#and the use of barrel and honey as building blocks
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3 HOURS!!!! LETS GOOOOOOOO
“That guy’s in a funny spot…. And yet I’m not laughing” etho pls
Him jumping off the stairs to dodge being trapped by 2 ravagers is just so cool. And then he enters level 3 and it’s pathetic tiny slime man again. “I wanna go homeeeee”. He’s so panicked in the dripstone it’s great. HOW DID HE DODGE BETWEEN THREE VEXES AND A RAVAGER AND EVOKER TEETH OH MY GOD. he can’t make the chain parkour when it’s not going LOL. and then he gets help from Pearl to do parkour! Everyone is an etho girl. All that and he dies to a vex.
The audacity to call Gem a chihuahua when he started it and the one who shakes like a little dog.
That’s an interesting strategy of also considering the slots the cards take up. Never thought of it that way before. That one should swap commons for rares makes sense obviously, but the way explained it! What a gamer.
BRO HE TRUSTED THAT CARPET BLOCKER SO MUCH!!! such a greedy boi. He has his loot path READY. so far he seems to be more scared of level 1 than of Willie. The shaky cam is REAL. DOUBLE REPAIR KIT HOLY!!!!! THE DUNGEON LOVES HIM. 3 EMBERS 2 CROWNS 4 COINS!!!! Tango probably limited it to 1 repair kit a run because he’s etho-proofing it. He knows. HE’S LEAVING THE DUNGEON WITH LIKE 10 CLANK BLOCK!!!
I’m not surprised he’s willing to trade 4 tomes for bounding strides. Jump boost is no joke. Etho knows that any game breaking strats he employs is going to be nerfed. He is self aware. Mountain climbing ravagers are no joke.
What a greed run. Wide turns to get the treasure! Evasion + tome = “a failed rusty run”. this guy.
Speedrun!!! Server literally forcing etho not to be greedy. All that in 5 minutes.
“There’s no ravagers here” SIKE. I really like how he strategizes and really makes use of his deck and where the cards get deployed. Less shriekers in level 3 means a chance to build up clank block. Gotta go down to level 2 asap to trigger treasure and keys there. Lure the ravagers to create an exit path. OF COURSE ITS THE GEM OF GREATNESS THAT TROLLS HIM BY BEING ONE BLOCK OFF. HAHAHAHA. SECOND WIND CLUTCH!!! HAZARD BLOCK WITH A RAVAGER BUT IT MADE A DIFFERENCE ANYWAYS!! JUST BARELY MADE THE CHAIN PARKOUR!!! Rusty!!! 6 EMBERS 4 COINS AND A CROWN OH MY GOD. Noooo he missed the crown in the center! “We stumble and we run” “STUMBLE”. The Shaky Camera!!! “I don’t want to see Swagger right now if I see Swagger I’m going to cry” *Swagger pops up immediately* “nooooooo”
HE JUST BE JEDI MINDTRICKING THAT RAVAGER INTO THE ROOM!!! Hypno must be fuming right now. I cannot believe he jumped right over Willie’s head, got stuck, and still manages to swim to shore without getting a single hit. Cub is so sad right now. Etho always has a Strat for the worst case scenario of being hazard block (a hard learned lesson right there lol), and he’s so happy when the way is actually cleared for once. Dodging that ravager and then MOMENT OF CLARITY RIGHT BEFORE HE EXITS!!! The dungeon is taunting him and wants him to stay so bad. AND THEN SWAGGER IN THE SHOP!!!
So he WAS a honey doper and sus stew slurper. Your barrel betrays you Etho. Oof that was rough. Ravager wrangling on level 1 is hard sometimes. He gives fair deals!! And calls out ripoffs! And it still doesn’t work lol. Infrequent runners giving out shards for cards makes sense because they aren’t going to use those shards anyways and having fun in dungeon with better cards matters more lol.
Remember when Tango said that people would never hit treasure limit on level 1? Especially without getting a key? Etho and Hypno and Gem are laughing at his redstone right now. Etho badmouthing Sprint before reluctantly buying it and now he loves it. Etho explores ONE time and immediately gets punished and he vows to never make that mistake again. HE GOT SANDWICHED BY THE LEVEL 2 DOORS LOL. HE ETHOWALLED HIMSELF. And of course the shop continues to torment him with bounding strides and nimble looting. I think he made the right choice there; especially since his deck has so much clank block.
How does he always get sprint right before entering level 3?? Rigged. HE ALREADY MEMORIZED LEVEL 3 AND LURES WARDENS AROUND!!? DARES TO UNSHIFT WHILE BLINDED AND ITS RIGHT THERE?!?! HOW?!! ETHO MY MAN HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?!?! And then he misses Willie right there. AND HE MAKES IT!!! EVEN WITH A CAMPING RAVAGER!!!
Gem is absolutely right. Tango would hide an egg in the spiders den.
HE DOES IT AGAIN!!! Sprint right before level 3, in and out in roughly a minute, loot and scoot speeding his escape. And now Rusty!! 3 embers, 3 coins, and 3 crowns. That’s a lot. And he talks to Rusty like he’s telling his wild stories too. Sprint might be op, especially for level 3. Maybe tango should consider either nerfing it, making it more expensive, or limiting which level it can play at. He got 10 crowns. That’s insane. I don’t think anyone has ever left with 10 crowns without finding an egg / egg loot.
Etho: this is a deck building phase…. Here are three very good cards that I could buy. Hmmm…
Etho: *buys 5 tomes*
Etho: *hands in 20 tomes*
I hate him so much why is he like this. I think sprint and a time would have been fine too. But yeah any of those cards would have been fantastic. AND HE CALLS GEM A TRYHARD IN THE CAKE ROOM. THIS LITTLE SHIT.
AND THEY ALL GANG UP TO BEAT HIM UP FOR TAKING SO LONG. HAHAHAHAAH. BEST MOMENT OF DECKED OUT RIGHT HERE. JUSTICE AND KARMA HAS BEEN SERVED. OH MY GOD. HE SEES GEM FIRST WITH HER SWORD BUT ITS BDUBS WHO PUNCHES HIM TO DEATH. YES. THIS IS SO SATISFYING. AND THEY STEAL HIS CROWNS AND CARDS.
Etho out here defending victims of scams and bad deals. First Cleo now Bdubs. And of course Bdubs voted armadillo when Etho specifically said not to. Gem’s a loyal ethogirl!!! That’s why she wants to beat him up so much. Etho on his rants. We love it. And then he just sets up Bdubs perfectly for Scar’s ravager jumpscare. Love that jump boost activated at the perfect time for that as well.
Wow that’s a lot of coins. Wished he didn’t cut him looping those ravagers though. And look he’s too scared to do the gem vine swing over the ravager in the spiders den. I’m really liking the crystal tings for level 3. It sounds so cool. Etho’s got level 3 down pat. Oh my god that bdubs track gave me a legit jumpscare. Was that tango messing around?? And I can’t believe that Etho maxed out the treasure for both levels. Of course he did. How does the shop always troll him with a card that literally just out of his reach.
That was a classic turn around the corner and BAM ravager jumpscare. Truly it is the spooky season this phase. Slime Etho!! Look at him go, looping wardens and finding the right spot somehow in all that blindness and tension. He got loot and scoot combined with bounding strides. And it got wasted because he was blinded and the warden was right there. The jump boost lasts for so long. The ravager wrangler is back at it! And he’s just there telling tales to Rusty as he waits for the loot to dispense. 2 coins, 4 embers, and 3 crowns!! Max Clank? We haven’t seen that for a while. YO THAT RAVAGER WAS RIGHT THERE HOW DID HE NOT SEE IT?!? HOW DID HE SURVIVE? Bro the redstone delay with the vexes saved his life right there. I CANNOT BELIEVE HE JUST CHARGED THROUGH RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE RAVAGER ON ONE HEART!!!! OH MY GOD. AND HE MAKES IT!!!! That shaky camera though.
Wait has Etho not died on level 3 yet? Omg he isn’t afraid to not perma-sneak. Look at him breaking the game again. The wild thing is that he found a parkour shortcut that many people had thought impossible previously. And of course jump boost occurs immediately after. His runs are just hilarious. I THOUGHT HE WAS ABOUT TO JUMP INTO LAVA HAHA. And what a perfect ending with the exact amount of frost embers needed to purchase suit up.
44 CROWNS!!! WHAT.
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THE QUAINTEST PUB IN NOWHERE
You stand with your hands on your hips in awe of your own prowess. Every pane is smearless, every surface spotless, every wall stainless, and every corner free from dust. The air is tinged with the smell of caustic lemon bleach and faint traces of the morning's burnt coffee.
You pride yourself on generating a pleasant atmosphere within your cafeterias. Little pockets of warmth and calm away from the general hubbub of Revachol... Whilst still being accessible to the average Revacholian wallet, of course. That was important.
When you took on your third cafeteria you were granted a rare opportunity. You *bought* the building - not rented - for a steal using the float from your first two locations. A risky move, but one that paid off.
The RCM had auctioned the little wooden lounge after it's previous owner had been sentenced to Reunion. A one-story wood beam hostel, 25 minutes out from Boogie Street, that carried a *bad* reputation after being outed as the location for a gruesome triple homicide. A tragedy, but not the building's fault.
Two years later it carried the reputation of an 'old man pub'. Not exactly the cozy Ubi Sant-style walkers cottage you had envisioned as you redecorated, but better than what the average Jamie Jamrock had previously referred to as the 'Death House'. Besides, keeping the ale cheap rather than leaning into the creation of a gastrotavern (bolstered by a subsequent hike in pricing for meaty little nibbles) meant you kept a near-daily rotation of regular clientele.
Old, ugly, smelly, alcoholics who - having avoided the barrel of a gun during the Revolution - resigned themselves to drink away the profits and memories of those friends and family members less fortunate. Rude, grizzled men; with fingers stained yellow from decades of smoking; and wet, bloodshot eyes. They *more* than kept the doors open however; so you'd keep your judgements to yourself.
A regular that, for some reason, your bar staff refer to as 'Salt Beef' (you don't care) grunts at you to communicate that you're blocking his path to the bathroom. You sigh and squish against the bar so the man can waddle past.
"You're welcome," you say.
The man grunts again.
Dragged from memory lane by the smell of imminent piss, you head behind the bar and heft a cardboard box on top of it. Your task for the day.
You're not a big believer in the supranatural but this box does carry an element of magic to you. You don't remember buying a *single* item within it, yet every year the amount of tat within seems to have doubled.
Glass stars, snowflakes, and arches. Woven wooden animals, gaudy little dolls in warm-looking clothes, dried lilacs, lavender, and snowdrops. Orbs containing water, glitter, and barren landscapes. Streamers in the silvery blue shade of cold. Potpourri heavy on the orange and shedding a constant dust that makes you sneeze as you unpack everything.
It is time to decorate for the Winter Solstice.
You both love and hate this errand. On the one hand; it's a change of pace, and signals the end of year windfall that accompanies alternative clientele. Portly women looking for somewhere with a wood burning stove to enjoy a seasonal brandy and laugh with friends at an ear-splitting decibel. Middle-class men forced to spend at least one weekend a year with their families in the morning, buying coffees for themselves and lemonades for the kids, then returning in the evening with their mistresses to share a bottle of 'your cheapest wine at the highest percentage please, mate'. The chintzy tat lures these people to your establishment like flies to honey.
On the other hand, you've been doing this job long enough to know that no matter how pleasant the task starts out - placing the globes on the mantelpiece just so, sneezing into the crook of your arm as the coffee table receives a vase of Potpourri - at some point you are going to lose your fucking mind.
It might be the 17th time a gooey stars peel itself from the window, or when you spend 10 minutes struggling with the end of the tape only to lose it immediately upon ripping off one, pitiful, piece. However, you are more than aware that at some point you are going to - calmly - walk into the cellar and proceed to scream for a good minute.
Thankfully neither your clientele, or staff, give you much thought. You recently hired a young man named Pascal; he's polite and does as he's told, however he seems to be powered by marijuana alone: which has a tendency to make him lax. Whatever. This is Jamrock: as long as he does his job (and smokes AWAY from your building) you're inclined to leave him to it.
The regulars you know full well would watch you have a heart attack in silence and step over your corpse to pull themselves another bitter.
You're reminded of this fact as Salt Beef grunts at you again as you attach a streamer to the front of the bar.
"Sir, with all due respect I am *not* in your way."
It's true: there's a wide birth between where you kneel on the floor and the nearest table. Salt Beef remains unmoving, staring at you in silence with arms limp by his sides, like the last apple on a tree long-since out of fruiting season. He has ample space to walk around you but he wants the space *you* occupy.
You sigh again. Working in the hospitality industry often means bending over backwards for the tiniest of requests from the biggest dickheads born this side of 00.
You flatten yourself against the bar, knees reminding you that although you're in your 20s you're on the wrong side of that decade, and thank yourself for cleaning the front of the bar as well as its surface. The smell of *new* piss as opposed to the stale passes behind you, then you're free to resume pinning the streamer in its rightful place.
It's then the brass tinkle of the door bell rings out signifying that somebody has entered your establishment. Your crusty Wednesday regulars are accounted for. All six of them. So you grip the countertop and rise from your position on the slate, ready to greet whichever seasonal bother has decided to grace you with their presence, with a smile of course.
That is one element of Winter Solstice decoration you'd always deemed too cliché: the angel. Swathed in white from heel to hair, eyes kind, and skin so pale that rosy cheeks came as standard. A beautiful, patient, adored symbol of femininity and power; something to be revered whilst still retaining a form that could be sold as *fuckable* to any lonely man for a pittance in the store.
Most modern angels are based off the countenance of one Dolores Dei. It made sense after all. Blonde, pretty, fragile in appearance while still boasting of absolute power. Who better to render onto cheap cards and cookies, post-death?
For you the angel never resembled Her Innocence however.
For you the angel was local and endlessly patient, kind to a fault, eyes open - not as an Innocence - but possessing an observance beyond her years.
For you the angel would pick up a shift when your assistant manager called in sick because he couldn't handle his gin.
Through the door walks your most favoured member of staff: Sylvie Malaìika. Not adorned with woven twigs, nor brandishing the silver cups of year end. She wears a simple warm jumper and carries paper bags full of shopping.
You're on your feet in an instant, already making your way towards her as she blows away hair caught in her face as the door swings shut on her. "Sylvie!" You cry in surprise. "To what do I owe the pleasur- here, let me help with your bags." As you reach her you hook your arm under the paper straps adorning her right side.
She uses the free hand to move remaining strands stuck to her lips, and *you* try not to pay attention to how glossed they are. "Oh! It's *warm* in here, thank God!" With a deft roll of her shoulder she lets the three bags held on her arm slide down it and into your hands, supporting the remaining bag in her right against her body. "Thank you, Garte!" She beams, knocking the wind out of you.
"O- of course!" You reply, splitting three bags between two hands and already leading her towards the best seat in the house; a plush armchair right by the stove.
"Oh it smells *lovely* in here! You're putting the decorations up, then?" As she sinks into the chair you hear the familiar clunk of glass hitting the ground. Her remaining bag must contain bottles of heavy alcohol, explaining the 3-1 split. "I've just been shopping for my family, thought I'd take a little break and get out from that dreadful wind."
The weather had been terrible today, the single-pane windows rattling in their frames as wind howled down the chimney. Days like these were unpredictable; the weather either filled your pub with people looking for a cozy place to escape the cold, or rendered it dead as folks cowered away in their homes. It made it hard to staff appropriately.
As you place her bags to the side of the chair, she routes through them as if to remind herself of their contents. "I've been sent out on a mission," she grumbles. "Grandmother gave me money and a list and expects me to return with everything on it." She sighs. "I didn't know how *hard* that would be when I agreed. For such a large city there's an awful lot of shops selling the same things," she smiles sadly. "And for a much higher price than Gran is used to at her age."
"Looks like you've made good progress at least," you say, nudging the closet bag gently with your shoe.
"Hardly," she sighs again, propping her perfect chin against her hand. "I could get everything she wanted for half the price and she'd still find something to complain about."
You'd heard variations on this tale before. As far as you could gather, Sylvie's grandmother was an esteemed battleaxe. Feared within their local community for her sharp tongue and cunning eye, but also revered for a *sharper* wit and thumb so green she could allegedly grow food from cigarette butts discarded in a gutter. You were both eager and *terrified* to meet her one day... Maybe... If you were *VERY* lucky.
"Ah," you hum. "But you've done your best! She surely can't ask for more than that." You give what you *hope* is a reassuring smile. "Would you like a drink, Sylvie?"
She smirks, "Only if you're offering."
"Of course!" The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. A solid 45% of you screaming in horror about *profits* and *financial goals* and the rest of you giddy with *holiday spirit*. You pound a closed fist against your chest. That might be heartburn actually.
Sylvie's eyes go wide however. "Oh! Lawrence, I was just joking!" She leans forwards and pulls a little blue purse from the bottom of one bag. "I'll get my own drink of course."
"Nonsense!" You wave her off, already smothering whatever arguing needed to take place within you. "Lets call it a... Holiday bonus if you will?" You shimmy forward conspiratorially in the practised technique of somebody trying to make a customer feel *special*... No... Not a customer... A *friend*. "Besides," you whisper lowly. "I can always write it off as wastage." You feel dirty all of a sudden. Very few in this city would shame you for taking the occasional perk from business work, especially when it's to *their* benefit, but all of a sudden you feel cheap. You want to buy this woman a drink from your own pocket...
However, the lowness of your voice doesn't seem to stop your bartender from picking up on the statement. "Solstice bonus, boss?" Pascal says grinning. "Don't mind if I do!"
"Well," Sylvie says, rising from her armchair and tucking her white mittens into one pocket of her coat. "If we're *all* having a drink then it would be rude to refuse." Fine. All *three* of you will have a drink. It's not like you were trying to buy her, specifically, a drink. Why would you be trying to do that?
Pascal lines three glasses on the bar as the two of you approach. Sylvie's attention is drawn as a white star suddenly peels itself from the window and lands on the floor with a sticky slap.
"Doing my head in..." You mutter. "The only consolation is this gives me a reason to finally throw them away at the year's end!"
"Have you washed them?" Sylvie says, cocking her head.
"What do you mean?"
The corners of her mouth flick up in a smile and she peels the star gently from the floor. Then, she walks behind the bar and rinses it under the tap. "It's covered in dust, see?" She holds the star out briefly to you before swilling it under the running water again. "It must be from that potpourri I can smell." Both you and Pascal watch her in silence as she returns to the window and presses the star against it.
The gooey cut-out holds with barely any resistance. When you were attaching them you'd ground your knuckles against the pane and they'd still fallen within the minute.
"It takes a gentle touch sometimes." She says with a smile, as if reading your mind.
Your breath catches in your lungs. She really is an *angel*.
"Cheers to that," Pascal says with a wink. You huff and take the glass from his hand as he raises it in her direction.
"Give me that," you mutter, lining it up with the others and pulling a bottle from under the bar. Firebrand Whiskey. Not the most *upmarket* liquor available but nicer than the swill to generally grace your pallet. As you begin to pour Sylvie crosses her arms on the bar in front of you and Pascal peers over your shoulder.
"Good thing I'm getting the tram back!" Sylvie says heartily.
"I don't think *any* of us drive..." You say, re-corking the bottle and passing a glass to each member of staff.
You raise your glass in a toast and Sylvie and Pascal follow suit, glasses clinking. "Happy Winter Solstice."
"To a bright new year!"
"Thanks for the free booze!"
You swig in turn. It's been a while since you've drank, you realise. The heat of the alcohol warms your tonsils as it slips past them. Then you're setting the short glass on the bar and staring directly at Sylvie's rosy cheeks. That heartburn returns. Probably the whiskey.
"Oh!" She says suddenly. "That reminds me!" She reaches into her bag - handbag, not paper one full of shopping - and brings out a little parcel wrapped with rough string. "For you, Lawrence," she says with a smile.
Man that whiskey really *is* giving you terrible heartburn. No wonder you don't drink that often. Probably *not* heartburn though... Is it?
Gingerly, you take the parcel from her and remove the string. By the time you spot the Spenny Pennies logo you're baffled.
She catches the awestruck expression on your face and raises her hands. "Discounted of course!" She admits.
Spenny Pennies is a six story department store on the promenade of Grand Couron. A verifiable gold mine of everything your little heart could desire. Toys, clothes, sweets, the newest technology shipped in from Seol, rare fruit grown on the other side of the Occident and encased in marzipan. Spenny Pennies products are WELL outside the boundaries of an ordinary Revacholian wallet. Except that sometimes fancy tins of biscuits are *dropped* and their contents broken, and if the contents aren't *perfect* then 'Callie Couron' won't be buying it. As such, these less-than-perfect items are sold for sometimes 80% off.
THAT is the only way these items end up in the hands of 'Jamie Jamrocks' like you lot.
None the less, the gesture is immeasurably kind and you take the box of broken biscuits with an unpractised timidness. "T- Thank you..." You say looking down at them. "There was no need, really-"
"Oh, be quiet," she says smiling. She takes another small swig of her whiskey and looks out of the window.
