#she doesn't show up for quite a while after this so I need to wring out every bit of screen time for her | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blindmagdalena · 2 years

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Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 1 )

Homelander x original female character

Notes: 18+ escort services, sex work, masturbation, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. problematic. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

summary: Layla is an escort who specializes in the marriage of sex and emotional intimacy. In an effort to protect herself in an inherently hazardous industry, she enforces a strict ‘No Supes’ policy. Homelander doesn't take no for an answer, and insists that she take him on as a client. She's quickly caught up in the maelstrom of his life, forcing them both to confront a feelings of obsession, danger, love, trauma, sex, and how the entanglement of all of those things have shaped their lives.

“I’ve been booked by The Homelander? ”

Layla’s voice is incredulous while her assistant, Holly, has an apprehensive kind of look to her, a thick paper folder held up between her two hands, clutched over her chest. Holly has always been a nervous looking woman, but today she looks particularly high strung, her shoulders drawn up tighter than the bun atop her head.

“Yes, ma’am, and he comes with… a whole host of NDA’s,” Holly says, gesturing to Layla with the envelope in her hands for emphasis.

Layla exhales a mirthless little laugh born of disbelief. She takes a moment to process before she reaches out to grab hold of the folder from her assistant, setting it down on her desk to flip through. It’s standard enough legal jargon, assurance that she won’t so much as hint towards any involvement with Vought’s golden son to anyone, but that’s not the part that’s bothering her.

“I don’t work with supes,” Layla reminds her, though gauging by Holly’s expression, she doesn’t need it. They both know that. It’s been a sticking point in her line of work ever since she started six years ago.

“I know, but he was persistent, and… He booked domestic,” Holly says, wringing her hands slightly.

“Domestic?” Layla echoes, irritation giving way to contemplation. Homelander had been all over the news not long ago, denouncing the actions of his former girlfriend, only for her abrupt death to outshine his countless damage control interviews. Her brows furrow. Domestic is precisely what one might expect; cuddling, familiarity, casual intimacy, but no sex. Some clients request that she cooks for them. Sometimes there is a roleplay aspect. They want her to be their wife, or their mother. More often than not, she ends up feeling more like a therapist than an escort during these sessions.

Grief comes in all shapes. Layla’s seen it in spades in her line of work. Companionship and intimacy at top dollar. Homelander lost his girlfriend not long ago, and regardless of what the situation between them was, whether he actually knew the truth about her or not, he’s clearly more affected than Vought wants to let on.

“That’s what the paperwork says,” Holly answers after a beat, snapping Layla from her thoughts. “I swear, I tried to recommend him to someone else, but his representative was insistent that he wouldn’t see anyone else. Apparently he’s heard of you.”

Absently, Layla begins to chew her bottom lip. She doesn't advertise that she doesn't work with supes, but she generally doesn't need to. She has enough associates to pass them off, so turning them down was rarely an issue, and if it was, they would be flat out refused… but it’s never been such a high profile figure.

Snubbing someone like him could be bad for business. While Layla has never been formally introduced to the Homelander, she has been in proximity to him at Vought sponsored events, including one less than a week ago. Running into him with bad blood between them sounds… troublesome, to say the least.

“Okay,” she says, forming her game plan as she speaks.

“Okay?” Holly echoes, her trepidation turning immediately to surprise.

“Okay,” Layla confirms. The two of them engage in a mutually incredulous staring contest, neither quite believing the confirmation. To show her precisely how serious she is, Layla walks around her desk, takes a seat, and begins signing the forms.

“You… want me to confirm the booking, then?” Holly asks, holding her hand out as Layla begins shuffling the documents back into a neat stack, handing the folder back to her assistant.

“Yes, go ahead and confirm the booking. First timer stipulations apply,” Layla tells her, taking in a breath as she squares her shoulders. As a first timer, it would be a highly controlled session in her office, as opposed to a more homely setting. She rents a variety of houses and apartments for more elaborate sessions with familiar clients, but Homelander is what she would consider ‘high risk.’ ”It’s one session. What could go wrong?”

Homelander arrives late for his session.

Layla’s been waiting nearly half an hour, seated at her desk with a good book. Frankly, it’s no skin off her back. Her time is already paid for, and she won’t be spending a moment longer than what’s been agreed upon. He can arrive five minutes to the end of his allotted time if he likes; he’ll get five minutes, and not a second more. Just in case, however, she’s left the remainder of her day clear. Heaven forbid something does go terribly wrong.

The office their session is to take place in is sectioned off into three distinct areas, though the floorplan is fully open. Her ‘office’ is to the south, directly across from the entrance on the northern wall, while the ‘living room’ aesthetic and the ‘bedroom’ aesthetic sit on the east and west walls, respectively. The only separated space is the bathroom. This suite also fully utilizes security cameras. It’s ideal for setting her clients up for a proper session while still prioritizing her safety and comfort.

When the door across the way swings open, Layla looks up from her book, peering over the lenses of her reading glasses. Homelander stands tall in the open doorway, his eyes drifting lazily about the room for a good while before landing on her. His flat expression shifts to a smile that somehow feels even less pleasant than the neutral line that had come before it.

“I was beginning to worry you’d lost your way,” Layla says as she stands, sliding off her glasses. She sets her glasses atop her book, which she leaves splayed open, keeping her page.

“Nope. Busy day,” he answers, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t take her eyes off her as he does it. He approaches her slowly, hands on his hips. “Saving people. Hero business. Dangerous world out there, you know.”

Layla’s expression remains patient. Her painted red lips curl slightly in a smile of understanding. “It’s no problem. I’m glad you made it. My name is Layla,” she says, walking around her desk in order to meet him halfway. She offers her hand out to him, but Homelander makes no move to take it. Instead, he’s staring at her, his head cocked slightly. He clicks his tongue, and takes a small half breath.

“I thought you’d be blonde,” he confesses

Unaffected, Layla inclines her head slightly, dropping her hand. She’s certain that he knew she wasn’t. “I am not.”

“Ch’yeah, clearly,” he says from the corner of his mouth. His gaze drifts down from her chestnut brown hair to her eyes, to her painted red lips, to her clean white button-up blouse. She takes note of the way his gaze lingers at her chest for just a split second before he looks down to her pants. He quirks a brow, bringing his eyes back up to hers. “Kind of a masculine outfit, don’t you think?”

“Would you wear it?” She asks, lifting both her brows.

The smug line of his mouth falters at that. “No.”

“Then it can’t be that masculine,” Layla dismisses, her smile fully intact.

“You’re older than I thought you’d be, too,” he says, his tone now adopting a level of derision.

“Is that going to be a problem for you?” She asks, unbothered. She understands too well what he’s trying to do for it to get under her skin. There is a power imbalance between them, and he’s trying to knock her off kilter. He made her wait, showing her that he values his time much higher than hers, and now he’s trying to make her feel less-than. It’s a tactic she has experienced countless times in her profession. It never works.

Homelander scoffs, lips pulled into a lopsided smile that’s halfway to a sneer. He looks away from her, and then back to her, the corners of his mouth twitching with what looks to be a dozen things he almost says. Instead of answering her, he resumes inspecting her office. He turns away from her, locking his hands behind his back, beneath his star-spangled cape. Only when his back is turned does Layla let herself roll her eyes in a brief upward flick. Otherwise, she keeps her body language open and welcoming.

“You didn’t fill out the session form,” Layla says, pivoting to keep an eye on him. Like a shark, he’s circling her while he investigates her office. He pauses to lean over her desk, where she has left her book splayed open. She can see him run his tongue along his upper teeth in his mouth as he casually moves her glasses aside, and begins turning pages.

“Yeah, no. Didn’t see the point,” he answers, and to her bemusement, he does seem to be actually reading the pages as he turns them with surprising speed. The book is a science fiction story, initially grounded in reality and focused on the exploration of space, and the complex politics thereof. He eventually wrinkles his nose, and closes the book. He continues to explore.

So much for keeping her place.

“Bunch’a useless crap. Didn’t think you’d need all that to do your job,” he says, taking a lingering look at the ‘living room’ section of her suite before returning his attention to her.

“And what exactly do you think my job is?” Layla asks, stepping back to take a seat on the edge of her desk.

“You’re a whore,” Homelander responds nonchalantly. The word falls easily from his lips, which quirk minutely at the corners. He likes calling her that, she can immediately tell. She can see the power trip in his eyes, the need to put her below him. As it turns out, The Homelander is a man like any other. Power is a poison, and he is thoroughly intoxicated.

“But you didn’t pay for a whore today. You paid for a companion,” she counters, leaning back with her hands on her desk. For a split second, he looks frustrated, but he’s quick to conceal it. He clearly wants a rise out of her. He’s not going to get it. “Domesticity, to be specific.”

Homelander’s lips are pulled into a thin line. His eyes are half-lidded, unamused. He closes the distance between them with long, purposeful strides, stopping only when there’s a foot between them. With her halfway seated on her desk, he seems taller than he really is, looming over her with clear intent in his icy stare. “What’s paid for is your time . I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”

“So tell me what–”

It happens in a flash. The words die on Layla’s tongue, her breath cut short by a leather-clad hand wrapping around her throat. He’s baring his teeth, his face mere inches from hers. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He hisses. She can hear the way he’s gritting his teeth together. His hand is firm around her throat, but he isn’t choking her. She’s able to take in a slow breath, unimpeded. “You think you’re so fucking smart. You think you’re better than me?” He pushes, flexing his hold.

Layla holds his gaze. She remains still, waiting to see if this flare will pass. While it’s true that she does not work with Supes for her own safety, anyone would be naive to think that a man had never threatened or acted violently with her. They were just as capable of killing her as a Supe. The primary difference is that most human men aren’t easily capable of accidentally maiming or killing her.

Homelander’s eyes flicker impatiently between hers, to her lips, then back up. He scoffs, lips twisted in an unkind smile. “What’s the matter, Lalya? Cat got your tongue suddenly?”

Layla stays quiet. Homelander’s expression falters, wavering between arrogance, confusion, and irritation. “Your heart should be pounding,” he tells her, voice low. They can both feel it. Her pulse is a little elevated, but steady. She doesn’t scare that easily. “You think I won’t snap your goddamn neck?”

Gently, Layla lifts a hand to his gloved forearm, resting her palm atop it. She strokes slowly, and with her other hand, begins to pry his fingers away one by one. Surprisingly, he allows it, though his stare remains intense, like an agitated wild animal. Maintaining eye contact, she lowers his hand to her lap, and continues to stroke soothing lines down his forearm, leaving her other hand in his. “Please don’t do that,” she says at last. Her tone is placating, but firm. He looks thoroughly caught off guard by her polite response. His eyes drop to where she’s holding his hand. His expression shifts rapidly between several states, brows pinching, and then relaxing. The corners of his mouth rise, and then fall flat.

“I know how powerful you are, and so do you. You knew precisely how much strength to use to hold me without hurting me,” she says. He’s still fixated on his hand in her lap, on the way she’s holding his fingers, lightly massaging her thumb into his palm. She knows that her touches are having an impact because when he does look back up, his expression is no longer tight with paranoia and mistrust. His lips are slightly pursed, but his eyes have softened. He looks surprisingly boyish.

“From the moment you walked in the door, you held the power. I’m here for you. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” she continues, speaking evenly. He’s receptive to that, his squared shoulders relaxing slightly, though he’s still tense. A moment of silence passes. He’s switched to watching the way her hand moves on his forearm, slow back and forth sweeps. It isn’t much through the thick layers of his glove and his suit, but the motion alone seems to have him transfixed. When he doesn’t appear to know where to go from here, Layla stays her hand on his wrist. “Would you like to sit with me on the couch?”

Looking up at her, Homelander hesitates briefly before he nods. She smiles at that, and eases him back enough so that she can stand. The shift in his demeanor is surprising, but nothing Layla hasn’t been faced with before. It’s often the men who are most desperate to assert their dominance that need services like hers the most. Layla laces their fingers together and walks him to the couch. She looks back at him, but he’s too busy staring down at where she’s holding his hand. Layla sits down first, slipping her hand out of his. He flexes his hand once hers leaves it, and meets her gaze. With a patient smile, she pats the seat next to her. “Come,” she says, voice soft. “Sit with me.”

Apparently, Layla has successfully tripped a switch in Homelander’s brain. He moves his arm behind him to hook his cape, guiding it out of the way, as not to sit on it. His hands move instinctively to rest on his thighs, and his posture is rigid. He doesn’t look nervous, but he does look perplexed, uncertain of what comes next. So far, nothing has gone as he’d anticipated. “Is it alright if I touch you?” She asks, currently mirroring his own position, hands in her lap. His lips are set in a tight purse, brows pinched, but he nods again. She starts moving her hand through his hair, as if tucking it behind his ear. She follows that line to the back of his head, where she gently scrapes her nails along his scalp. He’s watching her closely from the corner of his eye. She hums approvingly.

“Soft,” she appreciates, her smile widening slightly as she enjoys his hair. He still looks thoroughly at a loss. As time goes on, however, he begins to relax, sinking back into the chair bit by bit. His hands have gone from coiled fists to resting flat on his thighs. When she hears him sigh, his eyes falling shut, she decides to move forward. “You can rest against me if you like,” she offers. He opens his eyes and turns his head properly to look at her then, glancing down at her chest, then her lap, before back to her eyes. He shifts a little, but looks uncertain of how to proceed, so she offers her hands. “I can show you my favorite position.”

“‘Kay,” he says simply, his first word since the outburst. Taking the lead, Layla picks up his furthest hand, and brings it across her waist. She does the same with the other, putting it behind her, so that his arms are around her middle. With her arm over his shoulder, she cups the back of his head and brings him in to rest his head in the crook of her neck. “That’s it. Good,” she coos, relaxing back against the couch. His arm is pressed to the couch by the small of her back, and he’s shifting himself more to the side, halfway laying down against her. They manage to get comfortable, despite the gaudy eagle pauldrons on his shoulders. He’s terribly stiff at first, but as she cards her fingers through his hair, he begins to relax against her, gradually filling the spaces between their bodies.

Homelander adjusts his hold suddenly, wrapping his arms more tightly around her, pulling her against his chest. She tilts her head to allow it when he nuzzles in closer against her neck, inhaling deep before exhaling a warm, content sigh across her neck. He holds onto her as though she may disappear at any moment, one hand on her waist, the other cupped at her ribcage. Based on what she’s read of Homelander since he booked her, she can understand why. According to her research, he had lost both of his parents when he was fairly young. Members of The Seven came and went, with Translucent most recently passing. He’d also allegedly been fairly close to his manager at Vought, Madelyn Stillwell, who perished not long ago. Shortly after that, Stormfront. It seems that Homelander has a difficult time keeping people in his life.

Testing the waters, Layla hums the beginnings of a melody. Quiet, like a lullaby, to fill the silence around them. If Homelander minds, he doesn’t voice it. However, when she pauses her hand in his hair, he does give a low grunt. Satisfied that he’s enjoying both, she resumes petting through his blonde locks, humming soft tunes all the while. Eventually, however, a single beep of her watch informs her that they have reached the final five minutes of their session. Layla stops humming at that. She moves her hand from his hair to his shoulder, just shy of the gold eagle, and gives him a gentle squeeze. “It’s almost time to go,” she tells him gently, stroking with her thumb. She can already feel tension creeping back into his muscles.

"No," he says flatly. She can feel him speak the word against her neck. "I’ll pay." “It isn’t about the money,” she replies, maintaining her soothing tone. “It’s about our agreement. If we’re going to establish a working relationship, we need to trust each other.” At that, Homelander lifts his head from her neck. His hair is thoroughly mussed, but his eyes have already lost whatever contentment might have existed in them while they were snuggling. “Relationship,” he echoes, as if testing the word on his tongue. His jaw flexes. She can see him weighing his options as he looks down at her, arms still vice-like around her. “Are you seeing someone after me?” He asks, meeting her gaze.

“No,” Layla answers, though she takes a mental note of the question. Jealousy isn’t uncommon among her clients. It’s easy enough to work around. If they were to move forward, she would make sure Homelander was always her last for the day, lest he feel shuffled off for the sake of another man. Homelander confirms her suspicion when he relaxes slightly with her answer. “I want to see you again.”

“I would like that.” Layla shifts slightly in his grasp, and uses both hands to comb his hair back into place. He looks surprised by her response. “Really?” There is an unexpected earnestness to his voice. She has never before met a man with quite so sharp a divide between his different moods, but at least the shift is an endearing one. “Will you be on time?”

“Yes,” he answers readily. He leans closer to her. With the way he’s sitting upright now, he’s pulled her halfway into his lap. It’s effortless for him. Layla puts a hand on his chest, steadying him. “Okay, that’s good. When would you like to come back?” “Tomorrow.” Homelander’s voice is firm. His face is close enough to hers now that she can feel his breath on her lips. “Will you fill out the session form?” “Yes, yes, whatever, fine,” he says dismissively, a flash of impatient irritation. He huffs a breath, fixing her with an expectant look. “Tomorrow.”

Layla subtly bites her tongue. Her day is booked solid tomorrow, but she doesn’t want to lose the stability they’ve just barely managed to build. “Okay. Tomorrow at 6:00pm. ”It’s later than she would normally book, but she knows she won’t be finished her day before then, and she’ll need time between clients. She can tell by his expression that it wasn’t what he was hoping for, that he likely wanted to meet as early as they did today, but she’s pleasantly surprised when he does not argue.

Layla’s watch beeps three times, and Homelander looks down at it like it’s something vile. She moves her hands to his wrists, and just as she had before, works towards gently prying his grip around her waist loose. This time, however, he does not relent so easily. His hands stay perfectly put, without an ounce of give, but he does look a little amused by her efforts. “Homelander…” She addresses kindly, albeit sternly. “What’s the rush? You said there’s no one after me,” he says, lips curved in a mischievous little smile. He leans in and very nearly catches her in a kiss, but she manages to get her hand between them, her index finger pressed to his lips. His brows knit together and he looks up at her, another twinge of annoyance in his eyes.

“Like I said before, it’s about our arrangement. Trust. This relationship isn’t about what you can take from someone, Homelander,” she says, drawing her hand away. “It’s about what someone can give to you. Let me take care of you, okay?” That does the trick. Homelander’s expression softens, the curve of his brows revealing a hint of vulnerability before evening out. With only mild reluctance, he withdraws his arms from around her, and lets her stand up unimpeded. As a reward for his compliance, Layla leans down, and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. “That was very good. Let me get you those forms,” she says, leaving him a little dumbstruck on the couch. She retrieves a copy of the documents from her desk, and gathers them neatly into a paperclip for him to take.

When Layla turns around, Homelander is already standing, his hands interlaced modestly in front of him. He still doesn’t seem pleased about having to leave, but he is at least compliant, and no longer insulting her. She walks to him, and offers out the forms, which he takes with something of a cynical quirk to his lips. “It would really help me if you’d fill those out.” “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he assures her, lazily lifting a page before letting it fall back down. The bite is largely gone from his bark. The hand holding the forms drops to his side, and his other hand settles on his hip. Homelander fixes her with a lingering stare, head tipped back slightly. He looks to be processing everything that just happened. “So, tomorrow.” “Tomorrow,” Layla confirms, smiling. “6:00pm.”

“6:00pm,” he echoes, rocking on his heels a touch. “Oookie-dokie. Well, ah… I’ll see you then,” he says, bouncing his fingers off his forehead in a little salute that broadens Layla’s smile. Homelander leaves, and Layla is left in the surreal aftermath of his session. She all but collapses down into her office chair, kicking off her heels. Booking him again so immediately in her off hours had been an insanely impulsive move, but after the progress she made between his arrival and his departure, she felt compelled to. Layla absently touches her neck, pressing her fingers precisely where his had been. She squeezes harder than he did. No tenderness, or signs of bruising. It had been purely for show. Layla chews her lip absently for a moment before focusing herself, picking up her cellphone to inform Holly of the development.

