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montrealmadison · 2 months

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Tater 27 please ?

i have never written tater before - ever! - so this was incredibly fun! thank you so much for the prompt and for helping me stretch my writing muscles a little bit ❤️ the only things i know about patater are inspired by a frankly shocking quantity of sidgeno rpf so make of that what you will

27. tater + i’m so tired by lauv & Troye Sivan for @shygryf

Strangers, killing my lonely nights with strangers And when they leave, I go back to our song, I hold on Hurts like heaven, lost in the sound Buzzcut season like you're still around Can't unmiss you, but I need you now

Tater’s letting some girl he doesn’t know shoot tequila out of his belly button when he gets the text.

Kent Parson: you awake? Kent Parson: sorry know it’s late

It is late, three or so, and the club’s fun but the idea of not being here is just as good. Maybe it’s rude, but he doesn’t care; he props his elbow on the table for better leverage and sends back, yes, and then ok?

Kent Parson: no Kent Parson: popped my achilles Kent Parson: we're out

Shit. That means the end of their playoff run, which in turn means about five hundred other things. He doesn’t even have the chance to formulate a response before Kent adds, will you come?

A cold thing settles in Tater’s chest, a weighty purpose that he doesn’t stop to examine. Maybe it's the shots making this seem like a good idea; of course he will, and that’s the end of it. There’s something about clambering up off the table, tequila soaking down into his open fly, and shouldering his way to the exit without a word that makes him feel about a thousand feet tall.

read more below or on ao3 | request a fic here

Kent lives in a nice building. Not nice enough for the security guy downstairs to make any real effort to stop Tater from getting in, but then, Tater is six foot seven and built like the desks that lesser men hide behind. He hits the button for the elevator and zips upward, chewing on his lip, watching the numbers tick higher.

This is stupid. This is an absurd way to spend a thousand dollars and God knows how many days, catching a frantic red-eye to Vegas like he’s going to be able to do anything the Aces’ trainers haven’t already tried. It’s more absurd that he stands in the hallway with his fist poised to knock on Kent’s front door for at least five minutes, wondering if he should have brought food. Does the kid even eat? He’s awfully tiny.

He finally gets over himself and knocks. There’s a voice from inside at once: “Open.”

Tater does.

The apartment is nice, modern. It’s also a complete fucking mess. There are ostentatiously dirty shoes scattered all over the entryway, possibly-related scuff marks up the bare white walls. Tater has to do this dainty hop through a minefield of Yeezys just to make it to solid ground, and is very glad that no one can see him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Parson?”

“In the living room.”

Tater drops his bag in the kitchen and heads for the voice. The close little hallway seems much more inviting than it did in the dark last time he was here, and the living room is spacious and airy without a couple hundred bodies packing it. There’s a big TV on one wall, running something trashy. In the middle of the room is that ugly couch, brown suede and covered with cat hair, and in the middle of the couch is Kent.

Relief spreads through Tater at once, numbing the tingle in his hands. Okay, so maybe he spent the whole five-hour trip picturing the worst-case scenario. Guys in their line of work are not, as a rule, great at handling their injuries, especially later in the season; Tater only has to look at Jack for proof of that one. But Kent’s eyes are clear, if tired and a little wet-looking, and he’s sprawled out comfortably with his hand in Kit’s fur and his wrapped ankle carefully supported by a pile of throw pillows. He’s wearing ratty old sweats, white socks gone gray on the bottoms, a couple days’ worth of scruff that marks his sorry excuse for a playoff beard.

“Shit, man,” he says, seeing Tater in the doorway. “You came.”

“You call.”

It’s not quite that simple, but somehow, faced with the fact of Kent’s obvious, boneless relief at having him here, it feels like the right sentiment.

“I did,” Kent says. He sounds croaky, exhausted. The deep shadows under his eyes make them look more green. Tater wonders if he’s slept, or how much. “Thanks.”

He has this weird impulse to poke the bear, which maybe isn’t fair to Kent, but it’s all he knows how to do.

“You miss me?” he asks, slouching further into the room. Kit lifts her head imperiously to watch him settle a polite distance away on the couch. “That why you ask me, not teammate?”

This is the dynamic they built at the bar, in the darkness of Kent’s bedroom: push and pull, catch and release. Things are still too new, too fragile between them; they’ve never implied a sense of belonging to each other, or at least not the kind that prompts something like this.

As it stands, Kent doesn’t play along with the teasing, and that’s what finally gives Tater a sense of how shitty he feels.

“Let ‘em grieve, right?” he says listlessly, tipping his head into the back of the couch. “Shit game. Didn’t wanna bother them.”

You were okay with bothering me, Tater thinks but does not say. A guy you’ve hooked up with twice who lives across the country. What the fuck does that mean?

He knows what he wants, what he wants it to mean. It’s part of what caught his eye in the first place: this kid is so, so young to be a captain, to bear this weight. The Aces are out of the playoffs not because they played their hardest, but thanks to a non-call and an injury that’ll have Kent in PT all summer. Now he’s curled up on the couch in his disaster of an apartment with only the cat for company, his teammates pushed away or otherwise nowhere to be found. It’s incongruous with the spitfire who finds a reason to drop gloves every time they share the ice, who likes to have his wrists pinned down and kisses with too much teeth and, holy hell, called Tater in Providence when he got hurt.

“Bother me anytime,” Tater says before he can bite down on it. He scoots a little closer, clasping his hands briefly between his knees. “Poor Parson. Need friend when teammates being sad.”

Kent’s laugh turns into a cough and Kit scrambles off his chest, affronted.

“Is that what you are?” he asks. “My friend?”

“Maybe,” Tater hums, pretending to consider. “Well. Maybe not yet.”

“Not yet,” Kent echoes. He sounds puzzled. “Okay?”

“We not really know each other,” Tater says. Maybe it’s mean, the way this is lighting him on fire. Kent likes to bottom, but never to lose control; even in bed he runs his mouth like everything that comes out of it is gospel truth. Opportunities to catch him on the back foot are few and far between, and—well. Tater likes to take care of his people, likes to show them love, and above all likes a challenge.

“We don’t—”

Tater decides to take pity on him. “Sex not knowing, Parson. Think maybe you think that way.”

Okay, yeah, this is definitely mean. Kent’s breath is coming faster, and the line of his jaw is set and trembling. But Tater wants to push him a little bit, get his money’s worth for the flight, the worry; Kent can pay him back in kind, and will. Tater just has to help him get there.

“So what if I do?” Kent asks. His laugh is tiny. “Man, I’m confused. Not like we’ve had much more time to figure each other out.”

And yet you asked me here, Tater thinks, and decides to play his trump card.

“It’s summer. You not play, I’m not play.” Tater spreads his hands wide, goes for broke and scoots in close to curl a hand slow and sinuous around Kent’s good ankle. “Need rest, someone to take care. Seem like good time to me.”

Kent’s breath catches in his throat. He smells sweaty and kinda gross, but his smile is soft, a fragile thing, and Tater knows he’s gotten it right.

“Captive audience,” Kent says, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” Tater agrees, and leans in to meet his mouth.

#kent parson #alexei mashkov #patater #omgcp #omgcheckplease #my writing #efickegster 2024

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hunterssm00n · 1 month

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Are You Gonna Kiss Me or Not?

Tommy and 'Nae's first kiss ~ | Tommy Hewitt/OC |

also on my ao3: here

*cw size difference, making out, mild groping, au-ish, caught kissing, ogling, mutual pining*

౨ৎ

Renae walked up the gravel road towards the Hewitt house, hearing a peculiar sound. It was like something whizzing through the air before thunking against a solid object - almost like someone was chopping wood? As she neared the dirt driveway to the house, she confirmed that it was definitely someone chopping wood, and it was exactly who she'd hoped it would be.

Of course it would be Tommy. Naturally he was by far, the strongest, and that seemed to help him with this task a lot. As she neared him, she noted the clean split down the middle of each log, and the sure heave of his overhead swing as he brought the axe down on each piece of wood. He didn't yet see her, she noticed, as she was enshrouded in the thick trees and shrubbery that surrounded their open field, but she could see him clearly. And she didn't regret spying on him for a moment.

Tommy was wearing a tight, sweaty grey t-shirt that perfectly showcased the rippling muscles that adorned his arms and torso. His broad, sinewy shoulders strained at the material, and she had to lean on a nearby tree for support. Holy shit. He wore distressed, oil-stained jeans, and had his earbuds in while he swung away. Once he would cut through the wood, he'd lean down, holding the axe handle with one hand while the other would reach down to pull the wood apart. The bulging muscles in his back bunched and constricted with every movement, and she was practically drooling. Wow. Undoubtedly the sexiest thing she'd ever see; his six foot five frame, sweaty and lumberjack-y while he was chopping firewood.

Then, as if that wasn't hot enough, he stuck the axe in the tree stump that he was chopping the wood on, and promptly pulled his shirt over his head. Oh. My. God.

She wondered if she should reveal that she was watching him - she doubted he would've done that if he knew she was there. At the same time, she didn't want him to stop. You lecher, get out there, she mentally chided herself.

Renae didn't want to walk behind him while he was swinging, and she didn't want to startle him by walking around on his side. She settled for walking a little farther down in the shadows of the trees, and then stepping out into the light a few meters away. Tommy raised his head at the movement, just as he brought the axe down on another piece of wood. It was like he was cutting through something as soft as butter.

Lifting a hand, she waved at him as he straightened up to his full height, "Hey big guy,"

Tommy smiled sweetly at her, his eyes alight with excitement that she was there. He left the axe imbedded in the tree stump, wiping his hands off on his jeans as they neared each other.

"What's u-" She didn't even have time to get the sentiment out before she was crushed against his big, barrel chest in a sweaty hug. Oh. My. God.

