorescent lights illuminating her act and casting a shadow over the dark eyes watching. There are a few clothed tables sparsely placed around the room, but the best seats seem to be around the stage - and noticeably they’re all currently occupied by desperate men wolf-whistling for even an inch of attention. The bar across the walkway, where girls grind against sweaty needy men and take their hard-earned cash, is slick and glamourous, with an enormous mirror reflecting back the chaos of the dance floor.

As Rhys moves through the crowd, awkwardly apologising to dancers as they bump past him, he feels like he’s dancing on the Northern Lights; the dry-ice swirling in red velvet sheets, acid greens, hot pinks and gold. The music plays over the dance floor as if it’s fused with the victims of performance, and it takes a lot of self-control for Rhys to stop himself from joining them. Eventually, he makes it to the bar and exhales the heavyweight of the world thick in his lungs.

“What’ll it be, boy-o?” A thick Irish accent makes its way through the booming music.

Rhys doesn’t lift his head properly, but rolls it on his neck, able to see only the bartender's neck.

“Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double.”

The service is impressive. His drink is placed in front of him quickly, and he hears the bartender compliment him nonchalantly. Something about being pretty, Rhys didn't quite catch it. He's too focused on the warm relief of a drink he likes.

Rhys leans on the bar, full weight against the edge, and runs his finger around the rim of his glass. The dirty off colour brown of his scotch is haunting. He could drown in it if he focuses enough. That desire resonates from somewhere deep in Rhys, flowing through his bones, flooding his nerves and thrashing every inch of space that tries to swim to shore. Life has him in a chokehold, constantly, he doesn’t remember the last time he took a deep breath without tasting salt and fire. He’s exhausted.

He takes the scotch and throws it down his throat, slamming the glass back down on the bar. The bartender turns to the sound and knows to get him a refill. Booze eases his aches. It eases his stress. He watches as the liquor splashes against the glass and nods to the bartender when he walks away.

There aren’t many openly queer men in Rhys’ town that he knows off, and there’s even less than Rhys finds attractive himself. Hugo is also the only man Rhys has ever slept with, and sometimes that fact makes Rhys feel like he can’t be picky; worried that maybe he doesn’t deserve anything better, and should be grateful for what he’s got. If he met Hugo now and didn’t have complicated feelings muddied by sweet memories, Hugo would be the last on his list. He’s glad he can’t see him from his corner of the bar. He’s somewhere in the chaos, gambling his money, laughing like he’s a big shot, groping women and daring to glare at them afterwards when they gasp. If Hugo was just egotistical, that would be one thing, but it’s so much more than Rhys detests it. A black eye is like sugar compared to watching his desperate attempts at earning respect. Hugo is a weaselly, snivelling excuse of a man, and often Rhys wants to just throttle him in front of everyone, show them how pathetic he really is. He figures his fingers digging into his neck would relieve him.

As he sips his drink, he indulges the secret victory of just enjoying it, because Hugo hates Rhys drinking scotch. He's categorised him so his own fragile masculinity doesn't combust. When they go to clubs, he orders Rhys cocktails. If Rhys dares to have a cigarette, Hugo snatches it and stomps it out. It's all the small, unnoticeable things Rhys does that aren't dainty enough that make Hugo snarl, and have the hairs standing on the back of his neck. Rhys could breathe too loud and Hugo would consider pushing his testicles back up inside himself.

He orders all the scotch he desires now. Fuck Hugo. Every gulp Rhys takes is another reminder he should embrace hating Hugo. Fuck his clumsy, meaty hands, and fuck his shovelhead jaw, and fuck his self-importance because he won a national trophy in bowling. Every glass is a prayer he finds the nerve to end things. Whether it was after they first slept together, or after Hugo punched him, or tonight if his drunk self is feeling particularly suicidal.

Every sip goes down like a honey-coated fire, Rhys actually basks in the burn. No wonder his mother used to drink.