"Ne'er had one of these!" Pascal says, ruining the moment as he peers down at the brandy snaps.
"Hinting much are we?" You say dryly, already popping the lid of the tin.
"No, Sir, not me!" He raises his hands, eyelids fluttering, and still *very much* hinting how much he'd like a biscuit.
You offer a brandy snap to Sylvie first - of course - then Pascal, then take one for yourself. "Erm... Do we cheers with these?" You say, turning the little tube over between your fingers.
"Why not!" Sylvie laughs. "Happy Winter Solstice!" She says, mimicking the cadence you'd taken as *you* said that last time.
"To a bright new year!" You says in return, eyes sparkling as you toss her greeting right back at her.
"Thanks for the free biscuit!" Pascal chimes in.
And for an hour - in what used to be referred to as the 'old Death House' - three people share companionship, whiskey, and brandy snaps. Their good mood rings so true, that nobody even notices three more gooey stars peel themselves from the window.
#i wanted this out yesterday for actual winter solstice but unfortunately work got in the way *shakes fist* CAPITALISM!!#garte disco elysium#lawrence garte#Sylvie Malaìika#sylvie disco elysium#PALE STATIC LORE
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Worldbuilding nonsense, so if you found this and don’t know what I’m going off about, sorry. Check out my WorldAnvil here if you’re interested in my nonsense
So I am not a poet, not by any means, but I desperately tried to encapsulate the feeling of calling on the supernatural in a way that was comprehensible and pretty sounding and that made sense in-universe so my brain spat these rhyming (?) verses (?) out several months ago. They’re a kind of incantation used to call on the powers of gods, specifically gods of Humanity called Eras. They’re in chronological order, from prehistory (fox) until the World Wars (horse), I haven’t done any past that yet. I just remembered that they exist so they’re going on here now. If you like them or have feedback or are confused or anything say so please. I like feedback. And human interaction.
To the Fox:
Thou art mine muse, mine inspiration and hope.
Bell-songs and foot-falls,
Spiraling echos and distant calls,
Trussed up all neat in rough and tumble string,
Every one of mine movements makest thou ring.
Bronze and stone,
Fire in your bones,
Lend me thine strength and endless coiled rope.
To the Bird:
Thou art mine muse, mine guidance and light.
Harp-strings and foot-taps,
Flute’s notes and rhythmic claps,
A tail as trailing as the words of thine epic,
Sing through mine mouth with a voice most angelic.
Brush and color,
A melody for a dollar,
Lend me thine skill and unhindered flight.
To the Wolf:
Thou art mine muse, mine trail and lord.
Strong-steel and arrow-head,
Sunrise and blood red,
With circlet of laurel choking thine throat,
Thine teeth seize upon the sacrificial goat.
Ragged and hungry,
Loping cross-country,
Lend me thine might and double-edged sword.
To the Insect:
Thou art mine muse, mine mask and other face.
Keen-eyes and stained-glass,
False light and highest class,
Venom as sweet as most flowery honey,
Voice as rich as best gilded money.
Promise and hope,
Searching with wide scope,
Lend me thine tricks and uncanny grace.
To the Lion:
Thou art mine muse, mine beauty and shine.
Jewel-sight and silver-tongue,
Silk coat and royal young,
Crowned with the riches of the legendary past,
To the ideals of ancients dost thou hold fast.
Spices and glory,
So goes thine story,
Lend me thine nobility and all things fine.
To the Cat:
Thou art mine muse, mine mind and curiosity.
Candle-light and inkwell,
Strange theorem and magic spell,
Thine explanation is shunned by those not so clever,
Only the accepting understand thine endeavor.
Fossils and hooks,
Burned art thine books,
Lend me thine knowledge and need for discovery.
To the Shark:
Thou art mine muse, mine voyage and destination.
Ship-loads and sails-tacked,
Anchor dropped and loot stacked,
A load so precious and desired by all,
Tempest-tossed yet defiant in the squall.
Difficult and fraught,
New lands are sought,
Lend me thine speed and superb navigation.
To the Dragon:
Thou art mine muse, mine driver and blueprint.
Metal-gears and coal-thrown,
Steam roars and cotton sewn,
A line of production rivaled by none,
Building from ore the barrel of the gun.
Endless and unstopped,
On the block they are chopped,
Lend me thine spread and steel without glint.
To the Horse:
Thou art mine muse, mine orders and word.
Lock-step and over-time,
Cannon fodder and death’s chime,
Never stopping for wind nor rain,
Keep on going until you’re slain.
Gold star and purple heart,
You are done before we start,
Lend me thine will and place in the herd.
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🥶 for any couple you please! I'm terrible at picking ships for other people to write, lol (Gointothevvater)
[Send me an emoji and I'll write a drabble]
Picking a ship probably took longer than writing this haha. I didn't know what canon character ship you'd prefer so I tried my hand at some Ceelie x Pickles, hope you don't mind me borrowing your OC again, I adore her!
🥶- Cold
The multicolored swirl of oil skimmed the surface of gray puddles gathered in the gutter, dirty runoff washing from London's busy roadways even as the rain finally let up. Exhaust and petrichor filled the air outside the sold-out Hammersmith Odeon, but Pickles smothered the scent of either, lighting up another in a series of cigarettes and trying not to let the weather completely ruin the brand new red boots he wore. He hopped to the side, cursing as a bus pulled away from the curb, splashing filthy water onto the sidewalk next to him.
Ahead, laughter echoed off the concrete curve of the overpass as St. Cecilia rounded a corner, the sound like silver striking crystal stemware. Readjusting the hood of his sweatshirt to shield what was left of his melting hairspray, Pickles quickened his pace to catch her. He'd grabbed the jacket off the floor thinking it was his, but the length of the sleeves and the smell of perfume as he slipped it on told him otherwise.
"Tell me again why we couldn't jest get drunk in tha'hotel room? Why're ya draggin' me out in this creap?" He groused, turning sideways to dodge a man hustling past with an umbrella.
Snakes n Barrels' first global tour had taken them to a myriad of distant locales; from Tokyo to Toronto, Auckland to Amsterdam, they'd performed in every corner of the globe and burned down the house at every stop. Once, quite literally. He wasn't sure New Orleans would be hosting them again soon, but it had been one hell of a show and an even better after party. The French Quarter had certainly seen bigger disasters.
"Because," St. Cecilia called, spinning around to walk backwards so she could catch his eye. "I want a proper pint while we're here, and so should you!"
Truth be told, she always had his eye, from the first moment he'd seen her. Her honey brown gaze sparkled with amusement under shaggy, blonde bangs made slightly frizzy by the humidity. A coquettish grin curled lips painted purple, not by the late November chill, but with her favored lipstick. Pickles could almost feel their soft press on his palm, transferring the vibrant shade to his skin for the thousandth time before curtain call. It was fast becoming one of his favorite colors, second only to the lighter version that graced Ceelie's lips after he'd kissed most of it off.
She led him a few blocks further, through lingering mist and past shop fronts just beginning to adorn their windows for the Christmas season, stopping finally at a heavy wooden door. The lower half of the building was painted cream and trimmed in a deep green, the red brick of its upper story streaked with sooty marks and capped with decorative stone balusters. Square panes of lead glass flanked the door, obscuring the interior but for a warm yellow glow within. No signage named the building a pub but there was a murmur of voices and laughter beyond the walls.
"This should do."
"Thank Christ, I'm freezin' my nuts off." Pickles tugged at the hem of his hoodie, trying to cover his partially exposed midriff. He crowded in behind her as she reached for the door handle.
Rather than open it, St. Cecilia turned and placed her back against the wood, effectively blocking the entrance and quirking one dark brow at him.
"I thought the winters were terrible cold where you're from? Shouldn't you be used to it?"
"Jest cuz it's familiar don't mean I gahtta like it." He reached past her to open the door but she caught his hand, her slim fingers remarkably warm as she held his frozen digits.
"You poor thing. Alright, a quick round, then back in time to warm up." She pressed her lips to his fingertips, a mischievous sparkle glinting in her eyes as she gave one a tiny kitten lick. "The boys should be ready for soundcheck by the time we've finished, yeah?"
Pickles grinned crookedly in return. "Oh, I dunno. Might take me a while ta' thaw out after this lil' adventure."
"Not like we haven't made them wait before." Ceelie purred, dragging him inside by the hoodie's drawstrings. Even in a blizzard, that tone would always make Pickles melt.
#pickles the drummer#st. cecilia jameson#mtl oc#metalocalypse#idk what their ship name is but i think ive seen st.pickleson used? lol#thanks! 💜
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Betty, Brooklyn
I opened the building door, a heavy metal-framed job with hopscotch-pattern glass.
Just inside, on the top step, an older woman, puffy coat opened wide, floral dress, hose, flat shoes, dark eyes looking past me.
“Hello?”
She turned her face.
“You ok, miss?"
“yes…but I’m not going back." Her voice, low and gritty, emphasized 'back'
“back where, miss? Do you…?”
She extended her arm, pointing across the narrow street.
“he’s there right now, been there"
The last two words seesawed down hard with a neck twist.
“where is that?”
“In my house”
Emphasis ‘my'.
“Your house?”
“Yes, in my house" her voice and gaze now absolutely level.
“Which house is it?"
“corner one"
“Do you need help, Miss? I can take you over there"
She paused, completely still, then her voice rose an octave and sweetened.
“Can I have something to drink?”
“You sure can. I'm...w-w-worried about you, miss. Should I call the police?”
Her eyes scanned through me, voice low and rough again.
“Doesn’t help. He always gets away.”
“But you know him, right?”
I repeated the question.
Deep inhale through her nose.
“Haitian. He come around. Do like this.”
She pulled both elbows back and thrust her hips forward.
“In the th' ass" her eyes tilted up and head dipped.
In a lobby clouded with stale February air, icy and dry, a hot surge spread across my cheeks and neck. Maybe 10 Haitian men lived in our building; Some young, others middle-aged and one quite elderly and infirm (my immediate neighbor).
“Miss, how can I help you?”
She inhaled, lips apart, eyes steady.
Silence.
“Come inside and get warm. I’ll make tea.”
“ok"
I walked up the steps past her, waiting to see what she’d do. She got up easily and followed to my door, her feet sliding over the lobby tiles.Inside, she kept her coat on, even as she sat in the barrel-back chair by the window. I pulled the curtain away from the window frame, letting her see her front porch and side yard across the street.
That’s enough” she said, pulling the curtain back with her hand. “he's right over there”
“He's still in your house?”
“uh-uh, In his van.”
Down the block, familiar cars angled past my sightline. The pickup truck and work van a Pakistani family used in their construction business barely visible in the slope of their driveway.
“English Breakfast tea?”
She lifted her chin, then looked back through the window.
“That’s fine"
“How do you take your tea?”
“Just the tea”
In the kitchen I put a wrapped biscuit and a spoon on the saucer, then poured sugar into a ceramic bowl. When I set them in front of her, she thanked me, drew the string on the teabag taut and let it drop.
“Honey?”
“Sure, I have honey.” I raised my voice. “You know every tub got to sit on its own bottom, don't you, miss?"
Her eyes rose from the tray.
“That’s what Black people say"
She looked back through the window. “Black people say that"
I brought her the honey.
“Miss, my name is Chris"
“I’m Betty"
I stood next to her while she stirred her tea and removed the bag, letting it drip over the cup, then rest on the saucer, adding the honey and stirring again.
"I'm going to the kitchen now. You're welcome to join me. Stay here as long as you need to. I wish I could help you today."
Betty remained quiet, fixed on the open curtain.
In the kitchen, I cooked silently, in case Betty asked for something. When I finally checked on her, she stood quickly, gathered her coat and faced me. "Thank you for the tea"
Her coat rustled as she walked past, turning down the hall. I followed.
"Let me help you with the door"
"I can do it"
In the dim, she turned an old unused lock, leaving the door stuck.
I reached around her motionless body and turned the deadbolt, pulling the door open. She glided out the door, then across the lobby to the front. I waited to see if she would sit. At the door, she placed her fingertips lightly on the frame and craned her neck right, then left. I closed my door to give her privacy. Our entire conversation remained a path of ellipses, dotted crumbs vanishing across the street.
Betty's house was a semi-detached, the last in a row of four paired homes. She shared a wall with M, each living solo in their 3 floor one-family homes. M's parents were contemporaries of Betty and M grew up with Betty's kids. A week later, my wife brought Betty tea and buttered bread, serving it to her on the steps. Their conversation revealed even less than my earlier one. Days after, I returned home to see Betty's coat sailing up the marble steps, next to Hyacinth, who lived alone on the 3rd floor. Sightings stopped soon after.
Next time I saw M, I asked about Betty. His eyes fixed on mine.
"She told you about the Hatian?"
"Yeah"
"Did her in the ass?"
"Yup"
"She's crazy"
"I figured, but I had to ask..."
"Listen, couple months back, I was chilin' here with my cousin. We were getting ready to watch a movie. Knock on the door. Didn't let up. I opened it. Like a half-dozen cop cars and all these cops. Betty's door was open. She had called them. Said I came in through the second floor into her bedroom. Raped her."
"What!!"
"See, the back of the closet in that upstairs room is her bedroom wall. She told them I came through there. I mean, I don't think they believed her, but they came up and checked that wall. They tested it out."
"Shit. Like you had a secret passage way"
"My cousin was like, dam, you sick, cuz!"
"That's crazy"
"Yeah, she called the cops about me before, a bunch, actually. They talked to her son about it. But, you can't just disconnect her phone. I mean, she's like, what, eighty years-old and shit?
She basically lives alone."
Around us, 5 or 6 story apartment buildings and many row houses like Betty's . One block over, a landmark, the art-deco Sears building, completed in 1932, rising then above the last of the Dutch settler's farm plots, a sprout of optimism for a country deep in the Depression. Eleanor Roosevelt spoke at its opening. After the longest corporate death in capitalism and a cremation in the pandemic, it rests, granitic and blindly windowless at the corner of a vast parking lot, a blacktop rhomboid functioning as giant outdoor air shaft for the neighborhood. Cars pull in for shopping along Flatbush ave and at the grocery across the street. A crew of chubby Middle-Eastern men do auto body work. Their tools in the trunk of a Mercedes sedan. One keeps his eyes on Bedford ave, jogging beside a car slowing for the traffic light to lean down to point at the offending dent or scrape, offering a fix. He startled me with his pitch more than once while I zoned out at the intersection.
Visible from the street, restaurant flyers and grocery store circulars collected between Betty's front doors, their edges ragged and discolored. I heard she had a stroke and was confined to bed. A late night SUV took our corner wide, uprooting her wrought iron fence, then hanging like a Dean Koons above M's small front yard. Her house was empty. The fence got tossed into the yard. Kids drank tea on her porch and paged through their phones, breaking the bottles before they sauntered off.
M and one of Betty's children made a deal with a development group. They'd sell their adjoining homes together and get better prices. The day before settlement, M''s lawyer told him Betty's property already sold. Developers peeled off her kid earlier by lying that M had a separate deal. At settlement, they planned to use that (fake) sale as leverage to beat M down on price. M backed out and they sued. Soon after, the house on the other side was snatched up by the same rats. A small rowhouse church behind Betty's, renovated but long unused, went to them, as well. The rats now owned an L-shaped lot encompassing 5 properties. M's place, the middle unit, blocked all their plans and he raised his price accordingly. Soon, a judge dismissed the rodent's suit, leaving M with cards to play.
Epilogue
On a nearby corner, surrounded by a chain link fence, a mountain of flat-screen TVs, their matte black edges topping the fence poles. For years, rats skittered through the akimbo city. Then, in one day, their metropolis vanished. The rectangular concrete lot bare. Overnight, plywood walls encircled the entire site. From the sidewalk, curious pedestrians watched through diamond-shaped windows. Once its paving is carted off, reddish brown dirt filled the gulley. Soil ground and spit out by the retreating Wisconsin glacier, that formed Long Island and dredged its Sound. The same dirt washes down sewer grates into teeming canals under our streets. Still in motion, it peeks through garbage on subway tracks. As each parcel of Brooklyn is flayed open, echoes of the colossal ice fall ripple to the surface, colliding wave to trough with our ongoing climate disturbances.
Out of the earthen scar, a block-size construction platform that rattles upward by day. Passing the site at night, it resembles a spectral galleon: foggy lights strung fore to aft, tarps snapping at their rigging, invisible deckhands battering and clattering deep in the hold.
I understand why so many pictures of New York City sing with interior melancholy. People, buildings and even entire blocks plunge into the abyss immediately after their photographic blink. The hardest faces and most majestic facades unaware of approaching oblivion.
On Brooklyn walks, I scent-locate courtyards via staircases that tilt below the sidewalks. Each breeze lifts their humid cement, vegetable rot and dousings of household cleaners. From the windows above: chicken necks boiling in sofrito, hot grease and curry, frankincense and dust, perfumes set on stun. Every step and jaywalking tangent remixes the palette.
Astral bodies graze me as I walk through subway underpasses. Shouts or screams ricochet off the tiled walls. Untethered to time, they might be a public school field trip or the last breath of a disco queen. Colleagues confirm similar flashes: invisible crimes in progress, disembodied dancers. Solidity and reality are not the same.
Are these what Betty heard? Along with personal fantasies, a guaranteed long run in the theater of the mind. Countless Black folk have been driven mad by the heedless cruelty and ritualistic torture of their New World captors and rulers.
The Sears parking lot is approved for 650 residential units, a number that conjures Malthusian collapse. The original building, protected by historic status, must remain intact. Long before any announcement, I walked through the vast parking lot. An ancient Ford pickup idled between oil stains, its bed stacked with pipes. Standing on the running board, the operator chatted with a neighborhood guy. Behind them, a trailer housing a medieval drilling rig, long fang sunk into the blacktop. Today, dump trucks line the back fence, ready for the big dig. The lighted "Sears" sign dwindled in reverse-hangman from " ears" to " e rs" and finally, " s" . At night, through my new progressive lenses, that last letter smearing into "$".
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Fangs of Silver: Sesskag oneshot
Summary: Kagome Higurashi has her work cut out for her, hunting one of the most elusive and powerful werewolves known to man: the Killing Perfection. Sesskag smut oneshot. Werewolf Sesshoumaru/monster hunter Kagome.
Rated M
Words: 4,700
Read on Ao3 and Dokuga
AN: for @cookieasylum for an art trade. Thanks bud! Hope you like it
Fangs of Silver
Warning: werewolf x human smut, knotting, menstrual sex
---
Two fingers unfurled to touch the moonlit forest floor, tracing the outline of a large paw-print stamped into dirt. Even splaying her palm wide with four fingers and thumb outstretched, Kagome couldn't hope to meet its size, dwarfed in comparison.
"Looks like I've found you again," she muttered, straightening from her crouch. Walking onwards and listening out for any hint of movement within the imposing woods- tall anorexic trees completely still with sharp looking branches- blue eyes remained alert, watchful.
She'd been tracking this one for God knew how long now. Months. Had it been a year yet? Though even the smallest victory of finding his tracks left no time for celebration.
Kagome frowned to herself. This particular beast wasn't usually so careless. He evaded her during daylight hours by wading through streams or keeping to rocky terrain, never giving the same name when mingling with villagers. Even when the Full Moon hit- he managed to be elusive and surprisingly clever. The smartest one she'd been sent to hunt. This time he'd either been sloppy or…
Kagome glimpsed something through a gap in the lower trees, located further down the hill. Smoke?
Surely he wasn't trying to trap her with something so obvious.
Frowning, Kagome set down her weapon and snuffed out the flames of her torch, checking her supplies. Enough silver bullets. Enough jewel shards. Her guns were in good shape, but she was out of herbal supplements to repress a certain annoyance that also occurred every month. Wincing, she put a hand to her lower abdomen, feeling it cramp.
Crap, not now.
She'd have to ignore it. She couldn't afford to lose this guy due to Mother Nature kicking her continually in the gut.
This beast had committed countless acts of violence- leaving behind a trail of bodies in their respective towns and villages. Unlike usual werewolves who sloppily left bitten survivors to run amok, this beast made no mistakes. He seemed to kill specific people and left them firmly for dead. He never inflicted the curse upon anyone. Surprisingly his victims were usually reported to be less than innocent citizens.
Due to the killings- a bounty had been placed on what the authorities referred to as 'the Killing Perfection.'
Creeping down a steep incline, Kagome stepped as lightly as possible within the relative darkness of the trees -autumn leaves crunching beneath her boots.
A lonesome house in the woods stood like a mourner in a graveyard under the light of the Full Moon, dark wood faintly eroded by time. Vines held the chimney in a stranglehold, but smoke puffing out of the top revealed it to be in working order despite the dilapidated state of the house.
Slipping around the side of the building and ducking out of sight from any windows, Kagome stopped with her back to the wall, loading her rifle while stooped into a crouch.
Taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out, Kagome wasted no time. She pushed off and rounded the corner, kicking open the front door with the barrel of her gun trained inside.