Heart thudding deliciously in her chest (and elsewhere), she wrapped her arms around his waist, tightly pressing herself against him. No doubt, there would be sweat - stains from his body on her grey New York City Starbucks t-shirt, but frankly she couldn't have cared less. She could feel her body trembling with a mixture of joy and arousal, and she let out a shaky sigh against his chest as he nuzzled his face into her hair. There was no way he couldn't feel how hard her heart was banging in her chest, but it made her feel a little better that his was thudding equally hard against her face. She had to admit: if she didn't know him, she wouldn't have pegged him for a hugger. This man was the epitome of teddy bear - six feet and five inches of softie.

After a few moments, she attempted to pull back, but Tommy squeezed his arms tighter around her to prevent her from moving. She snickered, rising up on her tiptoes to lightly kiss his neck. She felt the movement of his face lifting from her hair, his masked chin lightly brushing her forehead. Heart pounding, breath caught in her throat, she leaned her head back, sensing him looking at her. A lot happened in that moment in that one moment: She felt his chin brush her nose. They locked eyes momentarily. And then they were kissing. Whoa.

To anyone else it probably looked strange considering the height difference, as well as the fact that they were both sweaty and Tommy was shirtless. It was fucking amazing. While the kiss itself was soft and fairly timid, at first, that didn't at all diminish the utter fireworks/sexy feeling. Tommy's big hands pressed against her back, holding her close to his chest. He had even less experience that she did, but that didn't mean at all that he wasn't doing the job right. She opened her mouth to lightly lick his bottom lip, then gently sucked on it. His reaction was instantaneous - he lifted her to his height level, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Her reaction was to wrap her legs around his waist. He didn't seem to mind, parting his own mouth so their tongues could meet. She slid her hands up the back of his neck to tangle them in his hair.

The kiss deepened, their collective breathing grew heavier. Tommy groaned as she pulled on his hair, a chill ran down her spine, she squeezed his waist with her legs, his one hand traveled down, down-

A car horn honking scared them both out of their lovestruck stupor, and immediately they practically jumped apart. Tommy, to his credit, didn't drop her, but they did pull their faces apart quite quickly. The sound of tires on gravel followed the noise, and they both turned towards the sound to see Uncle Hoyt's truck barreling up the driveway. He leaned his head out the window and wolf whistled at them, and then cackled as he drove the rest of the way towards the farm house.

Tommy finally set her down, gently, and she smoothed her hair away from her face with an embarrassed laugh. "Well, we should probably go explain that one, huh?" Tommy looked just as embarrassed, but also, he had a dreaminess to his eyes that made her laugh. "C'mon Tommy, I'll race ya back!" She took off running with a peal of laughter, and Tommy could only stare at her for a moment, marvel at her beauty and carefree nature, before he took off after her with his own grin.

౨ৎ

AN: I do not own the Texas Chainsaw Massacre franchise or any of it's characters, but Renae is my own OC.

The above pictures are from pinterest, and attached to each pic is a link to the original post.

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hawkshadowwrites · 9 months

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one hit wonder

fandom: bloodhounds (2023); ship: Hong Woo-Jin & Kim Gun-Woo

The thing is, if Woo-jin hadn’t been so unflinchingly confident that he was going to win, there was a slight chance that he could have won. But the thing is, he underestimated Gun-woo.

At twenty-seven, the weight of the world is on his shoulders, the weight of a father's expectation and disappointment and rage; a measurement of not enough. Never enough. Always falling short.

The trophy is his, by right. By birthright.

If someone asked Woo-jin what the first thing he noticed about Gun-woo was, he wouldn’t be able to answer, because he didn’t notice Gun-woo. Not until they were in the ring together, facing off from opposite sides of the ring.

Woo-jin is a seasoned boxer, an undefeated boxer. He doesn’t have to worry about the rookie — Kim Gun-woo, the super rookie — and his killer left hook to the body. One hit wonder, one and done. Woo-Jin laughs to himself at the irony, that when he wins this match and takes home the trophy, rookie Kim Gun-woo will also be a one-hit wonder.

Despite the weight of expectations, Woo-Jin loves boxing. It’s his lifeblood, his beating heart, his blood and breath and backbone. His salvation. His deliverance. There is something transcendent about stepping into the ring, weighted gloves on his fists, staring down the man across from him. The rush of adrenaline that comes from the sound of the bell, the way they come together and meet in the middle.

It’s not as if he delights in the fear in his opponent’s eyes, but he does find satisfaction at making men kneel. Or something to that effect.

He feels the weight of his comrades gaze on him and shakes himself down, reminding himself that this is his ring, his lifeblood, his prize to win. Super Rookie Kim Gun-Woo and his left hook have no place here, not in his match.

Woo-Jin expects Gun-woo to have some trepidation, but the first thing that really gets to him is how stoic he is. A wall of muscle and a walled-off mask, unreadable minute reactions that leave Woo-Jin baffled at what he is thinking. The second thing that gets to him is the fact that Gun-Woo is good.

Really good.

Annoyingly good.

Good enough that he manages to put Woo-Jin on the back foot, struggling to regain control of the match. The third thing is how inconvenient his defense is; one punch and two punches and three punches and four, fists connecting with solid muscle and an iron defense. Impenetrable.

Speed and precision mean little when faced with an unmovable mountain, that you cannot move a mountain, you have to go around. So go around he does, or tries, at least. Dodging and ducking and dancing around the ring, agile and limber and light on his feet. It’s a game, really, a song and dance and call and response, a beckoning that turns into a reckoning when fists meet the face.

Except.

It’s Woo-Jin that takes the real official first hit. Not Gun-woo. A sharp uppercut that has him dazed, shaking the stars out of his eyes before diving back in. Gun-woo is impenetrable and Woo-Jin forgets his own very important rule: don’t get emotional.

He can throw taunts and jabs, jeer and tease, all in attempts at aggravation and distraction. He needs his opponent to lose their cool, to lose their composure, to lose their chance at defending.

Woo-Jin forgets this. And gets irritated.

And takes a wicked left hook to his kidney as a consequence. He expects to shake it off, but his body has other plans and he sinks to his knees as the breath is knocked from his lungs. A single left hook and everything Woo-Jin has worked for flashes before his eyes.

He cannot lose.

Distantly he can hear the count; one, and two, and three, and four; and the air burns as he struggles to breathe. Five, and six; Woo-Jin cannot lose like this. He cannot let this rookie punk take everything from him.

Seven.

He stands.

It’s enough resilience to give him a second chance, enough determination derived from pure spite that fuels his vindictive desperation to win. He can see it now, the arrogance of trying the same thing the second time. But Woo-Jin is prepared. He knows it. Knows how to block it, how to beat Gun-Woo.

And it fails. He looks like a fool.

And Gun-Woo, the bastard, stands there and looks apologetic.

###

Food.

He wants food. No, he needs it. The tender texture of meat on his tongue, soju on his lips, the rejuvenation of a vigorous match; even if he lost. He doesn’t want to order take-out though, he doesn’t want to eat at home, alone.

Food is about celebration, collaboration, connection. Food is about bringing people together, which is why the last person he expects to be waiting for him is Gun-woo.

Gun-woo, who stands and smiles, looking genuinely happy to see him, asking shall we go eat with such eager sincerity that Woo-Jin feels justified in taking another swing at his annoying perky ass.

Earnest. This is the best way Woo-Jin can describe the expression on Gun-Woo’s face, just as earnest as he talks about pork belly as he does to wish for Woo-Jin’s company.

He really doesn’t know how he feels about that. His gut instinct is to say no, to scoff, to play it off and go somewhere else. But somehow when Gun-Woo turns his back, Woo-Jin feels compelled to follow. His pride may be large but his stomach is even larger.

And the fact that Gun-Woo stole his trophy and his prize money, the least he can do is pay for dinner.

###

It seems almost natural to fall into step with Gun-Woo, natural and intrinsic as if they just weren’t shirtless and breathless and beating each other with fists. Natural in the way their shoulders brush, in the way they sway into each other and apart — well, maybe this is just Woo-Jin, but after two nasty left hooks into his liver, he thinks he has a right to be a little unbalanced on his feet. Which has nothing to do with the solid weight and warmth of Gun-Woo.

It’s almost too easy to tease Gun-Woo; naïveté and misguided optimism, faith and trust, wide eyes that steal all attention just to him.

###

Sitting across from someone at a cozy barbecue joint in town should feel natural. Instead this feels intimate. The restaurant is devoid of other diners, just the two of them in the center of the room, table covered in various dishes.

Woo-Jin watches as Gun-Woo carefully places each slice onto the grill and he feels compelled to know everything. This turns out to be a mistake because with each question his fascination grows; strong and competent and powerful, yet humble and modest as if it truly is nothing worth mentioning.

Stubborn, too. Stubborn enough that Woo-Jin really wants to get Gun-Woo to obey. There are other things Woo-Jin notices, like how Gun-Woo’s eyelashes frame his expressive eyes, how he has two moles on the left side of his nose, and how good he is at just about everything.

How when he smiles, it makes his heart skip a beat.

How he promises to obey, and then still doesn’t listen. How much that thought devolves into something else, a flush creeping across his skin.

How when Gun-Woo says hyeong the heat makes a home inside of him. How his thoughts are consumed with Gun-Woo saying hyeong with those wide eyes and soft smile.

How he opens his mouth and leans forward, taking the food into his mouth with such enthusiasm Woo-Jin feels flushed and flustered. How he wonders what else he can put in Gun-Woo’s mouth.

###

The alcohol settles under his skin and he feels the giddiness grow, rising up in him like a balloon. He feels weightless, even despite the loss of the match, something about Gun-Woo’s effervescent enthusiasm enough to infect him with genuine joy.