On the other side of the door, Homelander watches her for a few minutes, his vision easily penetrating the wood. His lips are parted, the corner of his mouth twitching in an almost-smile.

For the next several hours, Homelander is consumed with nothing but thoughts of his session with Layla. Who the fuck does she think she is? She had been insufferably calm throughout their time together. She was imperturbable, despite his needling, despite his outburst. She had been… Patient.

The melody she hummed as he embraced her repeats in his head over and over like some sick carnival loop. He remembers the way her finger had felt against his lips. More than anything, he remembers the smell of her. Her perfume had smelled vanilla sweet, but not sugary. He can still smell it on himself, which is perhaps the most agonizing part of it. Every so often he’ll catch a whiff of her, and the cycle begins anew.

He can’t wait a whole day. He has to see her again.

This is how Homelander finds himself sitting atop a fifteen storey condo complex. He figured her home wouldn’t be terribly far from her office, and after scanning several city blocks, he found her. He can already smell her perfume wafting out an open window.

She’s cooking herself a meal when he finds her. He watched by focusing his vision down several storeys. She’s putting together some kind of pasta dish that Homelander has no interest in. However, she hums while she cooks, and he likes that. It’s a jazzy kind of tune, matching the sway of her hips as she moves from place to place. While he’s wholly disinterested in the meal itself, it’s tempting to imagine her cooking for him.

After that, she settles down at her desk. She just got home, and yet she appears to be working again already. Homelander cocks his head to the side, honing in on what’s on her screen. The top-down angle isn’t ideal, but he can make out enough to figure out she’s watching security cam footage from her own office. Intrigued, he stands up and walks about the roof, seeking a better angle to watch with her.

Layla is watching the security camera footage of their session. She’s taking notes, pausing or replaying from time to time. Frustratingly, he doesn’t understand the notes she’s taking. They look to be done in some kind of shorthand.

What really catches Homelander’s attention is when she pauses the video and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. She’s staring at herself in his grip, his hand around her throat. Homelander’s eyes narrow slightly, trying to gauge her response. He can hear her heartbeat from here, but it’s steady. She’s not taking any notes, she’s simply staring at the freeze frame. Eventually, she takes a deep breath, and closes down her computer. She runs her hands through her hair, thoroughly mussing it before she stands.

It’s late enough in the evening now that Homelander has the cover of darkness when he descends down the side of the building, hovering outside her condo. Her line of vision is blocked by the walls, but not his. He watches with rapt attention as Layla makes her way through her bedroom to her bath. She cranks the faucet, and Homelander feels his mouth dry. Anticipation bubbles in his chest.

The way Layla undresses suits her character perfectly. She unbuttons her white blouse first, unfastening every single one before sliding it off her shoulders. She folds it loosely and places it down on the bathroom counter. Homelander swallows, his tongue clicking dryly as his lips part. She’s left now in a simple white camisole. Layla removes the undergarment, revealing a pretty pink bra. It isn’t lacy, or overly designed. It’s perfectly functional, and yet the color sends Homelander into a near frenzy, his jaw tight. What he’s seen of her wardrobe is largely monochrome, so is the pink simply a secret pleasure she indulges just for herself? It’s their secret now.

The bath is filling rapidly. Layla adds a dollop of liquid that froths up into foamy bubbles. She unbuttons her pants next, the zipper loud in Homelander’s ears. She folds the charcoal pants just as neatly, setting them next to her tops. Fuck, her panties are the same soft pink. Homelander braces his hand against the corner wall of the condo, biting down on his tongue. His cock is half hard. He presses his palm to it and gives himself a slow grind. He grits his teeth when she stops short of finishing undressing to fetch a towel from another room. She places it on a hook next to the tub, and begins humming. Homelander’s eyes fall shut almost immediately. He exhales a rough breath, but quickly forces his eyes back open.

Her voice resonates in his ears, drowns out the sound of the tub filling. He doesn’t recognize the melody, but it’s different from what she’d hummed during their session. It’s slow, almost sensual. Does she know he’s watching her? She must. Why else would she be moving so torturously slow? Finally, standing in front of the tub, she reaches behind to unclasp her bra. Homelander’s hand tightens on the corner of the building, his jaw slack. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Her nipples are nearly the same pink as her underwear, and the chill of the evening has already perked them prettily. He imagines vividly how they would feel in his mouth. His cock throbs at the thought, almost fully hard now.

Stepping out of her panties, Homelander also gets the perfect view of the dark thatch of neatly groomed hair between her legs. She sets her underwear just as tidily atop her other clothes, and shuts off the faucet to her bath. When Layla slips into the water, she gives a sigh of pleasure that reverberates in Homelander’s ears, setting his teeth on edge. She’s taunting him now, just like when she’d refused his kiss, pressed her finger to his lips like she owned them. He can still remember how she tasted when he licked his lips. Homelander grinds harder against his own hand, steadily losing himself in a mix of memories, fantasies and what’s before his very eyes. Layla sinks deeper into the bath, tipping her head back to rest in the divot along the back of the tub. Homelander watches, transfixed, as she drags soapy water up her chest, her neck, over her face. She takes it to the back of her neck and massages there, her eyes falling shut. The steel beneath his hand groans slightly, but it’s lost on Homelander. He can hear nothing but the soft vibrations of her voice as her humming continues to torment him, joined now by the occasional slosh of water. He rocks his hips slow against his hand, following the tempo she’s set with her melody.

Layla pauses her tune to take in a deep breath, one hand settling on the side of the tub while the other disappears beneath the water. Her eyes are closed, but after a moment, her brows furrow. Her lips fall open on an unspoken oh. Homelander realizes with a start that she’s touching herself. He groans loudly, tipping his head back briefly, gut churning with a flare of heat. With a fumbling hand, he quickly clicks open his belt and yanks his pants open with a viciousness his suit barely survives. He pulls his straining cock free, and grips it tight in his leather-clad palm.

He can see it. He can see her fingers moving in slow circles, hidden from everyone’s view, even hers, but not from him. He pumps his cock slow at first, squeezing the steel frame of the building. He’s distracted when her other hand moves, slipping up her chest, massaging gently at her own breasts. Those should be his hands. He should be responsible for those airy little sounds she makes. She should be bouncing on his cock with her fingers on his lips, in his mouth. Homelander flips rapidly between fantasy and reality, mouth hanging open, grunting out strained little sounds of pleasure.

Layla’s hand slides further up her body, from her chest to her throat. Her eyes are shut tight, and the pace of her fingers picks up. She gives her own throat a small squeeze. “Fuck,” Homelander rasps, gritting his teeth as he pumps his cock faster in turn. She’s thinking about him, he has no fucking doubt. She’s doing this because of him, for him. She’s remembering the way he touched her, had to see it for herself on film, and now she’s showing him exactly what she wants him to do to her. Inside, he can hear Layla’s breathing turn erratic, her heart rate steadily climbing. “That’s it,” he whispers, head tipped back, watching her through narrowed eyes. “Thaaat’s it, faster. That’s it, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Homelander comes with a strangled noise, the metal beam his hand sinking beneath his grasp, leaving a permanent indentation of his hand. He gasps in a sharp breath, head spinning while he rides out the pleasure. He strokes himself through it, watching with feverish intensity as Layla also hits her climax, her fingers stilling while she loudly moans her pleasure. She’s thoroughly debauched, wet hair clinging to her face, a flush spread up her neck and over her cheeks. She looks nothing like the perpetually composed woman he met in her office. He wants to be the one to take her apart like this.

Gingerly, Homelander tucks himself back into his pants. He pushes a hand through his hair, inhaling deeply. Layla sits relaxed awhile longer, lingering in her pleasure-induced stupor in the tub, lips set in an absent smile. He continues to watch while she finishes up her bath, washing her hair, rubbing the makeup from her face. He even lingers while she braids her damp hair, dressed for bed in nothing but a satiny night slip. Homelander listens to the way she falls asleep. Her breathing evens out over time, and the beat of her heart steadily slows. She sleeps on her side, her braid trailing on the pillow behind her, one hand beneath her cheek. Drifting to the balcony door across from her bed, Homelander lands silently. He cocks his head, eying the door. Curiously, just to check, Homelander tests the handle of the door. Unlocked. The corners of his mouth twitch. She may as well have invited him in.

Stepping inside, Homelander is immediately hit with that same pleasant vanilla scent. It’s richer now, no barriers between them. He walks to her bed first, casting a shadow over her in the wake of the city light spilling in. She’s fast asleep, lips parted on shallow breaths. The natural color of her lips is a pretty mauve, but he sees why she wears the red. It commands authority. Without it, she looks almost.. demure.

Looking away, Homelander decides to peruse. He snoops through her closet first, running his hand along the rows of clothing sitting on hangers. Just as he’d seen with his x-ray vision, there’s very little color in her wardrobe. However, a rich pop of blue catches his eye. The dress is floor length, but with a slit on the right side that runs high up the thigh. It’s set off the shoulders, with long sleeves. He takes off his glove, tucking it under his arm, to feel the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers. Velvet.

This is what she was wearing the first night he saw her. Vought had hosted a prestigious gala in an attempt to recoup investor funds in the wake of media frenzies, and he can remember vividly the first moment he noticed her. She had been standing with a date leagues below her, a sorry excuse of a man who couldn’t hold a conversation in a bucket. He had been bewildered by the duo until he learned the true nature of their partnership. Of course he was paying her. There was no other way a woman like her would be caught dead with a man of his caliber.

When she smiled at his terrible jokes, Homelander couldn’t help but roll his eyes. She spoke to him like she was reading from a script— a feeling he was all too familiar with. Their situations were not so different. Homelander had also been forced to regurgitate garbage from men who were less than dirt compared to him.

After that night, he spent days wondering about her before finally deciding to seek her out.

Moving on, Homelander makes his way to the bathroom. Her clothes are right where she left them, folded neatly on the sink. Swallowing dryly, he steps closer, reaching with his ungloved hand to pick up the simple white camisole from the stack. Lips parted, he brings it to his nose, taking a slow, deep inhale of it. His eyes flutter shut. His spent cock throbs dully. Looking around, Homelander tucks the camisole under his arm alongside his glove, and continues exploring, listening for any sign of Layla’s sleep being disturbed. He pokes and prods about her drawers, her cabinets, but doesn’t find anything of particular interest. She likely keeps anything related to her job at her office. In the kitchen, Homelander pops open the fridge. It’s pretty well stocked, she certainly cooks for herself. There’s fresh produce, cuts of meat, and… a half gallon of milk. Licking his lips, Homelander reaches for it, standing up straight with his arm resting on the door of the fridge. He turns it over in his hand. Whole milk. Quietly, he pops open the carton, and lifts it up to his lips, giving a soft, satisfied grunt as he guzzles a few sips.

Catching himself before he downs the whole carton, Homelander sets it back in the fridge, wiping his mouth with the back of his ungloved hand. He licks his lips clean, and starts walking back towards the bedroom. Circling the bed, Homelander stands before Layla once more, head cocked. She’s made it painfully apparent that she wants him as much as he wants her. He felt confident when she so readily booked him again, but now he’s wholly certain of it. Reaching out, Homelander barely brushes his bare knuckles down her cheek. Bracing his hand on her headboard, he leans in close enough to feel each of her breaths on his lips. He could take her now. Wrap his hand around her throat and fuck her the way he’s sure she was fantasizing about. His lips nearly touch hers when he remembers what she said to him.

“It’s about what someone can give to you. Let me take care of you, okay?” Homelander stops. Flexing his hand on the headrest, he stands back up. Taking in a breath, he takes his glove out from under his arm and slides it back on. The camisole, he bundles up into a ball to keep for himself. He casts Layla one last lingering gaze before he turns around, stepping out onto her balcony. He closes the door softly behind him, and then takes off into the night sky. Their next session can’t come soon enough. Chapter two.

#homelander x oc #homelander x ofc #homelander #homelander fanfiction #it's done!!!#my writing #eat your ego

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husbandohunter · 3 years

Text

Dear Father [Genshin Impact/Diluc x Reader]

Synopsis: Wherever you are wherever you may be, even if you are beyond my reach, I only wish to see you again. -from a letter lost in the wind.

(A story where you and Diluc somehow managed to meet Crepus)

Genre: all fluff

"I know how late I am to father's day but here's my father's day take on Genshin Impact! Just let Diluc be happy for once T_T Mihoyo pls."

============================

Discovering Master Crepus' old belongings was like wandering in a domain surrounded by ancient artifacts. Each piece holding the memory of someone you've never met.

The paintings. Master Crepus loved to paint. Typically birds were the main muse of this portraits since they deeply embodied Mondstadt's values for freedom which shows you how much he cherished this city just like his son did. In almost every hallway you walked through there was a collection of his paintings, some belonged to another artist but the majority was an original work. Diluc didn't have the heart to sell them.

Elzer. He was one of the oldest workers who served under the Ragnvindr name, ever since Master Crepus had appointed him during his earlier days. You were told that he treated everyone, both staff and noble, with equal respect. Almost all the denizens of Mondstadt knew this man for he was not only noble in riches but also in the soul.

"I'm sure he would have loved to meet you in person. Now that I think about it, you and Master Crepus are quite similar. Haha, it seems that Master Diluc was selective in terms of who he wanted for his future bride."

Elzer adds with a light chuckle but the statement only made you more curious. A man who affected the lives of so many others, he must have been a wonderful person.

Diluc. The bloodline Master Crepus left behind after his death, a piece of himself and the heir to the whole wine industry, his son Diluc. Although you could see the resemblance in appearance, both of them were men of prinicples and values, putting Mondstadt first before anything else and you suddenly realized if that was the reason why Diluc was so protective of this city. As if, it were everything he had? You could tell he loved Master Crepus very much, not because he said so, rather the painful expression buried deep within his crimson glare whenever someone brought up the topic. Diluc was skilled in hiding himself, it's something he practiced over the years of working alone, though he lowered his guard as long as you were the only one present.

Even so, he had many conflicts still wringing him internally and you didn't want to push him until the day he felt ready to personally tell you himself.

But it would be nice if he opened up, just a little bit.

There were times when you would worry since Diluc had the tendency to hide his feelings for the sake of not troubling you. He wanted to keep life simple and bright, bringing the best to the table while making sure that you lived safely out of harm's way. You couldn't seem to get him to understand that as lovers, you would be happy to help him, in anything. Unconditionally. It was natural for you to feel the need to force yourself in every once in a while and there was nothing more you wanted to know than the story of the man who raised him.

You would even jest on the idea of what it fel like to meet Master Crepus in person. Were you able to reach his standards by any chance? Would he have liked you just as everyone claimed? Of course, they were only silly indulgent thoughts so you quickly dismissed them in the end. Bringing back the past was impossible no matter how badly you wanted it. You closed your heart on that possibility.

On a lovely evening, while you and Diluc were taking your time off Angel's Share to make a stroll around Mondstadt's quiet streets, a strange merchant called over to you. She displayed various antiques ranging from different sizes to designs, none of them seemed to haven been carved in the same place but distinct cultures throughout Teyvat. The only thing they had in common was that they were all equally beautiful to the eye.

However a particular item of what looks like to be a heart locket snatches your attention and you instantly became mesmerized, allured by it's mysterious charm.

"Ah, the locked heart caught your fancy, my lady? It's said once you open it, you will be set free."

"It's magnificent..." you muttered, staring unabashed at the shining surface.

Diluc who was observing from behind folded his arms and tilts his head, "How much is that?"

Although you intended to simply inspect the choices, your lover immediately offers to pay. They all already gave the impression of a hefty price and you didn't want him to spend his fortune on things that deemed unecessary. Still, this wasn't the first time it happened. Diluc would always insist whenever you protested against him from buying anything, it was just a way of expressing his affections towards you. Mora was never a problem and you were priceless. That's how he sees things. You had to remind yourself to be careful when stumbling upon a bustling area full of salesmen next time.

"Five hundred thousand mora."

He purchased it without hesitation.

On your way home, Diluc noticed that something was amiss. You couldn't tear your gaze from the locket as if it had hypnotized you by the golden smooth surface. He had to ensure you didn't run into anyone by accident, tugging your arm closer so that it gave him an opportunity to lead you where you yourself could not. Surely it must have been the appearance but instead of being drawn by, you were drawn in. Completely.

I wonder...what will happen if I open it?

"(Y/n)?" Diluc narrows his eyebrows together. Did you like it that much? No, he knew you weren't the type to be so etranced by jewelry, this was certainly different. Even the merchant seemed a little suspicious when she approached you and Diluc couldn't ignore the heavy sense of aminosity that was emitted around her aura. He couldn't think within her presence but now that his mind was much clearer, he was able to use his skillful judgements.

"Wait...! Don't open it yet-"

However, he was too late.

The wind picks up at an alarming speed and you both brought up your arms to block the debris that had flown in the way. They swirled in non-stop motion until your worlds were engulfed with not even the sky in sight. Amidst the turmoil Diluc latchest onto you and holds your body close his chest as he was determined to protect against any force that dared to hurt you. Something heavy knocks his head and he winces, tighting his hold even further. Your voice could hardly be heard with all the noise that rung around and eventually you discovered the the world wasn't disappearing. You both were.

The last thought you had was the image of Master Crepus and you didn't know why.

---

"Diluc? Diluc?"

He faintly heard his name through a series of echoes. Diluc fights to regaind concousness, feeling your grip upon his shoulder while trying to urge him awake.

"Diluc are you alright?"

Your worried face was the first thing he sees other than the fog that looms above. Diluc blinks a few times in an attempt to ease his migraine, using one arm to force his body into a seating position as he allowed himself to be supported by you at the same time.

"Does your head hurt?" You ask, palming gently against his forehead to feel the heat. Even if her was usually very warm, there was no unusual rise in tempurature, something must have hit him instead, "Here, maybe this will help."

Bringing out your hand you concentrated on generating the water through your fingertips. Having a hydro vision meant you were capable of healing magic which Diluc appreciated since he often came home late at night with injuries hidden behind his sleeves. But nothing came out and he became even more suspicious of the situation.

"Eh? What's going on?" You blurted out, patting down your clothes and your pockets, "My Vision, it's gone too!"

"Mine as well," Diluc flexes his fingers to test his own element, "It seems that our powers were sealed once we entered this domain."

"A domain that prevents you from using a Vision? That doesn't sound very comforting," you scratched your head, suddenly remembering the cause of your current problem, "The locket...it's all starting to make sense now. Ugh, I should have listened to you earlier, I'm sorry Diluc."

"No (Y/n), you don't have to apologize," he interjects and you returned a curious glance, "I should have stopped you the minute I discovered there was something strange. I was too careless."

"You felt that too? I thought I was the only one," your tone and face mimics one of surprise. The fog continues to dance around, enclosing the two of you to the small area. You lifted your head and looked above in deep contemplation, "When I saw the locket I couldn't tear my eyes off of it, like something was pulling me in. Like...there was a spell casted on it."

"What do you mean?" he asked in an inquisitive manner.

You nod, "I can't put my finger on it bit Ifel that the locket wanted me to..." balling your fist upon your lap, you stared intensely at the floor as if drilling holes into them while digging into the depths of your mind for any specific clues. Initially you thought the locket was so captivating that you were simply charmed by it's craftmanship. But tere was more than that, you began deciphering, there was also a need for fulfillment. A yearning desire, "to know. The locket was calling me to know."

'Once you open it, you will be set free.'

"To know..." you trailed off. How strange. No matter how much you tried to rationalize, you were always brought back to the same square as if the locket knew exactly what you wanted. What you were lacking. Because the one thing you wanted to know most about was the person you've never met, "Someone very important to you."

The fog dispersed.

Diluc instinctively puts an arm in front of you defensively as he scanned his quick and thorough eyes around the area. It didn't take long for him to know exactly where everything was. In fact, the abrupt change isn't what puts him on high alert, but it was how familiar everything looked to the point he evaluates if there was any reason to be skeptical or if he should be breathtaken.