Empty?
Kagome didn't let her guard down, slowly inching inside and glancing around.
The fireplace was lit with healthy flames- a kettle sat off to the side, an empty mug not too far away. Everything else in the room had a layer of dust costing it, but the armchair lay newly cleaned. Footprints trailed around the ashen floor, some human, some wolf prints.
Kagome searched the lower floor that comprised of mostly empty rooms, before pointing her gun up towards the stairs, setting foot on the first step.
It groaned loudly beneath her weight.
Wincing, blue eyes snapped to the top of the dark stairs for any tell-tale signs of movement.
Wandering up to the second floor cautiously and looking around revealed nothing more than dust bunnies.
Kagome frowned, eyeing the open window. Had he jumped down and escaped?
Sighing with disappointment, she shouldered her gun and trailed downstairs.
I suppose I can sweep the outside to pick up his trail again, but I bet he's long gone. He probably lit the chimney to distract me before making his escape and transforming for the night.
Wandering over to the kettle, she touched its side.
Still lukewarm. He'd literally just been there.
And I was too late.
Kagome groaned.
"What a disappointed noise. Were you aching to see me that badly?"
Stiffening, her heart jumped. The silky sounding words had come from behind her.
Pivoting on one heel, Kagome turned her weapon on the man lounging in the armchair.
His image blurred, snatching up her gun to lurch the barrel upwards just as she fired, the blast piercing the ceiling- some debris raining down.
Golden eyes sparked, snapping the barrel in two before throwing her to the floor with impressive strength.
Kagome gasped, back colliding hard with the wooden floors, winded. She quickly grabbed one of her pistols and trained it on the man- who had disappeared again.
"W-what?" she panted. "It's a Full Moon. Why haven't you transformed?"
"Ah, you wish for me to change? Very well," his voice rumbled from outside.
Fur blocked out the moonlight pouring in from the shutters, brushing along the side of the house. Quiet, hungry panting filled her ears.
Kagome quickly fired at the windows, but the shadows melted away, causing her to wonder if it had been a trick of the light.
"I heard tell of a woman who subdues my kind before using shards of a blessed jewel to revert them back into humans…"
Paws padded around the house, nails dragging- scraping the forest floor. "You have pursued me for some time. Did you hope to transform me into a mortal like those you have hunted before me? Break my curse?" the male uttered.
"I knew you were strong, so I didn't have much hope of using them. Taking you back alive to stand trial for all the things you've done is a tall order," Kagome grunted, lower stomach clenching. She quietly hissed. Cycle blood likely marred her trousers now.
"Indeed. Even if you shot me with one of your infamous jewels though, it would not work."
A figure bent down, twisting through the front door with the ease of a feline through bars. Sleek silver fur gleamed with a fiery hue, bathed in the hearth's orange light.
Saliva dripped from exposed canines, muzzle pulled back.
The werewolf towered over her in size. He had the look of a distorted wolf- pale torso resembling a man due to broad shoulders and defined abdomen. He shifted to stand upright, hind legs strong, capable of supporting his weight. Thick hackles rose, paws more akin to hands tipped with killer claws.
Unlike the other beasts she'd faced, this one had peculiar red markings slashing over his cheeks, lower legs and flank. Glowing red eyes burned with the heat of the sun.
"You unknowingly came in search of a Pure Blood. I cannot be 'fixed' little hunter. This is how I was born," he purred, mouth unmoving, whispering honeyed words in her mind.
Those eyes strayed down to her legs, nostrils flaring. "And you are in heat, no less. A fine time to go hunting for a predator."
Kagome shivered, raising her pistol and aiming it between his eyes.
The werewolf gazed at her calmly, completely different from the wild, almost rabid beasts she'd fought with before.
A Pure Blood…
She'd never come across a creature so ancient. He looked at her with intelligence, as she'd suspected from tracking him.
"I-I'm not in heat," she muttered, finger grazing the trigger without pulling it. Why wasn't he attacking?
"You hurt those townspeople. Why?"
"I walk among men in my other form. Occasionally I find those deserving of death. Those who harm their cubs and mates. Those who leech of their pack and drink themselves into violent stupors. Sometimes they simply get in my way."
Kagome grit her teeth, "so you dispense justice alone? I don't disagree with cruel people deserving some kind of consequences but you don't get to decide who lives and dies. That's playing God."
He chuckled inside her mind, mouth pulling back from sharp teeth in an imitation of a smile. "Is what you do so different, little hunter?"
"I follow the orders of my superiors- unless I think someone can be saved with the jewels I bless."
Interest brightened his gaze, tail swishing once behind him.
Her only warning.
The beast knocked her arms to one side, striking her down with a headbutt to her chest. The action sent her gun skittering away over dusty floorboards, disappearing into harsh shadows. One human-like forepaw pressed down on Kagome's stomach, making her breath wheeze free from frozen lungs- his other holding her right arm down to keep her pinned. He then leaned in close, white ears perked atop his head.
A white maw drifted over her startled face, nostrils flaring, inhaling her scent greedily.
"Holy powers…" he uttered thoughtfully.
Kagome's left hand fumbled with the hem of her shirt, eyes narrowing. "I'm a former sister of the church. It comes in handy when dealing with creatures that go bump in the night."
She abruptly thrust her formally concealed dagger up, aiming it straight for his heart.
Powerful jaws snapped down, locking around her arm- the beast hissing as her blade ran off course but scraped down his neck and shoulder.
Kagome yelped, dagger freezing. Her hand remained free outside of the cage of teeth but she dared not move. Teeth mouthed her arm without breaking the skin, until a particularly sharp canine made a trail of crimson leak down the inside of her wrist.
A large, wet tongue roved, licking and sliding over the length of her elbow and wrist while they lay trapped within the hot cavern of his mouth.
"Now we have both shed blood tonight, little hunter. Are you satisfied?"
Kagome panted, gritting blunt teeth. She glared hotly into large red eyes fixed on her, looming close. From the new proximity, she could now see his seafoam green irises and slit pupils from within the sea of crimson. They dilated the longer she looked.
"You are quite the woman," he rumbled appreciatively. "What name do you go by?"
"K-kagome."
"Hn, I am Sesshoumaru. I thank you for your relentless pursuit of me over these past few months. It was quite flattering."
Kagome opened her mouth to reply before a hiss broke her off. The clenching of her abdomen took up attention for a moment, twisting like a knife in her gut.
"Heat can be painful to go through alone," he acknowledged, teeth slowly easing from her arm, eyes trained on her warningly not to try anything. His slick tongue unwrapped itself from her arm with a trail of saliva. He licked his maw hungrily.
Kagome gripped her sticky arm, glaring from her position on the floor. No bite. Just a nick from his tooth. It wouldn't be enough to curse her. She warily lowered her dagger.
"It's just my monthly cycle. I'm fine...gn…"
"You seem it," he mocked, wolf expression unchanging, though his eyes danced.
His great head lowered, hovering over her groin. His nose drew closer, inhaling over the red patch. His long pink tongue slid out, drawing over it with a lingering lick.
Kagome yelped, forgetting her guns and blades- grasping the dense white fur of his neck. "W-what are you doing?!"
He managed to look suggestive without human features, tipping his head slightly. "As a hunter, it must be difficult to find relief. You are always working, are you not? Chasing evil…" his voice resounded with the finest baritone in her mind, coaxing and soothing, completely at odds with his monstrous appearance. He almost sounded aristocratic. "Fortunately...you happen to lie beneath a beast tonight."
Saliva, warm and dewy, dropped onto her leg in small puddles. Sesshoumaru gazed at her while snaking his tongue out once more, prying it harder between her legs.
Kagome gasped, back-arching, a rush spilling up from her cunt to twist sweet arousal at her core. She viciously clamped down on such a reaction, growling.
"No one gave you permission to take liberties with me, pal!" she drew her knee up, attempting to kick him away.
Sesshoumaru released her arm in favour of grasping her thigh, chuckling while forcing it down. "Why protest?"
Kagome snatched up her dagger again, pressing the hilt against her chest and keeping the point raised outwards.
"Why agree?! Y-you're a…" wide blue eyes flicked over his strange, inhuman body. "I've never- n-not with a werewolf. I'm pretty sure that's breaking some sort of rule. Or law."
"I will not tell a soul."
Her gaze turned flat, fingers shifting over the hilt. "I'm supposed to be killing you. We just tried to kill each other!"
"Hn, keep your friends close and enemies closer, as they say. Allowing them into your bed does not seem like such an extreme, and I find there is always a slight thrill in fighting, is there not?"
It was a night of firsts. Kagome had never experienced anything like it in her five years of hunting. None of her superiors had ever mentioned an intelligent werewolf who could control their transformation and shapeshift at will. The only whisper of it had come from dusty old books stashed away in catacombs. The air in the lonely house felt cold, tickling her skin like a living thing, but the space between Hunter and Werewolf crackled with intensity.
Kagome swallowed, feeling squirmy. She tensed when a wet nose came back up to sniff at her neck. Warm breath fanned over flushed skin as his snout travelled up and down, scenting. It soon buried itself within dark hair, making her gasp. The suggestion of teeth scraped the crown of her head, joined by a pleased, rumbling noise. Goosebumps rose on her exposed skin, blood burning, alight with confused but obvious need.
His alien, paw-like hand ran over her hip and breast, cupping the side of her jaw. The shock of thin fur and monstrous, long fingers tipped with claws should've terrified her. Kagome had fought against such hands for years. Her body held traces of scars where such nails had hooked and dragged into supple flesh.
As it was, when his second stroked her inner thigh, Kagome shuddered. He smelled faintly of clove and damp earth. His movements were deliberate. The inferno of his eyes when they locked with hers shone with hunger- but also curiosity. That mindfulness and clarity of his thoughts was what allowed her to hesitantly touch the hand on her thigh.
It felt too large and gangly to be a human, fur and heat brushing the calloused skin of her palm.
"You can't bite me," she warned, laying the flat of her blade against his neck. "I'll kill you if you do- and that'll instantly free me from the curse."
Sesshoumaru smiled with his eyes.
He forced her down again, claws making quick work of her pants, tearing a sizable hole at the crotch.
The wiry fur of his muzzle immediately dived down, fervently taking in her scent with hearty, eager inhales. It sent a rush of arousal straight through her, hips jolting.
Nose, teeth and tongue soon brushed her sex, before the latter thrust inside, heedless of the blood.
Kagome cried out, toes curling, going completely still. The invasive probing between her legs filled her entrance, sinking deeper. It then flicked outside, allowing her to feel the velvet rough texture. It swirled experimentally over her clit.
Shakily tightening her now slippery grip on the dagger, Kagome gasped and shuddered.
"I-I thought you were going to transform into a man-!"
Sesshoumaru gave a rumbling noise in response. He gripped the front of her blouse, yanking to rip it open and fondle her breast.
"You do not wish to see the creature you've hunted feasting on you?" the rumbling purr lifted into something darkly amused, tail flicking behind him.
He grabbed her hips, swivelling them to flip her over. Kagome yelped and snarled, about to protest when his palms kneaded her ass, raising it and tearing off the remainder of her pants- the pads of his thumbs dragging to her sex, spreading slick folds and delving a warm, thick tongue inside her all the deeper.
Kagome kept a needless grip on the dagger, a strangled noise caught in her throat. His muzzle nudged and pried, urging her to rock against his tongue. Feeling warm, she clumsily grasped at her coat, yanking her arms free and tossing it aside.
Full breasts were squashed to the floor under the weight of the werewolf as he pressed her down, but her nipples- stiff and hardened with pleasure- received friction from the steady rhythm. The pleasure came in small, electric bursts.
"Fuck," she groaned, biting her lip. This was wrong. She shouldn't allow this.
A clawed thumb rubbing at the sensitive bundle of nerves between her thighs silenced that weak protest. It felt good. So deliciously good. Men scarcely put their mouth on her down there, deeming it 'dirty' or beneath them.
Kagome shivered, pushing back against the roving tongue continually thrusting inside her core, flexibly twisting, rubbing against her inner walls and licking with heinous, grunting noises like she slaked his thirst. They found a kind of rhythm without communicating through words, and an incredible rush built in her stomach- delighted to rock against his mouth.
Bowing her head and trying to concentrate on breathing, Kagome jolted and shamelessly moaned as his movements became more relentless, hungrily collecting evidence of her arousal and cycle onto his tongue.
"W-why-?" she managed out, straining to look at him over her shoulder- the tongue plunging faster in quick delves like he were mining for gold- sharp teeth scraping her entrance, adding rapidly to the throbbing feeling building up in her lower stomach.
Why was he pleasuring her? It didn't align with a wild beasts actions.
Blue eyes glimpsed glowing crimson behind her. With a sudden push of his humanoid paw on her back, trapping her in place- Kagome squealed loudly as Sesshoumaru pried so deep he wore her like a puppet with his tongue, grunting with savage satisfaction when she came from the action.
"Agh!" Kagome cried out, body igniting, juices immediately flowing into his mouth, which he collected enthusiastically with broad strokes. Somewhere between all this, she lost grip on her weapon. The blade clanked against the floors loudly.
After pulling away, the werewolf paid no heed to the red staining his lips, licking at his jaw in a decadent, gluttonous manner.
"Why what?" Sesshoumaru sat back on his haunches, ears perking, haughtily eyeing her with an air of pride. He probably took great pleasure in reducing a hunter to such a vulnerable mess.
Kagome felt like she'd received her answer. "Never mind," she caught her breath, forehead dotted with sweat. Her muscles burned despite the lack of physical exertion, body feverishly warm.
She sat up slowly, wincing at the slick feeling of her cunt. It fluttered and clenched, demanding more- wanting to be filled.
"I feel better now. We can end things there and-"
Kagome caught an eyeful of his crotch, entranced by the hard evidence of his arousal.
Oh.
She swallowed, reading the look in his eye easily. They wouldn't be stopping anytime soon. From the look of his long, thick cock, they'd be spending a while easing it in if he were committed to pleasuring her.
Somehow she felt alright with that. The fever in her veins wasn't satisfied yet, though she had reservations about allowing a literal werewolf to take her. However something undeniable had come to life in the pit of her gut, something raw and hot that left her wet between her legs and wordlessly begging.
Sesshoumaru's claws closed around her ankle, dragging her towards him- her ass coming to meet his twitching cock.
"I do not think you have unwound nearly enough. You must expel all pent up frustrations if you are to continue hunting me. I worry you will fall behind if not- your tracking has become sloppy lately."
Kagome whipped her head up and growled- just as the head of his cock nestled at her entrance, cutting off the noise and sending it choking. Blushing, she reached behind her, spreading herself for him- holding herself open while Sesshoumaru gave that jagged flash of teeth in response, slipping his thick length inside her inch by inch.
Whimpering and dropping her hands, Kagome bowed forward, trying to adjust. He sank even deeper. The sheer slickness between her thighs helped but didn't assuage the terrible stretch that threatened to overwhelm her. He was too big, his large and hairy body towering over hers, encasing her back with the furnace heat of his body.
"Ease yourself back against me- slowly," panting breath fanned over her damp neck. She felt him run an almost affectionate feeling lick up the sensitive shell of her ear. "Relax. This body was built to withstand many things," his palm stroked a path over her navel, circling up her hip where a scar lay. "You will not allow me to dominate you so easily, will you, Kagome?"
Panting, Kagome tried to get used to feeling every inch of him inside her, filling her clenching walls to the brim.
His hands were three times the size of hers, one settling beside her on the floor. The way he loomed over her made the formally fearless woman feel small, crushable.
"H-ha! As if," she shakily replied. Not one to give in, Kagome did as instructed, slowly rocking back against him just like before. She winced. The sensation was much fuller and tighter, uncomfortable.
Sesshoumaru hissed and groaned, rubbing at her clit again to shoot tiny bursts of fireworks through her system. It helped coax some pleasure back into things. Kagome gave a shaky moan.
Sensing her change in enjoyment, the wolf began moving.
She cried out, wincing a little at his slight withdraw- before groaning as he eased back in, creating a slow, building pace.
The thick, soft fur that covered him from crown to foot gleamed in the light of the room. Kagome could feel it hot against her back, tickling her skin. The strands began to stick to flushed flesh. Sweat began to bead, rolling down her shoulder blades.
"You take me very well, for a human," Sesshoumaru nosed at her hair.
"I can't say 'taking a cock' nicely is the highest compliment ever, but- thanks," Kagome panted. He gave an amused huff, giving a hard thrust in response that knocked her forward.
Yelping, she grabbed onto the first available thing. Her breath caught when her fingers met soft, warm fur. His arm.
It felt sturdy amidst the sea of sensations. Kagome held tighter onto it, bracing herself. She could sense the control beginning to slip from her new bedmate.
Sesshoumaru growled ferally, fanning hot, sticky breath over her shoulders. He then slammed inside her- ramming his hard cock completely within.
Letting out a loud, startled cry that bordered on a scream, Kagome bit down on his arm. He set a brutal pace, thrusting his cock with a quickness that blinded her. She squeezed her eyes shut so tight stars burst behind her eyelids.
Strands of dark hair stuck to her forehead, the rest bouncing and swaying with the werewolf's chosen pace: hard and merciless.
She sank her teeth harder into Sesshoumaru's arm, but he was completely silent inside her mind now. Whatever debonair and lofty charm he possessed had been shoved far back into the recesses of his consciousness, replaced with raw primal need and heavy grunts. He sought to fuck, and Kagome found herself mewling receptively, weakly rocking back against him.
With a snarl, he yanked his arm free from her teeth- rearing back onto his haunches and dragging Kagome with him, holding her hips while continually rutting into her.
Kagome went completely speechless in both pain and pleasure. The new angle nestled onto his lap with the steel band of his arms wrapped around her waist allowed him to reach new depths.
Letting out mindless moans, she rested her head back against his furry shoulder, body ablaze, cunt squeezing him deliciously. The arms holding her prisoner forced her to meet each thrust, creating an intense friction inside that brought her into a state of begging. "P-please- more. Fuck-! More, I'm so close, please!"
Sesshoumaru gave guttural snarls and rumbles in response. But there was something strange happening with his cock. She could feel it even while held under the haze of pleasure. Nudging up against her entrance, something thicker than his length and more rounded threatened to push inside. His knot.
Kagome couldn't react- distracted by another orgasm ripping through her at the most inopportune time.
The knot swelled and stretched her sex farther than she'd anticipated. With a jolt of his hips, Sesshoumaru followed her into orgasm, throwing his head back in a deafening snarl. A torrent of cum flooded her, painting her inner walls- all locked in by the werewolf's knot.
Kagome jolted and strained, mouth opening in a wordless scream. Full. She felt too full. Her sex strained, still squeezing him like a vice.
Slowly, his voice drifted back into her head. "Very good...worthy female...powerful. Should claim..."
"S-sesshoumaru?" she croaked weakly, limp in his arms.
A silver muzzle nuzzled the side of her head in response, crooning lowly. "Hn?"
"You uh..." Kagome panted, giving a weak gesture of her wrist, trying to rise and finding it impossible. He was quite literally locked inside her. "You knotted me- shouldn't you have pulled out?"
She wasn't concerned about being pupped- she'd handled dodging pregnancy with herbal aid before. However, like this, it made moving away impossible.
"Why would this one do that?"
Blue eyes blinked, shifting up to him. His fur plastering against her skin felt like a feathery bed cushioning her spine. "Because now we're stuck, for who knows how long. A few minutes to 30. I figured you'd..."
Want to get away. Re-establish our roles as enemies.
He acted the same as always. She couldn't anticipate his movements or read him.
A sinuous tongue she'd now become intimately acquainted with slid up her cheek. The fur receded at her back, and Kagome stiffened with alarm.
When she turned slightly, she found herself gazing at the pale, handsome features of a man. His markings remained, branding him as something inhuman despite the skin, pretty fall of hair and stern sweep of his brow.
"I intend to have you many times," Sesshoumaru uttered out loud, sounding much crisper in the quiet room. "In a multitude of ways."
Kagome opened her mouth to reply, gasping when a tongue thrust inside her mouth. Grunting, she managed to return the dominating press of tongue and teeth, biting his lip for good measure and feeling him shiver.
When he began moving again while locked inside her, she fell into the murky waters of arousal once more.
-----
The morning sunlight peeking through the broken blinds brought many aches and pains with it. Kagome heard the front door shut, footsteps drawing away before falling silent.
Sitting up quickly, a fur throw fell from her shoulders. It pooled in her lap, revealing the full extent of fresh scratches and claw marks littering her nude body, along with bruises.
She winced at the stickiness between her legs. The smell of sex overwhelmed the stuffy room. So it wasn't a dream.
Noticing a steaming mug of green tea sitting before the lit fireplace loaded with newly chopped wood, Kagome tentatively reached out to touch it. Still warm.
He must've just left.
Running her hands up and down her flesh, she found no bite marks. He'd stayed true to his word.
Feeling a little complicated, Kagome blinked upon noticing a letter sitting atop a fresh change of clothes on the armchair. Her weapons were also neatly arranged nearby.