They walk in pace, slowly, as if they have nowhere to go or nowhere to be, as if the only thing that matters is the two of them. The night however, is drawing to a close, and Woo-Jin already regrets the loss of time. He doesn’t understand how someone can make him feel weightless, full of joy.

He needs this to happen again, so he pulls out his phone and hands it to Gun-Woo. He turns, catching sight of the crinkle in Gun-Woo’s eyes as he teases him, words soft and breathless on his lips. Their knees brush and neither one of them moves, the warmth pressing in until Woo-Jin never wants to leave.

But then the bus comes, screeching to a halt with a whoosh as the doors swing open, Gun-Woo standing and giving Woo-Jin one last smile.

Woo-Jin watches him depart on the bus, enchanted. Perhaps next time he will find the courage to see what Gun-Woo’s lips actually taste like.

#bloodhounds #hong woo jin #kim gun woo #kdrama #bloodhounds (2023)#bloodhounds netflix #woo do hwan #lee sang yi #bloodhounds fanfic #woo jin x gun woo #kdramas

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day0walkersdrafts · 1 year

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They always say, you drank too much. Or what were you wearing? Mouse is thinking of that, when the man corners her in the hall. Thinks, I had one beer and this hoodie is Ewan’s, it’s a fucking dress on me. And knows, it probably wouldn’t matter. Someone would say, he’s handsome, he doesn’t need to intimidate people or maybe she came onto him first or it didn’t fucking matter. Landed on her lap, at the end of the day; was her problem. Never his.

And even she thinks, should I have stayed with Benji? Who can be so fucking intimidating when he wants to be. Or, should have gone right to the bus with Ewan, because he’s six-foot-five. People don’t try and bother men over six fucking feet.

But, they do bother her. Because, she’s short—or because she’s slim, easy to overpower, they think. Or because she’s pretty or maybe she isn’t pretty, maybe she’s ugly and they just like making someone scared.

And she feels scared.

She remembers the first time she felt that oh moment wrestling with Lark. Playful, for fun. Tickling him until he got annoyed, rolling on the stage with him and his hands because solid iron shackles that pinned her down. Remembered the feel of his body, not even that much heavier than her, bearing down and he’d been laughing—they’d both been laughing. They’d been joking, but somewhere, in the distinct prey part of her mind, she realized that men could be so strong.

That if Lark had not been playing, he could have hurt her. He’d never—that’s why she had laughed until Matilda had scooped Lark around the waist and hauled him up. He let her haul him up, she remembered thinking. He could have shook them both off. And that was just Lark. Her friend Lark.

This man was not her friend.

One of the bands they’d picked up along the tour, just a hanger on and this was their guitarist. He’d said to her, you got a thing for guitarists, don’t you? And she knew that was a dig Ewan. Because it was sometimes obvious how much they drifted together between sets—and sometimes too obvious how much she purposefully ignored him.

Why don’t you fuck off? She had been proud of her voice not wavering, had been proud to keep that acidic, cruel sneer. Remembers, a little, about what to do if you’re cornered like this. Yell fire. Go for the groin, the nose, the eyes. Weak spots. There’s a pocket knife in her pocket, but her hands shake a little when she pulls them from the hoodie. It smells like Ewan. Smells soft, comforting. Oh, don’t ruin that smell, she begs inside herself. Don’t ruin that for me.

They start an argument. An insistence of leave me the fuck alone and what? I’m being friendly and a dance to get around him, without putting her back to him. A desperate plea of oh fuck, Benji, come down this hall. Come down this hall and look mean, look broad and mean and she hates herself for thinking it because she wants to look mean. Curls her lip, spitting with that anger, shoves this tall mans chest and feels him barely sway with it.

He has that look of I get what I want and she has that burning, primordial rage of I’ll claw your fucking eyes out, I’ll kick and scream and bite and I’ll hurt you but knows that would not stop her from also getting hurt.

So its a surprise when the man is suddenly ripped backward from her. A little bubble pops and her body’s tension snaps and she flattens back against the wall of the hallway they’d been down. Long, ominously empty and quiet, a backstage hall that she’d gotten away into for some fucking peace. The irony.

The red headed security guard has the guitarist around the throat. His arm is thicker than she remembers it being, or maybe it’s because he’s always in long sleeves. Just a short, black SECURITY shirt now. His bicep cuts up into the mans throat, hard. She stares, her mouth a little ‘o’ at the way Xavier has him crunched low to the ground. His body is one solid muscle, tense and taut and shivering. And his green eyes look like cold pond water—all ice.

She’d never seen him look angry before. Pissed off or annoyed—usually because of her. But this, the way his lips are pulled from his teeth, the wrinkles on that defined, regal nose make him look vicious. Animalistic in his fury. Oh, for her. She thinks that dully, watching him wrangle the man harder. For me. Shit, well. Her hands tremble when she raises them.

“H-Holy shit, Xavier, hah, you got him, huh?” Her voice sounds high pitched. Not her usual raspy low tone. She hadn’t realized it would come out like that, so she slaps a hand over her mouth. Xavier doesn’t look up.

“When I was a marine,” he says slowly, directly into the mans ear. “I did this to a guy. You know what happened?” The guitarist is going red. Same shade as Xavier’s hair. His eyes are rolling back and forth, searching for help. There is no help, Mouse thinks. There wasn’t going to be any for me. “I know what you’re thinking—he passed out. Because you think that’s about to happen to you right?” Xavier laughs and the sound makes Mouse jump because, Jesus, it’s a little frightening.

“Right, your vision’s going funky. Wicked black around the edges. So stereotypical. That’s how they describe it, right? Tunnel vision. And I know it fucking hurts. I know it does. Good, it should.” Xavier’s arm is pale, a vein standing out hard. He’s not being gentle. Not holding just to punish. He’s hurting him. Bad. Mouse feels like stepping in, but she also feels like watching. Feels righteous as she watches. Feels good. “But I’ll tell ya. Before he passed out, he fucking pissed himself.”

Xavier shakes him. Like a fucking misbehaving dog. His head rattles back and forth, little choking sounds coming from him.

“Piss your-fucking-self, you piece of shit,” he snaps. “And then we’ll leave you here and someone will find you, passed out, covered in your own rank piss and take pictures and spread them all over the internet.” And then Xavier’s heaving furious breathes quiet a little and he mumbles. “Or, after you pass out, I let her stomp on your dick until it’s a stain, you hear me, man?”

The guitarist, for what its worth, tries to nod his head. Xavier’s grip is vice like for another moment until it loosens. He scrambles then, on all fours for a moment before he gets to two legs and starts running. Hits the wall a few times, unstable on two feet after all that choking.

Mouse stares after him. Her fingers feel tingly. Unattached to the rest of her hands. She looks at them, sees they’re still shaking and glances up to the security guard.

“I’m so mean to you all the time,” she says. He’s brushing hands over his jeans like he’s trying to get rid of the feel of that man and Mouse can almost relate. He hadn’t even touched her, and she feels like she needs a shower. Needs more than a shower. She clears her throat and swipes hard under her eyes. Pissed off that a few tears roll down her cheeks.

“You’re not mean.”

“Yeah I am,” she shoots back, glaring at him. He raises his hands, as if asking for mercy and it makes her sob out a laugh. He could have kept squeezing on that neck—she gets a feeling, he could have wrenched and a very vital bone would have snapped. Yet he’s always backing up when she barks, always rounding his shoulders when she says something nasty.

They stand there, in silence for a long moment. Mouse’s hands still tremble. Xavier looks at her, with those moss colored eyes. She picks at them to find pity, stares at them to find him looking at her like she’s weak and small. She snaps her hand forward, wrenching it into his shirt and pulls herself close. Tucks closer and closer and closer until his arms gently fold around her.

“Gross,” she sniffles. “What if he calls the police?”

“Matilda’s mom probably can afford an entire law office, right?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“And cops like marines and they don’t like guys with eyeliner. Which, fuck cops and fuck guys with eyeliner, you know what I mean? But, works in my favor.”

“Were you really a marine?”

“Before I shattered two ribs.”

Mouse rubs her nose over his shirt, rubs her eyes too, for good measure, getting him properly disgusting. He doesn’t seem to mind, his hand patting gently at the small of her back. She figures, in this exact moment, she couldn’t do anything to actually make him mad at her.

“Can we find Benji?” she asks, in a voice meant to be steady and big, but comes out small.

“Woof. My thoughts all the time, trust me.”

“Oh stop, ugh.” And usually she’d shove at him, she’d needle and be mean, but she stays tucked under one of his arms, closer and shrouded in his radiating warmth.

#mouse #xavier #band au

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elizaellwrites · 10 months

Text

Legacy of the Fallen- Chapter 2

Prologue

Chapter 1

History

Elaine grunted as she whirled her silver saifas sword into the wooden practice prop before her, the force of her swing cutting a good couple of inches into the side of the solid structure. Her jaw locked as she yanked it free, her grip tightening as another wave of rage flared.

She stood small in the large, paneled room, the ceiling rising to an arch high above her head. Dark stone tiles covered the floor, covered in cuts and scratches from countless practices and duels before her. Windows rose along two walls, facing each other to make an almost cathedral-like flare to the space, the view of the oak wooded forest bland and brown at this time of year. Behind her stood the main doors, leading to the rest of the barracks, the wood carved carefully in a beautiful archway. The bright light of midday filled the space, negating the need for lights.

She narrowed her pale, colorless eyes, flourishing the five-foot blade, just less than a foot shorter than herself, in one hand before spinning into another swing. It bounced off, impacting just below its shoulder. Her breaths were shallow, muscles tight as she stalked her way around the dummy. She pictured his face on the statue, striking it again. A chunk of splintered wood broke from its head, falling with a soft clatter to the black stone floor of the training room. She took a small step back, taking a moment to breathe.