"What a beautiful house," However you didn't recognize it. Diluc knew because he had yet to meet you during the time he lived in this estate, "I wonder who does it belong to?"

"Father's old mansion...how?" Diluc breatlessly mutters, as if seeing the supremecy of Celestia for the first time. When years passed after his father died, he chose to sell off the majority of his belongings, the mansion being on for example. Currently it was in the possession of a well-known business associate that used to be a friend of Crepus. The mansion would likely have looked much different due to the renovations it gone through but Diluc remembers the picture as if this were yesterday. Everything was in tact. The vine yard, the gazebo where they drank tea, the hill that he and Kaeya used to race on when they were kids-

Revelation burns in his pupils as his eyes expanded.

"Welcome home, my son."

Both you and Diluc fall wordless at the sight that appeared like a miracle's blessing. Crepus stands at a distance, the graceful smile complimenting his warm features. He looked exactly how the court artists portrayed him in the Ragnvindr's family picture. Sharp face with gentle eyes and an aura that was as pleasant as what Elzer described.

"So this is why the locket was calling to us," you whispered, "I guess the mora really was worth it after all."

"...Fa...ther...."

You snuck a glance at Diluc. From behind the resemblance was as clear as dawn, like you were staring at a carbon copy of Master Crepus himself. Almost. He was a less hardened version of Diluc during uncommon situations. It made you think just how much you didn't know before his father passed away. What kind of person was this man during his days as a knight? You never had the chance to know.

"Father is that really you?" Diluc couldn't help his voice from trembling, paralyzed in place when he could hardly make sense of what stands in front of him. The person he longed to hear from, the person who left the world too quick, Diluc was afraid to get his hopes up in case his father suddenly disappeared and everything was just an illusion conjured by his mind. He was already used to being betrayed and dealt with disappointment too often. Which is why he learned to trust only himself. But, right now, can he really trust himself?

Feeling your hand gently on his shoulders, Diluc was brought back to reality. You smiled with warm reassurance that bled into your voice, "It's okay Diluc. Go, I'm here for you."

There was the faintest light shining in his eyes as emotions swell in his chest. Ever since you came Diluc never had to feel alone anymore, truly, you were the light that was brought back into his eyes, to his life when he gave up the thought of seeing it again. If he couldn't trust himself then at the very least, he could trust you.

"Thank you," he embraces you wholly like you were everything, and you were, before letting go and taking off to the otherside.

The air hits him in a rush and knocks the ones out of his lungs, "Father!" Diluc yells with tearful eyes. For the first time in a long while he was finally letting his feelings run free, "Father!" A name that felt foreign upon words that is pushes him forward, wanting to claim the truth that was smiling from afar.

"Father!"

Crepus lifted his arms and openly catches Diluc when he crashed into him. Here. He was here. He certainly was.

"Haha its been a while hasn't it my son?" He begins, encasing Diluc in a hug like he did the day he turned eighteen. Crepus was a tall man and his genes seemed to have went through. Back when they were younger, Diluc managed to only reach the blade of his shoulders, just barely. Now they were practically the same height, "Look how much you've grown over the years. There were so many things I planned to say but I don't know where to start."

Seven years. That was how long Crepus spent alone with his thoughts. He saw what happened through that time span, the truth about the Knights and Kaeya's origins. To say that none of that bothered him would be a lie. Especially when his son was the most impacted throughout all the events.

"Father I...I-" Diluc tries to speak but the words dissolved the moment it reached his tongue. He wasn't the type to be very good at expressing emotions. None of it could simply be communicated by sentences. For him, actions spoke louder yet somehow, they still wouldn't be enough. Nothing can comprehend the weight of seven years.

Crepus seemed to have understood and fills in the gap instead, "I have also missed you and Kaeya. More than I can even say. It must have been so hard for you both to endure it all by yourselves. Life hits us when we least expect it but despite that, you still chose to persevere."

Diluc clenches his hold, face buried in his shoulders and mouth quivering as he barely answers, "Yeah."

"You're both my pride and joy no matter what happens, as a father I cannot be more proud," before knowing, everything that was said came out naturally from his spirit. Crepus may have his own set of things to share but he knew what Diluc needed the most, "So please don't stop relying on one another, don't always think that you have to do everything alone. Stength is a virtue. However, its okay to let go and allow new people to come into your life. I don't need to be avenged, as long as you and Kaeya are happy, its all I ask for."

As if the world had been lifted from his shoulders, Diluc allows himself to break just this once. On the outside, he was known to be an unstoppable force, the Mondstadt tycoon, the uncrowned king and a hero who serves at night. But here you saw only a boy who dearly missed his father as he hugs him tightly. Although you couldn't hear their conversation clearly, just watching them from where you stood was enough to make your eyes glisten from pure happiness.

"You finally chose to open your heart, right Diluc?" You quietly note to yourself, "You don't have to carry everything by yourself anymore, you're free."

'Once you open it, you will be set free.'

He was able to dwell in this one in a lifetime experience, all because you unlocked the heart and dispersed the fog inside.

They spent a good amount of minutes bringing the distance back together after being seperated for so many years. You made sure to make minimal movements in the consideration of their time. It was only temporary until Crepus noticed you standing in the distance and he gave you a quick glance. Your whole body tenses in response, suddenly feeling guilty as if you were a third wheel who didn't belong in the moment between two family members.

He's staring at me. Diluc's father is staring at me! Your thoughts panicked along with your thrumming heart. What should I do?!!

"I see you've brought someone along with you," He comments, the playfulness rising in his tone, "She seems to have been waiting for quite a while already. If you don't mind, may you do the honours of introducing her to me?"

Diluc turns to see you stiffened in place with your hands tightly clasped below your stomach and heat pooling from your ear to your cheeks as you dipped your head down. His father was a kind man and he couldn't understand there the discomfort came from, yet found it endearing nonetheless. Diluc walks over to you and extends his hand, silently urging you to come with him. You complied, albeit hesitantly at first.

"It'll be okay my love," he whispered softly, causing you to be taken aback by the nickname he called you by. Diluc often reserves them for special instances and this was one of them, "Whatever the staff told you about my father, they're the truth. Trust in their judgement. Trust in me."

"Diluc..." you say, voice fading. You knew him to be someone who always kept his word and someone who would never lie to you. Taking in a short breath, you nodded, "Alright, I will," and followed his lead.

There was once a time where you indulged in the idea of facing Master Crepus in person. But never did you prepare yourself for the amount of pressure it came with. Now that you were together with his son, there was a high chance that he would also become part of his family too, sooner or later. You weren't just meeting Master Crepus. You were also meeting your future father-in-law.

"Father, this is (Y/n)," Diluc starts the welcoming exchanges. You felt his hand squeeze yours gently. He turns to you so that you caught glimpse of his face, seeing the reverance in his gaze that was hinted among his handsome features, "She's the woman I fell in love with and I would do anything to make her happy. I cherish her more than anything else."

"D-Diluc!" you flushed, your embarassment as red as his own hair. But he wasn't bothered by it in the slightest.

"I only speak the truth."

Master Crepus lets out a content chuckle, drawing both of your attentions back to him, "He can be surprising poetic sometimes but I'm sure that he got it from me. Even my wife reacted the same way," he reminisced shortly before sighing, "In truth I already knew that you were together. Staying in the after life gave me the chances to watch things from an omniscient standpoint, I was sincerely worried how Diluc would handle things when I suddenly left, I hope you don't mind. If you do, I apologize for making you uncomfortable."

"N-Not at all!"

"Haha, you're very kind. Thank you. I'm glad that my son was able to find a woman like you to be his fated partner. As a parent, it brings me great reassurance," Crepus remarked, "I know he can be stubborn and a little too headstrong when it comes to making decisions. It really must be a handful for you to deal with at times but I promise you that he means well. So please continue to watch over him in my stead, take care of my son while I'm gone."

"You can count on me," you beamed, "I'll give it my all."

"You have my gratitude (Y/n)," Crepus replies and turned to Diluc, "And listen to her every once in a while. I may have been the previous owner of our wine industry but even I always make sure to get me sufficient amount of rest. Son you know its bad to get two to three hours of sleep every day."

You blinked, "Two to three hours?"

Diluc clears his throat, "I understand Father. You don't have to say it."

Oh I think he does.

With a satisfied grin, Crepus took both of your hands together in his and gave you his blessings. The man once considered to be an artifact through the vast mansion was going to be part of the memories in your life. All of your expressions held as much happiness as the future can become now that he gave you the closure you both needed.

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author-morgan · 3 years

Note

Your work is so good, you should do this for a living! Your Ivarr stories are treasurers! Because quality Ivarr content that matches up exactly with my fantasies are rare, and I'm shit poet...

Could you please do one where the clan's dainty sweetheart secretly has the hots for Ivarr but avoids him because she doesn't know how to act around him.

He's also into her but thinks she hates him.

She gets terribly drunk for first time ever, throws herself at Ivarr...

Confused but also turned on, he internally struggles because doesn't want to take advantage of her.

He puts her to bed/or gets someone else to do it? Ubba? Because he doesn't trust himself to be alone with her?

Finds her when she's sober and not hungover, confronts her because drunken words are sober thoughts. She's embarrassed but they end up having really great sex!!!

i do write for a living, just not creative writing oh the joys of academia. apologies for the long wait, but here's more Ivarr! hope you enjoy! ♥ i kind of went overboard (like 3.3k words overboard) but it's Ivarr and i'm thirsty as hell for this bastard. Ivarr the Boneless x fem!Reader

EIVOR SHAKES HIS head. His arms crossed with a frown playing on his lips. He doesn’t see what you do —why of all the people in Midgard, you only have eyes for Ivarr the Boneless. Even Ubba would be a better choice, he thinks. It’s in Eivor’s nature to worry over and protect the ones he loves after all he’s lost. You are another example of Styrbjorn’s charity to those he considered friends, just as he is Sigurd’s brother in all but blood, you are their sister and have been for many years —becoming a temper for the two rowdy boys, favoring the healing arts over swordplay and battle.

Since Eivor’s initial meeting with Ivarr in Repton, there’s been something about his methods and outlook that sets Eivor at unease, even more so now that he’s caught Ivarr’s gaze lingering on you —like now during the autumn feast. Some jest, saying opposites attract, and while that seldom seems to be the truth, it is for you and Ivarr. He is cold iron, warm blood, a harsh winter —and you’re soft silks, a cool breeze, fresh spring blooms.

He’s seen the looks you share with Ivarr. Fleeting and flirtatious, but that is nigh all you share besides few rushed words in passing. Ivarr cuts an intimidating presence, and you’ve never been quite sure how to converse with warriors beyond your brothers. It’s nigh as difficult for Ivarr —all he knows is bloodlust and his fellow drengrs— finding the right words to say is not a battle he thinks he can win. There’s fondness between you, almost everyone can see it, but there are times when Ivarr is left to wonder if you truly like him or if your soft smiles and kind words are only a product of his reputation.

Ivarr’s feelings are clear to himself, though, especially as he watches you among the people of Ravensthorpe, partaking in the autumn festivities. Seeing you wear a crown of gold and amber leaves, dancing with Ceolbert to the drunken tune of Bragi and his tagelharpa with a tankard of Tekla’s mead in hand makes his heart beat faster, and his mouth go dry. He keeps to the benches, reminding himself that a drengr does not dance —at least not this type of dance.

The evening fades, but the festivities don’t. Soma claims her clan throws the best feasts, though you’re tempted to challenge the jarlskona for the title since Ravensthorpe has grown. You look around, searching for your brothers, but Sigurd has retired for the evening, and Eivor is slumped over on one of the tables, asleep —his hand still curled around the handle of his mead cup. Sighing, you find Ivarr’s gaze in the hazy air of the longhouse, half-shocked by the intensity and darkness, half-eager to return the lust-laden stare with your own.

Emboldened by the mead, you gather another horn and move across the longhouse where Ivarr sits. With a smile, you offer him the horn of mead before taking the empty spot on the bench next to him. He eyes you, curious, as he turns up the horn —downing the mead in a few gulps— and turns his attention to you. Spurred on by the moment, you lean closer, twisting to drape your legs across his thighs, squirming more than needed. “What game are you playing at, little dove?” Ivarr asks, his gaze dark and tone dangerous. You only smile, flitting your eyes up to meet his as you tip up your cup.

The soft plucking lyre strings and the low thrum of the tagelharpa are nigh enough to lull you to sleep coupled with the stillness. When you start to sway, both from the trance of the music and the heaviness of your eyes, Ivarr brings you closer to his side before deciding it best to see you off for the night —lest he is on the receiving end of Sigurd or Eivor’s anger. Ivarr pushes the bench back from the table, slipping his arms around your shoulders and beneath your knees, rising with you cradled in his arms —head resting on the leather of his shoulder pauldron.

When Ivarr places you on the straw and rag stuffed mattress of your cottage at the eastern edge of the settlement, you are not eager to part with him —the bulge tenting his britches tell you he’s not eager to leave you either. “Don’t” —you hiccup, lips turning into a pout as you lift the hem of your skirt to show the bare skin of your calves and beyond— “don’t you want me?”

Gods, Ivarr wants you. Just the thought of lying with you sets his blood hot and racing —like a giddy boy before his first battle. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted a woman more. But he can smell the mead on your breath and see the weariness hiding in your eyes. Ivarr knows it is the drink speaking for you, and he will not be the one to dishonor such a woman as you. “You’ve too much drink, little dove,” he chides in a rough chuckle, uncurling your fingers from their hold on his tunic. “Sleep,” Ivarr says, sitting back on his haunches —drinking in your appearance for a final time, “I doubt you’ll say the same thing come the morning.”

MORNING BREAKS AND so does your uneasy rest. The scent of smoke and mead clings to your skin and clothes, as does a dried sheen of sweat. Rising, you strip out of the soiled clothes and into a linen shift. With the hour still early and some only just retiring for bed from the feast, you gather up a cake of soap and boar-bristle brush, heading toward the small waterfall and pool at the northern edge of the settlement. Sparing a quick look around and now certain you’re alone, you strip, stepping into the clear, cool water with a sharp inhale.

Humming a soft song, you wring the suds from your hair and cross toward the bank where your clothes lay, but the snap of a branch underfoot stops you. Gaze darting around, you see him emerge from behind the trunk of a large tree near the stables. “Ivarr,” you greet, not shying away from his wandering gaze. His silence and the look in his eyes make you smile as you wade in his direction, stopping when the water brushes the underside of your breasts. “Are you watching me?” It’s a redundant question that needs no answer besides the hungry look in Ivarr the Boneless’s eyes.

“What you said last night–” he starts, voice surprisingly cautious, but you cut him off with a wave of a hand and scolding grin. “I was not that drunk, Ivarr.” Tekla’s mead had not dulled your senses, only gave you the courage to act on buried feelings. He lifts his brow and rakes his hand through his parted hair. “And yes. I meant it,” you tell him, wearing the same look now as you had last night nigh begging Ivarr to have his way with you. If Ivarr is surprised by the truth of your feelings, he hides it well. You motion to the pristine pool of water and bite down on your bottom lip before finding his gaze again. “Join me?”

Ties and buckles rustle as he hastily kicks away his boots, drops the fittings of his armor, and does away with his britches and tunic. Ivarr circles you like a wolf eyeing his wounded prey, and then he pounces, wrapping an arm around your middle, pulling your back flush against his chest. He leans forward, trailing his nose along your shoulder and neck —rough hands trailing up your sides and around to your breasts, squeezing them and teasing your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

When you gasp, he bites down on your shoulder and rocks his hips into your ass with a low chuckle. “You know who I am?” He means it as a warning —a warning of his bloodthirsty and unkind nature, that he is not a man to sing sweet songs or offer tender caresses. You already know that, having been privileged to witness Ivarr the Boneless in battle and know him outside of his craft.

“I do,” you answer, unwilling to shy away. He sucks in a sharp breath when you turn to face him, stepping closer and look up at him under lidded eyes with a wicked smile that sends blood rushing to his already half-hard cock. Careening toward Ivarr, you brush your lips across his jaw, settling one hand over the dark tattoo of Yggdrasil on his breast. “And if I wanted gentle,” you breathe at his ear, nipping at his neck, “I would fuck one of the Saxon monks.”

Ivarr laughs, grinning, but it falters when you reach below the water and squeeze his cock and balls, giving no doubt to your intentions or your wants. “Careful, little dove,” he hisses, tilting your chin up. He hunches, ashen hair half-falling before his face as he leans down and kisses you, warm, open-lipped, and intoxicating.

You pull back with a groan, and Ivarr chasing your lips, stopped only by your hands cupping his face —thumb tracing the deep scar on his cheek. “While giving the gods a show sounds delightful” —Ivarr’s lusty eyes take on a twinkle at the thought. Suddenly he’s picturing you splayed out on a Christian altar, spent from his love with his seed dripping from your cunt. His cock twitches, pressed tight against your belly— “Sigurd or Eivor finding us like this is less enticing.” Had it been anyone other than Ivarr, your brothers would have turned a blind eye, but neither have particularly liked the interest you and Ivarr show in one another.

Stepping back, you grip onto his wrist, staying his hands from their wandering assault, and pull him toward the waterfall and the small cave beyond. Before Ivarr has a chance to move again, you smile for him in the dim light, sliding an open hand to the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. With your lips pressed against his, Ivarr can only reciprocate —he parts your lips with his tongue, hands curling into your hips in a vice grip. But when the kiss breaks, you shimmy from his grasp and trail your lips to the dip in his neck —licking and laving.

“Having your lips on my skin is torture,” he inhales, hand fisting in your hair as you move down to the tattoo of Sleipnir at the center of his chest. You laugh softly and lean back, his eyes piercing through you. The smile on your lips is roguish, but you do not let up, making your way to his abdomen where a few small scars are clustered. Ivarr moans above you, and you haven’t even touched his aching, dripping cock yet. His hand reaches for your breasts, but you knock it away, having yearned for this moment for too long to let it slip away.

He titters at your enthusiasm and rolls his hips forward. Not dissuaded, you press your lips to the scar next to his navel, right below one of the dark runes tattooed on his abdomen. The hand still twined in your hair tightens, pushing you down to your knees. Ivarr’s legs are powerfully built, the muscles of his calves and thighs flex as you run your hand over them appreciatively, still finding small scars to trace and kisses, purposefully ignoring the hard cock pressed against his stomach. His hands clench as you kiss the skin of his thighs, your hair tickling the underside of his cock.

You smile at his surprised gasp when you drag the flat of your tongue along his cock, tracing along a vein running up the length of his shaft. Ivarr’s unable to hold back his groan when your fingers wrap around his girth, giving a few heavy strokes. And then, without warning, you wrap your lips around the head of his cock. He tastes of salt and iron and something forbidden and dangerous. Taking his cock as far as you can, you press your tongue against the underside, silently humming.

Above you, Ivarr chokes your name like a ragged prayer —it fills you with pride to know the son of Ragnar Lodbrok is coming apart at your hands and mouth, unable to say anything but your name. The lords of England may fear the whisper of his name, but right now, he is at your mercy.

Slowly, he begins to thrust himself into your mouth, but he makes no move to command your movements. Instead, his impatience wins over. He pulls you away from pleasuring him with your mouth. “Enough,” Ivarr says, his voice ragged as he crouches down, hand sliding from your hair and down to tweak one of your pebbled nipples, then lower still until he comes to the warmth between your thighs, slick with arousal. You whimper, gripping onto Ivarr’s shoulder when he pushes two fingers into your cunt, curling and thrusting. “On your knees, little dove,” he rasps. He warned you, and now he means to make good on his silent promise.

You struggle to gain your balance on the uneven ground of the small cave, but soon did, only to nigh lose it again when Ivarr slides the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds —thrice over before gripping onto your shoulder with one hand and guiding himself into your warmth with the other. Ivarr’s moan when he sinks inside you is breathless and airy, a misplaced sound from the likes of him. He grips you tight —one hand on your shoulder still, the other on your hip— holding your squirming body still as he eases his way into you. Your shoulders curl forward at the sudden wide spread of his cockhead into your body, fingers digging into the soft earth beneath you.