Picking up the parchment, blue eyes flitted over the message.
'Pursue me once more, my hunter. I enjoyed feasting on you.'
Kagome pressed her lips together. She shook herself a little. This was still the enemy, nothing had changed despite a thoroughly pleasurable night. In the privacy of the room however, she allowed herself a small smile.
After eating, washing and dressing for the day, Kagome stepped outside.
Securing her weapons, she gave chase.
End
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Come Back | Bad Batch Fan Fic
Pairing: Crosshair x Reader
Words: 1748 words
Warnings: Angst. Reader gets hurt, mention of blood
A/N: I gave you romance with Fives last time. Now, time for some PAIN!!! I told yall I wanted to make a Bad Batch fan fic, I just didn’t expect my first one to be like this.
Pretty short, I wanted to write it down before I lose any inspiration, and I have to get back to my finals.
Hope you guys like!
(gif courtesy of @clxnewxrs )
- - - - - - -
This plan has gone to crap!
It was supposed to be simple. Get into the command center, retrieve the necessary intel, and get out. Something you’ve done many times before. Piece of cake!
But last time you remembered, you did not have a child following you around. Omega insists on coming along, even going against Hunter’s orders. Because of her disregard of orders, she had tripped an alarm, alerting the guards to your position. But you couldn’t blame her. Even if she didn’t came along, something wasn’t going to go according to plan. She’s not a soldier and wasn’t trained like you and the rest of the Bad Batch. There were some tasks or missions that were fine for the young clone to come along, but this mission was more dangerous.
One good reason why; Crosshair had finally tracked you down.
The Batch had split up during the mission, aiming to complete your objectives. Before you can all regroup, that is when Crosshair and his Elite Squad Trooper caught up to the group. And you had the unfortunate case of protecting Omega from the sniper, who was now standing in front of you. With the only exit blocked by your former comrade, the only way to escape was to shoot your way out or leap out an 80 storied building.
“Crosshair, please! Don’t do this,” you pleaded, body shielding Omega as the young girl cowered behind you.
“I can bring you back alive,” The grey-haired clone spoke, raising his handheld blaster to your chest without hesitation. “Or in a body bag. Your choice, Freckles.”
You tense, staring down the barrel of the blaster, wondering for a second if it was put on lethal or stun mode. You felt Omega gripping your arm, sparing a glance at the child before looking back at Crosshair. His eyes held no remorse. There was no more warmth in those honey-brown eyes. Your heart shattered at the sight of him, your fists clenching to keep yourself composed.
“This isn’t you, Crosshair. That damn chip is manipulating you!” You snapped, keeping your stance and hoping to buy some time for Hunter and the others to assist you.
“You would have never shot Wrecker before, no matter how much he annoyed you. And you would never point a gun at me. Come back to us. We can find a way to free you from that chip. We know it’s not your fault, and we don’t blame you for your actions. Please,” you begged, your voice breaking a little as you reached your hand towards him.
The clone stared hard at your hand, his shoulders tensed before locking eyes with yours. He can see the desperation in them, unshed tears causing your eyes to glisten. This was a familiar sight. Not too long ago, when all of you were imprisoned back on Kamino, you had the same expression.
Crosshair was being taken away from the rest of the group for unknown reasons. Hunter, in his attempt to keep everyone together, received a harsh hit on his gut. The sergeant doubled over in pain, but no one dare moved to aid him as blasters were pointed at everyone. The clone shook his head at the sight of his sergeant before standing up. As he took one step forward, he felt a tug, keeping him in place. Looking back, he saw you gripping his hand with all the strength you have.
You were looking up at him, silently begging him not to go. The corner of your eyes shedding small tears, your hand squeezing his ever so tighter.
“Let’s go!” The clone guard exclaimed, his patience wearing thin.
Crosshair felt something foreign in him, telling him to obey. He knows that he should stay. He knows that he should fight against these mindless regs. He’s not like them. He belongs here with his brothers, and with you.
But, fighting the regs unarmed will just cause unnecessary casualties. And he can’t stand the idea of having his brothers’ blood on his hands. Especially a kid that is apparently a little sister. And you.
The thought of losing you caused him to shiver in fear. An emotion that he rarely felt, until you joined the team.
The sniper looked back at you once more, squeezing your hand in return. He gave you a reassuring look that was also apologetic and sorrowful.
You knew that there was no getting out of this. That there was no way in saving him. With a heavy sob, you let go of his hand, allowing him to be taken by the guards.
His hands were now trembling, causing the blaster to become unsteady. “Crosshair?” You said with uncertainty. The sniper’s eyes snapped back at you, having lost focus for a few seconds.
“So, you miss me? How sweet,” he sneered, but his hands continued to shake.
You relaxed your posture for a second, pulling your hand back before pressing it against your chest, right over your heart. “I have. So very much.”
Something must have snapped inside of the clone because his eyes became unfocused, and his hands were trembling harder. He was in pain, his free hand gripping the side of his head, eyes squeezing shut as the blaster fell from his hand. You watched as Crosshair internally fought against the inhibitor chip, hope slowly rising inside of you.
As you slowly approached him, you failed to hear the thundering sound of boots approaching you. The only indication that you got was hearing Omega gasping before shouting, “Look out!”
The moment you spotted the Elite Squad Trooper raising his blaster, you felt the searing hot pain piercing your side, and a blood-curling scream echoed throughout the room. You fell to your knees, clutching your left side, where the blaster shot hit you.
Luckily, you were wearing the specialized armor that the Bad Batch wear, so the blast wasn’t able to pierce the other side. But you can feel blood pooling out, and if you don’t get any aid soon, you’re going to die.
Before the trooper can shoot you again, he let out a shout of pain as Crosshair’s fist collided with his buckethead before punching his gut. “I told you to stun the woman and to shoot the men!” He snarled before kicking the hunched-over trooper.
As Crosshair’s attention was on the reg, Omega rushed to your side. Panting heavily, you grabbed a tool from your utility belt and wrapped an arm around the girl’s midsection. “Hold on...tight...and whatever...you do...don’t let go.”
“What are you---whoa!” Omega cried out as you picked her up and charged at the window. The girl screamed when your shoulder crashed into the window, both of you plummeting over the edge. Neither Crosshair nor the troopers reacted quick enough to catch you, watching the both of you fall to what appears to be your death.
You reached out your arm, pointing your modified grappling gun, and pulled the trigger. The claw-like end soar shot through the air, piercing the closes building, secured in place. The pair of you swing through the cold night air, Omega’s arms and legs wrapped around your neck and waist.
Before you could crash into another building, you released the trigger, the grapple unhooking from your end. You rolled onto the rooftop of a building, shielding Omega in the progress. Wincing, you got back on your feet, still holding onto the child, and continued to run away, troopers now shooting at you.
“Tech! I need a pickup, NOW!” You exclaimed into your communicator.
“We’re reaching your location!” His voice came through, and without another second to waste, you heard the engines of the Havoc Marauder. The ramp was open and both Hunter and Wrecker were there.
Despite the searing pain, your adrenaline forced you to pick up the pace. Blaster shots were flying past you, and if you move any slower, you were going to get hit again. But you weren’t scared of being hit by the Elite Squad trooper again. No. You were afraid of a certain sniper. Deep down though, you had hope that he wasn’t going to pull the trigger on you. He had several chances to do so, but he didn’t.
“Jump!” Hunter shouted as you reached the edge of the building. Mustering whatever strength you had left, you leaped from the edge, Omega’s arms reaching towards the Sergeant and larger clone. You collapsed into their arms, letting them pull you both inside as blasters were now hitting your ship.
“She’s been shot!” Omega cried. Hunter and Wrecker saw your bleeding side, and with a nod from their leader, Wrecker picked you up as carefully as possible and carried you to your cot. “Echo, get over here now!” Hunter shouted before grabbing whatever medical items that they need.
Your armor was removed and Wrecker ripped the fabric of your blacks to expose your wound, allowing the boys to stop the bleeding. You cried out in pain, legs kicking and your hand gripping the first thing that came into contact, which was Hunter’s hand.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Echo reassured as they pierced a needle into your wound before spraying it with bacta. Omega stood at the doorway, hands covering her mouth, silently crying as the boys managed to stop the bleeding. Despite being their combat medic, the Bad Batch knew a good amount of medical aid before you arrived, but learned more when you became part of their team.
“I can’t believe Crosshair shot her!” Wrecker growled as Echo placed a bacta patch to help quicken the healing progress.
“I don’t want to believe either. But he shot you, didn’t he?” Echo countered.
“He...he didn’t shot me,” you groaned, your hand squeezing Hunter’s.
“Whoa whoa whoa, no more talking. You need your rest, Freckles,” the Sergeant said, using his free hand to gently wipe off any sweat forming on your forehead.
You ignored Hunter’s order and took in a deep breath before continuing. “It was a...trooper. Crosshair said...only to stun me and Omega...” You then looked back at Hunter, body feeling weak and vision getting blurry. “He’s still in there...fighting to come back....we can’t lose hope.” You managed to say that last bit before darkness consumed you. You slumped against the pillow, a familiar scent comforting you as you slept.
The group watched you sleep, ensuring that you were okay before relaxing. Hunter slowly slipping his hand from your grasp before covering you with a blanket, Crosshair’s scent continued to engulf you.
“We will bring him home. I promise.”
#crosshair x reader#crosshair#clone trooper crosshair#clone force 99#clone force 99 crosshair#ct crosshair#the bad batch#sw tbb#tbb crosshair#the bad batch crosshair#star wars x reader#clone x reader#clone trooper x reader#omega#hunter#wrecker#tech#echo#clone trooper hunter#clone trooper wrecker#clone trooper tech#clone trooper echo#arc trooper echo#star wars#fan fiction#fan fic#angst#tw blood#tw: blood
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having ADHD and trying to build in minecraft is just like:
- decide to build a large underground basement cave/training room
dig straight down from my basement ladder
start clearing it out and realize there’s an abandoned mine
get distracted clearing out the mine
realize the mine is the same mine i found before that has the spawner i was going to use for an exp room
get lost
have to heal my shovel which some how led to me rearranging all my chests to put the new coal, baked potatoes, and iron in
forget i didn’t add ladders to the new bedrock level basement and fall to my death
spend an hour making a tree farm to build ladders
- decide that the cave needs a pond for axolotls and that needs amethyst and glow lichen
travel 40k blocks to find axolotls, forget to look for amethyst
remember the amethyst
spend half a day making a nether ice road because i was like ‘damn i have to walk that far again i should fix that’
remember the amethyst again
dig over 14k blocks to find a geode
come back, go down to the basement and almost die because i never put the ladders up
put the ladders up
watch a techno stream and decide i want water entrances instead making the ladders null and void
research ways to expand my pond without it freezing
make a pumpkin farm
replace the spruce planks with barrels on my bridge?????
make a lot of buckets
forget about the buckets because i can’t make the pond until i take care of the spawn/exp room
- decide that the spawn room needs a hidden door
go slime hunting
suddenly remember i don’t know how to do redstone
look up redstone mechanics
gather honey
think ‘oh i also need to go to an ocean monument’
????????????????
#i don't know what i'm doing#i get so offtrack and it all makes sense in my mind but it's been like#five days since i decided to make the cave and i've done NOTHING#loyal plays minecraft
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so to expand upon this lets go in some ideas on what helscraft is like
i like to think that helscraft is a weird glitched copy of the overworld and the nether mixed together. for the cannon of my hermit duplicate’s AU (of which i will be referring to within this post) the dimension of helscraft isnt really a full dimension that always appears in every world like the end and nether. it only spawns into a world after a year or so of players putting all of their love and care into the world. the world builds up enough of all that good energy and then causes a opposite opposing Force to form. thus helscraft spawns into existence. in a way you could say the whole dimension of helscraft is a duplicate as well.
now one thing that kinda throws a a wrench in the works of this idea is that every year or so the hermits move into a new world, though since its normally has been roughly the same amount of players in each season we can go with the hermitcraft dimension of hels is carried over with each world jump. the world of hels change to match the new overworld but its still the same helshermits. though for the hermits that leave the server their hels counterpart disappears. this may also work in reverse as well. only have one example so far so who know :) cOUGHCOughNHOcOUGh
with the the hows and whys on helscraft existence out-of-the-way let's get into some worldbuilding!
as ive already mentioned, helscraft is somewhat of a glitchy mix of the overworld and nether. what i havent mentioned is that a good bit of the April Fools updates and removed features for the overworld ended up floating over to helscraft but unlike the overworld in which these features disappear pretty quickly they ended up sticking around in helscraft, for better or worst.
heres a list of examples of this, of which i then expanded upon them to make them more fleshed-out.
the list got really long so the rest of the post is under the cut! :D
Pig and cow sized horses, if fed too much will cause the animal to grow dangerous mutations that can not only kill the animal but make its remains toxic and unedible. You can make a green book via using toxic leather (the crafting book)
A common spell is to summon flame that then can be used for new crafting recipes. one such recipe is flaming barrels, if someone walks too close it will explode, another is chainmail armor
if you put too much fuel into a furnace it will explode.
torches burn out an hour or two after being lit
chickens are deadly, do not provoke them. it is extremely rare but the is a very small chance spawn in a blue chicken. only able to spawn via throwing eggs. it drops lapis and diamonds instead of eggs. beware tho, all chickens in the immediate vicinity will protect the blue one with their lives and will attack anything that gets too close.
eating or feeding an animal a god apple will cause it to float upwards for five minutes before slowly descending back to the ground.
Wheat if not chopped after fully grown will go bad and die, same thing with other crops. though you can make Iron infused melon and pumpkins, it insures that the stem won't die over time after its first produce
Powered Redstone causes redstone bugs to spawn, it can be stopped by combining lapis and redstone dust together to make bluestone dust. asifhfsssdhv only a noob uses redstone.
Redstone wire, another alternative of redstone made with redstone dust surrounded by cobwebs. it insulates the redstone and stops bugs from spawning. pretty much the same thing function wise but is a pretty cool thing to use to flex on others
Villagers are instead piglins, not the tanned ones added into the nether update but rather pink skinned ones.
Glowing obsidian, a glowing red version of obsidian. Only found in trades with piglins
In helscraft there are lava oceans instead of water, water can only be found deep underground. Lava instead of water is infinite, water is no longer infinite.
The world of hels first looked like the indev world theme of hell, with following updates to the overworld helscraft changed and evolved as well. There is no sun nor moon, just a forever floating layer of lava that acts to light up the dimension.
Frostwalker is instead, Magmawalker, turning lava into magma blocks shortly before melting back into lava
Boss fights arent the same in helscraft as in the normal overworld and its closely neighboring tied in dimensions of the end and nether. Not found in helscraft are Guardians, the ender dragon, and technically the Wither as well. Instead you can find Giants, the red dragon, the four horse men(much more difficult to defeat)
Giants unlike the ai less ones you can spawn using commands are living and breathing monsters that roam the land. During their travels any ghasts they cross will join them on their wandering
Ghasts can be somewhat tamed in helscraft. If you can successfully capture a baby ghast from its parents and raise it yourself the ghast will be malleable enough, somewhat like foxes but just a bit more wild. If you happen to accidentally harm them it will turn on you and fight you to the death, be it your’s or theirs.
It's a very very rare find but huge brick pyramids can spawn into the world. in season 7 helscraft’s cubfan took up residence within one that spawned in Incredibly Close to spawn
There are alot of different nonsensical potions that can be brewed for interesting drinks. some have a use, most dont tho. all of em have amazingly different tastes and smells
instead of honeycomb there is crystallized honey, it functions as pretty much the exact same thing. has its block too, call the wax block.
Killer bunnies spawn in more often than normal bunnies
Og stonecutter, can cut blocks into half. Not only used for stone. can cut doors, beds, and much more into halfs
Nether reactor core, could be the key on how to jump between the hermitcraft and helscraft. will need to think on this idea some more though
Petrified Forest, a biome within helscraft that has wood as hard as stone and a texture reminiscent of a mix of acacia and crimson planks color wise.
unsure as of yet on what to call it but the volcanic biome the Rempirer had Rendog make is a biome within helscraft as well!(the Rempirer is ren’s helscraft counterpart... he wasnt always evil as he is now)
the mobs that lost the vote found their way into helscraft, not just the moobloom all of them. the three mystery mobs from the 2017 and the ice illager. (i voted for the glow squid and while i do still stand by my decision it is truely a shame we might not see any of them all in the game ever )
Studded armor and plate armor, alternatives to leather and chainmail. studded armor is made with leather and stone and plate armor is made with smooth stone slabs
stained glass looks a bit like this
and colored wool like this!
and thats everything for now. ill probly be working out some more ideas since theres a surprisingly large amount of features that have been added to minecraft either hidden away in the background or removed.
also if anyone wants a some links to where i found these old and mostly forgotten facts ill post em in the notes when i get the time to do so. theres a lot of them tho so i might forget a few
hey also if you like these you might also like my Discord! i made it for this au and i tend to share my ideas a bit more over there than over here. theres a lot to see :DD
#hermit duplicate au#hermitcraft#helscraft#worldbuilding#odd facts board lmao#also#only a noob uses redstone#kjladcknac#only cool kids use blue stone#if i knew how to code i would 100% make all of this into a mod
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New World CH. Fifteen
Title: Woodbury
Words: 2119
Warnings: Strong language, assault
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
New World Masterlist
Daryl Dixon Masterlist
The Walking Dead Masterlist
Masterlist
~~~~~~~
It was supposed to be an easy run. In and out. Get the stuff the baby, and you, needed along with whatever else you could find and get back to the prison. But no. Some jackass had to make things hard.
Glenn had gotten inside the store first and right when you were about to join him, you heard something. Looking around, you saw nothing and turned back to Glenn.
“Hey, Glenn, grab that toy,” you said.
“Which one?”
“The duck. And any other ones you can find. If these kids are going to be growing up in a prison they could use some toys.” Glenn laughed but did as you asked. After he grabbed some formula and some other stuff, he came back outside.
“We just hit the powdered formula jackpot.”
“Good. What else did you find?”
“Some batteries, beans, cocktail wieners, and a lot of mustards.”
“Great, more beans,” you muttered. “Seems like that’s all that left.”
“What’s wrong with beans?” Glenn asked you.
“They sound gross right now. Did when I was preg—.” You stopped yourself but the damage had already been done.
“Holy shit, you’re pregnant?” Glenn said. You nodded and he gave you a giant hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“I know.” You closed your eyes and felt him kiss your forehead softly.
“Come on. We should get back. Thankfully it’s a straight shot back to the prison from here,” he said.
“Hopefully we’ll make it back in time for dinner. And you can get back to Maggie.” Your voice was teasing and you giggled at how red Glenn’s face was turning.
“And you can get back to your baby daddy.”
“He doesn’t know, Glenn,” you said.
“What? Why not?”
“I found out yesterday. A few hours before—“ You swallowed then sighed. “The quiet’s nice. You can hear the walkers everywhere back home.”
“And where is it y’all call home?” A voice rang out. Turning sharply, you saw a man pointing a gun at you. You dropped the basket full of formula to the ground and quickly drew your weapon.
“Merle?” Glenn said. You shot him a glance before turning your eyes back to the stranger. So this was the infamous Merle? Huh, you thought he’d be taller.
“Wo-ow!” He said with a laugh. Merle put his gun down and his hands up before walking towards you.
“Back the hell up,” you said, raising your gun higher.
“Okay, okay. Jesus, honey.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You made it,” Glenn said.
“Is my brother alive? Can ya tell me that?”
“Yeah. He’s alive.” Merle seemed relieved that his brother was alive and he reached a hand towards Glenn slightly.
“Hey, ya take me ta him and I’ll call it even for everythin’ that happened on that roof,” Merle said. “No hard feelin’s whatsoever.”
Glenn said nothing and his eyes flickered over to the man’s hand. Or lack of one. A long blade was strapped to his arm and it looked deadly.
“Ya like it? I found myself a medical supply warehouse. Fixed it up myself.”
“We’ll tell Daryl you’re here and he’ll come out to meet you,” Glenn said.
You knew that Merle had some problems with the group from before and that alone didn’t want to bring him back. Merle didn’t like that idea and got defensive.
“Just hold on a second.” He started walking closer and Glenn held his hand out.
“Stop walking,” he said. Merle did and you shifted nervously.
“Tha fact that we found each other is a god damn miracle. Ya can trust me, come on now.”
The way he said that was enough for you to not trust him and you eyed him warily.
“You trust us. Stay here. We’ll bring Daryl to you.”
“No!” Merle pulled out a gun from his waistband and shot the rear window of your car out.
Ducking, you spun around and fell to the floor. You weren’t quick enough and you felt a piece of glass cut your cheek. Then, a body crashed into yours and you found yourself being held by Merle. His knife arm was around your neck and his gun was pointed at your head. When Glenn came around the car and saw you, you could see the fury in his eyes.
“Hold up, buddy. Hold up,” Merle said.
“Let go of her. Right now!”
“Put that gun in tha car. Put it in tha car, son!”