Before he realises it, he's drunk, and his legs feel like damp cotton. His arms radiate with the static of television and pulsate against the beat of the club's music. The chaotic rumblings of his surroundings sedate the franticness of his own head, but nothing more. He’s still swimming in a dizzy kind of torture, but now it dances around him, not with him.

His face brightens dramatically. He calls the bartender for another drink. His blissful smile extends his eyes and drills deep into his soul. Happiness grows, much like spring flowers open, thriving off the magic in his liquor. The music is distant, but he knows the tune. Nursing his latest drink, he listens, shrinking down into himself as he squints and hums along…

He gasps dramatically and slams a hand down on the bar.

“Watching through windows, you’re wondering if I am okay ,” He sways along to the lyrics and drums out of sync against the bar. He doesn’t even notice the other guests staring at him, let alone care. He’s found a familiar song, and he’s content.

“Nice pipes, kid.

”

Rhys doesn’t even realise someone’s speaking to him at first. He’s too busy singing along.

“Hay, scotch on the rocks,” follows with a hard knock on the bar's wood in front of Rhys. That gains his attention. He swings his head over his shoulders, as if it needs to catch itself off the movement, and looks over at the man leaning toward him…

The boozy fog disperses. This stranger, eyeing Rhys up like the polished trophy of a rival, has the kind of face that stopped people and has a smug glimmer like he's used to that - the sudden pause in a person's natural expression when they looked his way followed. All Rhys can offer after too much silence is overcompensating pleasantries. A nonchalant gaze and a weak smile.

He’s caught off by a strong, cocked jaw, mouth agape with the stick of a lollipop against his pink lips, and bold, striking heterochromia eyes baring through him. Shockingly, he notices the vibrancy and striking features of his face before he even notices the mask. A perfect fit moulded to look exactly like a human face, detailed and perfect bar a slight rise in skin tone, and there are thick, matte grey bolts screwed into his skull. He's never seen anything quite like it. Rhys can only think of a string of curse words in his presence.

There’s silence. Nothing’s even said through their gaze.

Eventually, the stranger scoffs and straightens up. “You realise this is a casino and not a karaoke bar, right?” He speaks around the candy. His accent is slightly mismatched - the brawling punch of a New Yorker saddled with the swing of a Canadian.

Rhys’ swallows hard, and his bubbling brain acts faster than his skittish heart.

“Rhys.”

He doesn’t say anything else. His voice is slurred.

“Excuse me?”

“My name. It’s Rhys...Rhys is me!”

He’s not embarrassed now, but the hungover flashbacks next morning will tear him up for sounding so idiotic. Rhys never usually gets flustered around people, but there’s something about this man unlike most, that brings out a repressed yearning he’s never been able to get familiar with.

Quiet. Rhys’ lips curl a bit more.

“I’m Jack.” The intimidating man says with a level of disinterest, but Rhys notices clear as day how Jack’s eyes fall down his body. It's the same way Hugo looks at him, possessively, when the world is watching Rhys thrive.

He's intimidating, most definitely, in a way that makes Rhys want to shrink down to the size of a mouse. He's also warm. Comfortably so. It radiates off him, strokes Rhys' nerves and wraps itself around his limbs. He feels if he's not careful he'll fall through Jack's frame and suffocate on the sweetness. Rhys has known fear more than most, but the nerves in his stomach are like butterfly wings, not pterodactyls.

Jack leans in a little closer to Rhys. He stinks of cigarettes and cologne, with just a hint of strawberries. Rhys' drunken self wants to see if his taste will sober him up.

"You're looking a little wobbly there, Bambi, and you’re singing like a freakin’ back alley primadonna. You all okay?"

His voice is sexy, too. It makes Rhys giggle embarrassingly under his breath. He's too drunk to care. Rather, he attempts to speak but mistakes his feet for his mouth and trips into the broad man's arms.

"Woah there, pumpkin!" Jack huffs as he catches Rhys, the wind getting knocked from him. His hands move to hold him better, one sliding under his armpit, the other to his waist. He looks annoyed, but in the kind of gentle, forgiving way an exhausted parent might. Rhys doesn't mean to, but he ends up leaning his full body weight against Jack, with his face a few inches from his. The way Rhys is gawping at him, eyes huge like dinner plates, seemingly tickles Jack and makes him smile.