Ivarr pants against your shoulders —you can feel the open brush of his mouth along the sensitive skin of your spine and neck— as he draws his hips back and slams his cock back into you. You buck your hips back in time with his thrust, and Ivarr growls. You move with him as he fucks into you, squeezing with your inner muscles and whimpering in loud gasps. “Ivarr,” you chant, over-and-over.

He’s pounding hard immediately, giving in to the hunger that’s been consuming the both of you for far too long to be decent. His fingers are strong, streaking against your skin as his grip slides, something to discolor and bruise you by evening. But it feels so fucking good. You toss your head back, finding a glimpse of his face in this aching position with back arched, teeth shining in the low light, and eyes burning on you. He’s feral and ruined, and his fingers bend on your skin.

The building tension fades when he draws back, leaving you aching and empty. Ivarr spins you to face him as he reclines. “Ride me,” he commands, kissing you quickly, with an open mouth and teeth scraping your bottom lip. You pull away from the kiss, moving so you could sit atop him, straddling his hips, his back against a smoothed boulder. Breathless, Ivarr cannot be bothered with the loss of control —reckless abandon shines in your eyes, and he cannot help but grin as you slide down on his cock. He grunts enthralled at the feel of your warm cunt around him, walls clenching to feel every ridge and vein.

Moments pass, and you begin to move on top of Ivarr, rolling your hips into his. He groans, rough hands torn between holding onto your hips or pawing at your breasts. Instead, he decides to push himself up and let his lips attack your jaw and throat —biting and suckling— and annoyed at the slow in pace, Ivarr thrusts his hips up into yours, a sign to move faster. You don’t hesitate —lost to the exquisite bliss, clawing, desperate and eager. Holding Ivarr’s face in your hands, you try finding his lips with your own, but all you can do is moan and pant with him into his mouth, lost in the craven pleasure.

Ivarr bites hard in the crook of your shoulder and neck as he repeatedly drives his hips upward, chasing his and your releases. One of his hands slips between your bodies —his calloused thumb teasing your clit in a way that makes your hips stutter and body trembles, nails clawing into Ivarr’s shoulders. He grits his teeth, wondering if his little dove had broken skin. The burst of pain fades quickly as he watches your body bounce in time with his thrusts and listens to the moans and pants echoing off the cave walls and water.

He knows he’s close, his pants ragged and thrusts sloppy and desperate. The hitch in your breathing when he presses his thumb against your clit tells him you’re close to. It’s the boiling heat between you that takes hold, curling your toes and parting your lips in a silent throe, hands digging into Ivarr’s biceps as he chases his pleasure —teeth bared and bright eyes burning. Several thrusts later, his body tenses, and a dull warmth spreads between your connected bodies, and still, he is not done with the thrill of how you tremble and whine above him, but the rhythm soon slows, and you fall forward, resting your head on Ivarr’s chest.

You sit there, savoring the last twinges of carnal gratification, with your bodies rising and falling as you breathe in unison. And when the haze clears, you trace the small scars near his shoulders and follow the blue-black runes tattooed on his middle.

After what feels like an eternity, you feel him shift underneath you, sitting up on his hands. Ivarr glances over you —the small purple marks at the base of your neck from his lips and teeth, how your nipples are still hard, begging to have his mouth on them, and how your bodies are still connected. His cock is soft now, his seed seeping from your cunt and drying on your thighs —Ivarr thinks it a glorious sight. He hisses as he pulls himself out of your warmth, slowly, relishing in the gasps and whimpers you make at the resultant empty feeling it leaves between your thighs.

With flushed cheeks and swollen lips, you tell him you must go —this escapade would have already made you late for your daily duties, and the last thing you wish is for one of your brothers or Valka to find you in this state. He follows you from the cave behind the waterfall, back to the bank where his and your clothes are strewn. Gentler than you’d imagine, Ivarr kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, before cupping your face with strong, rough fingers and moving your lips back to his. You let him move you, kissing you back, smiling against his mouth. “Come to me at nightfall,” you breathe against his lips, parting to gather up your clothes and shoes.

Ivarr grins, swatting your ass before pulling you against his chest, keeping you from reaching for your linen shift —his chin resting on your shoulder as his hand slides between your legs and two fingers sinking into your cunt, still slick with your essence and his seed. “That eager for my cock again, little dove?” He laughs.

He’s silenced when you grind back into his hips with a glint of mischief shining in your eyes. Ivarr lets you go, though reluctant, and watches you dress from the corner of his eye. It’s impulse driving you when you decide duties can wait. Smiling, you grip onto Ivarr’s wrist —he’s only half-dressed in his britches and boots, tunic in hand— and drag him away from the waterfall and toward your home in the settlement. Consequences be damned. It feels as though the gods made you and Ivarr for one another, and you aren’t willing to let another moment be wasted.

[taglist: @elizabethroestone @kitkitvm @elluvians @fullmoonwolfer1 @ghostieisalone @boodaga @southsideslutt @dynamite-with-a-lazerbeam @lizlovecraft @heathensith @alexisp787 @nobodyydobon @certifiedlittleshit ] if your name is italicized, tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you. if you want to be added to my taglist for Ivarr, just let me know in the replies or a DM!

#Ivarr #Ivarr the Boneless #Ivarr Ragnarsson #Ivarr x Reader #Ivarr the Boneless x Reader #Ivarr Ragnarsson x Reader #Ivarr Imagine #Ivarr Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Assassin's Creed #my writing #requested #alexisp787 #i found it really hard to write an 'embarassed' reader when it came to fucking Ivarr #so I hope you don't mind that little change #its partly because i would jump that man #and let him do unspeakable things to me

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katsukikitten · 3 years

Text

Warnings College AU sexual and adult themes. Yall know the drill okay

Chapter 2

Bugzapper⚡💔: i have a proposition to make.

Jiro flashes Mina her phone as she sips iced coffee in the blessed air conditioning of the cafe.

"That's never a good sign." She comments, moon bright eyes glued to the phone as she thinks.

"What's not a good sign?" Uraraka asks from across the table, the two girls fill her in.

"Oh." She racks her brain on what that could be, "Okay well I'm dying to know, now."

🎵Music to my soul 🎶 : What do you want airhead?

Jiro's text sent a surge of excitement through Kaminari. It was exactly what he needed after three hours of begging and bribing Bakugou to allow the sorority in or at least invite them. His fingers fly across the screen setting up a date and time for a "meeting over lunch" to discuss the proposition in further detail.

Meanwhile across campus, you huff, eyes narrowed as a rare emotion is pulled from your fingertips in the form of deadly ice. Pulling the moisture from the air to freeze it or pulling any water towards you to keep your flank safe as your opponent rushes you at breakneck speeds.

You hated this fucking guy, cocky, brash, so God damn arrogant in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke. It made you nauseous just thinking of him.Had you known he was the male star of this university you wouldn't have transferred, yet you still needed to transfer didn't you? Anything to get out from under the shadow of a certain Todoroki.

No one cared to admit or to notice, that your quirk was different from Shoto's. You could manipulate water towards you to freeze, and manipulate whatever was already frozen. Your ice was denser and more durable than his and dare you say it colder than his too. Yet no one gave a shit, his was ice AND fire. You were just a one trick pony and a trick they already saw. Your opponent's taunting doesn't help matters much.

"I've already seen this before Ice Brat. Did ya forget where I fucking went to high school?" His hand heats the ice as he activates his quirk before three deafening blasts ring out.

As you allow him to break down the ice you act on pure rage, securing some revenge from the first time he signed your hair. Pointed icicles lie in wait and once the wall is fully down you give him a nasty smirk before sending the straight his way.

You're supposed to melt your weapons before they hit your opponent, neither of you are supposed to go all out per the professor's and college's strict rules in the athletics department but Bakugou always does. Somehow his big stupid mouth spews something that eggs you on. As if someone were shoving bamboo skewers beneath your skin, under your nails, sending you into an unheard of rage.

Normally you were as your quirk, icy, unbothered by the world but Bakugou, God you could wring his neck. Freeze his hot blood as you watch him turn into slush beneath your feet.

He expects you to abide by the rules, to splash him with glacier water but he realizes it too late. That you won't he let's off a quick blast, shattering two of the four deadly points. One grazes his cheek as he just barely dodges while the other lodges itself into his arm.

You have half a mind to twist it. You pull at his blood bringing it into your arsenal. Blood red needles and bullets surround Bakugou.

"I don't think you've seen this before.." You say darkly ready to release your hold and shred him into, give him a taste of his own medicine. Maybe he would see how bitter and nauseating he was. He smirks, opening his mouth to retort but you send your ice his way aiming for non vital spots although the ice creeps closer to your heart begging it to hit something vital. The inside of your ice palace begins to reek of burning sugar and spice, he plans to let out an explosion to bring this whole place down from the inside out.

Just as he is about to detonate and just as the blood and ice are about to pierce skin the professor bursts into the gym.

"I step out for five minutes and this is what happens?!"

The ice and blood return to liquid splashing across Bakugou as his skin pops. The professor takes in the damage from your ice and his explosions, still better controlled than most of his other students quirks.

"I gotta stop pairing these two together." He murmurs to himself before dismissing class. With a flick of your wrist the ice fortress melts, returning to the reservoir below the gym floor, ignoring the molten glare that is sent your way.

"You're such a bitch." Bakugou growls as you pass, flinging blood from his fingers as he wipes at his face. You offer him a fake pitying smile before heading into the women's locker room.

"Fucking asshole." You hiss, forcing the sight of his garnet gaze out of your mind. Instead turning your attention to your buzzing phone in your locker. It's a few missed calls and some texts in the girl's group chat. Briefly you wonder if you ever should have joined that stupid sorority, it was small, non toxic, and would look good should you need to transfer again.

Not only did you somehow get elected the president but you also became friends with the three other ladies despite your best efforts not too.

Mins: Prez we might have a way to save the sorority...lunch after you're done with training?

IceQueen ❄: Hope it's good, the Dean already put the house up for sale. Let me get ready and I'll be there shortly.

Mina presents her phone to the crowd around her, Kirishima, Denki, Sero, Jiro and Uraraka do a small celebration. Denki more so than anyone else, he knows the combined car washes will be more than enough to fix up the house, he also recently learned that you had the power of negotiation on your side. Having just listened to Mina retell the story of how you got free food for a month from a bar for yourself and your friends. And not from some sleaze who wanted to sleep with you either, no it was from the owner himself.

Denki is hopeful and so are the ladies indicating that this may be his best idea yet.

You arrive at the small bistro early, spying your party on the front patio. The three men had seen you in person before, they knew you were easy on the eyes but up close you were breathtaking. Manicured nails but nothing gaudy, normally nude or soft shades, light makeup, mascara at most as far as they could tell and your outfit was well put together. You were what the world called plus size but everyone else called thiccc. Your confidence oozing in your light blouse tucked into your black skinny jeans, uncaring that you had a pouch.

You needed that extra fat to keep from freezing by your own quirk. The only thing you needed society to worry about was your intelligence and your power.

Both were SSR ranked so what did you fucking care that your body was ranked lower. They were stupid in thinking you'd skimp power in the name of vanity.

You recognize everyone at the table and internalize the dread you're feeling. Scheming is afoot and you're the last to arrive. You can tell by their half finished drinks and picked over appetizer, still you sit and act unaware. Denki goes to hold out his hand first for a formal introduction causing a sly cat smile to settle over your glossy lips.

"No need, I'm aware of who the three of you are. Sero we share our lingual class, Denki, our chemistry class, and Kirishima we share two classes, world studies and villain hero theory. Truly a pleasure." You tell then your name before ordering something to drink from the lingering waitress. Sitting stick straight with your shoulders backs has the men mirroring you.

"Well ladies I take it the plan to save the sorority involves these fine gentlemen." You ask coolly and they nod. After a moment of silence Mina and Denki go to speak. Awkwardly encouraging the other to speak until Minai clears her throat.

"As you know they are a newly formed frat with Sero as their president. They moved into their house about a month ago and they say it is quite large. So they have invited us to move in."

"How do you propose we ask the college to have a co-ed house? What does this fraternity home even look like?" They knew you would be quick to ask questions Mina answers the first while Denki provides the answer to the second.

"Union and Diversity. Forming close relationships now to carry over into our hero careers."

"The house needs some work but looks a lot better than what it did." Denki shows you before and after pictures as you gesture for his phone. He passes you his electric yellow case with nervous hope tingling beneath his skin. You swipe through the photos.

"You boys did a great job on the outside. Inside needs a lot of work. Hardwoods will be easy to fix, they are original but don't seen to be damaged, a good scrub will spruce them up. Wait, are those?" You zoom in on the photo of the living room, "Are those foldable camping chairs and a VHS tv?"

They gulp loudly as they nod, your purse your lips in disapproval.

"I can fix that." You pass Denki back his phone, assuming that all the roommates will be present, "I see the main focus was the kitchen but some of the appliances seem to be on their last legs. I can fix that as well."

"Soooo….So it's a yes?" Jiro asks, feeling relief for the first time in months since they received the letter of eviction.

"Gotta get the college to agree first." You think on it a moment, "But I'm sure we can arrange that. Uraraka can you draft an email to the Dean requesting an official meeting regarding our sorority? Be sure to explain in detail our situation, how we are being forced to disband by their account and the solution we have. Make sure it's an afternoon meeting too. The dean hates to miss golf with our rival university's dean."

With the plan set in motion all of you return to your evening classes. Jiro nudges Denki in the ribs, listening to his heart race from their closeness.

"When are we going to tell her about Bakugou?" She throws her almost lover a look that he seems to wither beneath. His jaw tics before he retorts.

"I think we should wait to see if this even works first."

After a week the important meeting arrives and as you thought the Dean is already exhibiting signs of impatience. He is more than ready to wrap this up and you already know his answer is going to be no. Already trying to get it out before the four of you can even have a seat.

Still you weren't the Ice Queen on campus for nothing. You saunter into the room, mineola folder filled with your copies of counterpoints pressed firmly to your chest, you can already see he doesn't have the copies you sent him. You place the folder down and open it, leafing through the pages as you speak.

"This request is going to be approved and here are the reasons why. An example of sexism could be made that a new fraternity was approved housing, new housing, after a decades old sorority was deemed "too small" both parties are similar in count. Second funding and donations are easily influenced with letters to alumni and especially by attendees to this university. My transfer from YAU has brought in revenue of roughly 2.6 million dollars, increasing your diversity for women when this is normally a male dominated school. I am aware that my transfer had even encouraged other students from YAU to transfer here. Which I'm sure is one of your favorite bragging points to tell Dean Fraunk during your weekly golf trips isn't it? So it would truly be a shame if these points would come to light in the investigation of my return to YUA just months before the university sports festival. I do look amazing in Ice Blue you know. Matches my quirk a lot better than Maroon." You put the ball in his court, he is visibly upset, eyes flying to the facts that you've presented. All important, viable facts. You were right MMU was known to be a male dominated school and the media would have a field day if they uncovered a mistake he happened to look over. Not to mention you were his main bragging point, Dean Yuzi always talked about how he had stolen you, the female star of rising heroes, from YUA. The silence in the room is amplified by the ticking of the clock, seconds accumulating into minutes as it counts down his T time with his old college buddy and rival. He gulps nervously, knowing what he has to do in order to keep both his bragging rights and a law suit under wraps. He looks up to you as you wear your stone cold face, making him think of a loan shark who hasn't been getting their payments on time. He is fearful for your future boss.

"I believe I have no choice but to approve."

"Correct." You respond, "Now we have a bit more to discuss. I noticed that classrooms 456 and 215 are being remodeled. Those gently used flat screens will be given to our house since it is technically college property. Common space 3 and 1 are being renovated in dorms A and B. We will accept the leather arm chairs as they are in good shape but we demand a new couch. I know it is in the budget as I help plan the budget. I also believe it is time for an allowance for our hybrid house." The Dean shrinks away from your tenacity, nodding as that is all he can do.

"Well this is a generous offer and should cover most of the basic necessities such as a new fridge and mattress. The aesthetic we will be raising funds for. Kindly spread the word, we don't want to take up more of your time and be late with your 'meeting' with Dean Fraunk." You place a flyer on his desk as you turn on your heel. The rest of the sorority, mouth agape following suit. Yuzi looks down at the flyer, head hung in a mixture of disbelief and shame as he reads over the neon paper advertising a co-ed car wash.

He just hopes you and Bakugou are worth the trouble.

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha au #bnha college au #bnha imagine

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noszkass · 3 years

Text

ashley tempest winthrope.

thirty six. defense attorney. jai courtney.

“You're supposed to grow out of your horridness, aren't you? I don't think I ever grew out of mine. Sometimes I think it's still inside me, like something nasty I swallowed, that got stuck...”

content warning: mentions toxic, co-dependent relationships; abuse; death of a peer/family member (via murder).

dominant traits. logical, charismatic, gentleman, stoic, focused, patient, selectively affectionate, charming, observant, cautious, possessive, unpredictable, self-preserving, forceful, obsessive, demanding, melancholic, aggressive, irritable, distrusting, unrelenting, loyal, easily jealous, less hair-trigger more berserk button, no-nonsense, quick thinking, dishonest.

fictional parallels. elijah mikaelson (the originals); geralt of rivia (the witcher); henry winter (the secret history); pope cody (animal kingdom); richie gecko (fdtd the series).

○ born into the winthorpe family; known for their successful generational family law practice, as councilmen from neighboring townships, and good for nothin' criminals who latched onto the teat of a community that's long-since given up on them like leaches─depending on what side of miriam's well it is you live in. ashley's particular branch is the former. estate house in rosebush hill drive, debutant turned matron belle mother who just can't seem to find her way around or out of other people's business (including, if not almost invariably, that of all three of her children), and a certain amount of respectability he was brought up to live by.

○ on the surface ashley winthorpe is a deliciously handsome man. wealthy and put together. takes pride in his appearance and family name. he's also well-mannered and polite, and thoughtful in such infinitesimal ways that you never really think much of until after the fact. and there is something so very not right about him. he has a kind smile that never quite reaches the edges of his eyes and though it doesn't necessarily look disingenuous, there's something about it that doesn't exactly leave you with a sense of ease. like an unfamiliar gesture that's been practiced over and over, so many times that it's lost meaning. like it takes the muscles in his face a moment to pull before they settle in the correct spots. he'll have a conversation with you and while at times it seems he's looking right through you, others will have his attention so intensely undivided it feels as if you've been bared naked and left in a cold room. like you've just been caught lying about something and he knows. somehow, he's known all along. because he listens intently when you speak to him and you suspect somehow he never forgets a single thing he's heard.

○ there's no mistaking his booming voice, jarring, even at a whisper sending shockwaves through your core that has you on high alert. even when it's soft and lulling (in an attempt to offer comfort or catching him melt into the woman he's declared the love of his goddamn life from the corner of your eye through the crack in his office door), there's something threatening that looms. less like hard blunt force and more like a living, breathing fog that blankets you with strong arms, settles deep into your gut, coils itself around your innards, and wrings you dry. the confusing part? you know, without a doubt, he would protect you with no hesitation and ask for nothing in return. and, most of the time, you'd be right. because ashley winthorpe is a good man. no matter how your instincts thrash, screaming at you otherwise.

plot hooks.

i apologize, some of these are all very specific to a singular plot and i could've just included them in a legit request 😬🙃

○ sandbox love never dies. a very specific and imperfect friend group cast in the roles of bastard, bleeding heart, damaged, golden, grim, ingénue, temptress, and wild card. they've been together since any of them can remember. spent their whole lives dreaming about trying to get out of miriam's well, but instead only found tragedies that bind them to each other. tragedies, usually, of their own making. you'll be able to read a little more about these characters in the sandbox love request, which i promise is coming!! there is a doc in the works with more information + a plot server, so expect to be part of those things if you take one of these babes!