Glenn did as he was told, eyes never leaving you. Taking a deep breath, you gave Glenn a smile. Then you rammed the back of your head into Merle’s face. Scrambling to get free while he was disorientated, you almost got out of his grip but he collected himself before you could. Merle hit you with the butt of his pistol and you saw black spots swim before your eyes. Blinking them away, you felt Merle’s grip on you tighten.
“I wish ya didn’t do that, sweetheart,” Merle spat. Looking at Glenn he said, “We’re goin’ for a little drive.”
“We’re not going back to our camp.”
“No, we’re not. Now get in tha car Glenn. You’re drivin’.” Glenn looked like he wanted to protest more, but Merle dug the barrel of his gun deeper into your temple. You whimpered, still a bit out of it.
“Move!”
“Okay. I’m going.” Glenn got into the driver’s seat and you were shoved into the passengers. Merle got in behind you and continued holding the gun to your head.
The drive was completely silent and you were pretty sure that you had passed out for a couple minutes. Then you got to the place Merle was taking you. It looked like a town. There were walls made up of vehicles and metal and there were armored guards everywhere too. But you only saw a glimpse of it before Merle instructed Glenn to turn right. He led you to the back of a building before telling Glenn to cut the engine.
“Ya stay right where ya are, Glenn,” Merle said. “I’ll help out sweetheart here.”
He climbed out of the car and opened your door before grabbing you and hauling you out.
“C’mon now. Let’s getcha inside.”
With his gun still pointed at your head, Glenn had no choice but to do what he was told. When you got inside, Merle shoved you into the first room and locked the door. You heard him take Glenn into the room right next door and after a minute, he came back to you. You didn’t fight it as he made you sit down in a chair and tied your hands behind your back. He left shortly after and you heard the lock click in place.
---
Sam and Dean
Dean was outside with Beth when Rick and Carl saw a woman standing there. He stood by Beth, watching with worried eyes as they brought her into the prison. Carl got a towel while Beth got water. Dean was holding the baby, keeping her calm.
“Rick?” Daryl said. “Who the hell’s this?”
“You wanna tell us your name?” Rick asked the woman. She didn’t answer and Rick repeated the question. When she still said nothing, Daryl spoke again.
“Y’all come in here,” he said.
“Everything alright?”
“You’re gonna wanna see this.”
Rick gave the go ahead so Dean followed Beth in to the cell block, Hershel and Carl behind them. Rick talked to the woman for a few seconds before following, the woman’s sword in hand. Daryl locked the door and led everyone to one of the cells. In the cell sat an exhausted looking Carol. Sophia was right next to her, hugging her mother tightly. Sam and Maggie were sitting with her and when Carol saw everyone, she stood up shakily and went to hug Rick.
“Thank god,” Rick said, holding Carol close. Dean couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.
“How?” Hershel asked.
“Solitary,” Carol said with a small laugh.
“Poor thing must’ve fought her way inta a cell. Passed out from dehydration.”
Carol let go of Hershel and saw Dean next. He was still holding onto his sister and when Carol saw the baby, she turned to Rick with a smile on her face. Rick’s face fell and Carol immediately started to comfort him.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She turned to Carl and put her hand on his cheek before taking the baby from Dean’s arms. Dean watched the interactions with a sad smile on his face, his hand on Carl’s shoulder.
After Carol was all settled, Rick walked back into the common area. Dean, Sam, Hershel, and Daryl with him.
“We can stitch up that wound for you. Give you some food and water then send you on your way. But you have to tell us how you found us and why you were carrying formula,” Rick said.
“The supplies were dropped by a young Asian man and a pretty girl,” the woman said. Dean stood up straighter and looked at Sam, a worried look on his face.
“What happened?” Rick asked.
“Were they attacked?” Sam asked.
“They were taken.”
“Taken? What the fuck do you mean, taken?” Dean said, hands clenching in anger.
“Taken? Taken by who?”
“Taken by the same douchebag that shot me.”
“These are our people. Our family. You’re gonna tell us what happened now!” Rick went and put pressure on her wound. The woman hissed in pain and swatted his hand away.
“You’d best start talkin’,” Daryl said, crossbow raised. “Or ya problems are gonna be bigger than a gunshot wound.”
“Find ‘em yourself,” she said, eyes narrowed. Rick told Daryl to put the crossbow down and put himself in between the two of them.
“There was a reason you came here,” Rick said. The woman looked at the floor before looking at Rick.
“There’s a town. It’s called Woodbury and has around seventy-five survivors. I think they were taken there,” she said.
“A whole town?”
“It’s run by a guy who calls himself the Governor.”
“He got muscle?” Daryl asked.
“Paramilitary wannabes. There’s armed sentries on every wall.”
“You know a way in?” Sam asked.
“The place is secure from walkers but we should be able to slip our way through.”
“How’d you know how to get here?”
“The girl said something about a prison. Mentioned it was a straight-shot in this direction.”
Rick was silent for a second before pointing to Hershel. “This is Hershel. He’s gonna be the one stitching you up. And they’re Sam and Dean. They’re the brothers of the girl who was taken.”
With that, Rick walked away. Daryl followed immediately but it took a second for Sam and Dean to follow. They both gave the woman a hard look before walking back into the cell block.
---
“How do we know we can trust her?” Oscar asked.
“Does it matter? This is Glenn and [y/n] we’re talking about. Why are we even debating?” Beth said.
“We ain’t. I’ll go after ‘em,” Daryl said.
“You can’t go alone. This place sounds secure,” Rick said, tapping his foot.
“I’ll go,” Beth said. Axel and Oscar said the same and Rick shook his head.
“Dean, Daryl, the woman, and I will go.”
“I’m going too,” Sam said. “Like hell you’re gonna stop me from going to get my sister.”
“You need to stay here just in case they manage to escape before we get there. And Adeline is going to need you,” Rick said to Sam. Sam wanted to argue, but he knew that Rick’s point was a valid one.
“Fine. But if you guys don’t come back within twenty-four hours, I’m going out there to get you.”
“Deal.”
With that, the meeting dispersed. Daryl packed a bag full of the flash bangs and tear gas. Dean walked out to the Impala with Sam and gathered a few shotguns and about half of the non-salt ammo along with a few knives.
“She’s gonna be fine, Sammy. She’s tough and can handle herself,” Dean said. Sam gave a grunt as a response and hauled the duffle over his shoulder before bringing it to the car they were taking.
Before they left, Dean walked over to Carol and Maggie, kissing their cheeks, kissing the baby and both toddlers foreheads after.
“Keep an eye on her. She’s a handful,” Dean said.
“I think I got it covered. Now you go on and get them back safe and sound, okay?” Carol said. She rubbed Adeline’s back, the toddler clinging to Sam.
“Bring [y/n] back,” Sophia said softly.
“I will, sweetheart.” Dean gave them a smile and walked over to the car. He got in the backseat next to Daryl. It was time to get his sister back.
#New World#daryl dixon x reader#reader insert#x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl x reader#twd x reader#spn x reader#twd#spn
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fake married + poorly timed confession + the leverage ot3? or any component ship, i'm not picky xD
as it happens, I was already planning on writing a fake married fic for the ot3! so this is more fic than fic description, though I couldn’t really convince myself that any of these three would full-on confess in the middle of a con which is, of course, the most poorly timed you can get. but here you go and please enjoy, mind the cut!
for this ask meme, which is still open
Parker and Eliot crash a senator’s garden party, posing as a married couple so they can be each other’s cover while each one sneaks off in turn. When Eliot needs to take a quiet moment to get rid of the guards on the roof, he excuses himself from the conversation in the parlor with a grin and a, “Better go make sure the little lady’s not having too much fun without me!” This wins a round of chuckles, and Eliot rolls his eyes as he turns away.
Parker, a few seconds later and out in the garden, just blurts out, “I’m going to look for my husband,” and clomps off.Sophie, keeping the senator busy at the buffet table, turns her eyes to the heavens in supplication.
Eliot meets Nate on the roof once the guards are dealt with, and leads him down to the senator’s bedroom so he can lie in wait and be all spooky when Sophie sends the senator up to look for his watch. Parker, meanwhile, is raiding the senator’s office safe for something Nate can blackmail him with. It’s a tightly timed con, but Eliot has a good four minutes to get himself back to the garden before the house guards notice that something’s gone wrong on the roof.
Or so he thought—they must have better failsafes in place than they’d realized, because Parker almost gets caught on her way back from cracking the senator’s office safe. Eliot, who’s half a corridor away and only just done getting his shirt and hair back in order, huffs in exasperation and rushes to intercept the guards about to reach her.
He rushes fast enough that he reaches her first, and instead of letting him barrel past her, Parker grabs him and swings him up against the nearest wall.
When the guards turn the corner, they find the two of them passionately making out. Parker pulls away from Eliot and says, with a drunken giggle, “You boys here to join the fun? Careful, my man here’s mighty possessive.” She lays her head on Eliot’s shoulder, and he takes the hint and glares the guards away.
- - - - - - -
Eliot does not talk to Hardison about this. The absence of that talk is a palpable weight in the van as they drive away from the senator’s house. Nate and Sophie can feel it too, he knows, from Nate’s wince and Sophie’s brief but sympathetic smile. It’s not like Hardison and Parker are—It’s not that they don’t—Well they are, actually, but—
Eliot takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. Hardison and Parker are dating, and even before that Parker had really only ever kissed Hardison on cons, but Hardison isn’t possessive, no matter the spike of horror that flashed through Eliot at Parker’s words to the guards. He has to know that Eliot would never try anything with Parker, would never hurt either of them like that. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.
Still, he’s deeply relieved when Nate says that their next angle of attack is going to involve Hardison and Parker handling the real estate agency, just the two of them, while Eliot provides backup for Sophie almost all the way across town.
- - - - - - -
That relief means that Eliot is not even remotely braced for it when, at the last minute, the plan changes.
It turns out that the mobster’s cousin runs the real estate agency. This explains why the agency’s involved in the first place, but not how, so they still need to get Hardison in there to do his magic on their servers. “Alright,” Nate says, “Eliot, you’re switching with Parker. The mob might be hiding the drugs at the agency, so keep an eye out for guards.”
Hardison groans. “Come on, Nate, I already booked the appointment for Mr. and Mrs. Dallanby! Newlyweds, they just got back from their honeymoon in Kenya, I—I set up the facebook pictures, man—”
“We’ll just have to hope they didn’t do a background check,” Nate says, and Hardison grumbles but Eliot hears keys clicking on the line as he switches the personas around. “If they did, you’ll just pull a Bogota Chop Shop on them.”
So Eliot has to gun it across town to meet Hardison in front of the realtors’. (Parker, making the same trip in reverse, reaches Sophie a full five minutes earlier, because she is a maniac who should never be allowed behind a wheel.)
Eliot and Hardison still have not talked. Eliot tries not to think about that as he pulls into the agency parking lot and Hardison hops out of Lucille to join him. Somehow he is still trying not to think about it when Hardison takes his hand, pulls him through the front door, and introduces them as “Mr. and Mr. Dallanby, oh were you expecting a Mrs. Dallanby? Of course you were, of course, why do I even—I guess we should go somewhere else, hmm, what do you think about that? Come on honey, we’re leaving! I’m so sick of—”
Eliot finally pushes past the weird anxiety that won’t let go of his brain and manages to say something empty and reassuring, and then the receptionist is nervously insisting it was just a typo in the system and offering them coffee while they wait, and Hardison grumpily allows himself to be pulled away toward the waiting room couch.
He doesn’t drop the act there, though. He leans against Eliot and—and snuggles up against him, and somehow Eliot’s arm is around Hardison’s shoulder, and something inside him panics and tries to pull away but Hardison grabs his hand and yanks it down and hisses, “Look the goddamn part!” and there’s nothing Eliot can do but sit there and take it.
They still haven’t talked. Eliot can feel the tension in Hardison’s shoulders. He swallows hard and tries not to think about it.
- - - - - - -
No one at the restaurant opening should recognize him, but Eliot keeps out of the serving area anyway. It’s not hard—whenever the owner comes out and says someone wants to meet the chef, he just snarls that he’s too busy and ignores the woman until she goes away. It’s a lie—he’s only had three days with this kitchen team but he must grudgingly admit that they’re on top of things. Eliot keeps an eye on it all anyway, making sure the prawns don’t overcook and the beef doesn’t boil, with only half an ear for the drama happening in the serving area.
Hardison and Parker are building up to a fight. Eliot does his best to tune out Parker’s insults, Hardison’s anger, and Sophie’s careful coaching on when to escalate and when to wait. He’s not on until later, when the senator shows up; for now his biggest concern is fixing the garnish on these flounder fillets. Something’s still not quite right––maybe some shallots…
The argument in his ear crescendoes and crests. Hardison storms off in a rage. Parker fakes a few weirdly convincing sobs. For such a wooden grifter, she’s surprisingly good at pretending to cry. It’s barely a minute before the divorce attorney sitting behind Parker turns around to offer his services. Eliot can practically hear Sophie’s smug smile.
Hardison goes back to Lucille, or so Eliot thought. When he admits to himself that he’s micromanaging the kitchen more than he needs to be and retreats to the pantry, ostensibly to fetch some carrots but really to cool down, he finds Hardison leaning against the door, fiddling with his phone and munching on an apple.
Eliot almost snatches it out of his hand. “Don’t take those,” he snarls. “They’re for the chicken waldorf, not for you.”
Hardison shrugs, that slow grin of his spreading across his face. “I’m a thief. What do you expect?”
Eliot rolls his eyes and shoves past him to get the carrots. When he turns around, Hardison is framed in the doorway, blocking his way out. Before Eliot can snap at him, he says, “Hey man, are you okay?”
Eliot raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. This is a long con, but not a difficult one. And he got to punch out three of the senator’s security staff just a few days ago. He’s fine.
“You’ve been kinda off these past few days. And you disappear the moment we break for the day.” Hardison doesn’t shrug or quirk a smile to take the edge off his words, like most people would. He looks steadily at Eliot, eyes gentle, and keeps his voice soft and calm. “You know we’re here for you, right? If you’re having trouble with something, or if you just want to talk, we’re here. You’re not alone anymore.
“Our mikes are off,” he adds belatedly, gesturing with his phone. “Just us here.”
It’s a special kind of courage, being entirely sincere with someone, opening yourself to the possibility of whatever they might throw at you. Hardison screams when Parker drops him off of even two-storey buildings and panics at the first threat of violence, but in his own way he’s braver than the rest of them put together. It’s admirable. It’s terrifying. Eliot glares, feeling his fingers clench around the carrot leaves, and knows that there is nothing he can do to intimidate Hardison even a little bit.
It’s not out of fear, then, that Hardison lowers his gaze and steps aside so he’s no longer blocking the only exit. It’s a concession, freely given.
Eliot has a brief, violent internal argument.
He can still hear Parker keeping the lawyer busy and Sophie advising her on how much to flirt, but after all these years of practice it’s easy enough to tune it all out and just listen for his name. He takes a deep breath, and then another.
“You and Parker are good together,” he says. Hardison’s eyes flick up, surprised but almost managing to hide it. “And I’m—I’m so happy for you both.” He doesn’t notice the way he ducks his chin a fraction until after he’s done it, bracing for a punch he knows won’t come. “And you know that I don’t—that I would never—Look, she’s your girlfriend, I’m not ever going to…to even try to…”
This whole being brave thing isn’t working out too well. Hardison is watching him with patient incomprehension. Eliot squares his shoulders and opens his mouth to do this right, but before he can, someone in the hallway cries out, “Girlfriend?!”
Hardison jumps. Eliot lunges forward to grab him and shove him into the pantry, so Eliot is between him and whoever this is, but it’s too late, there’s a hand reaching out and shoving Hardison’s chest, pushing him away from the door—
The hand is followed by an angry waitress—Jenna? Jamie?—who is utterly and bafflingly furious. “You asshole!” she yells over Hardison’s confused spluttering, “I hope she does divorce you!”
Eliot puts out an arm to block Jemima’s rampage, and she turns her look of absolute disgust on him. “Chef, were you aware this jackass is married?”
“Eliot!” Nate says in his ear, at the literal worst possible moment. “You’ve got incoming!”
“Married!” Joanna screeches in Hardison’s face. She’s not quite straining against Eliot’s arm, but she’s conveying through body language and intonation that she’s about three seconds away from violence. “And you have a girlfriend!”
Hardison’s face is absolutely priceless. At a better moment, Eliot would stop to appreciate it, but right now there are three mobsters rounding the corner just a couple feet behind Hardison, and they recognize Eliot from the real estate agency. “Mr. Dallanby?” one of them says, sincerely confused.
Hardison jumps again and glances over his shoulder. “Mr. Dallanby?” another mobster says.
The third one gasps. “You have a girlfriend?”
“He does!” Jen crows. “He’s a goddamn cheater!”
“Oh that’s messed up,” the first mobster says. The other two mutter their agreement. They step forward until they’re looming menacingly behind Hardison. The second mobster turns to Eliot and says kindly, “Are you okay, Mr. Dallanby?”
Hardison is stiff as a board, his eyes wide in a silent plea for Eliot to do something. Eliot, absolutely nonplussed, opens his mouth and closes it several times before he manages, “I’m fine, thanks. It’s—we’re working it out.”
There’s an unintelligible commotion in his ear and Jackie is starting to realize that something’s up. Eliot wonders desperately if this is a nightmare. The first mobster, who seems to be in charge, steps forward and offers, “If you need a hand, son, or if you need a moment to process this—”
“That’s okay,” Eliot says hurriedly. He’s trying to parse the jumble in his ear, and it’s not working but he’s pretty sure the main concern is that he and Hardison have gone off comms and not gone back on again. “I’m—we’re good.” He steps forward and grabs Hardison’s hand, pulling him away from the mobsters.
This, unfortunately, puts him right next to Janice, who declares in strident tones, “Oh no you are not! You have a wife back there, asshole, you can’t just cheat on her and expect—“
At that precise moment, the senator walks around the corner behind the mobsters. “I thought we were supposed to meet in the—Ted Dalton? What are you doing here?” Because of course, they had to be conning the one senator in all of Congress who actually learns the names and faces of every guest at his garden parties, well enough to recognize Eliot three entire days later and dressed as a chef.
The mobsters frown. “Wife?”
Parker, skidding around the corner behind Eliot with an audible squeak of tennis shoes on linoleum, says quietly, “Oh shit.”
#finx writes#leverage#leverage fic#leverage ot3#I'm planning on cleaning this up and putting it on ao3#but if I am lazy I may just put it up as is#I do rather like how it came out
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Been thinking about this for a while so here is a snippet. If you want more, please repost and comment 😋
It was well past midnight and he was tired. And bored. King Link had finished his dinner and now the mirth and merriment around him was starting to give him a headache.
How much longer? He asked himself. He saw his wife, the regal Queen of Hyrule laughing as joking with nobels from a country he couldn’t even remember. He knew they were called The Astors and they ran the biggest land of farming for miles around.
“So, the horse must have felt something because as soon as he pulled his hand free, the mare let the biggest one rip! It was incredibly funny, Your Grace!”
The room erupted in laughter and Zelda politely sipped her wine and laughed along side everyone. But Link could see behind her facade. She was just as tired of he merrymaking as he was, and he smiled at this.
At this moment he was reminded of his miracle. His bundle of joy that was sleeping upstairs in the nursery. She was the perfect combination of him and her mother. The love and strength of their marriage had made something that he would gladly die for; his family.
The king was shook from his thoughts as a waiter asked him if he would like to try the new wine. His brow furrowed as he thought. New wine? No new wine was ordered....
“Where did this come from? I don’t remember red wine being on the menu this evening.” He asked, hushed.
“Your Grace, a man who was introduced as a travelling merchant gave us 20 barrels of white and red wine each.” The waiter explained slowly.
Link thought hard for a moment. “Where are said barrels? And did you catch the mans name?”
The waiter shook his head, “No, Your Grace. No name. And he said to keep the barrels in the storage room under here. We put half there and half in the armory until tomorrow when we can store them properly, Highness.”
“Who took them?” Link ordered, voice still silent.
“New guy, your Grace. Said he worked in wine storage in his old job, knew what he was doing.”
New guy? New wine? New threats by the Count.... Silence when it came to any communication about peace between kingdoms...
“Did you look at the wine? Did you tap everyone of the barrels?”
“No, your Grace. We were told not to.” The waiter was quick.
The merriment in the hall made Link’s head spin as he tried to get his head around-
The sound of gunpowder exploding was deafening. The sheer amount made everyone, everything fly towards the front of the hall. A mix of bloody cries and glass shattering was next to hit the kings ears. Zelda!
“Ugh! Is everyone....is everyone okay!? What the fuck happened!?” Sir Astor was the first to talk.
“Gunpowder! The new wine barrels were filled with powder!” Link yelled as he crawled towards Zelda.
“Link! The fire is spreading! The curtains!” Zelda screamed, taking Links hand.