"S-sorry! I uh, didn't realise how much I'd had to drink...it's kinda hit me now, suddenly, when you…" Rhys swallows the lump caught in his throat. He pushes out of Jack's arms and stabilises himself against the wood of the bar. His face is turning a beautiful shade of pink. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise, kid. Your addiction lines up my pockets, so who's complaining?" Jack snorts out softly.

Rhys squints. “Your pockets? What do…” He stops, mouth agape as the wires in his brain reconnect to put 2 and 2 together. “Oh, Jack !” He snickers, childishly. “Like Jackpot! You own this place?!”

The grin on Jack’s face lifts higher. “Bingo, sweetcheeks, that’s me.”

"Woooooooooow, isn't that impressive," Rhys giggles under his breath and drums his hands on the bar. "Bet you make a lot of money."

Jack scoffs. "A lot of money is an understatement."

Rhys watches as Jack signals the bartender - he looks familiar somehow, like a sunny distant dream from a night passed, but he's so quick to serve Jack and get back to other customers, Rhys doesn't get a chance to really look at him, study his features and pull forth the familiarities tucked away. Jack orders himself a cosmopolitan, and instinctively Rhys rolls his eyes.

"No thank you." He responds without being prompted.

The unasked dismissal prompts Jack to arch his brow, confused. "Did I offer you something, kid?"

Rhys glances at the drink. There's a pause, then Jack projects a mocking laugh at Rhys. The genuine smile suddenly pulls upward with a sinister twist.

"You're cute, but this is for me."

"O-oh! Really? You…" He looks back at the fruity drink between Jack's fingers. He has the rim of the glass against his lips, waiting for Rhys to finish his train of thought. It doesn't come through, and instead he just snickers. "Okay."

Jack sips his drink leisurely and grumbles. "Judging me, are ya? Well...If a cute little dweeb like you can chase scotch like your life depends on it, then why can't I drink cocktails?" As he puts the drink back down, he leans against the bar with his elbows on the wood and looks out on the crowd. Rhys lets his eyes wander Jack's stance, analysing him, trying to get a read on him as a person, despite the twisting of his drunken gaze.

"Have you won big yet, Rhys?" Jack asks, leaning on the bar and resting his head in his hand. Rhys laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"I haven't tried anything myself, I'm not much of a gambler."

"Ah just here for the tits then?"

Rhys sputters out "Excuse me?!" To which Jack scoffs.

"What? You’re surrounded by strippers, hotshot. Just look behind you, you’re a few feet from a strip pole, where Candy Double D's is currently using her assets to secure a down payment on a home…" Jack looks over his shoulder and nods toward the very scene he described; a young woman with voluptuous assets collecting hundred dollar bills from the hypnotised gentleman watching her. Rhys stumbles over himself to reply but Jack holds up his hand. "I'm yanking your chain, kid. You're too easy to make sweat."

"Sorry I-- just, I don't want to be seen as a pervert."

"Probably the wrong place to drown your sorrows then. Could be worse, you could be trying to fuck one of the girls."

"I'm sure they get pretty sick of guys hitting on them."

"Maybe...though, they probably wouldn't mind a pretty guy like you. One look at those long fingers of yours and they'd probably soak through their panties."

Rhys splutters through the sip he takes of his drink and coughs all over the bar. He can hear Jack laughing, and then a strong hand is smacking his back repeatedly. Suddenly another drink is in front of him, though it's water. Rhys gulps it down.

"Too crude for you, kid?" Jack asks, the rim of his glass against his lips as he watches Rhys' flushed expression. Rhys laughs awkwardly with a broken smile.

"Maybe a little. Sorry." He coughs at the end of his words.

"Don't sweat it." He turns to lean back against the bar while admiring the scenes around them.