○ his secretary. in the past he's helped her out with something legally and she's kind of in his debt, though he insists time and time again she owes him nothing of the sort. i figured it'd be something along the lines of strong holding an ex-boyfriend or husband who wouldn't leave her alone (making her miserable, or something like refusing to pay child support he'd been ordered to pay, dragging her name through the mud, etc. general nuisances to nip in the bud/bad behavior in need of correcting before they became worse as they usually do. you get the idea), because that's notoriously right up his alley. likely using non-legal means to get there; intimidation is sort of his thing. and while he may not be the type of boss or co-worker who meets you for drinks after you clock out, he does have an affection for every single one of his employees and seeing as how she works with him the most, she'd be near the top of that list. maybe she was intimidated by him in the beginning and now she knows he's not everything he appears to be. and they have an understanding.

○ the weight of his guilt. [cw: murder. this will come much later in the plot!] the winthorpes are a family on two very extremes of a type of people. [the bastard] is his cousin on his father's side, a wayward little sister who got knocked up by someone unbefitting of the family and then marrying someone worse by their standards when the father got himself put away over an affair or something just as unbecoming. ashley was always raised closely with [the bastard], his father's hope to sway the boy of many wasted talents to the right side of the family, to make something of himself. but he's a product of his lineage. and only ever finds situations for ash to get him out of. eventually, [the bastard] who he will murder, cold and bloody and bury at the base of an old oak tree will disappear. and ashley's guilt will cause him to reach out. as far as anyone knew, they were the best of friends. always together (even if that relationship was practically handwrought by his father, and he had little-to-no patience for his cousin's antics). it'll be only natural that he come by every now and again to check on them, show care, help fix up things around the house that [the bastard] would have if he were still around. because it'll ultimately be ash's fault he's gone. partially. [the bastard] will deserve what he gets and no one who'll know will be able to convince him anything otherwise, but his family didn't deserve the fallout that came after. maybe a parent or sibling or someone [the bastard] claimed to love while making his way through the female population of miriam's well.

○ the other two winthrope children. they're expected to be upstanding citizens to combat the trash reputation the other winthrope side creates. father is one of a long line of lawyers (with a main practice just outside of town, ashley's secondary office in mw because he prefers it here) and mother is a homemaker whose extracurriculars might as well be solid, paying jobs. they have three children together; ashley (being the oldest son), a daughter magnolia (and the only girl -- taken by sage), and the youngest son, credence (who is very likely expected to join the family business, like ashley). i don't expect anyone to make the parents even though that would be incredible? but they all still have rooms at their home in rosebush hill drive to use at their leisure. it wouldn't at all be out of the question that some of the children still live there -- especially the daughter if she's unwed. they're very old fashioned southern that way. they do these big family events where everyone is expected to participate, go on vacations and holidays together, and church on sundays regardless of your personal beliefs on the matter (that you had very well better keep to yourself if they don't align, ashley has learned). their grandfather also lives in the family house after losing grandma a few years back.

#halfmoonrp #type: blurb #ch: ashley winthrope

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fitzs-trained-monkey · 3 years

Text

Chapter Eight: Here's To Hoping

(Image not mine)

Rated: PG

~You see I had this crazy dream last night, this man he talked to me He told me everything that's good and bad about my history

He told me that you are, you are the future

And the future looks good The future looks good to me~

"Jack," Sam sighed, checking his watch, "You gotta face the possibility that Marty may not be coming."

Jack was pacing back and forth across the motel's parking lot, trying his best not to slip on the crystallized asphalt. Dean had called the frozen tarmac 'Black Ice' and Jack felt that the term was quite accurate, it did feel like he was trying to walk on ice. But Jack just couldn't stand still. It was seven thirty-five A.M. and Marty still had not showed.

"No, she's coming. I'm sure of it!" Jack said with conviction, wringing his hands before shoving them into the pockets of his jacket. The small amount of force he applied was enough to throw him off balance. Jack's feet slipped out from beneath him and his head smacked against the frozen tarmac.

Sam flinched in sympathy but didn't move from the spot where he leaned against the Impala. He made no move to help Jack up as this was the sixth time he had bashed his head on the black ice in the last fifteen minutes. That fall and the five others before it would have been enough to kill or at least critically injure your typical human being.

So naturally, or rather unnaturally, Jack sat up and rubbed the back of his head. The blood soaked his hand as the wound quickly mended itself. Soon all that was left of the injury was a puddle of blood, nearly identical to five others on the ground that quickly began to freeze. Jack scooted on his knees to the edge of the parking lot and used the snow gathered there to wash the crimson substance off his hand. He stood carefully before beginning yet another round of pacing that would most likely end the same way it had the last six times.

Jack wished he could be sitting in the Impala with Dean and Cas but he found that waiting for Marty was more important to him, so he kept pacing. He wouldn't have to wait much longer. Dean had said that they would wait until eight o'clock before going to look for her. That arrangement had taken quite a while to agree upon. When Marty had failed to show up at six o'clock, Jack had immediately feared the worst.

"What if-what if she's hurt, or something? What if she got kidnapped?" He had worried.

"Jack, I'm sure everything is fine. People have different versions of what 'bright and early' means," Dean had reassured him, taking a long sip of coffee. He did not want to be up, but one thousand miles was a long way to go, so it was best they got up early. Besides, the earlier they checked out, the less they would have to pay, the motel charged by the hour and the rates weren't cheap.

"I know, but you saw what happened last night! What if those guys came after her again?" Jack had leaned back against the Impala's seats. The only reason he had gotten into the car in the first place was for the air conditioning. He was deeply worried that Dean might just decide to take off without Marty.

"Jack raises a valid point, Dean. The odds that those men from the bar should come after Martina, are considerable," Cas noted.

"Fine, if the shrimp doesn't show by eight, we go looking for her, and if we can't find her by ten, then I don't care; we're leaving without her," Dean decided. That was when Jack climbed out of the vehicle and began his trek back and forth across the parking lot. Sam had just followed him.

"I dunno, Jack. She seemed sorta skittish, don't ya’ think?" Sam now spoke.

"What are you saying?" Jack asked, turning to Sam.

"I'm saying that maybe you freaked her out. Maybe she got scared and ran off. Maybe- I don't know- maybe she's hiding, or something." Jack's eyes narrowed.

"You think she's scared of me?" He asked, though it sounded like more of a statement than a question. "What did I do wrong?"

"No, no. Jack, you didn't do anything wrong. I think, maybe she's just scared of coming with us- of what that might mean for her. I don't think she's scared of you, Jack. Marty doesn't seem like the sort of person that scares easy," Sam reassured. A smile tugged at the corner of Jack's mouth.

"You're right. She doesn't."

"If she doesn't show, we'll go looking, but you have to be ready in case she's changed her mind."

"She-she wouldn't do that, she promised!" Jack insisted.

"Sometimes people break their promises," Sam warned.

"She's coming. I know she is."

"Okay, Jack." Sam ducked back into the car, leaving the young Nephilim to wait in the cold. Jack turned on his heel to resume pacing.

He forgot he was standing on the ice.

Down Jack went. Yet again. Bashing his head on the asphalt. Yet again.

This time, Jack decided to just stay down for a bit and closed his eyes. He could hear Dean's obnoxious laughter echoing from inside the Impala. Jack came to the conclusion that black ice, and ice in general, was hard, impossible to walk on, and absolutely unforgiving when you slammed your head against it. Jack decided that he didn't like the black ice, he decided that he didn't like ice at all. This was fortunate as seemed as though the feeling was mutual.

There was a skidding noise somewhere off to his left and Jack opened his eyes. He turned his head towards the sound and directly beside him was Marty's amused looking face, only eight inches from his own.

"That was the most graceful thing I think I've ever seen in my life. You should consider ballet, Jack," She said.

Marty lay on the ice next to Jack with her head propped up on her elbow. Her mouth was twisted in a smirk and she held an eyebrow in a raised position. The expression appeared condescending, but Jack could see the sparks of affectionate mirth gleaming in her eyes.

Now, the reason why Marty was laying on the ground was a mystery to Jack. He was also baffled as to how she had managed to sneak up on him the way she had. If she had been walking down the street, he would have seen her coming, but he hadn’t, and it wasn't as though he had been laying on the ground for very long. If she had been close enough to see him fall, then how had he not seen her? Jack sat up and his brows pulled together in slight confusion.

"Where did you come from?" He asked. Marty followed his lead and sat up with a shrug. A large, overstuffed backpack was slung over her shoulders, yet she carried it with ease.

"From over there," She said, causally gesturing to the thicket of trees just behind the Motel as if it was a normal thing for people to go bushwhacking to their destination instead of simply taking the road.

"Why?" Jack wondered. Marty shrugged again.

"Cause' it's faster and way funner than using the road," She answered. Then she blinked and her face sort of scrunched up and she shook her head, laughing to herself. "Funner? Funner? That's not even a word! I think I need to use the sleep." Jack laughed with her for a moment before glancing to his feet and frowning. "What's wrong Jack-Jack?" The line between Jack's brows deepened and he looked to Marty.

"Why do you call me that?" He asked, temporarily distracted from his cold, slippery problem. Marty's mouth twitched with a tiny laugh.

"Jack-Jack is a character in a movie about superheroes. Have you ever seen The Incredibles?"

"No, I haven't."

"Oof, buddy! I'll have to show it to you one of these days, just remind me. Anyway, Jack-Jack is a baby with, like 50 different powers that he just uses willie-nillie and, yeah; it's a pretty funny movie and when you said you had powers and that you're, like two, that's just what I thought of," She explained. "And I'm rambling again, sorry!"

"I don't mind. I like knowing what you're thinking about," Said Jack. Marty ducked her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a shy sort of way.

"Nah, you'll get tired of it eventually." Marty tapped her forehead. "Up here is nothin' but a random mix of movie quotes, song lyrics, and paradoxical questions."

"I don't think so," Jack said, shaking his head. Marty made a face.

"Well I do! I live up there, dude! Anyway, what was the long face for?" Her change of subject brought Jack to his problem.

"I don't like ice," He said, as if that explained everything. Marty raised an eyebrow in question, "It's impossible to walk on!" Jack exclaimed.

"Ah, I see. I guess that explains why you look like a homicide victim." Marty gestured to the frozen pools of Jack's blood on the tarmac and the blood coating the back of his head. "Want some help getting up?" Jack nodded.

Planting her feet on the icy surface, Marty stood and extended her hand for Jack to take. He used her arm to pull himself up, doing his best to replicate what Marty had done to stand. He wobbled a bit and almost fell back down, but Marty caught and steadied him before that happened. When he was vertical again, Jack glanced toward the Impala and realized that now he had to get over to it without falling. Marty was quick to notice his worry.

"Come on, Jack. It's really not that hard, look!" Letting go of his hand and sliding out onto the ice, she twirled once, jumped into the air and then twirled again, lifting her foot to her knee. Her foot touched back down and dragged her to a stop, facing Jack who looked like he'd seen a miracle. "See?" Marty did jazz-hands.

"I don't think I can do that," Jack said, sounding a little intimidated.

"Oh, no way. That took me years, I was just showing off!" She explained with a wave of her hand. Moving back to him, she reached down to pick up an instrument case and wrap a gray plastic grocery bag around her hand.

"You should teach me!"

Marty chuckled and pulled some of her hair away from her face. Her black-to-grey-to-white hair was down again today, descending all the way to her knees. Jack had never met anyone with hair that long, but he thought it was amazing.

"Alright, just remind me take you ice-skating and movie bingeing, kiddo."

"I don't think you can call me 'kiddo'," Jack said with a frown.

"Why not? If you don't like it, I'll stop saying it."

"Well, I am biologically older than you, right?" Jack pointed out. Marty chuckled.

"Where does a two-year-old hear a word like 'biologically'?"

"I heard Sam use it."

"Makes sense." Marty shrugged. "Anyway, you're right, but I call everyone 'kiddo' age doesn't really matter. I call people all sorts of things."

"Like what?"

"You'll find out, honey-bunches-of-oats."

"Is that one of them?"

"Yup!" Marty snatched Jack's hand and helped him over to the car where she knocked on the driver's side window. Dean rolled it down and she glanced at the men inside. "Hey guys!"

***

"H-hey, Marty! You-you came!" Sam greeted me, he sounded surprised.

"I promised I would!" I said, I didn't miss the 'I-told-you-so' look Jack shot at Sam, "Dean, could you pop the trunk? I've got precious cargo." I raised the instrument case with my violin up into view.

"Yeah, sure." Dean climbed out of the car and skidded a little getting to the back where he opened the trunk.

I swallowed deeply. There were a LOT of weapons in there. Dean pulled on a tab and a panel came down, covering the arsenal in the truck's false bottom. I placed my case in carefully and slid it all the way to the back. Taking off my backpack, I positioned it between the case and the truck's door so my instrument wouldn't slide around. It was the most valuable thing I owned; I couldn't have it getting damaged. I then nodded to Dean and he closed the trunk. I was really doing this.

Jack opened the Impala's door for me and clung to it like a lifeline as I gathered my hair and slid into the backseat next to Cas. The boy followed after me and pulled the door shut.

"Here we go." Dean put the car into gear and rolled it out onto the road.

"So, where are you guy's taking me?" I asked, shifting to get comfortable in my seat.

"Lebanon, Kansas," Dean answered.

"Ooh, that's a long way away. I'm sorry I was so late. Did I make you very late?" Dean shrugged.

"Doesn't really matter, but yeah."

"I'm really sorry, I just wanted to say goodbye to somebody," I apologized, "But I brought chocolate! Will that atone for my sins?" I raised the bag of goodies Dan had given me.

"Hell yeah!" Dean reached back and opened his hand for the brown gold. I dropped a truffle into his palm, tossing one into Sam's lap and handing another to Jack. I held one out to Cas but he turned me down.

"No thank you, Martina," The angel said, gently.

"It's Marty, remember?" I corrected him and shrugged, unwrapping the candy. "Well, more for me, I guess." Dean reached his hand back again, asking for seconds. "Dude, this is gonna be a long ride, we gotta save our provisions." I declared, dramatically slapping his hand away.

"Aw, man!"

"Suck it up, butter-cup." I was about to pop the candy into my mouth when I noticed something on the wrapper. "Does anybody here like nougat?" I asked. Jack's head snapped up, his eyes begged for the truffle in my hand.

"I do."

"Oh good! I can't stand the stuff!" I passed him the chocolate. Jack looked at me like I was insane.

"Oh no, Jack. She doesn't like nougat, are you sure you guys can be friends?" Sam joked. At least I was pretty sure he was joking.

"You say that like I committed high treason!" I chimed.

"I dunno, I do feel betrayed," Jack said with his mouth full. I faked a gasp.

"I don't believe this! Jack, are you breaking up with me?" Dean burst out laughing, Sam snorted, and Jack just gave me his lopsided grin. My comment even won a quiet chuckle from Cas. I took that as a good sign.

"Yeah, I think so." Jack chuckled.

"Can we still be friends?" I asked, sarcasm dripping from my every word. Jack pretended to think about that.

"Only if you teach me to ice-skate," He mock-decided.

"It's a date! Wait, no its not, you broke up with me." I reached out and shook Jack's hand, sealing our satirical deal. The car shook with laughter and I gave myself a mental tally mark as I tied up my treat bag, placing it at my feet. When the laughter died down, Castiel was the first to speak up.

"Was that an instrument case you brought with you?" He asked.

"Yeah it is. Why?"

"I'd just like to get to know you," He answered simply.

"We all do. So, what instrument do you play, Marty?" Sam turned in his seat to look at me.

"Uh, I play the violin," I answered timidly.

"Are you very good?" Sam wondered.

"Um, well, I don't know. I'm sorta out of practice, but I started playing when I was eight," I replied. Sam chuckled.

"I'll take that as a yes." His tone was warm, despite his previous distrust. It made me smile, maybe I was winning him over.

"Okay, my turn," Dean spoke up.

"Yeah?"

"What's with the hair? I mean, that's a lot of hair. Why don't you cut it?" He asked. I bit my lip and nodded, trying to think of an acceptable answer.

"Well, my mom loved to braid hair, and my sisters, Bree and Jackie, hated having long hair so they cut theirs real short and my mom couldn't do anything with it, but I liked having my hair long. My mom would spend hours working on my hair, that was our time together. See, she always got so sad when I would cut it and now I just-" I stopped and looked at the floor of the Impala. "Now I just can't bring myself to cut it. Not without her. I don't want to make her sad. It's all I've got left of her." With a start, I realized I was crying and quickly wiped my tears away with my sleeve.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" I cut Dean off.

"It's okay." It had to be.

"Well, what about the color, what's that about? Or does this have a tragic story behind it too?" Dean asked, trying to make a joke. I cracked a smile.

"Oh, I've always wanted to have it like this. I love the fading colors, so hiding from a blood thirty vampire just gave me the motivation to actually go through with it," I shrugged.

"So, what's your real hair color?" Dean pressed.

"Black."

"Wait, that's natural?" He sounded stunned.

"Yeah!" I giggled a little. "The black is real, only the grey and white parts are dyed."

"You're lucky, black hair is cool. Looks good on you too."

"Thanks’ Dean."

That was when we passed the small, wooden sign on the side of the road. The paint was old, faded by the sun, and chipping away but I knew what the words said.

Now leaving Copper Harbor We'll get you back soon enough!

As I watched the town I'd called home for so many years fade from my view, I found myself hoping that I'd never return. I looked forward at the road ahead of me and the hunters beside me.

I looked to the future.

The future was looking pretty good.

~See, I had this crazy dream last night, this man he talked to me He told me everything that's good and bad about my history

He told me you are, you are the future

And the future looks good The future looks good to me~

Lyrics from: The Future Looks Good by One Republic

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machineryfield · 3 years

Text

At the Start of the World Chapter 2

Heading Out

Fiora sits on the bench at Outlook Park, staring out at the Colony. Just a day ago it had been so peaceful, the threat of Mechon becoming more and more of a distant dream... But, like most good things, that had to come to an end.

She closes her eyes, remembering the scenes that had played out before her. People being eaten, Shulk being eaten. Stabbed cleanly through by that Mechon with a face before smaller ones descended on his body.

She remembers the cold rage that had seeped into her, the way she had finally found a weak point on the blaster armour of that thing and let the Monado cut deep...

The Monado feels so heavy on her back when Reyn approaches, and she forces herself to give him a smile when he sits next to her. "Hey."

"Hey," he doesn't even attempt to pretend to smile. "You doin' alright? I know you and Dunban went home last night... He say anythin'?"

"He tried to comfort me." She admits. "...It didn't really help, though. He just said what I expected him to say, really."

Words of moving forward, like Shulk would want. Firm looks and with an underlying insistence she returns the Monado to the Weapons Development Lab as soon as possible in his tone. She thinks of all he said and frowns. She decided then and there she wouldn't listen to him...

"I want to go out and find that Mechon," she says. "I want to make it pay for what it did to Shulk, and I want to understand why."

"Understand why?" Reyn frowns. "I don't get it..."

"I want to know why the Mechon attacked us, why they’re always attacking us, what made us their targets. I want to know why... why they eat us. Do they need to, or do they just take pleasure in it? Things like that..." She wrings her hands together. "But a piece of me just wants to make the Mechon pay. Not take the time to learn, as much as the questions eat at me."

"Sounds like that piece of you is me rubbin' off on ya,” Reyn rubs under his nose. "...If ya got that, I guess I should be the one to keep you on your path to learnin', right?"

"That piece of me is loud, just like you!" She giggles, before looking over at him. "Really? You're willing to let me try and find out why? Even though you just want to..."

"You're my friend, Fiora. You've got your reasons for wantin' to know, and 'sides, if we know, might be easier to take 'em down!" He nods with a grin. "So let's do this, yeah?"

She smiles and nods. "Yeah...!"

"So," he kicks his legs. "Guess we're not tellin' Dunban, yeah?"

"Yeah." She frowns. "He'd just try to stop me... We head out, just the two of us, tonight."