He turned towards the thrones and, sure enough, the curtains, the silks, the tapestries were going up faster than his heart was beating! And it was spreading up and up and....
“JANE!! Oh Gods, Jane!!! No!” Astor was screaming again. His wife was speared under a wooden roof beam. She looked....peaceful. Calm. But her death was anything but.
“No! Oh Hylia, please don’t take her! Not now!” He was screaming louder than ever, and the flames were yelling back at him almost as a mockery of him.
It was only a matter of time before everything was gone. They had to leave now!
“Zelda, honey, I need you to take them to the exit. I’ve got to look for any survivers! Go, now!” He handed her a handkerchief to cover her mouth. Just as he went to leave, she grabbed his arm again.
“Maria! We need to get her!” Zelda had pure panic in her eyes as she started for the staircase. Link pulled her back.
He shook his head, “You need to get everyone out, I’ll go after Maria! Please Zelda, go!”
Reluctantly, she went and Link took the stairs 2 at a time. All the time, he could feel the flames get hotter and he could hear the walls groaning. He doesn’t have time on his side. The smoke was getting thicker and coughing wasn’t making anything easier.
“Is there anyone alive!? Hello!?” The king hoped someone was alive. Anyone!
He reached the floor of the nursary. The halls looked untouched but the smoke was rising. It wasn’t long before the fire would reach the stairs and there would be no way out.
Upon reaching the nursary, Link couldn’t see anything. The smoke was making his eyes water and his chest felt like it was going to explode. He was growing tired.
Maria was still asleep. But she was squirming like she was dreaming. Very calmly, Link picked up his daughter and grabbed 2 blankets; one to wrap her body in, the other to cover her face as much as possible.
“I got you, baby. Come on, let’s get out of here!”
He ran back down the halls, the smoke becoming thicker, the groaning of the building were making the walls shake uncontrollably.
Coughing, running and carrying his daughter were things he never thought he would ever have to do. Let alone saving her from a suicide attempt on his life.
-
In the courtyard outside of the castle, it was hell on earth. The castle was half gone, the gardens and trees lit by fire added to the mayhem around the Queen.
Men from the city were forming a line from the river nearby, the the doors of the castle. Throwing water at the base wasn’t doing much, but it allowed any survivors from the attack to be saved from anymore burns.
Women were dressing wounds, giving help in any way they could. But nothing around her made sense as Zelda gazed upon her home. Was Maria alive? Did Link even make it to the nursary? How many people were in the castle unaccounted for? How many were dead?
Nothing mattered more than her subjects and her family. They needed to make it out. Link and Maria needed to get out now!
An earth shattering groan, crunch and explosion shook the ground again. The walls were gone. The door was blocked. Melted iron sagged on dead wood and marble. Women screamed, men looked at each other, knowing the outcome wouldn’t be bright.
“No!!! Link!!!!” Zelda unknowingly screamed, unable to keep silent anymore. She crumbled to her knees, sobs wracking through her body. Her Maria, her husband, her home, her subjects. She couldn’t look towards the flames anymore as the thoughts filled her mind. Even as the windows finally shattered, her head was bent in grief. Her heart shattering like-
“Someone’s there! Men! Help them! Get them now!”
There was indeed someone coming out of the melted door frame, stumbling, hurriedly, tired, carrying something precious within their arms close to his chest.
The men hurried, “Get water! Now!”
The figure stumbled to the ground, breaking their fall to protect the bundle it kept close to its person.
Coughing violently, they managed to speak.
“...take her....please...” He said between coughs.
“It’s the king! He’s alive! I need a nurse!” A solider cried out upon reaching him.
The last thing the King saw as the nurse took his daughter were green eyes and the taste of blood coating the insides of his mouth and lips as he coughed uncontrollably.
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you’re a fine girl - i
summary: Agent Whiskey would really like you to say his real name for once, and you refuse, playing this little game of his until he finally makes you say it. The circumstances for it aren’t exactly ideal, though.
word count: 3, 758
pairing: agent whiskey (Jack Daniels) x reader
warnings: canon-typical violence (and then some), swearing
a/n: Don’t ask me how the layout of Statesman HQ works. I really don’t know, and I’ve watched the movie to try and glean some more info, but I’ve decided, like many things, to bullshit it. This will have a predetermined length of three chapters!
chapters: i
Read this on AO3
You think it’s hilarious just how stereotypically American the Statesman agency was. Besides the front of it, a Bourbon whiskey distillery that just happens to have racehorses (you never understood that part) on a large expanse of land and have a large influence on the liquor industry all over the US, the agents that were a part of it were just so in-your-face full-blooded American. Hell, even your equipment reflected that, with electric lassos and souped-up sawed-off double barrel shotguns, to cowboy boots with razor sharp spurs and Stetsons designed for stealth and espionage. Statesman was 100% committed to proudly showing off their roots. But you couldn’t really shit on them too much since you were one of their agents as well. That would be severely discrediting you and the work you do.
Even if some of the agents teasingly call you a city-slicker.
Although you were a Statesman through and through like your mother before you, you had been raised on the less… southern half of the country because of where she was mainly stationed. Good ol’ New York was a whole different territory than Kentucky. She had still made sure you kept up with your training and be ready at a moment’s notice to take over for her. Statesman were proud of their line of agents, names often passed down from parent to child. Built in loyalty, you supposed, and a good way to keep an eye on those who knew secrets. As the world expanded and keeping the peace grew harder by the minute, they’ve strayed far from that tradition, and the organization grew to include people that had no prior connection to it. Your mom had been insistent she at least stay true to that part of Statesman, and often showed you how to watch over New York from the high rise building to groom you for the position in the future until you graduated from your unofficial codename of Ice Tea. But you had moved south to live on a small ranch a few miles from the distillery after she had died on a recon mission instead of staying up north in the concrete jungle. You inherited her position and her moniker as Agent Brandy, supervisor of the intelligence part of the agency and relocating to home base at the same time, but Agent Whiskey had taken up position up in New York in your stead.
Speaking of Whiskey, there he was, sauntering up to you with a smile playing on his lips as you flicked through reports on your tablet. You spare him a quick glance and a polite smile before you turn your attention back to the reports and mission debriefs, hoping that was enough to leave you alone, but instead he leans against your desk and crosses his arms, and you try your damndest not to look at how his arms make the seams on his jacket strain.
There’s no animosity between you and Whiskey at all, and you’ve said as much when Champagne informed him he would be taking over the New York territory instead of you. You didn’t feel guilty or mad or anything really that you decided to move closer to Statesman because it was your choice, and Whiskey had taken it in stride. You two were just doing your jobs, and that was all. You would even go to say that you were close friends with him, giving him pointers about the secrets of New York while he told you all the gossip about the other agents. The work he did would make your mother proud.
But why was he so insistent on hanging around at the Statesman headquarters in Kentucky so much?
“Your mission debrief isn’t scheduled until Tuesday, Agent Whiskey,” you say, eyes roving over your calendar before swiftly swiping it off your screen to pay closer attention to Tequila’s report. That man was awful with writing. Did he even have the spell check on? You click your tongue and run the editing software, intent on letting that run in the background while you browsed through various agent requests (there was Gin asking if you could fashion a 200 proof liquor), but Whiskey puts a hand on your tablet and pushes it out of your view.
“I know, sugar,” he says in that damn Southern accent that manages to make your ears burn. “Just thought I’d come down here to see my favorite intelligence supervisor.” You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that threatens to split your face. You turn your tablet off and put it down.
“Do you know many intelligence supervisors?” you ask, but your efforts to get him to leave are already an afterthought at the back of your mind. Every time you hold a conversation with him, the amalgamation of your New York and Southern accent sounds crass compared to the honeyed drawl of Whiskey. Two completely different regions. You suppose he might feel the same whenever he’s in New York. Perhaps you two had more in common than you had initially thought.
You’re off track. It’s maddening how easily he is able to pull a smile or a laugh from you and completely derail you. Even on the worst of your days, he’s able to ease you with just a reassuring smile or touch. Whiskey shrugs and shifts where he sits.
“You got me there,” he laughs. “But that don’t mean I can’t come see you, does it?” You rest your chin on your hand as you fiddle with your tablet pen. He’s trimmed his mustache, you note.
“I suppose it doesn’t, Agent Whiskey,” you say. Anytime he flies over to the Statesman HQ, you usually see him the same day he lands, if not, you’re the first thing he goes to see. It’s sweet.
“What does it take for me to convince you to call me Jack, sweetheart?” Whiskey asks, nearly whines, really. He’s been insisting you call him by his real name in private recently, insisting that you were far past those formalities.
“When you stop calling me those pet names of yours,” you retort back. He looks mock-offended.
“That’s never gonna happen,” Whiskey says. You raise an eyebrow.
“Then there you have your answer,” you say simply, and go to pick up your tablet again when it chimes, but Whiskey stops you and pushes it back down flat against the desk.
“You work too much,” he says, as if that was a decent enough reason to interrupt your work. “Pay some attention to me instead.”
“And I’m starting to think you don’t work enough,” you sigh, and slide the tablet out from under his hand and you turn it back on and check over the editing software. “God knows you spend enough time pestering me.” You don’t tell him that you don’t mind. In the hectic pace in your lives, Whiskey is a nice constant that you find yourself falling back on.
The software has managed to fix most of the typos and obvious grammar issues, but it’s mangled the nuances of Tequila’s informal writing. You sigh again and swipe the report onto your computer screen to manually edit it before you can send it to Champagne. Whiskey hops off of your desk, and he walks around it to lean over your shoulder to skim the report as well.
He’s close enough for you to smell his cologne. Smoky, mellow, and warm.
“Why don’t you just send that off to Ginger to edit? Or Soda?” he asks, voice rumbling in your ear. “‘m sure you have other things to do other than grade Tequila’s piss poor work.” You clear your throat and try your best not to become too distracted.
“They don’t have high enough clearance to read this report,” you answer. “Nor do I think they have the patience to. Besides, Ginger is tech and Soda is medical. They’d either shoot themselves or shoot me.” Whiskey laughs and leans in a little closer.
“But I have the clearance to read this as you edit?” he asks, voice low. “You flatter me, Brandy.” You blink, then gasp, whirling around in your chair and narrowly missing clipping his chin with the back of your chair as you push him away from you and back around your desk, smacking him as you do.
“You are a menace!” you exclaim. Whiskey just laughs, humoring you and letting you push him when it would be frightfully easy to just stand there. He blocks your hits and eventually grabs a hold of your wrists to stop you.
“You love it,” he says, and your face flushes as you try to scowl at him.
“Get out of my office so I can finish this report,” you order, pointing at the door. Whiskey pouts, but makes his way to the door.
“Yes, ma’am,” he sighs. He tips his hat at you. “You be a good girl while I’m gone, sweet thing,” he says in a sing-song voice, and the door clicks shut behind him before you can do some serious bodily harm to his person.
---
You don’t really know what constitutes being “a good girl”, and you don’t really have the chance to find out because you meet with Whiskey again a few hours after he had barged into your office when Champagne calls you up to discuss some technicalities that he had remained vague on.
It’s a short underground tube ride to the Statesman office building a few miles outside the distillery, and an even shorter elevator up to the top floor. Whiskey is already there when you walk in, so you go ahead and take a seat across from him, pulling up your notes in case anything important pops up. You give him a small wave, and he tips his hat at you with a smile. You turn to the man sitting at the head of the table.
“Well, Champ,” Whiskey says, “why’d you call us here?” Champagne fiddles with the lid of a decanter of whiskey before he smacks his lips together and leans back in his chair.
“Statesman is considering adding another location in California, and I need your expertise,” he announces. He motions to you. “Sent the plans to your tablet, Brandy, but here’s the gist.” The t.v. screen at the other end of the table switches from Statesman stocks to a blueprint of a high rise located in San Francisco, alongside some smaller buildings scattered over the city. “I’m planning on sending Chardonnay over to oversee construction, but this is only the third location to be located in such a large city.” You skim over the notes. Although they wouldn’t be building a distillery, there would be a sub-HQ over there, as well as some Statesman-sponsored bars to keep up surveillance. “The first one being New York, and the other in Nevada.”
“Is there something we should keep an eye on?” you ask, scrolling through various material requests. While the other could handle the usual materials, you would have to put in a special order for the military grade stuff. “What’s the occasion?” Champagne shrugs when you glance over your tablet.
“It’s been something I’ve been thinking about,” he says. “Stocks are doing good, and there's no looming threat- seems like a good time as any.” You nod.
“Then why us?” Whiskey asks. “I think Brandy is more than capable of handling this herself.” Champagne furrows his brows.
“You are in charge of our New York office, aren’t you?”
“Brandy grew up preparing to take over for it,” Whiskey says.
“Well--”
“He’s right, sir,” you pipe in. “Whiskey’s about to go in for a mission anyways. There’s no point loading his already full plate. I can handle it.” Champagne presses his mouth in a hard line, but eventually taps the table.
“Alright then. Brandy, I’ll let Chardonnay know you’ll be taking part in it so he can refer to you with questions. Agents, you’re dismissed.”
Whiskey moves for the door, but pauses when you don’t follow him. You wave him off. “I’ll catch up with you; just need to talk to Champagne about something.” He nods, and leaves. You back around to face Champagne with narrowed eyes. “What are you up to, old man?” He tilts his head and pours some whiskey into his glass.
“What do you mean?”
“Bringing Whiskey into this,” you clarify. “You know I can handle this project by myself; why try to rope him in?”
“Thought it be a good experience,” Champagne says, taking a sip and swishing it around his mouth before he turns to spit it out into the spitoon. You wrinkle your nose.
“For Whiskey?”
“For the both of you,” he corrects. “Whiskey gets to learn more about the technical aspects, you get to, well, spend time with him.” You raise an eyebrow.
“And I want to spend time with him because…?”
“Don’t you know?” Champagne asks. You shake your head.
“What? We’re good friends, but we’ve got different jobs,” you say. “So I don’t see a reason why I should be spending time with him outside of what’s necessary.” Champagne just hums with a pensive look on his face.
“Alright then, girl.” He waves a hand at you. “Off to work.” And Champagne doesn’t elaborate any further.
---
You are far too busy trying to sort out the semantics of some sort of stirrings of a coup on a Chilean website to go and debrief Whiskey when Tuesday rolls around, so you send Ginger in your stead. She accepts without complaint, but you can see how she frowns when you tell her so. You’ve never gotten the details as to why the two never seem to get along, but Ginger is the most capable person you can think of to take care of things when you’re not able to.
It takes you a solid 45 minutes to try and go through the Chilean Spanish compared to the Castilian variant you know, but you determine that the rumors of a coup bears no real weight and all it is are empty threats despite the traction it’s gained so far. You suppose you could’ve run the translation, but there were too many nuances and codes that couldn’t be translated over. Just to be sure, you set up a surveillance bot to continue to track the progress and alert you if anything significant happens. By the time you do, Ginger walks in, looking a little frazzled. You frown. “You good, Liz?” Ginger just puts down the debrief folder on your desk as she plops down in the chair across from you. You raise an eyebrow, but slide the folder over and survey the notes she’s taken during the debrief. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just Whiskey complaining that he has to fly to Spain to deal with some black market firearms dealers that have gotten too confident. Apparently last time he was there, some sailors tried to swindle him. There’s some quotes of his with choice words in the margins saying so, accompanied by a doodle of him with an angry expression. “Whiskey give you a hard time?” you guess. She nods and takes off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose.
“I honestly don’t understand how you can stand him sometimes,” she says. You shrug.
“He treats me fine, if not a little persistent,” you note mildly. Ginger snorts and puts her glasses back on. “Hasn’t given me a reason to dislike him. Yet.”
“That’s ‘cause he likes you,” she says. Your stomach flutters at her comment. Then after a moment of pondering, Ginger says, “Think he was in a bad mood because you weren’t the one debriefing him.” You frown.
“Would it have mattered if I did?” you ask. “You’re perfectly capable.”
“It’s not capability,” Ginger sighs, leaning forward and resting her forearms on your desk. The motion jostles the cup of pens on your desk and you reach to adjust it back to its place. You click a few things on your computer to pull up the flight details for Whiskey. Scheduled for 5:50pm, an overnight flight that lands in a remote location in Madrid where then he would be promptly escorted to Andalucia.
You wonder if he’ll come visit you before he leaves.
You shake the thought out of your head before you go back to look at Ginger, who’s looking at you curiously. “If not capability, then what?” you ask, fighting to keep down the blush that’s threatening to overtake your face.
“You really don’t know?” she asks, almost critically. You furrow your brows. There’s that question again.
“Is there something I should know?”
Before Ginger can answer, a knock resounds at your door. You give Ginger an apologetic look before you call out, “Come in!” You don’t know why you’re surprised, but it’s Whiskey, again, with a bright smile on his face before his eyes darken at the sight of Ginger. She bristles.
“I’ll see you later,” she says, reaching over and giving your hand a small pat before she gets up to brush past Whiskey, and she closes the door behind you. Whiskey seems to relax at that, and takes the seat she was in.
“If you’re here to complain about going to Spain, Agent Whiskey, I can’t do anything about it,” you immediately say before he can get a word in. He takes off his hat and puts it on your desk, running a hand through his hair.
“I wasn’t here to complain,” Whiskey says, chuckling. “You wound me, Brandy.” He puts a hand over his heart and stares at you with a woefully sad face, looking at you with big, warm brown eyes, akin to a kicked puppy. “Missed my favorite intelligence supervisor at the debriefing.” You throw a pen at him, but he just catches it and puts it in with the rest without breaking eye contact.
“Doubt you’re here just to see me,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be packing for your flight?”
“I’ve got time,” Whiskey says. “If I remember correctly, it’s not until 6:00. Gives me a little under 2 hours until I gotta leave.”
“5:50,” you correct him automatically. “So less than that. You’ll wanna leave in an hour or so to account for traffic.” The grin that spreads across his face makes your heart beat a little faster.
“You keepin’ track of when I’m ‘bout to leave?” he purrs, leaning forward. You scoff, but think in the back of your mind that there’s some truth to that.
“I’m the one that booked your flight with Triple Sec,” you say dryly. “Be weird if I didn’t know what time exactly, Agent Whiskey.” Whiskey hums, but leans back in his chair and spreads his legs in an almost obscene matter that leaves you thrumming in your skin.
“Jack,” he says.
“Hm?”
“My name is Jack.” You laugh.
“I know what your name is, Agent,” you say. “It’s kinda my job to know everybody. Feel like we’ve already talked about this about a million times by now.”
“Still, it’d be nice to hear you say it,” he says, almost absentmindedly as he picks at his nails, brows furrowed in a vulnerable expression. Your face falls at his soft tone. To be honest, your refusal to say his name was more because you perceived it as a game. Whiskey would press you to actually call him by his name, and you would coyly refuse, and he would leave with a promise that he would get you to say it one way or another. But something is clearly bugging him.
You reach a hand forward, towards him, touching the other edge of your desk. Close enough for him to reach for it. His gaze snaps to your hand, and something tells you that Whiskey wants to. There is some kind of longing in his eyes that the firm, hard line of his mouth is trying its hardest not to betray. “You okay?” Whiskey’s fingers twitch. Something holds him back.
He clears his voice, forcing a smile on his face, and the moment is broken. “Right as rain, sugar,” he says. “Pre-mission jitters, I suppose.” You suppose that’s not totally unwarranted. Whiskey would be going on into the field on his own due to the delicacy of the mission, the only backup available being Triple Sec piloting the plane. And, well, Whiskey didn’t exactly blend in with the typical Madrid population with his loud voice and louder personality. Statesman didn’t have a base out in Europe either. You give him a reassuring smile, and you try not to think too hard at how the tension seems to melt out of him at that.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” you soothe. You retract your hand, and honestly at this point it seems as though Agent Whiskey has taken up permanent residence in your mind because you swear you spot some sort of deep emotion as his eyes trail after it. “Just like you always do, Whiskey.” The muscles in Whiskey’s jaw work as he clenches his teeth together before he claps his hands and stands up, that same charming smile on his face but not quite reaching his eyes.
“Well I suppose that is some improvement!” he says. You tilt your head.
“What do you mean?” Whiskey pulls the flask off his belt and takes a swig.
“Got you to say my codename without all the preamble, now, didn’t I?” he says, winking at you. You stammer and flush red with embarrassment. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Now before you start wailing on me like last time,” he says, “I’ll see myself out. Like you said, I still need to pack. I’ll see if I can bring back a souvenir for you while I’m across the pond.” You cross your arms.
“That won’t be necessary.” Whiskey shrugs and heads for the door.
“Can’t stop me, can you?” You smile at him.
“Guess not,” you say, almost to yourself, then your gaze falls to his hat still sitting on your desk. “Wait, Whiskey, your--” He holds up a hand.
“Hold on to it while I’m gone, ‘kay?” he asks. You nod. “Good girl. Give me something to look forward to when I come back.” You make a motion to grab a pen, bursting out laughing when he moves to catch it when you feign a throw. He smiles, too, more genuinely this time. “See you in a couple days, darling.”