She tossed her snowy white hair absently, her hand lifting to trace along the twisting metal that encircled her head, a reminder of her mother’s country, before trailing down the thick braid that flowed down her back. Ancient, symbolic black marks contrasted her white irises, her lips painted a deep purple, bold against her hauntingly white skin. Her muscles, exposed by the halter neck of her silver practice gear, flexed as she tightened her grip on her sword.

It had been six months. Six months since she had seen her brother’s face; since he had told her he was going to be away for only one month on his ‘mission’. He talked about how he needed space, that he needed to rebuild himself after what had happened. It had been six months since their lives had been ripped apart.

Her thumb reached the locked switch located at the center of the hilt, flipping it easily. Instantly, spikes of different sizes protruded from both sides of the blade, each one pointed back at her. She scooped down from her position behind the figure, cutting its legs as she spun into a crouch, the resistance of the hooks sending a warm shiver down her spine.

After six weeks and no sign of his return, they had naturally begun to think the worst had happened. The following week had been a struggle, trying to get their father to admit where he had sent him, but he had been characteristically uncooperative. It had taken Ryan, the idiot that he was, sneaking around the council building after everyone had gone home to even find where her brother had even gone off to.

She remembered the knife that had dug into her heart when she heard that he was only a twenty-minute drive from their home. The next day, she had gone with Cameron to the school he had been watching, only to have that knife twist when she saw him.

Her leg muscles tightened, the memories fueling her as she pushed herself up into a barbaric onslaught. Slicing deep gashes into the figure’s chest. Her teeth ground together, her breaths ragged, though not from movement.

She watched him as he walked to the school from his host’s house, a strange enthusiasm in his step. Cameron had held her back when he met two students, the grin on his face happier than she had seen him in years. She watched as he joked with the redheaded girl, all the grief and stress were seemingly non-existent. She’d made Cameron stay parked across the street until he had disappeared into the building, her mind desperately trying to deny what she had seen.

She had known he was struggling under the demands of his new position under their father, even before it had happened, he had seemed so defeated. Seeing him so carefree, the obvious care he held for those strangers he had known for such a short time… It was worse when it became obvious that he had clearly been in communication with some of the members of the council, he couldn’t even bother to reach out to his family or who were supposed to be his friends.

She lopped off another part of its head, her jaw beginning to sting from how taut she held it. Her limbs tingled with purpose as she struck again, her vision red. The speed of her attacks only grew, shards of wood flying across the large space. She stopped only when she realized what had started as a body-shaped dummy was now nothing but a chopped-up pillar. In one final swipe, she sheared through the already narrowed placement of the neck. The ‘head’ softly thumped to the floor, rolling towards her slightly as she watched it, her head tilted. In a split second, she slammed her blade down into it, skewering the wood on the end of her sword.

“I think you killed it,” the tenor voice at the door sent her hand whipping to the jagged dagger at her waist, her heart pounding at the sudden interruption. Without thinking or even aiming, the blade left her fingers, flipping through the air before embedding itself in the doorframe next to a nervous-looking Ryan. “I surrender,” he raised his hands mockingly.

She growled as she disengaged the spikes on her sword, and slammed the ‘head’ loose on the ground. She moved the point away from its earlier target, placing it straight down beside her, holding the hilt with one hand as she stared him down frostily. “What do you want?” Her voice, which usually held a slight hoarse texture, was rough even to her own ears.

He turned to pull the dagger free, inspecting the multi-pointed ends with a slightly raised blond brow. He flipped it in his hand with a snicker as he walked towards her slowly, holding it out for her to take. “Here you are, ice princess.”

She sneered at the humorous light dancing in his silver eyes, snatching it back before shoving it back into her belt, waiting for him to give her an answer. He was shorter than her by a few inches, but it didn’t stop him from standing his ground against her presence. His sandy blond hair was combed back neatly, freckles covering every inch of his pale skin that she could see. His features made him look more mature than she knew him to be, his downturned eyes, straight nose, and thin lips giving him a naturally serious look; if only he didn’t constantly twist them in smirks and idiotic grins. She had been tolerating his presence as her brother’s best friend for years now, but now that he was gone, her patience wore thinner every day.

“Just thought I’d let you know,” he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, rumpling his t-shirt that showed a picture of some cartoon she didn’t care about. “Eleanor made noodle goop,” she rolled her eyes at his name for alfredo pasta. “And she’ll cry if you don’t come try it.”

“I’m not hungry,” she stared him down, her face blank of emotion. It wasn’t true, she hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. The truth was, sitting at the table with the rest of them, was only a grim reminder of the state of their team. Seven months earlier, the seats had started emptying, now with her brother gone, there were only four of them left of the original ten. The sight was more than depressing and made their absences more blatant than anywhere else.

Of course, she could go to other observances and the homes of the others who had left, but the most painful, the catalyst to everything, would never walk through the grounds again. Roselle’s room, her armor, her equipment, still as she had left it before she had been brutally murdered within the borders of their people’s last sanctuary by one of their other team members. The murderer’s being the other permanently empty chair, executed by none other than her brother after the trial had taken place. The observance continued to fracture from there.

Ryan shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind…” He trailed off, eyeing the shredded dummy. “Just let us know how many more of those we need to pick up, I’m pretty sure half of our budget is going straight into those at this point.”

She bristled at his comment, a scowl twisting her features. She snapped her sword up from the floor, the tip of the blade scratching the stone tiles lightly on its swing upward. Turning on her heel, she walked away from him and the deformed figure, heading towards the smaller door on the far side of the room. Ryan could shove it and leave forever for all she cared. His ‘jokes’ were more irritating than anything else and his existence kept reminding her that he wasn’t there and off gallivanting with some redhead who was obviously a cheap replacement for Roselle.

She shot him one last poisonous glare before throwing the door open, having to angle the saifas in her hand carefully, as to not damage the doorframe. Once in the small, darkened room, she let herself take a deep breath. The equipment room was sectioned off for each member of the observance to have their own space for any equipment they had. At the moment, six of the ten were filled. Two stood facing each other, untouched, a small window shining light onto the shelf that held her brother’s practice gear.

She huffed, moving on to the back corner where her equipment was stored. She moved her blade to lock into its sheath that hung from the wall, the familiar magnetic pull urging her hand forward until the sheath locked closed around it. She shed her gear and flat shoes expertly, replacing them with her regular, plain black shirt, jeans, and knee-high, high-heeled black boots. She pulled her navy leather jacket over top, glancing in the mirror she had placed there when she had first joined the Order of Observances three years prior when she was only thirteen. Her eyes immediately went to the black symbols around her eyes, speaking of her grief and anger for her, just as they had for hundreds, even thousands of years for the Wotakouran people. The moonstone seemed to glow from where it rested centered near the top of her forehead in her daeis, the symbol of her mother’s family, silver curling around it, curling around her head to where it held more stones. She looked like the product she was: a Hecathian raised in a human world.

She remembered when she had gone to the humans’ schools when she was young, trying to blend in, they had taunted her for wearing them, along with her albinism of course, until she rammed one of their heads into a locker. Once her father had finished the Academy, opening it to the lost children and families of their once-great empire to teach them about everything they had lost, she had been set free from her torment. Now, the academy was a shelter for them, secluded from humans, as much as possible that was. They had begun to rebuild what they had, and what Elaine and others her age didn’t know, as they were too young when their people were slaughtered.

She shoved her gear onto the shelf unceremoniously, knowing that the wrinkles would be irritating to get out later, but she really wasn’t in the mood to fold clothes. She grabbed the dagger that stuck out of the tangle of toughened material, hanging it back on the wall beside the mirror where it belonged.

She exited into the grand lobby of their barracks, the sounds of Eleanor, Cameron, and Ryan emanating from the kitchen just to her left. Her feet moved on their own across the marbled floors, moving past the small garden planted in the center of the floor. She turned onto the stairwell, leading up to the second-floor balcony that was held up by black, twisting pillars. Her room was the fourth and final door on the right, placed at the front of the building. She had always been grateful that Cameron, her only room neighbor, was silent when on his own, meaning that she could easily pretend no one was there at all. And fortunately, or unfortunately, the room directly above hers was empty, though she knew that the status was only temporary.

She cleared the doorway, just managing not to slam it behind her. She stopped just beyond it, the sudden feeling of safety settling over her. She opened her eyes with a final shaking breath, her nails stinging the inside of her palms at her sides.

Her suite was simple, yet held the distinct elegance she loved. The walls were pale blue, black accents that she had painted long ago rising along the wall to her right in a diagonal diamond-like design, each one holding its unique flair. Something that might be unnoticed by most would have been the distinct lack of any color patterns, her furniture, rugs, and even clothes all singular colors with the possible exception of small black or silver flairs.

She passed one of the gray chairs and the round table in the sitting area that took up most of her space, sinking onto the curved, indigo settee that filled the corner of the room. She stared blankly across the room at the sheer white curtain hanging from the rounded archway, hiding her bed behind it. The open door of the bathroom beside it revealed that she had forgotten to hang up her towel to dry the night before.

She just sat there for what felt like a few minutes, not really thinking, but just feeling the sorrow that had been steadily growing for a long time now. She blinked, jolting herself as she pulled her legs up, careful to keep the soles of her boots off the furniture.

Her blatant fury had dulled, now a simmer just under the surface of her being. Her fingers absently twisted the black ring on her hand, questions filling her head, not heeding her attempts to shove them away. Why had he turned his back on all of them so easily? Did he ever think about her at all? Had he forgotten them all so quickly? What did he get out of staying away from them?

Would she ever be able to talk to her brother again?

____________________________

Anna closed the front door of her house behind her, leaning against it for a moment, lost in thought. To say that what had happened during her first day of school was unexpected would be an understatement. A smile pulled at her lips, a small laugh conveying her disbelief escaping from the back of her throat.