Everything is so loud. Rhys feels like the beat drives him, controls all his senses. The distorted colour of Jack's shirt jirates with the thunderous drum, the patterns practically jumping out and tying Rhys in knots. It's tacky, the rusty yellow shades on his shirt, with way too many buttons undone to reveal his chest hair, and the rolled-up sleeves cutting into the bulge of Jack’s biceps. His suspenders are similar, hugging his body in such a way someone might think they don’t fit, but it looks good on Jack. His whole attire, though dressed down and out of place, somehow pulls itself together and looks sophisticated. Maybe Rhys has just had one too many glasses, but he’s actually into Jack’s fashion sense…

Maybe whisky has made Rhys blind?

Or Jack’s shirt has.

Either way, Jack’s alluring, and still here looking over at Rhys and grinning. He’s here when Hugo isn’t, being someone Hugo isn’t , and whether it matters who that someone is, Rhys is glad Jack’s here all the same. He feels something primal and deep within his veins warm up the longer he looks at Jack.

He needs to do something with himself before he gets lost in staring. He feels in danger of his own carnivorous curiosities.

He pats himself down and pulls out the pack of cigarettes tucked away in the waistband of his pants, laughing awkwardly when Jack raises a quizzical brow at him.

“My attempt at hiding them.” He answers the unspoken question, pulling out the cigarette and putting it between his teeth.

“Whatever you gotta do, kid.”

Rhys looks around at the patrons crowding the bar. He sees a man lighting his own cigarette near him and leans over to ask to borrow his lighter, only for the man to aggressively jolt away and curse at Rhys loudly. Rhys watches as he turns to his female companion on the other side and laughs with obnoxious cruelty. He’s about to move on, ask someone else nearby, when Jack stomps past him and inserts himself between the strangers, facing the man in question. Rhys can’t see the man, but he can see Jack’s intimidating glare. He can’t hear his whisper over the thunderous music all around, but he can tell what leaves his lips is a threat, wrapping around the man’s neck and tightening, frightening him. Jack snatches the lighter out of his hand and condescendingly pats the man on the face, walking back over to Rhys.

“What did you--”

“I don’t like rude people.” Jack gently guides Rhys to turn back around, facing him. He holds the lighter up for Rhys to see and flicks it's flip-cap open, spinning the catch to ignite the small flame. He gently places his hand on the curve of Rhys’ waist and encourages him to step into his space, leaving him flustered and wide-eyed, staring cross-eyed at the dancing fire in front of him. Jack’s eyes are focused on Rhys’ lips. He softly speaks, “Don’t drop your cigarette,” and lights the tobacco end. The heat is overwhelming, Rhys feels like he’s stood in a furnace, melting, but not liquifying, as his form somehow holds together in Jack’s presence.

Rhys draws the smoke into his lungs. There's a sense of breathing and holding his breath at the same time that always makes him feel blissful. The tightness in his lungs used to overwhelm him, it took time to get used to, and he’d feel anxiety bubble up trying to get out. Now it’s comfortable, the toxic burn is like a friend of the family, and ecstasy fills his lungs, setting ablaze to the infinite unease.

Jack steps back and practically sucks the life out of Rhys in the process. His entire being is so alluring, magnetizing Rhys’ interest like a moth to the flame. He slides the lighter across the bar for Rhys to take before taking his cocktail into his hand again to sip, gaze never leaving Rhys’ face, flickering between his eyes and his lips. The spotlight should be negatively daunting, but Rhys is hungry for more, desperate to soak it up and glow the same way Jack does.

He takes the cigarette between his fingers and blows the excess smoke into the air above them. “Thanks,” he folds his other arm over his chest, “So, you got a last name, Mr Jackpot?” He holds the cigarette near his lips, looking Jack up and down once before landing back on his face, eyes locked once more. Jack lets out a superficial laugh of sorts, low and mocking, but light in its tone all the same that Rhys feels in on the joke.

"I dunno, sweet cheeks, Jack Jackpot sure does have a hell of a ring to it," he leans on the bar when Rhys snorts out a dorky laugh, admiring him like he's a work of art. "You gonna try looking me up, Rhysie?"