And you can’t help but start to miss him when the door clicks shut behind him.
---
Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore
#agent whiskey x reader#agent whiskey reader#agent whiskey x you#whiskey x reader#whiskey x you#whiskey reader#jack daniels x reader#jack daniels x you#jack daniels reader#jack daniels you#kingsman reader#kingsman#agent whiskey#whiskey#jack daniels#kingsman the golden circle#my writing
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The Crossover Nobody Asked For (VenturianTale and Milo Murphy’s Law)
“Oh, this place is horrid,” Cavendish says, looking out the window as the van rolls into town. “This is barely an upgrade from garbage duty.”
“So there’s a lot of damage. Maybe they’ve just a Murphy in town and no budget,” Dakota says with a shrug.
“... I suppose that’s a possibility. But I don’t believe Milo has mentioned any family living in North Carolina. Especially not a place with a name like... ugh.”
“Come on, say it,” Dakota says, already almost laughing.
“... Butts, Little Butts,” Cavendish sighs.
Dakota laughs, slapping the steering wheel.
“Who even named this place?! And who would live here-”
“WHOA!”
Dakota slams on the breaks as someone runs right out in front of the van.
“It went this way! Come on, Johnny!” a short man in a gray hoodie shouts behind him.
A tall man in a rather fancy outfit jogs into view. “I’m coming, sir! But I-I’ve been stabbed in the leg-”
“IT’S GETTING AWAY- oh, you!”
The short man runs up to the window of Cavendish and Dakota’s van. “Hey! Give us your vehicle!”
Cavendish is slightly taken aback. “Wh- we most certainly shall not!”
“Oh, he’s British! Johnny, come communicate with him in your British tongue!”
“What the devil-”
“Hello, there. I’m Johnny Toast. May we please use you vehicle?”
“More British, Johnny.”
“Oh, right sir, um, tea and crumpets, may we use your vehicle, um, Doctor Who, ah, my grandmother is the Queen of England.”
“... Just drive, Dakota.”
Dakota waves at the two men, and drives away. They hear the short one scream in frustration.
“This town is deplorable,” Cavendish says.
“We’ve only met two people, maybe it’s not so bad,” Dakota points out. “And we haven’t even been to any restaurants yet.”
“Given the state of some of these buildings, I advise against eating anything from here.”
“When has that ever stopped me?”
“Mmm, true.”
They finally arrive at their destination. A shockingly normal looking house, out in the suburbs.
“Well, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.” Cavendish seems hopeful as the van is parked.
“Yeah, see? We just happened to run across two weirdos. Now let’s find that alien signal Mr. Block sent us here for.”
“I’ll grab the scanner, you introduce us,” Cavendish says, opening the back of the van.
Dakota nod sand heads up to the front door. He rings the doorbell, and waits.
“GERTRUDE! SOMEONE’S AT THE DOOR!”
“I HEARD IT, I’M MAKIN’ DINNER!”
“KIDS!”
Dakota winces. Oh boy, so the people who live here are... loud, to say the least.
“WHERE’RE THE KIDS, GERTRUDE?”
“BILLY IS HIDING FROM MADDIE AND SALLY IS ON A DATE WITH SLENDER! SUE IS SOMEWHERE IN THE MALL!”
Dakota waits a moment, and then rings again.
He hears a heavy sigh. A moment later, the door swings open, and Dakota shouts and stumbles back.
A large man stands in the door, holding a shotgun. With his bald head, beard, and very angry expression, he looks like exactly the type of person you don’t want to bother in the middle of the day.
“Who the heck ‘re you?” he demands in... some kind of... southern? accent.
“Uh...”
“Dakota, have you- oh, hello, are you the resident who lives here?”
Cavendish is either ignoring the shotgun, or hasn’t noticed it yet, somehow.
“Yeah, this is my house, so what’re you doing here?”
“Well, we’ve been sent by an agency-”
“Are you some more of them P.I.E people? I told ya to quit comin’ to my house, you only make the problems worse!”
“P.I.E? No, we’re with an agency called P.I.G-”
“Paranormal Investigators Gourmet?! I don’t remember hirin’ you!”
“... Gourmet- no! No, we’re with the Paranormal Investigation Group-”
“How many ghost huntin’ groups are there?!” the man shouts, presumably in frustration, though a slight bit of laugh slips into his voice.
“... We deal with aliens,” Cavendish says, unsure what else to say.
“Aliens? I KNEW IT! GERTRUDE, I TOLD YA! I TOLD YA THAT THING WAS FROM THEM ALIENS!”
“GOOD JOB, HONEY, YOU DID IT!”
“YEAH! I DID IT, I DID IT!Aw, you can come right on in, provin’ me right. You’re a lot less annoyin’ than the P.I.E people, they’re always talkin’ and sayin’ I’m wrong and not to shoot the ghosts, but they shoot ghosts too so I don’t know what they’re talkin’ about-”
“He’s just talking to himself now,” Dakota whispers to Cav as they follow the man into the house.
Cavendish nods. Maybe this won’t go as well as he’d hoped... He clears his throat. “May we ask for you name, my good man?”
The man stops, and turns around. “My name! Is PAPA ACACHALLA!”
Dakota snorts.
“Why’re you laughin? That’s my name! It’s a great name! Means ‘whole dang universe’!”
“No, no, it’s just I never thought we’d find a more made-up sounding name than his,” Dakota says, pointing his thumb at Cavendish.
“I beg your pardon?!”
“Well, what’s his name?” Acachalla demands, pointing at Cavendish with the shotgun way too casually.
Dakota pushes the barrel of the gun away. “Go ahead, Cav.”
Cav crosses his arms. “Balthazar Cavendish.”
"HA! You British people have the weirdest names! Like that Toast boy! Anyway, the alien thing is out here. Officer Maloney came to look at it, but it isn’t one of his things, and I can’t figure out how to move it! I’ve tried C4, a tractor, Freddie, a nuke-”
“A nuke?!”
“- an’ none of it even dented the thing!”
“Yeah, can we go back to nuke?” Dakota says, eyes wide.
“Too late, we’re here.”
Dakota and Cavendish blink.
Cavendish’s eye twitches “It’s a-”
“It’s a giant metal Kirby,” Dakota finishes.
“Yeah! I don’t want it in my yard! My daughter says it feels like it’s mockin’ her from when she was a Kirby!”
“What in blazes are you- this is no alien technology! This is some kind of... bad sculpture!” Cavendish shouts.
“It dropped right out of the sky!” Acachalla protests. “Maloney said it was alien, and he would know! He’s a bird!”
“A bir- you said he was a police officer!”
“He is! And he’s a bird! Who can be a person!”
Cavendish is fuming. “Dakota, call Mr. Block and tell him we’ve been lead on a wild goose chase!”
Dakota sighs, and heads inside to make the call (for some reason, he can’t get a signal from the yard).
“There’s no wild goose around here! Not after that nuke test, anyway!”
“There’s no possible way you set off a nuke here! This house is still intact, you’re still alive, and there’s no residual radiation in the area!”
“So?”
“SO?! SO THERE WAS NO NUCLEAR EXPLOSION!”
“I don’t think you know how nukes work!”
“YOU-”
“Cav, calm down, he’s holding a gun,” Dakota says in a hissed whisper.
Cavendish takes a deep breath, and collects himself. “Clearly, Mr. Acachalla-”
“Papa Acachalla. My title is Papa.”
“I steadfastly refuse to refer to you as ‘Papa’. Mr. Acachalla, there’s been some sort of mix-up, and this is not alien in-”
The mouth of the Kirby opens, and a being steps out.
“Excuse me, but our craft was broken, and we just got the doors working,” says the being (that looks... weirdly like a... Pokemon?).
“I KNEW IT!” Acachalla shouts. He shoots his gun up into the air, and starts ‘dancing’ (to use the term loosely). “I KNEW IT, I KNEW IT, PAPA ACACHALLA, I KNEW IT-”
Cavendish stares, dumbfounded. “You- you’re actually an alien?”
The alien nods. “Yup, I am!”
“... You sound remarkably human.”
“Thanks! So do you!”
“... Thank you?”
“Do you happen to know where we can get some materials to repair our ship?”
“Well, I suppose I might. What do you need?”
“Macaroni.”
“... What-”
“Hey, we’ve got that!” Acachalla says, stopping his little song and dance. “Just don’t tell the cops. It’s Johnny Toast brand, too, really strong stuff.”
“... Why would macaroni need to be hidden from the cops?” Cavendish asks weakly, shoulders slumped. This is ridiculous, and he feels... defeated, in a way.
“Uh, ‘cause it’s illegal?” Acachalla says with a laugh. “Duh?”
Acachalla leads the alien inside, and-
“WHY’RE YOU EATIN’ OUR MACARONI?!”
Dakota looks up from his bowl. “Uh, your wife offered me some-”
“GERTRUDE, WHAT’RE YOU THINKIN’?! THAT’S OUR GOOD MACARONI!”
A woman in a green sweater peeks out from the kitchen. “Well, he said he was hungry, and it was either this or your old boot!”
“That boot is high in protein!”
“That’s why I’m savin’ it for the kids!”
Dakota puts down his fork. “I think your macaroni went bad, actually, I don’t feel so good...”
Acachalla rolls his eyes. “Duh, you don’t! Have you ever even had macaroni before?!”
Dakota looks up. “Somethin’s weird here...” he slurs.
“Wh- what have you done to him?!” Cavendish pushes Acachalla aside and rushes to Dakota.
“It’s macaroni! It makes the world all wiggly and weird!” Acachalla says, like that’s at all true and common knowledge.
Dakota laughs a little, reaching up to grab Cavendish’s hat. “You’re way taller th’n I remember,” he says, still slurring.
“That is it! We are leaving!”
Cavendish picks Dakota up bridal-style. Dakota grins, and leans up, giving Cavendish a peck on the lips. “Wow, I can stretch really far...”
Cavendish blushes intensely. “That macaroni has clearly intoxicated my partner! You’ll be hearing from the higher-ups over this!” he says, trying to ignore what just happened.
“I think ‘m flying,” Dakota declares as Cavendish carries him back out to the van.
“Dakota, you’re delirious. Just rest until we get home.”
“I feel fine,” Dakota insists, head lolling. “You’re the one who turned into a tomato when I kissed you. From a leek to a tomato...”
“A leek? Is that because of my suit?”
“You’re a-a leek with fluffy wings.”
Cavendish buckles Dakota in. “What on Earth-”
“Like a vegetable angel.”
Cavendish blushes again. “This is terrible. you have no idea what you’re saying,” he says, trying to affirm that fact in his mind.
“You’re a tomato again. Whoa, my hand is made of fresh fries...”
“No, they’re just yellow because they’re covered in cheese.”
Dakota grins. “Smarty-pants.”
As Cavendish goes to shut the door, Dakota grabs him again and gives him another kiss. A long one. Cavendish is in shock.
“You don’t taste like a leek,” Dakota says afterwards, apparently incredibly happy about that fact.
Cavendish, blushing more than he thought was possible, gets in the driver’s seat and starts the car. “We’re never returning here,” he mutters to himself.
Dakota waves at the house as they drive away.
#VenturianTale#milo murphy's law#Dakavendish#Vinnie Dakota#balthazar cavendish#papa acachalla#Johnny Ghost#Johnny Toast#drugs tw#drugs mention#intoxication tw#hallucination tw#fanfic#my attempts at fanfic
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Kiss With A Fist
For Twitter user @/Milk_Guts! They wanted Cryptage with heavy, heavy impact play. So please be sure to read the warnings on this before proceeding!
Summary: Could you really blame Elliott for wanting to watch his boyfriend look so grumpy and focused whilst he made sure enemies weren't nearby? Okay, so maybe you COULD blame him for the loss and them getting stuck in third place when he was more interested fantasizing about said grumpy boyfriend holding a gun to his face to make him suck on the barrel-- BUT. No hard feelings, right?...Right, Crypto...honey...?
Reblogs > Likes. It costs zero dollars to reblog the fics you like :D
Minors and ageless blogs dni or you will be blocked.
Fandom: Apex Legends
Relationship: Crypto/Mirage
Warnings: NSFT/R18+, Impact play, slapping and punching someone for sexual pleasure, blood, bruising, Crypto slaps Mirage’s face and punches him, consensually ofc and with aftercare, derogatory language used like ‘pathetic’.
Words: 3.8k
____________________
When Elliott ended up in a duo with his boyfriend, some things just never changed.
Like getting distracted at how seriously handsome Crypto’s face always was. They’re hiding in one of the tall buildings in one of the sectors of World’s Edge. It gave Elliott time to watch, he thinks. Like how Crypto’s brow is furrowed, concentration on his face as he rests crouched behind a wall and making sure to tag nearby enemies. The visor over his eyes always made him look so pretty with the soft, green glow to his features. And yeah, maybe Elliott quietly got distracted because of it, could you blame him?
Where Crypto’s was illuminated in green, his eyes reflecting the color from dark pools. His lashes casting small shadows onto his sharp cheekbones, full lips tugged into a frown as his eyes flicker and focus on the task of flying Hack. Elliott is practically heart eyes watching him, hardly catching what Crypto’s huffing except for the tail end of, “-emy over there. Close by.”
“Huh?” Elliott responds in a sort of starstruck manner, watching Crypto come out of his crouch and visor falling away from his face. There’s a moment where they make eye contact, where Crypto is very aware of his boyfriend leaning over the railing just to stare at him without even a weapon in hand.
Oops.
~Rest under the cut~
“Focus, Mirage.” Crypto huffs coldly, brushing past him and shouldering his flatline as he heads down the building. Elliott really can’t help the bright smile that goes across his face when he watches Crypto walk ahead. Especially when his coat flutters in such a way Elliott can get a peek at that perfectly sculpted ass in his pants.
What? He had his priorities.
“I am focused! Focused as I could ever possibly be! More focused than that time we were—woah-ho-ho, yes, sir. Sheesh.” Elliott starts to go off, only to pause when Crypto whips around mid-sentence, holding a finger to his lips to remind him to be quiet. The term ‘sir’ makes Crypto’s eyes flash dangerously, that certain look he got that sent pleasant shivers all across Elliott’s body.
A look he got that said Elliott was in for it if he didn’t pull together his act.
Right, but, a match was a match. Crypto was right to tell him off. He really had to start focusing on other things other than how handsome Crypto looked when he was pissed. And wielding a dangerous weapon. And what he could do...with that..dangerous weapon. Let alone his hands just as is-
The alarm sounding of the reminder of the ring closing is the only thing that takes his mind out of it. Quickly picking up his pace to match behind Crypto as they dip between buildings for loot and to peek around for any enemy squads.
As is, they were doing pretty well. Seven squads left. Crypto had four kills scored, heavy damage under his belt. While Elliott was proud to say he had four to match, with a pick up of Crypto under his belt as well. A knock that, well, TECHNICALLY was Elliott’s fault to begin with for not paying attention, but they weren’t going to discuss that.
It isn’t until they’re in top three and Elliott’s ‘not paying attention’ gets them in third place. It totally is his fault, he’ll admit to that, but the angrier Crypto seemed to get, the hotter Elliott started to feel. It got to the point where all he could think about was Crypto holding the barrel of his weapon to his mouth and snarling for him to lick and be a good boy. So deep in his fantasy he failed to hear the callout of ‘get to cover’.
Their trip to the locker rooms after a quick trip to the medical bay is filled with deathly quiet silence.
Elliott’s mind starts to drift as he stands in the stream of a shower, hearing Crypto start up the shower stall next to his. Separated by thick walls of tile. He starts to worry Crypto was actually pissed, not just that small grumpy way he got. He’s already conjuring up apologies in his head, maybe even offering to make dinner- go out for drinks? No, Crypto didn’t like going out- stay in for drinks? Would he want him to give him a massage maybe? Yeah! That’s a good idea, Crypto always was a sucker for-
“WOAH-HEY-” Elliott yelps out when a body slides up behind his, promptly shut up when a hand smacks over his mouth. He’s deathly still when he feels a naked body behind his, but the familiar shape and fit of the frame make him relax. Especially when there’s a soft, familiar ‘shhh’ in his ear heard past the pounding of the warm water over him.
The hand stays over Elliott’s mouth, the other tracing down over his chest to thumb over a nipple briefly. Nails slowly sliding down his abdomen to where his cock had gotten about half mast when he’d started to worry Crypto was actually mad at him. A whimper erupts from his throat, tipping his head to the side when Crypto’s teeth nip at his ear softly.
In public? Here? In the locker room? Sure, the stalls were fully covered but- Crypto was all about privacy! Even to the point Elliott made sure to even call him Crypto in his head, just so he didn’t slip up in public! Public was kind of his own thing, a quiet fantasy-
Calloused fingers squeezing his balls about make Elliott go cross eyed. A whine trying to break past the hand clamped over his mouth. He’s fully ready for a shower fuck, but Crypto grunts in his ear, “I am still angry with you from earlier. Consider this a...an apology before the storm.”
He pauses there, his hand coming up, tracing his nails on the underside of Elliott’s hard cock. Wrapping his fingers around the base to squeeze as he growls into his ear, “I am going to make you bleed, Witt, do you understand me?”
Oh?
Oh.
Elliott’s face is burning red at the idea. His heart racing as he thinks about what Crypto meant. Guns? Knives? Was he going to hit him? It’s not as if they hadn’t done impact play before, albeit Crypto had more fun with slapping his ass and grabbing his face roughly than doing anything that could make him bleed or bruise too badly.
Realizing Crypto’s waiting for a response, Elliott nods to his best ability to agree to the quiet agreement of consent. Though, he’s disappointed when Crypto releases him, only able to toss a look over his shoulder to catch Crypto’s beauty marked, fit back leave the stall to his own.
Fuck.
Elliott’s head drops, looking at his poor neglected dick standing to attention. Fat and hard against his thigh and over sensitive from the warm water. He knew better than to touch- especially when Crypto was the one in the mood to take charge for the night. It would just result in something worse like a chastity cage.
A moan parts from his lips at the idea, having to shakily prop himself up against a nearby wall before his knees buckled.
Oh, he was in for it.
--
When Elliott gets back to his room, there’s only a moment where Crypto gives him time to think over his consent. He’s standing in only tight black pants, his necklaces, and combat boots. Elliott himself in a loose v-neck t-shirt and sweatpants.
Crypto circles him like prey when he murmurs, “I plan to hurt you. I shall take care of you after, as I always do,” His hand traces over Elliott’s side then, just a gentle touch that leaves him whimpering. “But, I plan to punish you for your distractions in the arena. If at any point it becomes too much, you stop me, am I understood?”
There’s that tinge of concern in his voice as he circles towards Elliott’s back. He knows he’s got that expression on where he’s second guessing himself, where he’s wondering if he’s going to cross a line into territory Elliott isn’t enthusiastically hard for in these very moments. Elliott nods quickly to reassure him he’s very, very into this. “Y-yeah. Yes. You’re understood. It’s okay, baby, seriously, I can take pain. Hurt me- please?”
He says it in his prettiest of voices too. Delighted in the swear he hears behind him quietly and feeling a little more than proud of himself. He’s about to start begging again, pleading for Crypto to just slap him, punch him, hurt him-
The swift kick to the backs of his knees sends Elliott slamming down onto them. He grunts, feeling Crypto’s fingers twist into his curls and yank his head back until he’s near in a perfect arch. He’s looking up at Crypto, who is looking back down at him with a sneer on his face, lips pursed, and a furrow to his brow.
So pretty.
“Stay.” Is all he says, a snarl to his face as he releases Elliott’s hair. Elliott is already leaking in his pants by now, his hips rolling into nothing as Crypto comes around to his front. Normally he’d obey with ease, normally he’d want to be good to get on Crypto’s good side in the rare occasions he was confident enough to do this. To have control.
However, he wants to see just how serious Crypto was. So, Elliott rolls his shoulders, sitting up and moving his head to fall forward.
Immediately he feels the repercussion. A loud slap resounds as the back of Crypto’s hand makes impact on his left cheek. A thrill shoots through Elliott, his head moving with the motion and a grunt leaving his throat.
“Perhaps you did not hear me. I said stay.” Crypto’s voice is a low, dangerous growl. Sent straight to Elliott’s dick that twitches heavily once in his loose pants. He has to fight the urge to smile, but he must not fight it hard enough, his lips twitching upwards as he rolls his head right back up.
“Make me- AH !” Elliott hardly gets out even a quarter of his taunt before his other cheek is slapped. His jaw is grabbed, nailed pressing into his flesh and making him hiss as his face is manipulated and moved to look up at Crypto. He’s leaned down, near nose to nose with Elliott with the angriest expression on his face he thinks he’s ever seen him wear.
It’s unfairly hot.
Their lips collide in a heated kiss. Fit with Crypto making sure to bite down hard enough on Elliott’s lower lip to bleed and hurt. He whines at the pain, his hands coming up to try and grip at Crypto’s shoulders, but before he can even get close, he’s getting headbutt and thrown back down to the floor.