Even if they were a little odd, especially Jacob, their kindness had blown her away. After they had finished lunch, each one of them had made some kind of effort to say hello in the hallway or walk to shared classes. Even Ben, still silent as a ghost, had walked hesitantly through the hall with her at one point. It had been a little awkward, but she got the feeling that even if he did want to talk, he would have the same trouble knowing what to say as she did.

She had gotten a sense from him that there was something deeper to his shyness; if it was even that he was shy in the first place. She hadn’t needed to know them long to see just how protective Rachel was of him, the girl’s eyes flashing dangerously as soon as anyone so much as looked at him. Anna got the impression that they had a long history between them, while Jacob was probably the newer addition to their group.

It turned out that Rachel was popular in a non-traditional way, though she clearly wasn’t a fan of the attention. It seemed that everyone knew who she was, several of her other friends coming up to them while Anna had walked with her between their tech class and English. Thankfully, Evan hadn’t made another appearance, though after hearing what others had said, she wouldn’t be surprised if he came to bother her again.

She pushed herself upright, sliding her backpack down her arm to place it on the floor. She looked into their small living room, the low ceiling and eggshell walls not exactly pleasant to the eye, but it was a home. Footsteps from where the kitchen was in the back corner of the house caught her attention as she pulled her arms free from her coat, her father coming into view a moment later.

There had been many people over the years expressing how she looked nothing like him, and no, their doubt wasn’t from nowhere. He stood at around five and a half feet, though there was just something about him that made him seem taller. His skin was a rich tan, with dark chestnut curls atop his head that stopped just above his shoulders, a five o’clock shadow covering the lower half of his face. He looked young for his age, she knew, not a greying hair in sight, though his worry lines became more obvious the more you looked at him. There were similarities though, her high cheekbones and the upturn on the outer edge of her eyes.

He currently looked exhausted, bags forming under his shockingly violet eyes, the product of a mutation that she long suspected may have contributed to her own strange eyes. His body seemed to wilt, even while he straightened, offering her a smile. “Hi,” his voice was light, cheerful even. “How was school?”

She watched the anticipation in his eyes, the regular hint of guilt floating across his face before it was gone. “It was good,” she felt the grin return to her. She leaned down, untying her boots and freeing the lower part of her jeans.

“That’s great!” His face lit up. “Did something happen?”

She wanted to laugh at his excitement, but she knew it was because she had stopped answering the question a while ago, much less given any hint of a positive experience. “I think so,” she couldn’t help the small amount of doubt. “I met some people.”

“Wonderful,” his face relaxed, though his eyes continued to shine.

She looked at him carefully, the weariness he felt ran deeper than he was trying to portray. She knew that he had hardly slept the night before, the sounds of him having another night terror waking her at sometime around midnight. She had never asked him what they were about, but it was because he hadn’t ever wanted to talk about them. He knew that she was aware of them, their rooms hadn’t always had the best insulation over the years after all, but knowing was the furthest they got to acknowledging them.

He lowered himself down into one of the two chairs they had, a slight grunt escaping his lips as he did so. Immediately, his eyelids drooped, as though now that he wasn’t on his feet, his body had decided it was safe to sleep anywhere.

She bit her lip, trying to keep her concern from showing. After a moment of silence, she turned away, feet moving quickly across the creaky wooden floor. She entered her room, shutting the door softly behind her. A quiet trill sounded from the heap of blankets at the foot of her bed, a fluffy black head shooting up to regard her with blue eyes.

She shuffled over to the cat, sinking her hand into Isa’s long silky coat. She had immediately stood up at Anna’s ministrations, arching her back, balancing precariously on her tiny clawed toes. Isa, or Isabelle, as Anna had named her when they picked her up from the streets of Istanbul two years before. She was small for a cat of her breed, a Turkish Angora, only coming out to weigh just over two kilograms. Isa looked up at her with narrowed eyes, a soft purr rumbling to life in her chest as Anna scratched a sweet spot along the side of her neck.

She looked at the framed picture that she had on her bedside table, the old photo one of the few she had of their family before it was torn apart. Her father was holding her mother from behind, Natalie, he had told her. Anyone would know that she was her mother in an instant, her father saying many times that she had gotten ninety percent of her looks from her. She had many of the same facial features and the same golden blonde curls; even her height in relation to her father seemed to align almost perfectly. She was holding a young toddler version of Anna, platinum blonde wisps just starting to curl from the top of her head and her face blotchy from obvious tears. At Natalie’s side stood a small girl, around four or five years old, brown hair curling tight in a wild mane around her rosy cheeks. Her sister, Arabella.

She looked into the deep violet eyes that matched her father’s, filled with joy and innocence as most at that age were. Her father hadn’t wanted to talk about her often, and when he had, it was only in short comments. Over time, she had been able to determine that Bella had died in an accident of some kind only a few months after this photo had been taken. The incident lined up, timewise, with her mother leaving as well, though she couldn’t help but wonder if she had died in the same incident. If that was the case, however, she wondered why her father just didn’t say so.

She knew her father didn’t necessarily want to hide the past from her, but it was extremely painful for him, even when he began to try. His life before what she could remember was a mystery to her, other than the occasional picture and the short stories he would talk about her mother. In a sense, she understood why he couldn’t talk about the past, the lack of any family presence before he had told her about his recently found older brother, along with his nightmares… it was a dark picture to paint indeed. She remembered the look of utter amazement when he had told her about Joseph, after at least twelve years of silence.

In truth, she didn’t even know where her father had even grown up. She knew her mother was American, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t from the United Kingdom either, or any of the other places they had lived. His accent was impossible to identify, like a bizarre mix of Arabic, Swedish and French with a minimal addition of English pronunciation as well.

A paw lightly smacking her wrist turned her attention back to Isa, the cat rubbing her fingers as soon as she started moving them again. A small smile played on her lips at Isa’s affection while she reached with her other hand to scratch down the length of her spine. Blue eyes slowly blinked up at her, her claws lightly pricking her leg through her jeans as Isa climbed into her lap.

Her hand stopped at the base of her tail, frozen as her fluffy tail was dragged between her fingers and palm. Her eyebrows furrowed as something pricked the back of her mind, like an itch that she couldn’t reach. It was as if something was calling her, though the ‘voice’ was more of a pull.

She stood slowly, Isa mewling in protest as she jumped down onto the floor at her feet. She exited her room, wincing at the sound of the floorboards under her feet. Her father was hunched over in the chair still, his eyes closed and chest rising in a slow, steady fashion. She passed him in a blur, her socks sliding slightly on the slick floor.

She rounded through the kitchen, the dark cupboards covering the outside walls with a small window over the sink. The basic, discoloured ivory tiles stretched beyond the small dining table and into what could hardly be called a hall with doors to their utilities and laundry/storage room.

Her eyes landed on a large box that was somewhat hidden behind a pile of others. She recognised it easily, as it was one that she knew had never been unpacked from when they had first moved from London. They had gotten rid of a lot of the unnecessary knick-knacks and books they didn’t read over the years, but this one particular box had remained, unexplained. Now it was drawing her closer, luring her in.

What was in that box?

Pressure against her ankle told her that Isa had followed her, a quiet chirp coming from the cat. She didn’t lean down, her eyes locked onto the plain, unprinted cardboard. Her hand instinctively raised, reaching out before her with fingers spread just ever so slightly.

Her eyes bulged as the box almost looked like it shifted under her gaze, her breath stuttering as her hand began to shake. In the low light that strewn in from the open doorway, a second source appeared. A turquoise glow seemed to originate directly above her, dimly lighting the white walls in a blue-ish sheen. When she looked up to see what it was, however, the light followed the path of her line of sight.

She snapped her head back to look at the box, the glow following once again. Her breath was coming faster, her legs feeling weak under her weight. Her hand, still outstretched, flexed absently, the muscles in her arms tightening. A tearing sound just caught her attention, her breath stopping altogether when she saw the makings of a hole just starting to show on the side of the box.

Anna ducked into a crouch without thinking as a rip rang through the room, her arm moving from in front of her to being raised above her head. She could just see the silver flash at the top of her vision, her fist abruptly closing around something cold and solid.

She opened her eyes from their sheltered position staring at the floor, the blue light was now gone. She felt her arm lower back to her side, gripping whatever now rested in her hand with white knuckles. She didn’t dare breathe, she didn’t want to raise her gaze to look at the box, nor to see what she held. Her eyes moved on their own, straining from her bowed position to see the jagged hole that punched outward from the cardboard.

Slowly she forced her head to turn to her right hand, her fingers slipping slightly on textured metal. A silver blade expanding outward from her backhanded grip sent a gasp that shuddered her body. Crystal, wing-like structures jutted out on each side of the hilt in an admittedly gorgeous guard. A silver V-shaped joint connected the simple length of the blade which was almost as long as her forearm to the hilt, with only a sharp hourglass indent two-thirds down the blade interrupting the classic shape. She shifted her fingers slightly, the ridged lines on the grip making it easier for her hand to balance the alien object in her palm.

She flipped her hand, the blade now directly below her face as she continued to inspect it. Amazement wasn’t a powerful enough word for the surreal feeling that burnt through her body. Her fingers tingled with energy, trembling slightly, her breath held as she gaped. She stood frozen, her body tensed in the small room with the small bit of light streaming in from behind her.

She looked back at the box, swallowing the sting that was growing in her throat. What in the name of all things holy just happened? This wasn't real. This was real. How was she supposed to explain this to her father?

She made a split-second decision, hopping to her feet with renewed vigour. She crossed the room to the box, looking at the dagger in her hand one last time before shoving it back through the hole it had come out of. Then, she braced her hand on the small counter behind it, shifting its position with her feet to turn the hole away from the door.