Rhys clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth and shrugs. " Should I look you up, Jack Jackpot?" He takes an inhale of his cigarette and smiles, lips cracking around the nicotine stick. Jack hums pleasantly.

"That would spoil the fun, kid. Don't you enjoy the chase of a mystery? Of figuring someone out, piece by piece?"

Rhys raises a brow and blows the excess smoke, shrugging. "Not everyone's got time for games." He hates how cynical he sounds. If he were younger, in his very early 20s, he'd have been unapologetically excited to chase a mystery, no questions asked. The hopeless romantic that saw his teenage crush as a soulmate would thrive for unravelling a stranger. Deep down that part of him still exists, but he resents it, feeling like it's the reason he's trapped himself to this day with a man who denies their relationship. If he lets it out, he might end up in a worse situation.

Jack seems amused by Rhys' cynicism though. "Busy man, huh? I can appreciate that. Well, I'd say you got some good pointers to work with to figure me out: I'm rich, I don't take shit, and I'm easy on the eyes." He winks to accentuate his point, clicking his tongue in tandem.

"And oh so humble too." Rhys teases.

Jack laughs and looks behind Rhys toward the bar. Whatever catches Jack's attention out of Rhys' sight has him subtly shift his demeanour to something more serious. He straightens up and taps the bar top, taking his cocktail glass and downing the end of it in one. "Listen, gorgeous, I've got to bounce, but it was wonderful meeting you."

Rhys hates to admit it but he actually feels somewhat saddened by Jack's departure - he suddenly wishes for more time, or to slow down the world around them, for long enough to feel fulfilled by their meeting. He composes himself to hide any disappointment that may surface. "Yes, thank you for the company. Oh! And of course," he picks up the stolen lighter off the bar and holds it up. “For getting me a light. Though you didn’t need to steal that guy's lighter for me.”

“It’ll teach him a lesson. Don’t be rude to someone as cute as yourself, otherwise, a big bad guy like me might have to step in.”

Rhys takes another long drag of his cigarette. “What makes you so big and bad?” He says through his nicotine exhale. The way Jack lets out a deep chuckle, rolling through his chest like gravel under tires, makes Rhys blush. Jack must notice - how couldn’t he - and lets his eyes roam up and down Rhys, tongue pressed into his cheek.

“Let's leave just a little mystery. Maybe next time I can clue you in some more.”

“Next time?” Rhys takes another inhale. “What do you mean, next time?”

“Next time you visit.”

Rhys scoffs. “What makes you think I’ll come back here?” He assumes he’s not very convincing when Jack rolls his eyes and smirks at him amusingly.

“You won’t be able to resist.” Jack takes his cocktail to his lips and downs the rest of the drink in one, leaving the glass on the bar top. He raises his hand to Rhys’ cheek and pushes back a long strand of hair hanging around his face behind his ear. His fingers linger against his skin, warm, pleasant, and Rhys holds his breathing longingly as he stares deep into Jack’s eyes. His heart could pop like a champagne cork if they admired one another too long. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, got it?”

Then Jack surprises Rhys more than anyone ever has in his entire life.

He kisses him. Openly, publicly, proudly…

Necessarily.

It’s only on the cheek, but it registers like a lover’s kiss and imprints hard enough to linger when he pulls back. Like fingers squeezing, like ice freezing, like rain soaking. Rhys chokes on his shock and stares in disbelief when Jack starts to step away from the bar, nodding a goodbye at him.

“See you around.”

Rhys’ gaze is glued to Jack as he walks through the crowd, disappearing into the sea of people. He stares in the direction he lost him, baffled as to if everything that just happened was actually real or if he was dreaming. Who even is Jack?...

He downs the rest of his scotch, puts his cigarette out in the glass, pockets the lighter, and scurries away to find his reality; Hugo.

#Rhack #Rhysquez #rhys strongfork #handsome jack #Tales from the Borderlands #Borderlands #hugo vasquez

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