When his back hits the floor, Crypto is climbing on top of him instantly. Pinning him by straddling his hips and digging his knees into Elliott’s hands to keep them flat to the floor. He has the gall to wipe his mouth off with the back of his hand, wiping off the saliva and blood. Leaving Elliott to bleed with his lips shiny and wet, licking over them to taste Crypto left on them and the heavy taste of copper.
Elliott can’t help the grin that splits across his face when he can finally make out the image of Crypto on top of him. Anger across his features and his hand grabbing Elliott’s jaw again to keep him still. “Are you sorry for what you have done?” Crypto snarls, squeezing his jaw tight enough to make Elliott grunt softly.
But he doesn’t fold.
“Should I apologize for admiring how pretty you a--?” His question is cut off just like he thought it would be, the hand holding his jaw snapping back and slapping him across the face again with an open palm. A cry leaves his lips from the pain, but his body betrays him when his hips press upwards against Crypto’s ass with a desperation to ease the aching.
Another slap is hit on his other cheek to even out the pain. The stinging making Elliott’s head hit the floor, his back arching and a twisted moan leaving his throat as his hips try to fuck upwards again like a horny dog. A hand wrapping around his throat only serves to make him whine, pleas spilling from his lips.
“Hurt me, baby, please, please, please- please, you can do worse, I know you can, c’mon- fuck me- you’re so hot like this-” Elliott’s practically sobbing out, tears already pricking his eyes and a few curling down his cheeks. Only serving to make where there must be a split in one feel more like a sting.
Crypto’s hips grinding downwards only help in being a distraction before a harder hit is slammed into the meat of his other cheek. A solid punch that knocks his head to the side and makes Elliott’s cock jerk with one last desperate hump upwards without thinking about it through the pain. Just suddenly waves of pleasure overtaking him as he cums in his own pants. All from getting punched. Humping upwards as best as he can to try and get stimulation through it and pleading with Crypto to hit him harder.
Man, he should maybe talk to someone about that.
“You’re pathetic, old man.” Crypto sneers out as if he’s disgusted. Only making Elliott moan out at the wave of humiliation creeping down his spine. He shakes his head without thinking, his jaw getting grabbed and trying to look through his bleary eyes at Crypto’s face.
Crypto’s face betrays how he thinks about this situation. Despite the angry expression he’s wearing, his face is burning bright red across his cheeks. His lips parted to breathe heavier and his own pants straining with how hard he is. One glance downwards only makes embarrassment curl up Elliott’s spine, seeing the wet front of his own pants and feeling just how hard he still is.
There’s no relief or pause. Crypto’s moving, getting off Elliott’s body just to stand. His boot nudges between his legs, making Elliott hump upwards with a broken sob bursting from his lips and a wince echoing the motion. Crypto sneers again, a face that Elliott whimpers at, even more so when he hears Crypto growl out, “You look like a whore.”
For someone who didn’t normally use those sorts of words , it sounded like filth from his lips. Elliott can only sob brokenly, nodding in agreement and lifting his hips up as if to show his mess off more prominently.
As if to display what a whore he could be for Crypto.
There’s a rush after that. Crypto strips down to nothing except for the necklaces around his neck, Elliott’s pants tugged down to mid-thigh and his shirt yanked up and thrown somewhere else. He’s vaguely aware of cold lubricant being poured onto his wet cock, already hard and ready to go again, slick with his own cum and the head red from arousal.
He’s about to sputter about prep when Crypto straddles his hips again, reaching back to line him up with his hole that is...already prepped.
Oh, that sly fucking bastard- when Elliott was in the shower?!
He doesn’t even have the brain power to imagine Crypto shyly holding his own leg open to fuck himself open with his fingers while he waited. Only able to feel how Crypto sinks down onto him with ease, his nails digging into Elliott’s chest and a beautiful whine erupting from his lips.
Elliott manages to tune back into the world just to see Crypto’s facial expression. Where his head rolls to the side, eyes closed blissfully with just a small knit to his brow. How his shoulders are taut and his cock rests over Elliott’s bare abdomen. He looks so flushed, so pretty. Elliott almost compliments him, but quickly thinks against it when there’s a loud thrum on his cheek of where he’d been punched.
Pressing his hands to the floor, Elliott makes the most miserable sound in his throat when the thrum of pain from his cheek and the oversensitivity of his cock hits him. He groans, hips trying to come up as if he couldn’t figure out whether to push himself deeper into Crypto or to try and buck him off. He feels like he’s swimming in sub space right now, his head lolling to the side and a moan blossoming from his lips when he feels Crypto grab his jaw.
It’s still rough, forcing his attention up to him. Crypto’s lips are moving, but Elliott can’t hear him over the sound of his own whimpering and the way his head is full of pleasure and pain all at once. Feeling Crypto’s hips move, riding him earnestly. But Elliott does manage to tune into the question, spoken so softly , “Color?”
“Green!” He cries out near instantly, a sob wracking his chest when Crypto’s fingers squeeze his jaw tighter where he knows bruises have already formed.
He must look a mess. Dried blood on his bitten lip and undoubtedly some on his chin, his cheeks reddened from being slapped and his left cheek bruised up and purple from being punched. Wet, fat tears stay in his eyes and trail down his cheeks, flushed lips parted and letting out pathetic sounds. He thought he must look pathetic, helpless.
Crypto thought he’d never looked more beautiful.
Elliott almost wants Crypto to hit him again, to be cruel longer, but he knows that this as is was a huge step for him to being rougher. Control was something Crypto struggled with, and this even was a big feat of its own. So, when he manages to focus on Crypto’s face to see it’s relaxed and no longer angry, the small furrow of pleasure to his brow; He knows that no more pain will come to him.
A moan tumbles out of Elliott’s lips before he can think, his hips humping upwards into every downwards rock of Crypto’s body. “F-fuck, baby. Fuck, you’re so hot- you were so h-hot. Extr - extrao —extra—great! Fuck, you’re so tight-” Elliott’s a sobbing mess under him, toes curling into the floor and moving his arms up towards Crypto without thinking.
Thankfully, Crypto follows the motion. Letting his body come down, resting one forearm by Elliott’s head to keep himself up. His other hand cups the back of Elliott’s head to draw him to the crook of his neck. Elliott’s arms are quick to wrap around his torso, nails digging into Crypto’s back as he rides his cock in desperate little rocks.
Crypto’s always relatively quiet, it was always a goal for Elliott to try and make him sing aloud. But even the small grunt and quiet, shaky breath in his ear is enough for Elliott. Even more so when he’s huffing out quietly into Elliott’s ear, “My name. Say it. My n-name-”
And Elliott is more than happy to sob it repeatedly like the good boy he is, with shaking cries of, “Tae Joon- Tae Joon, baby- fuck, oh God, T-Tae--” Over sensitive and high strung, he cums again, hands scrabbling to grab Crypto’s ass to hold him still to fuck up into him without thinking.
The constant stream of Crypto’s mother tongue mumbling near his ear only makes it better. Hearing the tight hitch in Crypto’s throat, then the quiet, almost pained grunt when he cums. Feeling how Crypto’s cock jerks heavily between them without even being touched and spilling cum onto Elliott’s abdomen.
There’s the brief moment where they just lie there on the floor catching their breaths. But Crypto doesn’t linger too long, gently prying Elliott from his body and helping him up and onto the bed instead.
Elliott doesn’t mind being manhandled, flopping onto the soft sheets and watching Crypto’s retreating form head to the bathroom. Especially when he gets to see the lines of red on his back and cum dribble from his ass down his thighs.
It takes two minutes for him to return looking way more cleaned up than Elliott. He’s got ice in a bag from the kitchen, a wet wash cloth, and a jar of salve in his hands. Climbing up onto the bed beside him and rolling his eyes when Elliott just beams brightly up at him like a lovestruck fool.
No words are exchanged yet as Crypto focuses more on cleaning him up. The wash cloth is used first to wipe up the blood from his mouth, then to gently wipe off his abdomen and hip area, taking care of his sensitive, soft dick. The cold fabric makes Elliott whine, but he takes it all in stride.
The salve is gently massaged into wherever there was bruises, on his jawline, cheeks, gingerly touching over where he’d punched him before guiding Elliott’s hand up so he could hold the ice there.
A gentle, chaste kiss is pressed to his lips, more aimed towards where Elliott was bitten. He can’t help but make a sad noise when Crypto parts too soon, resulting in an eye roll from him, “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Would you love me any other way?” Elliott grins, earning him another kiss that he gladly accepts. It’s soft, a bit of an awkward angle due to him holding the ice to his cheek, but they make it work.
When Crypto parts, he brushes back Elliott’s hair affectionately from his face, pushing the curls to the side to softly trace his fingers down. He cups Elliott’s cheek not covered in ice, his lips trying to form the right words as his cheeks dust red. He’s struggling, and Elliott’s about to tell him he doesn’t have to say anything, but it comes out quietly of, “T...Thank you. For letting me try this.”
“Oooh, I get a thanks for letting you beat the shit out of me for fun?” Elliott playfully replies back, earning him a playful push at his chest that makes him laugh hard enough to hurt. “Okay! Okay, I’m sorry! You’re welcome.”
Satisfied with that answer, Crypto pecks a kiss to his forehead, sliding out of bed to get dressed into clothing again across the room. But not without Elliott calling over with a small laugh, “But, hey, you can hit me harder next time! Promise I won’t break!”
“Perhaps next time you would like a knife brought to the bedroom instead.” Crypto grunts, sounding more like he’s joking than being serious as he pulls on a pair of loose pants. But when he looks over at Elliott under his lashes, he’s wearing a flush to his cheeks and that dumb smile on his face.
Crypto groans out a swear and shakes his head.
But...neither say no.
Elliott’s going to have to piss him off more often.
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Time and Trust (a Superman & Lois one shot)
FFN II AO3
Summary: Pre-S1. Lois needs time to work through her emotions after Clark reveals who he really is to her, but a close call helps her find perspective.
Time & Trust
It wasn't that she didn't understand the risk he'd taken. Logically she knew that to do what he did as Superman, he had to keep secrets from - lie to - nearly everyone around him. It protected him and it protected his mother back in Smallville. It even protected the people he surrounded himself with that would never know. It protected her, and Lois knew that. She understood that. That didn't mean that she didn't need time to process the fact that the man she'd fallen in love with had kept so much of himself from her.
Clark had been ridiculously understanding about the whole thing, even to the point that he'd come up with an excuse to cut their trip to Smallville short to give her the time she needed to process it. Which, of course, only made her feel more guilty about all the lingering - and irrational, she kept reminding herself, as if this would be the time it would sink in - irritation at the fact that she hadn't known before now. That he hadn't told her.
Three days alone with her thoughts hadn't done a lot to help clear up those feelings and as Lois spit the toothpaste into the sink and washed the remainder out with a swallow of water, she was dreading seeing Clark back at the Planet that morning, and she hated that the most. Before their trip she'd looked forward to every second that they had together. The collaborations, the late night takeout pouring over the case files they'd put together, and the stolen moments away from prying eyes. She loved the way he stumbled through their earliest days of dating the same way he had the day they met and how she caught him looking at her out of the corner of her eye. All of it. She loved him and she wanted to look forward to seeing him, but he'd want to know where they stood.
Or worse, he'd give her all the time and space she needed.
The call from Perry came as she was tugging her shoes on. Superman and some as-of-now unknown assailant were battling it out in downtown Metropolis not too far from Lois' own apartment. He expected her there ten minutes ago. Jimmy'd meet her there and if she saw Kent, the boy'd better learn to answer his damn phone.
A crowd had gathered, giving a wide breadth to the battle raging in downtown by the time Lois arrived, but she found Jimmy in closer and snapping photos aimed at the man with what looked like a set of braces on his arms, clearly giving him a boost of power that the average person wouldn't have had. "What'd I miss?" she demanded, watching Superman - watching Clark - block a blow aimed at his face and… "Did he just shove Superman back?"
"Yeah, it's been wild. So, that dude -" Jimmy pointed to the man that was currently winning the power struggle - "started tossing cars around. Eye witnesses think he was trying to lure Superman out. No clue why. No one's ID'd him yet, but take a look at this. Recognize that?"
Lois forced herself to look away from the ongoing battle to focus on the enhanced photo displayed on Jimmy's screen. "That looks like Lex Corp tech."
"Yeah it does," the photographer said with a grin.
"I need to check those to the ones our anonymous source sent us a couple weeks ago. We may finally have a break."
"See, that's why you should take time off more. You come back and everything falls into place." She caught him looking at her from the corner of his eye. "How was Smallville?"
Lois whipped around. "How did you know I was in Smallville?"
"Oh, c'mon. You and CK take time off at the exact same time and you think we wouldn't put it together? You meet his mom?"
"Yeah."
"So how'd it go?"
"Listen, Jimmy, I don't want to talk about it. I -"
A shout drew her attention back to the scene at hand. Time seemed to slow as her mind processed that there was a vehicle barreling through the air and aimed directly at them. There wasn't time to move or even duck, but just a flash of an instant that told her this was the end. It didn't matter why she'd been upset, only that she was about to die before resolving the issue with Clark. Before telling him that she loved him, no matter what. Before -
The car made a terrible crunching sound as Superman zipped between it and her, catching it midair. He eased it off to the side and turned, those familiar blue-green eyes focused on her. "Are you alright?"
"Behind you!" Lois shouted and watched as the man wearing the Lex Corp tech slammed into Superman, driving him into the concrete and sliding. She saw something in his hand - green and glowing and sharpened to a point - just before he brought it down hard. Superman's eyes widened and Lois felt her chest tighten as she saw flecks of blood on his blue costume from where the strangely coloured blade had pierced through between his ribs.
"What the hell?" Jimmy breathed beside her. "I thought he was invulnerable or something. I mean, that's not supposed to happen, right?"
"No. It's not," she managed as Superman's attacker drove the blade in deeper and gave a vicious twist, pulling a pained sound from the Man of Steel. From Clark. Lois felt sick.
"Lois!" Jimmy called and she hadn't even realized that she was moving forward. He tried to grab for her, but she slipped out of his grasp.
"Hey! I know who you work for, and you can tell your boss I'm not going to let him get away with this!"
The man turned, his eyes wild, and Lois wondered if the strength-enhancing braces weren't Luthor's only "gift" to him. She wouldn't put it past him to use a cocktail of drugs to put someone into a state of no fear. A slow, dangerous smile tilted his lips as his gaze fixed on her. "You shoulda run when you had the chance."
"Then who would have distracted you?" she asked, nodding behind him to where Superman was making it to his feet, eyes glowing dangerously red before the blast threw the other man back hard.
Superman was on him in a second, lightening fast and angrier than Lois had thought was even possible. He ripped the tech from the assailant, crippling his ability to continue the fight, and dropped him to the ground where he stayed. For half a second she thought he might throw another punch, but as sirens wailed in the distance she watched red fade, even if his breathing didn't even out.
"What is this thing?" Jimmy asked from where he'd scooped up the strange knife, red blood standing out against the green blade.
"Put it down."
Lois turned, the question dancing on her tongue until it was startled into silence as Superman's eyes flashed red again, the burst of energy shattering the blade as soon as Jimmy dropped it.
The assailant chuckled hoarsely from his place crumpled on the street. "You think that's all he's got? He's coming for you."
Lois' gaze traveled to where blood had soaked through and up to meet his eyes. She couldn't say what she wanted to, not out in the open like this. She didn't dare.
"Are you both alright?" he asked.
She managed a small nod. "Are you?"
His thin lips stretched into something that likely was meant to be a smile and then he was gone, in the air and faster than the eye could follow as the police arrived to make their arrest.
-------
Clark wasn't at the Planet when she arrived and he wasn't picking up his cell phone. Lois felt the panic start to build even as she fumbled through a half-baked excuse to get herself out the door and across town to his apartment, hoping he'd be there.
No one answered the door when she knocked and she'd settled for grabbing the spare key he kept along the top of the door frame. It never made it to the actual lock before the door was opened from the inside, revealing a very disheveled Clark Kent on the other side. He was pale, a little feverish looking, and she didn't like the way that his right hand lingered over where the wound had been. "Hey," he managed, voice raspy and exhausted sounding. "Sorry, I should have -"
She pushed her way in and he didn't offer any resistance. "What happened? What was that?"
"Off the record?" he asked, the faintest hint of a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips and she felt at least some of the anxiety start to ease.
"Yeah, if there's something out there that can hurt Superman, I don't want to be the one to spread it to the masses. I'm already arguing with Perry over it."
"Too many people saw for you to keep it out of your article," Clark grumbled, wincing at the sound of the tea kettle on the stove. He turned, as if he were going for it, and Lois reached out to touch his arm.
"I'll get it."
There was only a beat of hesitation before he managed a tired "thank you" and shuffled over to the couch. "Let's just keep the details of what it actually is between us, okay?"
"Of course," she answered, pulling the tea kettle off of the stove and the whistling slowed to a stop. She reached for a mug and the oolong tea, listening to him speak from the adjacent living room.
"The knife was made out of Kryptonite. It's, uh… fragments from my home planet. It's poisonous to me."
Home planet. Well, those were words she never expected to come out of her boyfriend's mouth. She swallowed hard, focusing on putting the tea together as she talked and hoping she sounded more natural than she felt. "Why would pieces of your home planet be poisonous to you?"
"Krypton wasn't exactly in good shape when it broke apart."
She grabbed for the honey on the counter and put a spoonful into the mug before steeling herself to circle out into the living room with him. She found him slouched down on the couch and looking perfectly miserable, but he did take the mug when she offered it to him. "Are you alright?"
There was a longer pause than she was comfortable with and he blew lightly against the steam, frosty breath cooling the tea beneath it. "I will be," he promised and his eyes flickered up to meet hers. "But I almost wasn't. You saved my life today."
Lois motioned to the open space next to him and let him give a small nod of acknowledgement before sliding into it. She settled in with him, leaning against him, and turned to press a gentle kiss to his left arm, her hand settling on his knee. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" he asked, sounding genuinely startled. Of course he was genuinely startled. Clark was genuinely every emotion he wore on his sleeve. As much as it could drive her mad, it was one of the things she loved about him.
"Cutting our trip short and for…. making you wait."
"You need time. I get that." He shifted the mug to his right hand, but didn't reach for her own that was dangerously close to it. Even after everything, he was still giving her as much space as she wanted.
"You're infuriating."
"I don't mean to be."
She felt the smile take hold and she leaned in a little closer. "I know. That's why I have to work to stay mad at you."
"Are you still? Mad, I mean?"
She pulled in a deep breath and reached out, lacing her fingers through his and she could feel him relax next to her. "I don't think I was ever really mad at you."
"Exactly who were you mad at then?" he mumbled and she huffed a laugh at that.
"Myself."
"Why?"
"Because I'm an investigative report. Because you were my best friend and partner before we even started dating and I… I should have known. I feel like an idiot that I didn't."
Clark shifted, pulling away only far enough to look at her. "You're not an idiot."
"Oh, I know. I said I feel like an idiot," she pointed out with a small smirk and watched him echo with a softer version of her own expression.
"In my experience people see what they want to see. I'm… really good at hiding in plain sight."
"You really are." She squeezed his hand in hers and leaned her temple against his shoulder. "I was terrified today. It wasn't just Superman, it was you. I saw you and you were…. I could have lost you." She steadied herself, forcing the walls down. "And I never want to lose you."
Clark's thumb drifted over her knuckles and he turned to press a kiss against her dark hair. "You won't."
"Promise?"
"Yeah. Do you trust me?"
"I do."
"Thank you."
Lois could feel the tension drifting away and she wrapped her free arm around his middle to pull him a little closer. Realization hit her like a ton of bricks and she instantly pulled back, sitting up to look him in the eye. "Did I hurt you?"
He flashed her that charming, honest smile of his. "Nah. I'm mostly healed up. Just trying to shake the last effects from the exposure. Give me a couple hours and I'll be totally back to normal."
She nodded and settled back in, her free fingers toying with the hem of his t-shirt. "I think we should focus more on Tony Phillips than the Kryptonite for the story. That's the way we get around Perry."
"Who?"
"The guy that nearly killed you."
"Oh, that guy."
"I'm waiting on a source to verify it, but I'm ninety-nine point nine percent sure that tech came from Lex Corp."
"If we can prove it, that'll be a heck of a story."
"Yes it will be."
"I should probably figure out an excuse why I never showed today and call in."
"I already told Perry you had food poisoning."
"Saving my life and my job all in the same day," Clark murmured tiredly.
"Yep. Looks like you're stuck with me." Lois risked a look up when he didn't respond and found his eyes closed behind his glasses. She squeezed his hand, releasing it just long enough to take his mug - precariously balanced on his knee - and set it on the coffee table. He mumbled something too softly for her to hear and she smiled, settling back with him and taking his hand again. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised and felt herself inching towards sleep with him.
End.
-----
Notes: I have had another Superman & Lois one shot half-finished for weeks now, yet this is where my brain went when I decided to sit down and write on some fanfiction today. Ah well. Apparently the muse wanted hurt/comfort today. Hope you enjoyed!
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