She left the room in a flurry, her feet skidding as she made the arch around the house, going back by her father, and into her bedroom. She paused with her door poised in her hand, heart pounding in her eardrums. She watched her father for a moment, his peaceful form still asleep, eyes shifting in a dream. She quietly shut her door with a trembling hand, bringing it to a fist just below her collar, her heart pounding beneath her fingertips, as she wilted against the solid structure.

She stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, her whole body screaming in alarm at what she had seen, the cool remaining tingle on her hand reminded her of how the dagger had felt in her hand; like it somehow belonged there.

What the hell?

Next Chapter

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#legacy of the fallen #legacy of the fallen text #my writing #writing wip #writer #fantasy writer #writeblr #aspiring author #aspiring writer #sorry this is late #going through some stuff rn #elaine sagael #annamarie ophelie

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sl-walker · 1 year

Note

⭐star⭐

Okay, so the whole chapter of Forty-Eight following this scene is one that I struggled incredibly hard to write, in part because it was the first one I'd penned since ten years earlier. Or just shy of ten. But we'll go with this specific scene because it's got so, so many layers:

"I'm twenty-five, I dinna need a babysitter."

The words were sharp, snapped off at their ends like branches frozen solid in the darkest part of winter.

Corry was a little surprised, in a dull fashion, by how unsurprised he was by them, as he regarded Scotty.

It reminded him, not of the aftermath of the dive into the North Atlantic, but of the aftermath of the fire in the shipyards. And even then, it wasn't the way Scotty had tackled him to the ground and came a hair's breadth from punching him, but past that, when he stood there shaking, blood dripping off of his jaw from where his head had been sliced open, containment cracked right down the middle.

Then and now, he was angry and wounded.

Then and now, he was one of the toughest people Cor had ever known, and simultaneously also one of the most vulnerable.

They'd stayed in the skimmer for a good couple hours; Corry hadn’t wanted to wake Scotty up when he was finally sleeping well enough to do him some good, so instead he'd sat there and watched the snow start falling again that had chased them north from Baltimore, feeling dazed and exhausted and heartsore, so tired that he couldn’t seem to even think anymore.

And when Scotty did wake up again, he was a good bit more together mentally; enough, anyway, to start raising his metaphorical shields.

Which led to them now staring one another down across half the distance of a motel room; not the measured, graceful dance of give and take that they had learned over the past six years, but not so far from it that it didn't echo, at least.

“Twenty-six,” Corry said, after a moment, barely able to force his voice above a whisper. “As of yesterday.”

He said it mostly as a reminder that all of that missing time meant something, as a way of saying without saying just how close to dying his brother had gotten and how badly hurt he still was. And it was also a way to offer Scotty some kind of grasp of where and when he was; Corry had told him the date before, right after they left the hospital, but he couldn't take it for granted that Scotty would have kept hold of it, especially given the circumstances.

He still didn't know what to make of the stricken look he got back, but it wrenched something in the base of his throat; it was such an expression of grief and disbelief and Corry could feel it in his own already-raw chest.

Still, Scotty didn’t answer that right away; instead, white-knuckling a crutch with one hand, left foot drawn up a little so he wasn’t putting his weight on it, he just covered his eyes with his other hand and, in the shadow of that gesture, breathed careful and measured. Even as the muscles in his jaw knotted; even as his bottom lip twitched.

But when he did drop his hand again after a small eternity, face wet and hand shaking, he tipped his chin up anyway and looked Cor in the eyes.

“Move,” he said, quietly, voice ragged. “Please.”

Then and now, he was courage trying to find enough oxygen to survive, and so Corry moved.

Okay, so for those of you who only know me for Star Wars, some quick backstory: My first fandom love was Star Trek, the Original Series, and if you've known me for two minutes, you'd know that Scotty's been my favorite guy forever. Which is probably for the better, honestly, because I think I might be one of maybe-- I dunno, less than ten people since the 60s who has looked at that man and decided to imagine him as the main character of his own story. Like-- I am at least reasonably sure that there are less than five of us who not only did that, but then decided to actually write that story.

Which I've been working on now for half of my lifetime. And the tale this scene is from is him trying to piece together what happened to him half of his lifetime ago.

I've mentioned it in replies and chats and across time, but Scotty is easily the most complex character I've ever written. He's complicated. And Forty-Eight, the story that scene above is from, is the hardest story I've ever tried to tell. I posted the prologue in 2009. I'm almost to the end now only in 2023. Because it's fucking hard, it's wrenching to write, it means deconstructing a character I've loved all my life, it means getting way more real than TV ever let us get. I came back to it because I almost died myself last summer; I came back to it because Scotty got very close to it here, both back when he was thirteen and then again just shy of twenty-six.

So, that scene above kind of touches on a whole lot of his backstory before this: ONOW, where that scene of him bloody and angry came from (wearing the black from the smoke and the blood pouring down the right side of his face like warpaint), and also Corry recognizing the connection between that moment and this one--

Then and now, he was angry and wounded. Then and now, he was one of the toughest people Cor had ever known, and simultaneously also one of the most vulnerable.

--but especially the recognition that his brother is both of those things at the exact same time. Incredibly tough, but also very, very vulnerable, with vulnerable being more synonymous to fragile in this sense than open or unguarded.

So, beyond the past connection and the insight, there is the fact that Scotty -- who absolutely does love his brother, like every bit as much as Cor loves him -- still is falling back to self-defense, raising his shields, even against someone he knows would never hurt him, someone who just risked hugely to protect him, for that matter. And there is Corry kind of trying to gently tell him, hey, you were literally in surgery where they were putting you back together when your birthday passed, and Cor not knowing he's stumbled over a pretty nasty trigger or where it's from, but recognizing it once he does, and how much it hurts him to see that.

And finally:

Then and now, he was courage trying to find enough oxygen to survive, and so Corry moved.

Another callback to ONOW specifically, but also the whole storyline. But I guess what I love most about that line is echoed throughout the whole chapter. The whole story.

Corry's had a really, really good life, mostly. He has loving parents. He grew up in a beautiful place. He was never abused. He always knew he was loved, that if something happened, he had a home to retreat to and people who would protect him. Up until ONOW, nothing bad ever really happened to him or his family.

And yet, instead of just relying on that fine upbringing and that safety net, he instead not only risks everything to save Scotty, but tries incredibly hard to extend that safety net to include his brother, too, who never once had one of his own before and still doesn't quite know how to cope with it. Or accept it. Or feel worthy of it.

So, this story from Corry's side is, "I love you and I desperately want to help you and bring you safely home where we can just protect you and if I can do that, I'm fulfilling one of the major purposes in my life." And he does this despite how much he has to risk.

There is a lot more to this story than just this one scene. I can point to every story before it for a piece or more that gets called back to in this one, even if ONOW is the one most directly referenced. But this scene is a favorite because it's so telling. Because it also references Bookends, which is another of my favorites from AotW: That measured dance of give-and-take that these two have had to learn, and how fucking important it is that they did learn it before now, because now is when they need it the most.

Boiled down, it's basically just how deeply one brother loves the other, and all the deep work they had to do to reach this point, and the acknowledgment that even then they're in dark waters, and also the recognition that sometimes courage is just refusing to quit breathing.

Like I said, a lot going on.

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heartsburstintofire13ghosts · 1 year

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II. Crazy For You

A/N: This chapter is very Royce centric. I wanted to delve more into Ellie’s ability to not age, Royce’s interactions with Sam (through his dreams when he’s alive).

Due to Royce’s tempestuous nature, this chapter has a heavy E rating. For explicit content (graphic descriptions of a penis, masturbation, as well as a horny teenager’s thoughts about his dream girl), language, and violence.

I know a lot of people can’t read the Russian alphabet, so I am going to write out the words with the regular alphabet. While Sam speaks several languages fluently, she does predominantly speak Russian with her Aunt and her mom. Dana was also taught how to speak Russian by Ellie.

Keep in mind, however, that our alphabet does not have letters for some of the sounds of the Russian language, therefore, you may have to use a translator to hear the actual beauty of the words.

I will run alone tonight Without you by my side I guess you had a place you had to get to I know your eyes I know inside The walls you hide behind And I saw the truth inside the real you Because I know you're lost when you run away Into the same black holes and black mistakes Taking all my will just to run alone When are you coming home?

April 3rd, 1957 Clayton Home

Royce Clayton’s icy blue eyes snapped open as he woke from his dream. Moonlight shone through his bedroom window as he reached up to swipe some of his hair off his forehead. A difficult task as it was matted to his sweat-soaked skin.

He could still smell the sweet scent of her red locks around his face as she leaned down to kiss him, tugging his lip between her teeth, her tongue soothing the ache of the sharp pinch.

Even though he could feel her, he knew he was alone.

The very thought of her had his cock hard. Pulsing painfully. The only girl in the world that had this fucking effect on him and he was not even sure she existed.

She had to, he told himself. Because he didn’t know what he would do if she didn’t.

He had never had a great temperament to begin with, he knew that. But as more time went on and she did not show up, the worse his impulse control got. He got into fights on the daily. At least once a week he ended up in Nurse Bishop’s office for ice or bandages. Recently, he had even taken up drag racing – a fact his mother did not enjoy. She even threatened to take his keys if she found out about it – the rush of the adrenaline the only thing that managed to wipe his fire haired goddess from his mind.

The ticking of the clock on his wall had him turning his head.

12:13 am.

He was officially seventeen.

Royce pushed his blanket off, his sweaty skin warm and uncomfortable under the heavy cotton. He stared down his firm chest and muscled abdomen to the hardness beneath his lounge pants. He heaved a sigh, realizing he wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep unless he relieved his arousal.

He could go take a cold shower, of course, but that would risk waking up his little sister, Elizabeth, who inhabited the room right next to his.