Reyn nods. "You got it, I'll meet ya at the entrance."

"Ready to go?" She asks, fixing the pack at her side.

She goes over all she has. Food for a few days, her knives in case she needs them, and the Monado. Not much, but enough to get them through Tephra Cave and the Bionis leg, at least. They could stock up at Colony 6.

"Yep." Reyn rolls his arm and smiles at her. "The Mechon won't know what hit 'em."

"Yeah," she nods. "First we go to Colony 6, then we head for Sword Valley. If we're gonna find that Mechon anywhere, it'll be there."

"Galahad Fortress," Reyn adds on. "If there's still Mechon, the fortress is probably still there. Buildin' up grunts for a year, I bet."

"Yeah, something like that." She cracks her neck and looks out towards the path towards Tephra Cave. This time, it'd just be the two of them. "Let's go, Reyn."

Fiora sees the door open towards Colony 6, once locked, and figures that's where the strange machines they fought earlier came from. She wonders, they showed up right before the Mechon.... Had they sensed the threat? Activated for that?

She shrugs off that thought, at least for now. Whatever those machines were, they were gone now. They could move forward without a problem, right? They just needed to get to Colony 6.

"You know," Reyn speaks, pulling Fiora out of her thoughts. "We haven't had any convoys from Colony 6 recently, have we? Y'think the Mechon got 'em, too...?"

Fiora frowns as they make it to the lit path. "I hope not. Maybe they just got delayed, or it was bad harvests this year."

She doesn't believe what she says, but she continues to hope, anyway. Maybe they did die, but maybe to natural wildlife. It was never fun to lose any of the few Homs they had left, but better to beings of the Bionis than the Mechon.

Reyn nods, frowning. "Sorry, I didn't mean t'..."

"Don't worry about it," she gives him a small smile. "I get the worry, really. We just... have to try and look on the bright side."

"Yeah... you're right."

They continue on their way for a while, fighting off the wild life and picking up knick knacks from the ground. It's going well, she thinks. Maybe too well... She doesn't like thinking that, but dread sits in her stomach as they walk along. What was this feeling...?

She tries to shake it off, at least, until they see dead bodies ahead of them. She feels panic wrack her body as they move towards them. Reyn is there first, looking them over with a grimace.

"Was it the Mechon...?" She asks as she approaches, voice shaking."

Reyn shakes his head, "looks like Arachno wounds, if y'ask me. Probably got ambushed on their way to Colony 9..."

Fiora frowns, she knows how Reyn feels about spiders and their bigger monstrous cousins. She moves to his side and places a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, there's some water, let's return them to the Bionis, then rest. We should think about our next move first if there are Arachnos ahead."

Reyn nods, clearly thankful for the idea. "Yeah. Let's do it."

Fiora's thankful that she and Reyn are both pretty athletic, all things given. It makes moving the remnants of the Caravan easier. There's not enough for it to have been the full group, and as bad as it sounds, Fiora is glad. That's less death they have to see right after what happened.

The bodies start to dissolve the minute they touch the water, and Fiora offers a quick prayer to the Bionis. Born of the Bionis and returned to it, the way Shulk didn't get to be.

She swallows down the bitter thought and turns to Reyn. "Come on, let's get some rest. You first, I'll take point."

A giant Arachno, Reyn surrounded by smaller ones. There's no where for him to run and Fiora isn't with him. She watches as it strikes out, he moves to block it, and dread settles in as it gives out. She watches the Arachno stab right through his chest. Watches him die, just like Shulk did.

Fiora blinks back to reality and sees Reyn walking towards her. "Your turn to rest."

"Reyn," she stands, shaky on her feet as she moves to him. "Are you okay?"

"'Course I am." He frowns, scratching his cheek. "Well, couldn't sleep a wink, but I feel alright. You look like you just saw a ghost, though."

"I..." She bites her lip. "I had another vision. Promise me you'll stay safe if I sleep?"

Reyn pats her back. "'Course I will, Fiora. We just lost Shulk, I ain't lettin' you lose me, too."

"Reyn..." She sighs and rests her head against his chest for a minute, tears pricking at her eyes. "You better stay safe, you big dummy."

He squeezes her into a tight hug then, a smile on his face. "Don't you worry about me! I can take a few hits... and if I need ya, I'll wake ya up, okay?"

"You better," she looks up at him. "No running off to play hero. No doing what Shulk did."

"None of that, promise."

It's foggy in Fiora's dream, she can barely make out where she is. It's a platform of some sort, that much she can make out. Looking around, she comes to realize she's high above some sort of water source…

There's not much else she can see, save a man in the distance. She squints, trying to get a better look at him and takes a step forward. He seems to realize she's there, but doesn't turn to greet her. He keeps his back to her, simply tilts his head back a bit.

"Quite the divergence, wouldn't you say? I wouldn't think the Heir to the Monado would fall like that." He says, voice sounding quite sad. "But now you are here, to take on that heavy title."

"Heir to the Monado..." She furrows her brow and doesn't even understand why she asks what she does. "Do you mean Shulk?"

He was the miracle child, after all. Found alive when everyone else from his colony -- pushing forward on an expedition to find any way to stay alive -- perished to the cold of Valak Mountain. The little boy, sleeping next to the mythical sword that saved the day so many times.

The man chuckles, and does not answer her. "I look forward to seeing what you'll do, now thrust into his place. I'm sure you'll make him proud, Fiora."

"How do you know my name?" She asks, stepping forward once again. "Who are you? What do you know about the Monado?!"

"All will be revealed in due time." He assures, but Fiora still feels unsettled. "Do your best, now, I'll be watching."

She opens her mouth and sits up from where she fell asleep, panting as sweat rolls down her brow. She turns to see if Reyn noticed, see if he has commentary for her, and her blood runs cold.

Reyn isn't there.

#Xenoblade #Xenoblade Chronicles #Series: At the Start of the World #Fandom: Xenoblade #Character: Fiora #Character: Reyn #Character: Alvis #Post Type: Chapter #Content Warning: Character Death #Content Warning: Mild Gore

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xxisxxisxxis · 4 years

Text

Gateway Drug | Part Sixty-Eight

A/N: Okay, firstly I cannot apologize enough for the delay. I'm sorry for not posting when I planned on, I have no idea how I feel about this chapter, it's all over the place and I've honestly thought of erasing it and starting back over but that'd take even longer and I don't want to make you guys wait any more. I'm sorry for falling through on my assurance I'd post by Friday.

Timeline in case anyone is wondering, this chapter starts around the 18th of September (flashback is last couple days in July) and ends at the end of September.

I hope you guys like it, perfectly understandable if y'all don't and I will be trying harder next time. Thank you🖤

P.S.--I haven't forgotten about the "D" Viv gets tattooed on her, it's being mentioned in the next chapter.

Words: 4.4K

Warning(s): Explicit language, violence, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, insensitive implication of suicide.

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I'm taking another bite of eggs, before an issue of Playboy is plopped down in front of me, into my food.

I was expecting the cover to hit stands sooner, rather than later. We went back on tour the first of September, and the issue wasn't out until September 16, a couple days after getting back on tour from a separate break that took place a week and a half after our first break at the end of July did.

I'm on the cover, naked, and I hesitantly run my eyes up Doc's body to his eyes, giving an uneasy smile, knowing I'm in trouble.

I swallow my food and he glares at me.

Within ten minutes, he's got all of us back into another meeting.

"Playboy?!" He's pacing the floor, throwing his hands up. "Y-You…" he trails off, the vein popping out on his forehead.

I look around and notice everybody--Ross, Fred, Tommy, Vince, Mick, Rich--has got a copy of it, flipping through, including Nikki, and I feel my face heat up, slowly sliding down in my seat.

"...Playboy!" Doc gets out again, before he starts laughing.

"Was a staff meeting really necessary for this?" I ask him.

"I mean, it could be worse." Fred tries to take up for me as my question is ignored.

"Yeah, she could've went behind our backs and shot a porno." Vince adds, glancing at me. "...or did you do that, too?"

Apparently I don't deny that quick enough because Doc is looking at me with an even more severe look.

"Did you?!" He asks.

"No?!" I argue, starting to get pissed. "I posed for Playboy, what's the big deal?"

Doc starts laughing again.

"What's the big deal? What's the big deal? What's the bi--what's the big deal?!" He pulls at his hair. "I am about to have a heart attack. I am about to have a heart attack. You--" he lets out a loud yell of frustration and we all look at each other. "--Are you trying to kill me, Viv?! 'Cause I feel like you are!"

"From a photography perspective, they're quite beautiful photos." Ross says positively.

"Yes, I for one want to express my gratitude and admiration for Saint Viv's--well, Dirty Stripper Viv's--contribution to the livelihood of many a jerking offs." Vince states. "Also would like to note," he looks at a particular picture of me before adding, "I've only imagined her doing this position but now that it's here on paper, I'd like her to demonstrate--slowly, in detail--exactly how she twisted hersel--"

"--Dude, shut up!" Tommy snaps, his hands over his eyes, his head back, and Vince grins at me, making me roll my eyes.

It kind of scares me how quiet Nikki is as he calmly thumbs through his.

"Okay." Doc takes a deep breath. "When did this happen?" He asks me.

"I got an offer in the mail, and took them up on it, and when we were in Chicago I went by their studio." I explain. "I still don't know what the big deal is. I thought it was the idea for rockstars and Playboy models to be together."

Doc looks at me with flared nostrils before flipping through his magazine.

"Whose is this?" He asks, turning the magazine around to show me, his finger on Duff's bass.

I just look at him, not knowing what to say.

"I know what every bass of Nikki's looks like and it's got too many personalized ticks on it for it to be a random prop they tossed at you." He adds.

The room is quiet for a moment.

"It's Duff's." Nikki says and Doc raises his brows.

"The fuck is that?" He questions me.

"Guns N' Roses bassist." Nikki informs him, his tone neutral.

I'm afraid to look at him, knowing it's gonna break my heart.

"The band that you've been in my ear about bringing on the tour?"

Nikki let's out a confirming sigh and Doc looks at me.

"So this kid's gonna bring this bass to play on tour, and everybody's gonna recognize it when they flip through your little stunt here," he waves the magazine, "and it's all gonna come together and they're gonna realize a few days after Vanity allegedly dropped a bombshell about her and Nikki supposedly having an affair--which is said to be bullshit--his wife comes out humping another man's fuckin' bass." He tells me and I roll my eyes. "You roll your eyes all you want. Vanity fucking fried all of us, and then you decided to toss us into the fucking fire. Not that I expect anything different from a goddamn Sixx at this point. You both know how to make shit worse than it already is."

"I highly doubt they'll notice, Doc." Tommy cuts in again.

"You stay out of this." Doc snaps at him.

Another beat of silence goes by.

"Nikki? Your thoughts? You're her fucking husband. You helped kickstart this snowball of shit that just keeps getting bigger and bigger. What's your fucking opinion on her doing this? Am I gonna have to worry about you bending another girl over on stage and going to town in retaliation or what?" Doc sarcastically throws out there. "I mean nothing will fucking surprise my anymore. I just need to know what I need to prepare to clean up next."

My heart pounds as I look at Nikki, liner smudged, tired eyes, glancing at me as he lets out a defeated sigh.

"She's a grown woman, Doc." He surprisingly says and I widen my eyes in shock, as everyone else looks worried that Nikki's not screaming at me for it right now.

Not yet, at least.

"That's it?" Doc asks him, raising his brows. "She didn't say a word about it, didn't give a warning, a heads up, nothing, and she comes out like this and you have absolutely nothing to fucking say?"

Nikki just shrugs.

"She just does whatever the hell she wants to do. Doesn't matter how I'd feel before, why does it matter what I feel like, now? Like I said, she's grown. Whatever she wants to do, she can do." He finishes, standing up to leave.

"Nikki, are you fucking me right now?!" Doc complains as Nikki heads to the door. "You flip your shit over tiny stuff but your own wife does this without even telling you about it and you just brush it off?!"

"Just because she calls me 'daddy' doesn't mean I can act like her fucking father, Doc." Nikki sternly says and my face heats up. "We're not even together so why the fuck would I care what she does or who she does it with?"

His bark was "I don't give a fuck" and "she can do whatever she wants", but a couple months later his bite was "you aren't worth a fucking thing which is why you had to get naked in a magazine to get validation in the first place" then proceeded to bare his teeth down further into my heart by adding, "just another pussy to unload in and get on to the next attention-humping slut."

The next thing I knew, Duff was knocking him to the ground and the two of them started ripping into each other like dogs.

Once the meeting is over, after another hour of going back and forth, feeling like I was going to vomit from impending guilt, I'm getting back to my room and making a beeline for the toilet.

I take a deep breath once I'm done, wiping the few tears from my cheeks.

I don't feel bad for posing…the entire meeting it took everything not to confess that me posing naked with Duff's bass should be the least of their worries, compared to what other activities I've gotten up to with him the last time the band had a couple days off and we went back to L.A.

The sound of my room phone ringing pulls me out of my head

“Hello?” I answer.

“H-Hey.” I hear Tansy’s voice on the other end and I perk up.

“Hey, Tans, how’re you feeling?” I ask her, nervously.

“Good, um…” She lets out a soft sigh. “...I relapsed.”

I close my eyes for a moment, exactly like I did last week, and the week before, and the week before, and so on.

After Sparkie did his damage, Tansy promised to swear the bastard off. But within two weeks of her incident, she was back with him, only because her babysitters--Slash and Steven--left her unattended and she ran off to find him.

They’d find her, threaten Sparkler, bring her back home and the second they turned around long enough, she was gone again.

Nikki had ordered them that she wasn't supposed to be around Sparkie because he had "accidentally" taken it too far while they were messing around…

Skylar squeals as tickle at her stomach, shampoo sticking her blonde hair straight up while Sharise runs a wash cloth over Sky's back.

When she's done, she's wringing the water out of it.

"Sky, we gotta wash the shampoo out of your hair." I tell her.

"Nuh." She protests, shaking her head.

"Skylar, we gotta get the shampoo out so we can get conditioner in your hair and get the tangles out."

"Nuh." She states, looking at us like we're crazy.

"Don't be a diva like daddy." Sharise tell her, raising her brows.

"Da-da?"

"Da-da's golfing." She replies.

Skylar looks between us.

"Nuh." She argues. "Beebee." She points at me.

Sharise looks at me and hands me the little plastic cup she uses to rinse Sky's hair.

"I'm gonna grab a towel from the couch." Sharise tells me. "Let Veevee rinse your hair."

Skylar's cooperative, letting me get the shampoo from her hair and letting me put conditioner in and rinsing it out.

When we're done, Sharise is picking Skylar up from the bath and wrapping her in her towel.

The phone starts ringing and I dry hands off and stand up.

"I'll get it." I assure Sharise.

"Alright, it could be Vince. He said he'd call before he headed home."

"Okay."

I go to the living room and pick the phone up.

"Hello?"

"I'm coming by to pick you up." It's Nikki, and I furrow my brows and look at the time.

"What're you doing up before two o'clock?"

"I got a call from a hospital in Malibu. Tansy's in surgery right now."

My blood runs cold and I can't get my thoughts together.

"Just be ready when I get there." He adds. "I'm leaving the house, now."

"O-Okay."

He hangs up and I head to Skylar's room where Sharise is helping her pick out some clothes.

"That was Nikki." I inform her and she looks at me. "Tansy's at the hospital in the middle of a surgery."

"Oh my God, is she okay?"

"I don't know."

"Is she having more heart problems or--"

"--I have no idea, Sharise. Nikki didn't explain."

Despite her body being pumped full of varying drugs, none of them caused her to be sent to the ER. Something else entirely, did though.

"She's more susceptible to complications during surgery due to her previous heart problems and her drug use. She did decide to sign a DNR--"

"--I'm sorry, what's been signed?" Nikki raises his brows at the nurse.

"A do-not resuscitate order. Meaning if she were to code, we can not perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation."

"So you just fucking let her die?!"

"Nikki, they had to explain to her what it meant, and she still agreed--" I'm cut short.

“--You know how much fucking heroin she fucking shoots on a daily basis?! I'm not even sure she could fucking see to sign her God damn in the first place, let alone comprehend you motherfuckers selling her death!" Nikki barks and the nurse sighs.

“Nikki, she’ll be fine.” I try to tell him.

"Fuck that!" He screams, fear in his eyes.

"Nikki, that's only if something goes wrong, alright? So far everything is going okay." I try to reassure him, my eyes drifting to her nurse. "Right?"

The surgery itself was going smoothly. One thing Tansy didn't tell us, however, was one of her kidneys was shot from her drug and alcohol abuse, and she asked her doctor to go ahead and take the thing out.

"She's in good hands." Is all the nurse says, before adding, "she should be out in a couple more hours."

She walks away and Nikki shakes his head and lets out a heavy breath.

"It'll be okay." I say to him.

“You gonna fucking pray about it or something?” He sneers at me.

“Yes.”

“Right, imaginary friends solve all of the world’s problems.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me doing something that brings me some peace.” I argue.

“You’ve been praying for me for the past six years. Feel any fucking peace, yet?” He snaps.

Believe it or not, no. I hadn’t felt any fucking peace.

It doesn’t take Tansy much longer to get out of surgery, and Nikki and I are horrified when her doctor explains what exactly he was repairing, being that the nurse wouldn’t tell us.

“Like...a shooter sized bottle--”

“--Pint.” He says to us and Nikki and I look at eachother.

“They tried to fit a pint sized bottle of Jack into her…?” I trail off.

“Well, they made it fit, it just didn’t stay intact.” He replies.

“The bottle of her vagina?” I question.

“I had to stitch up her vaginal wall extensively, and made sure to remove every piece of glass, including micrograins. Her left fallopian tube would have been compromised if the piece of glass that completely punctured through her vaginal wall, would have moved 0.004mm, which is about the thickness of a single strand of hair.” He states. “She’s very lucky her uterus or ovaries weren’t compromised. That wouldn’t have been as easy of a fix.”

“A--A bottle?” I’m stll stuck on them fitting a fucking bottle into her, my face twisted in horror as my stomach drops and my skin crawls.

He holds up a small container and rattles it around, the sound of glass swishing around making me cringe.

“Jesus fucking christ.” Nikki lets out.

“I’m going to tell her when she wakes, but please reiterate after me, that the next time she and her partner wish to add some heat to their sex life, maybe try not to be so blatantly reckless.” He suggests and Nikki and I nod, still speechless.

In a couple more hours, Nikki and I’s ears perk when she groans a little, our eyes shifting to look at her in her hospital bed.

Her bright blue eyes blink open, her brows furrowed in confusion, and it seems everything slowly falls into place for her.

“Tans?” Nikki says and she looks straight at him, just blinking.

“Where’s Sparkie?” She asks and we look at each other.

“We haven’t seen him.” I explain.

“Oh.” She quietly mumbles, closing her eyes again for a moment.

“Tansy, what the hell happened?” Nikki starts, a sharp tone in his voice.

She looks at me, carefully, before speaking.

“We were just trying to spice things up.” She says softly.

“With a fucking Jack Daniel’s bottle that clearly wouldn’t naturally fit inside of you?” He lets out.

She doesn’t say a word back, I almost think she doesn’t hear him, until she says:

“I’m not fighting right now.”

“Let’s just let her rest, okay?” I suggest. “She’s exhausted and she doesn’t need to be stressed out right now.”

Nikki sighs, but keeps his mouth shut.

After a few more minutes, I’m wanting a snack.

“You have any cash?”

He looks at me and I give him my best smile, making him exhale softly, digging in his back pocket for his wallet.

“How much?” He asks, clearing his throat.

“Like, a couple bucks.” I shrug and he hands it to me. “Thank you.”

I go to the vending machines past the waiting area, to see Sparkie sitting by the window, eating his food, and I glare at him as I walk by.

He doesn’t see me, unfortunately, and I just keep going to the Pepsi Cola machine calling my name.

I want to go curse him out, but Tansy doesn’t need the stress, and being they were both high as a kite, I can’t solely put the blame on him and only him.

She should have just left him years ago. All he’s been is trouble that she doesn’t need.

I get my Pepsi and a pack of M&Ms, walking around a little to stretch my legs since I’ve been sitting for hours.

I let out a heavy breath when I remember I’m nearly out of Nardil, being I flushed a majority of my bottle down the toilet in an angry effort.

I’ll make sure to call in some more before we leave for the next leg of the tour.

As I start on my way back to the room, I’m interrupted by the sight of Nikki and Sparkie standing face to face in the waiting room, and I drop my Pepsi and food when Nikki slams Sparkie’s head into the wall without a single word beforehand.

“Sir!” The receptionist yells, standing up as I go to them as fast as I can to get Nikki off of him as he grabs his shirt and punches the shitfire out of Sparkie, one of his teeth crumbling to the floor.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” He promises as he punches him two more times, not taking a breath in between with no signs of stopping his assault until Sparkie’s brain is bursting from his skull, but I’m managing to get Nikki off of him, making him drop Sparkie to the floor, his nose and mouth busted up as security comes in.

We were escorted out, and when we got home I called Steven and informed him what happened to Tansy, leaving out what actually happened because I didn’t need anyone else possibly being sued for trying to kill Sparkie, and he went to keep an eye on her.

“Anyone else you want to beat the shit out of while we’re home?” I snap as we get to the car. “First Vanity, now Sparkie--”

"--What, you wanna go back in there and coddle him the way you did Vanity?" He hisses and I roll my jaw.

"You know exactly why I 'coddled' her."

"Oh, right, because men aren't suppose to hit women so I'm an evil bastard for knocking the shit out of her even though she was punching and hitting at me."

"I've punched and hit at you and you've never--"

"--She came into our house, attacked me, and punched you, too, Vivian! I had a reason to bust her face up a little bit!"

"I can handle shit myself, Nikki, there was no need for you to hit her like that!"

"It's called 'equal rights'! All you women want is to be seen equally and shit! You fucking punch me like you're a man, I'm gonna fucking punch you back, like you're a fucking man! Don't hit me like you've got bigger balls than I do and then scream and cry and whine and plead 'frail, innocent, victimized, dainty, woman' when you get treated equally!"

"I don't do that!"

"No, but you sure as hell were all about feeding the cracked out beast when she fucking did!"

"That's it. I'm walking home."

"Walking home? We're forty minutes away from L.A., Viv."

"I'll hitch a ride! I'd rather be in a car with a sketchy stranger than be trapped with you for the next hour!"

"You've been trapped with me the past four years!" He barks.

"Not for much longer, thank God!" I bite out and his face slowly falls. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Pretty sure going our separate ways is just inevitable for us at this point, Viv, so it's fine." He brushes it off and my heart hurts at the thought. "And I'm sorry for going after Sparkie in public. But I'm not apologizing for defending Tansy. I'm not ever gonna be sorry for defending any of my friends."

“What happened, Nikki?” I ask him. “What the hell made you go after him like that? You were fine when I left.”

He lets out a breath, his nostrils flaring, his knuckles gripping tightly to the wheel as he closes his eyes and forces himself to calm down, before saying:

“Nothing. I just really thought about it and it got to me.”

I didn’t find out what happened until Tansy told me months down the road, and nobody else knows that’s actually what happened.

If Stevie and Slash knew what really occurred to put Tansy in that shape to begin with, they would’ve killed Sparkie the second Tansy first went back and "relapsed" on him.

"Tansy, he hurt you." I remind her. "And I know it was an accident but it doesn't matter. He could've seriously messed you up more than he did."

"I know, but I love him, Viv." She argues.

"Tansy--"

"--Nikki shot you. And you're still with him."

"Because Nikki was high out of his mind and didn't realize he actually was shooting at me. He thought I was someone after him."

"Sparkie was fucked up and didn't know he was hurting me."

"Who the hell shoves a pint-sized glass bottle up their cunt to begin with, Tansy?" I raise my voice, getting aggravated with her.

"I'm gonna go." She tells me, calmly, after a moment of being quiet. "And I saw your Playboy issue--Steven got it. You look very beautiful." She genuinely says and I let out a defeated breath.

"Thanks."

"I'll talk to you later, Viv, okay?"

"Got it."

"I love you, bye."

"I love you, too, bye-bye."

I hang up and fall back on the bed, groaning loudly in frustration.

"How the hell can someone be as passively suicidal as she is?" I let out.

I'd find out soon enough.

In the last ten days of September, "Girls, Girls, Girls" is certified double-platinum, a $5000 lawsuit is filed against the band after a mother had apparently suffered "severe hearing dysfunction and mental anguish" at a recent concert.

I wish I could sew these bastards for hearing dysfunction and mental anguish because God himself sure as shit knows I've had my fair share of it due to them, too.

By the end of the month, Nikki has Doc convinced to bring Guns N Roses on tour for the south leg, starting at the end of October…and I don't know how to feel about it.

"Are you not excited about it?" Fred asks me after Doc leaves his hotel room after coming in to tell me the news. "Thought they were your buddies." He adds and I look at him from where I'm eating a fry from the fast food bag that he'd gone and got for us.

"They are." I confirm, nodding. "I'm excited."

"...You just acted like Doc told you we were going to a funeral." He chuckles, sipping his drink and I lick my lips a little.

"No, it's great, I'm just a little stressed out." I shrug. "But I'm fine."

"Viv, what's going on?" He's not buying it and Iet out a soft breath, nervously picking the skin from the instead of my cheek with my teeth.

"There's just a slight complication." I tell him and he raises his brows.

"I'm all ears." He offers and I exhale, shaking my head a little, before opting for a way to confess my sins to him without him knowing I'm the one that needs forgiveness.

"Well, you know how Sparkie and Tansy have been together for a long time?"

"Yeah." He nods.

"She's really good friends with Axl, too, and her and Sparkie have been having some problems and might even break up so Tansy's been anxious and panicking a little, and, well…" I think for a moment. "...over this past break, Tansy slept with Axl." I say and his brows raise. "Who's the singer for Guns, and they've kinda been having a weird relationship situation thing happening ever since, but she's still with Sparkie, and being that she and Sparkie are along for the tour, Axl's gonna be around and she doesn't want Sparkie to find out what's been happening."

"Why won't Tansy just break things off with Sparkie?"

"She doesn't want to hurt him."

"He's a piece of shit to her, are you kidding me? I'd tell that motherfucker he could go blow his fucking brains out over it." He scoffs, chewing his burger and I feel my heart sink, apparently he reads the look on my face. "Sorry, I forget women are wired a different way than guys are." He apologizes, swallowing his food before saying:

"Does Axl make her happier, you think?"

"Sparkie's just exhausting her at this point. I think she really loves him, she's just tired of fighting and she hasn't had any peace in years, you know? She's just really tired. But when she's with Axl, she feels like everything isn't falling apart. She's at peace."

"I think she's gotta tell Sparkie they just aren't working anymore. And be honest about how she feels instead of trying to brush over it and find ways to escape from it. I've seen her do some questionable shit, and I know it's because she's in pain and just doesn't want to deal with what's hurting her. I think this fling she's got with this dude is another way of crying for a way out, but she feels like she's too trapped to actually leave Sparkie." He explains.

I nod slowly, tearing up a little.

"I'm just worried about it, is all."

"Don't be." He shakes his head. "Just tell her what I just told you, and maybe she'll be done with Sparkie before Guns comes on a month from now."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment.

"I doubt it." I say so quietly he doesn't even hear it.

I felt like I'd gotten a little bit of my guilt off my chest--aside from the fact that I was leaving out a minor detail:

"Sparkie" = Nikki, "Tansy" = Vivian, and, "Axl" = Duff.

#nikki sixx #mötley crüe #nikki sixx x oc #nikki sixx fanfiction #gateway drug

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 4 years

Text

Scars That Heal || Eddie Kaspbrak x Reader Series

• Ch. 8: Somebody's Watching Me •

Since the day of the rock fight, the Losers had been inseparable. And not only had that day come to be known as the day their bond had been forged but the day they had found a place to call their own: the clubhouse. A small subterranean dugout that Ben had found while playing in the Barrens one day. After many a reinforcement, he had transformed it into a habitable space for him and his six, now seven best friends. After their defeat of the Bowers gang, Ben had taken them into the Barrens, and just across the Kenduskeag Stream to the aforementioned fort where their bonds were furthered forged.

And apart from their dark confessions at the park and the overcast of fear looming over their heads, Y/n had suggested another trip to the clubhouse as a morale booster. They each found themselves there with one another quite a bit, particularly when things were looking gloomy. It had quickly become a sanctuary for the children. And since their taking residency, the dingy little dugout had filled with trinkets and treasures of their own, slowly but surely growing far more homely with each visit.

This particular trip to the clubhouse was less than exciting, everyone was still fairly unsettled from their conversation at the park earlier that day. And the journey through the barrens and across the Kenduskeag was considerably silent apart from the trickling stream and the singing birds. And every so often they would hear the scuffle of Ben readjusting his backpack over his shoulder.

When they had left the park, he had suggested stopping by his house to pick something up and the others complied, curiously. Before they could debate on whether or not to follow him inside, he had returned from his house with a thick brown burlap cloth folded up under his arms. He was unzipping his backpack as he walked across his front lawn, tucking some more unseen things inside before storing the large piece of cloth and ropes in as well.

"What is that, Ben?" Y/n had asked, balancing herself on her bike as it stood still on the pavement, her toes reaching for the concrete.

He had closed his backpack and threw it over his shoulder before grabbing his bike.

"Oh, it's our old hammock." Everyone's face's lit up at his words, the first they had perked since the park. "We had it at our old house, but, we don't really have a good place to hang it here, so I figured we could find a spot in the clubhouse."

"That's a great idea," Mike beamed.

Ben smiled at the comment and turned a little pink. He had always found it odd his interest in architecture, the kids at his old school always gave him grief for it. And over time it became an instinct to bury his interest, to never bring it up. But when he showed the Losers the clubhouse, they were enthralled. With the structure and his abilities. Ben was still getting used to their fascination and support in his passions, but he sure did enjoy it.

And soon enough, the eight Losers found themselves descending the ladder into the place each and every one of them could call home. From the moment they entered, their noses were filled with the overwhelming and concentrated aroma of dust, and fresh layers of earth still damp from previous rains.

It was intoxicating to the Loser's as it became the smell they associated with the clubhouse, their hideaway. Their hideaway from the Bowers gang, their hideaway from the world, and if they believed hard enough, a hideaway from It. A place where they could be stronger than the world told them they were, a place that reminded them that they were stronger than the world told them they were.

But even this trip didn't seem to quite do the trick for each of them.

"I don't see why we're here," Richie snorted, waltzing over to the crooked beam and slapped it gently - learning from Ben's mistakes. "Unless this fucker is demon proof or whatever the fuck that thing is I don't see how this is gonna help."

"Doesn't mean we can't try and have fun while we can," Y/n argued. "Or at least try and clear our heads, calm down a little bit and collect ourselves. We can work something out some other day if we want, but not today. I mean, look at us,"

Y/n gestured around the small circle the Losers had formed at the center of the clubhouse. Apart from Y/n, everyone was quiet and closed off, arms either tucked at their sides or they were wringing their hands. It was not the same seven misfits that stood together against Bowers, but the seven lonely children that were isolated and afraid when It had found them.

"Look, I'm scared too. But somethings telling me we need to enjoy this while we can."

Y/n sighed, her waving arms falling to rest at her sides in exasperation and her eyes fell to the dirt floor. For some unfathomable reason, she would never be able to explain, the turtle from that day at the quarry popped into her mind, and a faint ghost of a smile dusted her cheeks. She looked around at her friends with a reassuring sense of confidence and some of them seemed to take to her words.

A similar thought crossed Beverly's mind and she smirked at her best friend and nodded, hands now tucked into her back pockets.

"Y/n's right, let's just enjoy the rest of the day while we can. It's summer!"

Bill fought the urge to roll his eyes at the familiar argument, but even he couldn't deny the whole idea of forgetting sounded tempting to him.

Poor Eddie - who had been clutching his inhaler tightly to his chest in between puffs of the device - looked around the circle, then up at Richie. Richie looked down at his best friend and shrugged, slapping the kids back and the inhaler nearly flew out of his tiny grasp.

"Whatdya' say, Eddie Spaghetti, you up for some good ol' fashioned repression and denial? Shouldn't be too hard for ya pal, that's what - every Wednesday night for you huh?"

If Eddie wasn't still holding the albuterol captive in his swollen lungs, he would've snapped at Richie for saying such things, and above all that God-awful nickname again! But instead, he rolled his eyes and looked to Y/n, ignoring that his heart was beating just a twinge faster, and hesitantly nodded.

"Great" Y/n smiled, relieved Eddie agreed.

She less than gracefully twirled around - her ankle ached in reply - to look for the boombox Bill had brought last time. Swallowing a wince, Y/n reached the boombox and turned the radio on, giving the room a lighter ambiance already. They soon quickly recognized the song New York Groove, by Kiss as it was fading out.

Y/n turned to Ben and gestured to his backpack.

"So, should we hang up the hammock?"

"Oh! Uh, yeah sure."

Ben took the faded backpack from his shoulder and unzipped it, retrieving the thick burlap cloth as the radio station announced the next song of the previous decade.

The Losers dispersed, making room for Y/n and Ben as they unfolded the hammock, the ends of the ropes trailing in the dirt after them. From the boombox in the corner, came the gentle tune of a piano, and a soft voice spilled into the atmosphere as the last rays of the sun shone through the entrance to the clubhouse.

Ben gestured between two beams structured across the room and the pair made their way over as the song, Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young swelled, giving the rest of the Losers the sense of home and comfort.

"I'll light the fire

You put the flowers in the vase that you bought today"

"Come to me now and rest your head for just five minutes, everything is good"

Ben began instructing Y/n on how to hang the hammock, and the two set to work. Stan and Bev had begun gathering stray leaves that made their way into the clubhouse while they had been gone and set to tidying up. Between the two, it wasn't long before a competition formed to see who could get the most leaves and twigs out.

Meanwhile, Eddie, Richie, and Mike had begun playing a game of cards with a deck that Richie had left last time. Of course, a game hadn't been decided yet. The three boys - mainly Richie and Eddie - had begun arguing over what to play. It was between Bullshit, Sevens and Mike just wanted to play Palace.

"Such a cozy room, the windows are illuminated by the

Sunshine through them, fiery gems for you, only for you"

Ben, Y/n, Bev and Stan had finished with their respective tasks before the trio could decide on a game. Everyone's attention was drawn back to Y/n and Ben when they put the finishing touches on the hammock.

"Our house is a very, very, very fine house with two cats in the yard,

Life used to be so hard,

Now everything is easy 'cause of you and our—"

"Alright," Y/n said, dusting off her hands after pushing herself off the dirt floor. "The hammock's all-"

Before she could finish her sentence Richie had leaped to his feet - cursing profusely under his breath when he bumped his head on a low beam - and ran for the hammock. Making sure to go out of his way to shove Eddie to ground for no particular reason and his small frame hit the dirt with a rather loud 'umph'. Protests were thrown across the room but Richie merely stretched out his long lanky legs and rested his head under his folded arms, sighing in content.

"Welp," Richie sighed, popping the 'p'. "You were right, toots. Coming down here wasn't so bad after all. And good thinking with the hammock, haystack. You got a good nugget in there."

Richie winked at Y/n and nodded firmly at Ben. The Losers rolled their eyes in near-perfect sync - a feat easier around one another than one might think - and Richie closed his eyes, ignoring their glares. Eddie was extra furious given he was still feverishly dusting several spots of dirt off himself.

"Alright, wake me when It's dead."

"Enough, Richie." Y/n warned, before turning to Ben. "Ben, what I tell ya? Within the minute."

Ben chuckled and Stan stepped forward.

"Richie, we're sharing the hammock, you have to get up one way or another" He warned.

"Yeah, yeah, sure thing, Stanley the Manley." Richie retorted, still never opening his eyes.

Stan rolled his eyes and stepped around the hammock. Catching Y/n's eye, he gestured silently to the hammock and an unsuspecting Richie. Smirking, she made her way around the hammock and gestured for the others to continue talking. About what, she didn't care. They caught on almost immediately, but Eddie choked. Mike was quick to cover.

"Eddie, if you really want we can play-"

THUMP

"THE FUCK?!"

Stan and Y/n had flipped the hammock and Richie was pulling his dirtied face from the ground with a wince.

"The fuck was that?"

"We all know you weren't m-moving otherwise, Richie." Bill shot.

"Hey, don't throw a fit just cause you guys were too slow."

Richie turned to see Stan sat in the hammock, smirking at him.

"You were saying?"

"Oh, come on! That's not fair!" Richie gestured widely at Stan, looking desperately around the room for scraps of sympathy.

Ignoring Richie's protests, Y/n turned to the others and raised a brow.

"How about we each have ten minutes? That way it's fair."

The Losers looked at one another and a chorus of agreement rang out.

"S-s-sounds good."

"Okay." Mike nodded.

"Yeah, alright."

"I call next!" Bev called.

"Oh, for fuck sake! Don't I get a say in this? Wasn't I the one just violently thrown from the hammock? Eds, come on! Back me up!"

Eddie wore a deadpan look as he met his best friend's eyes, bits of twig that Beverly and Stan had missed unknowingly caught in tufts of his hair.

"Oh, don't try that with me, dickhead!" Eddie shot back. "You're the one who threw me in the dirt, why the fuck would I help you, and for fuck's sake stop calling me Eds!"

Eddie took a deep breath after his small rant and glared at Richie. Scattered chuckles bounced across the Losers, Y/n's loudest of all.

"Good for you, shrimp" Y/n giggled.

"So just fuck me then, right?" Richie grumbled from the ground.

Richie was not quite expecting a chorus of agreements echo off the Losers though he couldn't say he was surprised.

"Pretty much."

"Yeah,"

"Uh-huh,"

"Yep,"

Huffing, he sat near the hammock and began finding ways to make Stan's turn in the hammock unpleasant. Stan didn't take this, of course, having many years under his belt of dealing with the loudmouth. Y/n looked at the pouting Tozier boy and felt a smile creep up and a twinge of guilt. She maneuvered around the hammock, and knelt down next to her friend, resting her ankle on the dirt floor where it wasn't strained.

"Oh, don't look so glum, Tozier. It's not a good look on you," She rested her elbow on the boy's shoulder and he quickly scoffed, brushing off her words.

"Oh please, everything looks good on me, toots, and you know it." Richie shot back, turning to meet her eye. "And I wouldn't be surprised if you wanted a piece of this either."

Y/n guffawed, grabbing the attention of the Kaspbrak boy across the room, who was now watching them curiously. Her laughter bubbled into a small chuckle that would be bouncing around Eddie's head for the rest of the day like a catchy song. He watched fondly as the two engaged with one another and he noted how well they always got along.

Y/n shook her head, trying at no avail to shake the smile from her lips. "You wish, Tozier."

Richie held a smile of his own as he looked to her, that was until he glanced past her head and across the room to see the captivating gaze Eddie was held in. His big brown eyes focused on the girl beside him and that familiar pang that always returned when he caught Eddie staring at her like that. Richie swallowed thickly, his quick wit and sharp tongue taking over and he returned his attention to Y/n as if nothing happened.

Richie shrugged, clicking his tongue. "No need to be shy, babe. Everybody wants a slice, and there's plenty for you."

He puckered his lips and exaggeratedly smacked his lips at her and it was enough to do the trick. Her smile was gone, quickly replaced by her lips pressing into a firm line as she shoved his head away playfully. The Losers chimed in almost immediately. Various disgusted and disgruntled 'Beep beep, Richies' rang out after that comment and Y/n finally rose to her feet with a simple grunt.

"Ech, I told you not to call me that, you dick." She grumbled, though she bit back a defeated smile, as she walked away.