MASTURBATION SCENE AHEAD

Royce pushed his pants down and kicked them off, not shy about being naked in his own room. As nights like this became a more regular occurrence, he had started sleeping with his door locked. He looked at his cock, wrapping his hand around it. It was rigid and throbbing, the veins swollen along the length. He was a solid eight inches, he thought. Circumcised. A common practice for newborn boys this day and age. He had some girth to him, as well. According to his friend Andrew, that was the part that mattered. Though, Royce was never sure if he should believe him or not.

He closed his eyes, rubbing his precum across the head of his cock with his thumb.

She was so tiny in his dreams. He would guess five foot one. His six-foot frame dwarfed his kitten completely. His. All his. He found himself liking that thought. Men could be jealous and possessive and he was no exception to that rule. In his dreams, she did not mind. She found it oddly endearing, cocking her head and stroking her thumb over his knuckles.

Even sweet things she did were sexy. Delicious. Made him want to bury himself so deep inside her that she could never get him out. She was entrenched in his heart. Bound to him at soul level.

He bit back a groan as he moved his hand up and down his length, applying pressure at every pass over the head, twisting his hand slightly.

Royce imagined how hot and tight she would be around him. He may not have experienced it before himself – no girl was her, which robbed him of any desire to even touch them – but his friends talked enough about it that he got the picture. He wondered if he would even fit fully. She was so small. He gave a sharp thrust into his hand at the thought of her riding him, her red hair waving around her shoulders, her pale skin soft under his hand.

He bet she smelled good, too. He had tried to picture a scent that was uniquely her, but nothing he considered worked.

“Fuck.”

The words were hissed out from beneath his teeth, barely audible. Fresh sweat broke out across the skin of his chest and abs, his stroking picking up speed and intensity, his free hand fisting the sheets beneath him.

Where was she? Why wasn’t she here? Why couldn’t he find her?

He took control in his vivid waking dream, flipping her underneath his body and beginning a harsh pace. Despite her small stature, he knew she could take it. She loved it, arching her body up to meet him, her legs wrapping firmly around his waist. He pressed his lips to hers, tongue sweeping into her mouth. She let out a small sound, returning his kiss with fervor. He pressed his hips hard against her, burying himself deep inside of her as he came.

He was forced back to reality by his very real orgasm. He looked down and lifted his hips. He stopped stroking and held his cock firmly at the base, frozen in that moment of ecstasy just before climax. He felt his balls tighten and watched himself explode. Royce felt the rapid sequence of familiar muscle contractions ripple up through his shaft under his motionless hand as a forceful pulse of thick cum exploded across his chest and over his collarbone. A grunt involuntarily escaped him as the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding burst from his lungs. His hand stroked over himself again as he ejaculated. He felt its heat as another streak of semen rushed across his sensitive nipple.

END OF MASTURBATION SCENE

The slugger went limp on his sheets, muscles weak and spongy, his lungs struggling to regain their normal breathing rhythm. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes before heaving himself up out of bed and walking silently to his adjoining bathroom. He wet a rag and washed himself off before opening his window to air out his room. He stretched before yanking his pants back on and burrowing beneath his comforter, suddenly too tired to keep his eyes open.

He surrendered to sleep and to his dream girls open arms.

One day the earth will open wide And I'll follow you inside Cause the only hell I know is without you Some day when galaxies collide We'll be lost on different skies I will send my rocket ship to find you Because I know you're lost when you run away Into the same black holes and black mistakes Taking all my will just to run alone Until I bring you home

April 10th, 1957 Marshall High School Madison, Ohio

Royce growled and gripped the front of Johnny’s jacket, shoving him hard against a locker. He slammed his fist across the greaser’s face, throwing him to the ground.

He could have walked away then. He could have. He should have.

Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda.

He was beginning to believe life was full of that.

“Off to have some more dreams of a little ginger bitch,” Royce’s jaw ticked at Johnny’s words and he turned to watch as the greasy fuck pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and opened it. Royce recognized the drawing. It had disappeared from his notebook. It was his. A picture of his dream girl. “I’ll tell you something, Clayton, she’s a looker - ”

His words were cut off when Royce’s fist made contact with his jaw. Panic took over when Royce’s fist came down again, pure rage in his ice blue eyes. He struggled, choking under the onslaught as he tried to get away from the enraged boy who was striking any part of his body he could reach.

“Enough!” A small hand seized Royce’s wrist and yanked him to his feet, pushing him backward away from Johnny. “Not one more move, Mr. Clayton.”

Nurse Eleanor Bishop was not physically imposing. Only five foot seven with doe eyes and curly dark hair. Her red lips were pressed together in a stern frown as she stared Royce down, daring him to try to get past her. She was a no nonsense woman and would not hesitate to drag him away by his ear if she had to. He had seen her do it before.

And somehow, she always got away with it.

“Scoop Mr. Sullivan off the floor and get him to the hospital,” her intense eyes were focused on the three Greasers around Johnny. “He is going to need stitches and I can’t do them here.”

She whirled on Royce then, eyeing his bloody knuckles.

“Nurses office,” she strolled past him. “Now.”

Royce followed her without a word, stopping for only a second to scoop up the picture that had dropped from Johnny’s limp fingers, and continued on. Nurse Bishop swung the door open and directed him inside, where he took a seat on the hospital bed.

Irritation colored her as she flitted around, grabbing cotton swabs, bandages, and antiseptic.

As she readied everything, Royce studied her. And certain things stood out to him then. He could see his wine haired mystery girl in certain features on her face. The shape of her eyes, the paleness of her skin, the curve of her lips.

The question leaped from his lips before he could stop it.

“Do you have a daughter?” she looked up from dabbing his knuckles, taken back by his question. “About my age, maybe?”

She studied him for a moment before shaking her head.

“If I did, she would go to school with you,” he sighed, trying to hide his disappointment. Why didn’t he think of that? “Why the sudden curiosity?”

He shook his head, his normal grumpiness returning. “No reason.”

She shook her head, beginning to wrap the broken skin of his knuckles with gauze. Lightly, so he could still use them at practice. Assuming the Coach even let him play after almost beating his schoolmate into a coma. He hated Johnny. But killing him had never crossed his mind. Not until he had meddled into Royce’s personal thoughts. His dream girl was just his. She was not meant to be shared. And the thought of anyone else basking in her existence infuriated him.

Especially a spineless little shitstick like Johnny Sullivan.

“You really should mind your temper, Mr. Clayton,” she cut the gauze and went and placed her supplies back where she got them from. “Mest' mozhet byt' bystroy i kholodnoy.”

He looked at her, confused.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Revenge can be swift and cold.”

Nurse Bishop stared at him for a moment, almost like she could see his future, before turning abruptly and sweeping out of the room.

Even if the sky does fall Even if they take it all There's no pain that I won't go through Even if I have to die for you And when all the fires burn When everything is overturning There's no thing that I won't go through Even if I have to die for you

October 14th, 1957 Marshall High Baseball Field

Dead.

He was dead.

Based upon the rising of moon and the setting of the sun, he would say it had been approximately three days since his death. He shoved that memory as far from the front of his mind as it would go. It was painful. Excruciating. Luckily, shock and blood loss had claimed his life before he even had a chance to feel the flames.

But not soon enough for him to be blinded to the people that ignored his cries for help and watched him die. He may have died anyway, but at least he wouldn’t have been alone, in pain, and scared out of his wits in his last moments.

Fresh rage burned through him and his fingers tightened on his bat as he remembered the feeling of being trapped under his car, his skin grating off against the concrete as it dragged him. He looked down at his mangled right hand and bit back a growl of anger.

He reached into the pocket of his letterman and brought out the folded piece of paper he had shoved in there before the race. The watercolor picture he had made in the middle of the night.

Royce huffed and stroked his fingers over the image.

Even in death, she was with him.

A/N: I hope this helps you see into my Royce’s mind a little. Poor boy was going a bit bonkers toward the end there.

Reviews are appreciated.

The song is “Die For You” by STARSET

#thir13en ghosts #thirteen ghosts #13 ghosts #fanfiction #original character #royce clayton #the torn prince

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allthingsdarkanddirty · 2 months

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★✩★ PREORDER BLITZ★✩★

Wrong Bride, Right Wife: An arranged marriage mafia, love triangle romance is coming!

Amazon: Preorder

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭:

𝐀𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞.

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭-𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞,

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧,

𝐇𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐲,

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲,

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐦

𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡-𝐨𝐮𝐭-𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

𝐉𝐚𝐰-𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫. Blurb:

She didn’t know she was lost when he found her…and never dreamed a man like him would marry her.

But he had no choice. It was wed her or lose everything.

Drake Aliko is a freak of nature, physically. A six-foot-five-inch-tall wall of solid muscle weighing two hundred and fifty pounds.

All of it dominant.

A natural leader.

What he says…goes.

No one challenges him…ever.

—Except for Lacy Carter. She’s his soft spot. The only one he allows to boss him around. From the moment he first heard her voice to the vision of an angel stumbling when he stepped into the bookstore to her fiery admonition of the way he handled her precious books, he knew he would own her body and soul, but she could never be his wife.

That’s the one thing he can’t control.

Betrothed to Lily Cartier in an arranged marriage contract written a generation ago, he’s trapped. To refuse means he loses everything.

* * *

When Lily Cartier was three, her rich father died, and her mother cut off ties with his family. All she knows about them is what her mother has warned her of: “The super-rich live by different rules.” Living under the alias Lacy Carter and working at a local bookstore in Brooklyn, a sinfully handsome, gorgeous Greek God, Tech Tycoon Drake Aliko, walks in. Straight out of the pages of the romance novels she reads, she is physically stunned. When he invites her for a drink, she couldn’t be more shocked.

Men like him aren’t attracted to girls like her.

Cautiously accepting a coffee date, then dinner, she finds him funny and irresistible. Letting her guard down, she falls hopelessly in love. But she should have listened to her mother’s warning. The super-rich do live by different rules, and her heart is completely shattered when she learns all his declarations of undying love were professions, not confessions.