"That's my name, don't wear it out-" They said in sync, Y/n joining Bev on the bench on the far wall. "Yeah, yeah, I walked right into that one."

Richie sniggered triumphantly, and with his new burst of confidence, he returned to his attempts to aggravate Stan. Ben meanwhile, had begun making plans for another seating arrangement in his head, to divert some attention away from the hammock. He remembered he had some spare rope he kept with him in his backpack for such occasions - spur of the moment projects - and there were some sturdy enough boards laying around the place. By the end of the day - hopefully, with help - he could fashion a small swing seat for him and his friends. Not to swing, of course, there wasn't enough stability for that, but for sitting.

He shared his plan with Bill and the two got to work. Bill thought it was a terrific idea, given how much fuss was being made over the hammock. Occupying the far corner of the room, was Mike and Eddie sat at the low coffee table the Losers had found last Wednesday. Mike had made the discovery, passing through one of the smaller neighborhoods in Derry when he saw someone had left it out on the street for the taking. The Losers gathered that morning and hauled it to the clubhouse, took all day to get it there but at least they had a surface for cards and such. Between Mike and Eddie, it was a bit easier to decide on a card game. They landed on Palace, and Eddie was finding he was having loads more fun than he did with Sevens.

In between turns, he would find his eyes wandering past Mike at the bench on the wall. Y/n was thoroughly invested in Beverly's story, she was nodding along eagerly with a smile creeping up on her face. Eddie hadn't realized one was creeping up on his own, but he jumped slightly when she burst out laughing. Perhaps he was startled by the noise or he was just on guard from staring. Eddie looked away but he cursed himself when he realized she was looking at him.

She had seen it.

As for Y/n, she felt her stomach do a small flip when she felt a certain pair of brown eyes on her. Still smiling, she looked past Beverly, and on the ground, sitting curled up on a mat at the coffee table, blushing profusely and attempting desperately to avoid eye contact was Eddie.

A small hum of a laugh vibrated through Beverly's chest, and without looking at him, she knew.

"Is he looking at you again?" A smirk painted her face.

Y/n hummed a response she knew Eddie wouldn't notice. With a fleeting burst of confidence, Y/n looked at the small boy, meeting his eye, and winked. She returned her attention to Bev, smirking yet she couldn't help but keep an eye on him. The poor boy blushed instantaneously, his neck and face grew hot and when Mike returned his attention to his friend - he had been too caught up in what cards to play - became very concerned. Eddie was now completely red. But this time he didn't look away, and despite his racing heart and raging blush, he allowed himself to meet her eye once more and much to his surprise, the ends of his lips even twitched into a smile.

Y/n was attempting to hide blushes of her own, but not much time passed until the topic had changed along with the music. Each of them was swept back up in their own conversations in no time, though their minds replayed the small moment over and over. By now, several songs had come and gone, filling up the minutes of the time that wasted away in the company of the Losers.

The eight misfits were not fully immersed in their own activities, but still very much engaged with another. And it wasn't long until the looming threat of their previous subject at the park was briefly forgotten. For now, they were safe, tucked away in their own private corner of the world, lost in the blissful moments of childhood.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Bill inserts the last tack into the wall, the large map reading 'DERRY SEWER SYSTEM' now hangs in the garage. As usual, the Losers had arrived at slightly different intervals. Mike and Stan arrived first, and Mike helped set up the projector while Stan was hanging blankets over the windows to prevent as much light as possible from entering. Ben had arrived shortly after, be had brought the slides that Bill had requested, and the last to show was Bev and Y/n who had left their complex together and ran into Richie and Eddie on the way.

He could hear their conversation coming up the driveway, and the sounds of Bev eagerly greeting Ben and the others - seemingly happy to get a break from being the fourth wheel.

"What's the matter, Eddie? Don't tell me you're afraid of the shape-shifting clown, are ya?" Richie spoke, as the three came to a stop near the garage where they discarded their bikes.

"Oh, fuck off, Richie!" Eddie huffed.

Y/n laughed, but it was very weak and sounded almost forced. "Don't worry Eddie. Richie and I have your back. Right, Richie?"

Instinctively, her hand found Eddie's back and she pats him gently. Y/n smiled weakly, and it was clear she was just as nervous. Her hand fell from his back and immediately, Eddie missed it being there. Eddie didn't know how to respond, all he could muster was a shaky smile in thanks. It wasn't much, but he knew she had gotten the message.

In turn, Richie began ruffling Eddie's hair and the boy flinched trying to escape his friend's grasp.

"Hey! Hey, what the hell are-?"

"Why, of course, we got to protect ol' Eddie Spaghetti! In fact," A light bulb went off over Richie's head and he looked to Y/n who was listening amused. "Y/n and I, are the proud co-founders of... P.E.K.S"

Eddie finally manages to escape from Richie's torment and he huffed, attempting to adjust his hair. Eddie looks up at Richie, giving him an odd look, unknowingly Y/n was just as taken aback.

"The what? What the hell are you talking about?"

Richie swung his arm around Eddie and the three continued their journeys into the garage, finally joining the others. The rest of the Losers were just finishing laying out chairs and pillows for them to sit on.

"You don't know? It's P.E.K.S, that is 'p', 'e', 'k', 's' my friend, P.E.K.S. Protect Eddie Kaspbrak Squad and we take our job very seriously, don't we toots?"

An honest laugh escaped Y/n and for once she was relieved she had stayed quiet and went along with Richie's antics to find out, cause she agreed wholeheartedly. Swallowing her surprise, a smile found it's way onto her face and she looked to Eddie.

"Damn straight, shrimp."

Mike reached the garage door and reached for the handle, he paused taking one look around the room at his friends.

"Everyone set?"

Mike was met with scattered confirmations and with one swift tug of his arm, he pulled the door shut. All remaining sunlight - apart from a few weak rays peaking through the roof slats and the edges of the blankets - had vanished. All that illuminated the garage was the pale white light of the projector where Bill had just put in the slide Ben had brought of Old Derry. The same slide he had found in Ben's room the day they had gone to the quarry.

The group dispersed, getting situated around the projector. Unfortunately, they weren't able to find many seats so that left Mike and Bill standing near the back and Y/n opted for a floor pillow in front of the projector where she could see.

It also didn't hurt that she was near Eddie. But she did feel a bit exposed, she was front and center and the others were tucked in with one another in a way. However, it did give her the benefit of stretching out her bad leg. And yet, Y/n could not quite shake the feeling rooted deep inside her. To her it felt eerily similar to a common phenomenon experienced by millions of people around the globe, to her it felt as if she - and her friends, in their anxious huddle - were gathering around preparing themselves in front of their screen. Accompanied by the sickly feeling of dread and anxiety, mere butterflies - the special kind of butterflies - in her stomach that migrated only when a scary movie was about to start.

And decades in the future her brain would tell her it was nothing more than that. That that awful, nauseating feeling that had bubbled in the pits of her stomach that day was nothing more than a product of special effects and a cheesy plotline. And anytime coworkers would talk about movie nights they had as kids, and engage with her about such things, her mind would show her nothing more than a hazy ersatz memory it had painted for her.

Of her, under blankets and pillows, surrounded by kids - she would never stop to realize the faces were fuzzy, people she didn't know, she always felt alone in these memories. Her at the front of the pack, all crowded around a white television screen, her and the blurry kids, jumping back in fright at the blank white picture of static. This is all she would come to remember. A scary movie, with some blurry faces, five or six at least - one of the faces always stuck out stronger than the others, just a little bit clearer and wildly familiar but the thought would never linger long enough for her to recognize them. Y/n wouldn't remember that she was in fact with Stan Uris and Beverly Marsh, or even Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon, and Ben Hanscom all stuffed in Bill Denbrough's garage on a hot summer day in July, investigating the darkest mystery of their small hometown.

But at the moment, all Y/n knew was that they were simply looking at Bill's projector, and he was sharing his theory and where It lives. Truthfully, Y/n did not know what to expect beyond that, but she could not shake that pit in her stomach. The pit that reminded her of the sickly feeling one gets when they are about to watch a horror movie. When the harsh violin plays, and the thunder strikes and one can feel the adrenaline coursing through their veins and they're trembling in all the excitement.

Y/n didn't like that she felt this way, but she tried to dismiss it. Even if there was credit it to it - she didn't want to admit there was but if she did at least she was surrounded by her friends. The slide came into the focus, and the words 'MAP of the city of DERRY' appeared in the corner. Suddenly, all the details of Derry were splayed out perfectly in line with the Derry Public Works system Bill had hung up. The children could now see the entire town of Derry, including the interconnecting pathways and tunnels below, represented by a strangely ominous bright red line. It branched out from the far left corner of the map, skewing off into many different branches, touching every corner of Derry.

"Look," Bill said, gesturing to something he had scribbled on his map. "T-T-That's where G-G-Georgie disappeared."

Everyone's eyes fell on the small 'x' marked on a red line on Jackson street. Scratched in black ink next to it were the words, 'Storm Drain'. Bill gestured to another familiar location that overlapped a red line.

"There's the Ironworks. And The Black Spot."

Sure enough, sprinkled across the map of Derry were the mentioned locations of Derry's biggest disasters. Each of them bordering the sewers.

"Everywhere it happens, it-it's all connected by the sewers," Bill said.

Every red branch, every red line, all came from one spot, one source on the map where everything overlapped. The pits in everyone's stomachs bloomed and they all knew.

"And they all meet up at the-"

"The well house." Ben realized aloud.

Eddie looked back slowly and tentatively towards the screen. Much like his friends his heart was pounding faster and faster. But Eddie could feel the familiar grasp around his lungs, and it only tightened at Stan's words.

"It's in the house on Neibolt Street," Stan said, in a similar realization.

Eddie remembered all too well the last time he had been there. But part of him had hoped it was all a nightmare. Some sick and cruel elaborate scene his mind had conjured up.

"You mean that creepy-ass house where all the junkies and hobos like to sleep?" Richie asked.

Shakily, Eddie pulled out his inhaler and gave it a good shake before bringing it to his lips. He tried his best to keep the medicine in his lungs long enough for it to take effect but he choked down a gasp, as he hunched over. Y/n moved closer to Eddie and her eyes fell to his free hand. Cautiously, she took it, looking to him for silent confirmation, he seemed too involved with steadying his breathing to notice it seemed.

"I hate that place," Beverly mumbled nervously, unaware of the pair in front.

Y/n assumed he was too frightened to notice her acts of comfort. That was until she felt the muscles in his hand relax, only slightly, and gave her palm a gentle squeeze in thanks.

"It always feels like it's watching me." Bev continued.

Letting out a shaky breath, and slowly but surely regaining his composure, Eddie sat up. Though he neglected to release Y/n's hand, and he was sure in any other moment he would be a blushing mess but this felt stable to Eddie. It felt like a lifeline, a reminder he wasn't alone. Not like Neibolt.

"That's where I saw It." He gulped. "That's where I saw the clown."

Y/n hadn't realized immediately that she had been tracing circles into the back of his hand with the pad of her thumb. It was a habit she had developed since that first night of summer, anytime she was nervous she would tuck in her legs against her chest, and her fingers would absentmindedly find their way to her bandages. The pads of her fingers fidgeting with the frayed ends just to satisfy the creeping feeling of restlessness.

"Tha-That's where It lives," Bill said.

Eddie took another sharp breath of his inhaler, and this time around had better luck holding his breath. Y/n continued to stare at the big red dot on the map, it almost felt as if she were to look away it would disappear. Like finding a spider and leaving the room to find something to kill it with, only to return to find it had crawled away.

"I can't imagine anything ever wanting to live there," Mike said shakily.

Eddie jumped from his seat suddenly, his hand leaving Y/n's and they all watch as he scrambles to front, the projector illuminating his small frame.

"Can we stop talking about this?" Eddie yells, gasping for air his arms waiving desperately as panic overwhelms him. "I-I-I can barely breathe. Th-This is summer. We're kids. I can barely breathe, I'm up here having a fucking asthma attack. I'm not doing this."

Eddie whirls around and grabs the map of Derry's Sewer System and rips it off the wall.

"What the hell? Put the map back." Bill snaps.

Eddie shakes his head firmly. "Mm-mm."

A loud click grabs their attention, and the screen over Eddie darkens briefly before it changes to another slide.

Y/n turns around to look between Bill and the device.

"Bill, what are you doing?"

"N-nothing, that w-wasn't me."

Another click.

And another.

The projector began clicking forward on its own, and it had now reached the beginning of the reel. Photos of the Denbrough family on vacation began to play, the photos changing at a regular pace.

"What's going on?" Stan asked impatiently.

Eddie backed away slowly, his eyes never leaving the projector. Y/n cautiously shifted back on the pillow, farther away from the wall.

"I got it. Hold on." Mike offered gently.

He fiddled with the projector, he pressed every button several times but it was no use. It must have been jammed. At the very least, he hopes it was.

"Guys," he mumbled nervously, words dying on his tongue.

Several photos had come and gone, and the projector now focused on a shot of the four Denbroughs in their Sunday best. They were all holding hands and Mrs. Denbrough's red hair was being whipped around in the wind, blocking her face.

The projector clicked again, but the scene did not change. The shot was brought closer to Georgie, and Ben was instantly reminded of his trip to the library before he met the rest of the Losers.

"Georgie," Bill croaked, as the image zoomed closer and closer to boy's toothy grin.

"Bill?"

By, now Y/n had risen from the pillow and scrambled back into the stool Eddie had previously occupied.

The speed picked up and the pictures grew faster and faster as the projector flew through the slides. The picture moved more like that of a stop motion animation than a movie, every other movement caught on film. The camera angles itself up and changes focus to what is supposed to be Mrs. Denbrough. The red tendrils of hair begin to move, rapidly increasing until it isn't every other fragment but more like a regular picture movie.

And to their horror, the hair is cast aside and underneath is the painted white face of the clown. It's unnaturally buck teeth sinking into the flesh of It's own bottom lip. A wicked smirk drawn all the way up to past It's yellow eyes.

Y/n jumped back, her arms outstretched behind her and she began herding Stan, Eddie and herself away from the wall.

"What the fuck is that? What the fuck is that?" Richie hollered, pulling Eddie and Y/n toward him.

Eddie nearly tripped over Richie's chair as he was pulled into his grasp and Y/n still had her arms out herding them backward. She could hear Eddie's shrieks clearly from behind her.

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!"

"Stan!" Y/n cried.

Stan had somewhat frozen in place, much like Ben, Bev and Bill had but even they were backing away slightly. He didn't seem to hear her and looked around frantically at her friends. Beverly, Stan, and Richie had not seen the clown before even though they had each encountered it. It had never appeared to them before as a clown and if she wasn't in immediate danger Beverly would have stopped to think about how this thing was in the living room with Y/n while she was asleep.

"Turn it off!" She shouted quickly. "TURN IT OFF!"

Y/n's top priority was ensuring Stan's safety, so she lurched forward and grabbed Stan by the back of the shirt, and yanked him back. He crashed into Mike and Eddie she glanced at the projector, trying desperately to bury the overwhelming thoughts and possibilities. Her eyes landed on the cord and she ripped the plug from the socket but the picture kept moving and she could feel the clown's eyes smiling at her, smugly. Her now in It's direct sights, It began to mimic that night, the clown blinked and the white's of It's eyes had disappeared. Nothing but dark chasms and two glowing yellow irises floating in the center.

It all became infinitely more real to Y/n. And It pissed her off. She raised her good leg, and with a forceful grunt, she kicked the crate and the projector toppled onto the ground. Light from the machine had bounced all around the room on its journey to the floor and it landed upside down, picture crookedly aimed at the wall behind her and to the right of the four boys.

Everyone froze, too fearful to move. Y/n most of all. She had gotten Stan to safety - she could only hope - but now she was in his place when another click echoed throughout the silent room. Frozen on the screen was the clown. It was blurry and It almost looked stuck but all Y/n could do was try and catch her breath, and calm her racing heart. Another click. She felt as if she was stuck, her body not her own and just like a nightmare no matter how much she was begging her legs to move they wouldn't budge. Another click. The image went blank, and several shaky breaths were released.

Another slow click and the gigantic clown popped out of the picture, barely missing Y/n. She shrieked, and only then did her limbs catch up with her brain's signals. She cursed herself and her dumb fucking luck when she felt her footing slip out from underneath her. One of the dozens of slides had scattered the garage floor around her and caused her fall. She landed squarely on her backside and she scrambled back as far and fast as she could as the clown crawled forward after her. It's unnaturally giant size took up the entire garage.

There wasn't a Loser who didn't scream after her. Richie snapped into action and while Y/n had made it pretty far on her own for It's speed and her aching leg, Richie quickly hooked his arms under hers and dragged her across the garage, not bothering to waste time by stopping to drag her to her feet. The others were tumbling across the garage to get the door tripping over one another as they ran and Y/n watched in horror as the clown reached out it's long and thinning twig-like arm after her. It's sharp talon-like claws soaked with her blood - as it had been that night - reached for her and as her legs were scrambling across the pavement. Trying desperately to retract them from his grasp and the last thing she saw before a flood of light engulfed her vision was the clown's black eyes glaring at her as it reached for her legs.

Y/n felt as if her lungs might explode from how fast she had been inhaling air. Before she could process what had happened she found herself looking up at the ceiling of Bill's garage, several faces looking down at her. Sunlight was flooding into the room and she could barely register that the garage door was now open.

"Y/n!"

"Oh, my God"

"What the fuck was that?"

"Y/n? Y/n!"

"I don't know, man!"

Y/n could feel herself shaking horribly, and she suddenly noticed several hands on her shoulder and back and she realized she was sitting up. She flinched at their touch and she looked around the room quickly, afraid she would find It lurking somewhere.

"Y/n, are you okay?"

"Jesus, fuck!"

"Y/n?"

Blinking several times she looked around and saw the scattered faces of her friends. Everyone was panting heavily. Her face collapsed in the palm of her hands and she was breathing frantically, reminding herself to at least try and slow her lungs and heart. Her body rocked back and forth slightly, her adrenaline still pumping, needing an outlet. Needing to move. Finally, her breath began to slow and she looked up, nodding at her friends to ease their minds.

"Thanks... Richie," she managed between breaths.

"No problem," he panted, just as jarred. "Just for fuck sake, run next time, will ya?"

Beverly and Eddie came into view and extended their hands for her and she gladly accepted both. Y/n hissed slightly at her aggravated leg and when she looked down she was relieved to see no further damage had been done. Shakily, Stan spoke up.

"T-thanks, Y/n," His eyes held relief, but also a hint of guilt.

A weak and broken smile was all Y/n could manage. Eddie had finally gathered enough air in his lungs to speak and he did just that, albeit quite shaken.

"It saw us." He panted. "It saw us, and it knows where we are!"

"It always did," Bill said, striding out towards the pile of bikes in the driveway. "So, let's go."

"Go?" Ben asked, dumbfounded.

Bill turned to see his friends still in the garage, rooted in place and looking at him incredulously.

"Go where?" Ben asked again, this time his voice wavering.

Bill couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Neibolt." He shot. "That's where G-G-Georgie is."

Stan angrily threw his arm back, gesturing to the remains of their previous encounter.

"After that?"

"Yeah, it's summer. We should be outside." Richie said timidly, a tone they had scarcely heard him use if at all.

Bill felt anger boil up in his chest at the words, his stutter flaring up with it as it usually did.

"I-If you say it's s-summer one more f-f-fucking time..." He snapped, and he felt the anger redirect itself.

Neibolt. He was going to Neibolt with or without his friends. He was going to get his brother. Bill shook his head, dismissing the conversation. He picked up his trusty bike and hopped on. He took off down the long driveway, leaving his friends behind.

"Bill!" Beverly called. "Wait!"

The seven friends look around at one another in disbelief, as Bill disappears around the corner on the back of Silver. He was going to face it alone, and in turn, he gave the Losers no choice less they surely lose their friend.

They had to follow him.

+++

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