He needs her to marry him to keep his fortune. Bound to him, she vows to love her husband with all of her heart, to honor and respect him, and to obey him until death—even if his feelings for her are fake. She will prove herself to be—the wrong bride, right wife.

**Wrong Bride, Right Wife includes explicit content and profanity. Recommended for mature readers only. **

Add to GR: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/208552745/

Hosted by DS Book Promotions.

#preorderalert #comingsoon #wrongbriderightwife #arrangedmarriage #marriageofconvienece #jessikaklide #bookloversunite #romance #meetcute #forcedproximity #authorsofinstagram #steamyromance #hiddenidentity #JessikaKlide #dsbookpromotions

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cocktailsfairytales · 2 months

Text

★✩★ COVER REVEAL ★✩★

Wrong Bride, Right Wife

Drake and Lacy's Story

An Arranged Marriage Romance Novel

By Jessika Klide

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/208552745/

Release: Coming in March (TBC)

Hosted by DS Book Promotions

Amazon: Preorder

https://readerlinks.com/l/3886760

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭:

𝐀𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞.

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭-𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞,

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧,

𝐇𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐲,

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲,

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐦

𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡-𝐨𝐮𝐭-𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

𝐉𝐚𝐰-𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫.

Blurb:

She didn’t know she was lost when he found her…and never dreamed a man like him would marry her.

But he had no choice. It was wed her or lose everything.

Drake Aliko is a freak of nature, physically. A six-foot-five-inch-tall wall of solid muscle weighing two hundred and fifty pounds.

All of it dominant.

A natural leader.

What he says…goes.

No one challenges him…ever.

That’s the one thing he can’t control.

Betrothed to Lily Cartier in an arranged marriage contract written a generation ago, he’s trapped. To refuse means he loses everything.

* * *

Men like him aren’t attracted to girls like her.

**Wrong Bride, Right Wife includes explicit content and profanity. Recommended for mature readers only. **

For more about Jessika Klide and her books:

https://jessikaklide.com/

#CoverReveal #wrongbriderightwife #arrangedmarriage #marriageofconvienece #jessikaklide #bookloversunite #romance #meetcute #forcedproximity #authorsofinstagram #steamyromance #hiddenidentity #JessikaKlide #dsbookpromotions

@Jessika Klide @DS Book Promotions

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joyffree · 2 years

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Love #Enemies2Lovers stories with smart women?

The OHellNo series has two freebies on ALL platforms!

OH HENRY

SHE’S GOT ME BY THE FOOTBALLS…

My name is Henry Walton, and though I’ve been called many things throughout my life—tree trunk, moose, walrus—I am now six foot five, solid muscle, and the hottest defensive end in the NFL college draft. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for: fame, women, and glory.

Just one problem: I’m suddenly in a bad slump. And it started the moment I got dumped by Elle, the nerdy goddess with thick glasses, a smokin’ hot body, and a genius IQ.

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DIGGING A HOLE

HE’S THE MEANEST BOSS EVER.

SHE’S THE SWEET SHY INTERN.

THEY’RE ABOUT TO WRECK EACH OTHER CRAZY.

My name is Sydney Lucas. I am smart, deathly shy, and one-hundred percent determined to make my own way in the world. Which is why I jumped at the chance to intern for Mr. Nick Brooks despite his reputation. After ten failed interviews at other companies, he was the only one offering. Plus, everyone says he knows his stuff and surely a man as stunningly handsome as him can’t be “the devil incarnate,” right? Wrong.

Oh…that man. That freakin’ man has got to go! I’ve been on the job one week, and he’s insulted my mother, wardrobe shamed me, and managed to make me cry. Twice. Underneath that stone-cold, beautiful face is the evilest human being ever.

But I’m not going to quit. Oh no. For once in my life, I’ve got to make a stand. Only every time I open my mouth, I can’t quite seem to muster the courage. Perhaps my revenge needs to come in another form: destroying him quietly.

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buttterknifeee · 3 years

Text

Deep Six- Teen Titans x Aquagirl!Reader

Request: May I request an insert in the episode Deep Six where the titans meet Aqualad?

Masterlist

Summary: Robin makes you accompany this guy name Aqualad and Beast Boy. Will you be able to handle them or will their bickering tear you apart. Also you're a katara kinnie (i know ATLA didn't exist then but still) This episode is Season 1 Episode 8!

Pairings: Platonic!Aqualad x reader, Robin x reader if you squint

Word Count: 4314

A/N: this time i decided not to split up the episode and post it as one! I made them meet for the first time here, so the Aqua kids don't bond much yet, but if you want to see more, feel free to request! (click here for guidelines) Also yes I also ended this one with "anyone up for pizza" thats all i know how to do to end a fan ficbskghs

“Ahhhh, don’t you just love the ocean?” you admired the shallow sea, the blue water flowing by you. The others prepared for launch, reading off the status of the T-Sub.

“Main power online.”

“Oxygen tanks at maximum”

“Defensive system active”

Beast boy hums confidently. “And your new secret weapon is ready to rock.”

Cyborg rolls his eyes through the headset. “Only time you qualify as a secret weapon is after eating a tofu bean burrito.” You stifled a giggle as Beast Boy yells in protest.

“Uh, 'scuse me, bud. Can you breathe underwater? Uh-uh. Can you be any fish in the sea?”

You shrugged your shoulders and smirked. “Cyborg can’t but I can. And I can breathe underwater without being a fish so I guess I’m just as much of a secret weapon as you, BB.”

You found out that you could breathe underwater a few days after you and the others formed the Teen Titans. You were surfing for the first time since that day when you fell off your board. You had accidentally inhaled underwater, and to your relief, you found that you were able to breathe in the ocean water with no problem. You offered to swim outside the sub on your own, but the team didn’t want you to get hurt, so you were stuck in the small confines of your own pod of the T-sub.

Robin ignores you three’s bickering. “We have to find out what this Trident guy is planning,” he says. “If it takes forty barrels of toxic waste, I doubt it's environmentally friendly.”

The engines warm up, the vessel humming to life. “Titan Launch!” Robin exclaims and the T-sub shoots through a tunnel and into the Jump CIty Bay. You watch in awe at the ocean life around you. Now that you had a connection to the ocean, your perspective on ocean life had changed. You clutch your seashell necklace as you continue to take in the view of the ocean, ignoring Beast Boy showing off his teeth and Cyborg turning off his mic as a result. Robin’s voice snaps you back into reality.

“Sonar contact. Beast Boy! Aquagirl! Ready to go?”

You gave a quick smile. “On it.” You unbuckle your harness and the dome unlatched, allowing you to swim out. Beast Boy gave a mischievous smirk.

“Dude, I was born ready. Try not to be jealous.” He aimed the second comment at Raven, who looked at him indifferently. Beast Boy quickly swam out of his pod and transformed into a whale.

“He just put on three hundred thousand pounds. I am so jealous.” she notes sarcastically.

You and Beast Boy made silent eye contact before swimming towards the cargo ship, examining its destroyed remains. He turns into a shark to keep investigating, and you follow his lead. You couldn’t help but feel that you were being watched, as you swam around the ship. Suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you see a green figure; not a bright green like Beast Boy’s but a sicker, murkier green. You point at the green man as he swam away, and you and Beast Boy immediately bolt after it, the T-sub following behind.

Your black scuba shoes propelled you forward, and you aimed blasts of water towards the figure, but it kept dodging your shots. The monster, whom you now assumed was Trident, fired his weapon at you and Beast Boy, and when you dodged, it hit the T-sub. You forced yourself to continue to chase after Trident, hoping that the vessel was also capable of dodging his shots.

You and Beast Boy were nearing close to catching Trident when a voice rang in your head. It wasn’t yours, nor Beast Boy’s; it was clear, belonging to someone no older than you were.

“Your friends are in danger.” you heard. You and Beast Boy both stopped in your tracks, looking at each other in shock. You realized that the T-sub was no longer following you.

“Our friends are in what? Whoa! How did you say that? Dude! How did I say that? Hey!” Beast Boy also says in your mind. You turn to see the T-sub being attacked, and shot off without waiting for Beast Boy.

“Dude, questions are for later! Let’s go!” You order, not even entirely sure how you were able to talk either. You approach the vessel, which was being destroyed by Trident, who you swore you were just chasing.

Suddenly, a figure knocked Trident down. Trident and the mystery person fought each other, moving so quickly that all you could see of the person was a blur of black and blue

You turn your attention to the T-sub, which was slowly sinking into a fissure on the seafloor. Water was filling up fast and a look of panic settled on your teammates faces (except Raven, who seemed to have accepted death). Your eyes glowed blue as you outstretched your arms towards the damaged vessel. Focusing on the water around the titans, you forced the leaks to cease and the descent into the fissure to stop. Your muscles burned as you kept your stance; holding the vessel in place underwater was similar to holding it up on your arms above ground. Beast Boy raced to help as you struggled to keep grip when suddenly, two whales came and carried the sub on their backs.

You let go of the ship and breathe a sigh of relief. Beast Boy sees you almost passing out and comes to your side, now in the form of a squid. Instead of comforting you, he complains about the whales' help.

"They got it? How come they got it?"

A familiar voice rang in your head again. "Because I asked for their help." The voice belonged to the guy who was fighting Trident before. He comes to your other side and supports your other arm, putting it around his neck.

"You talk to fish? Yeah right. And let go of her!"

"You guys need help, and I'm talking to you right?" He glared at Beast Boy, keeping his grip on you.

Beast Boy was about to reply when you held your hand up in front of his squid face. "Beast Boy, I'm a solid five seconds from collapsing. I'm fine with the help."

The guy in blue gave a small smile. "And it's called telepathy. Let's go."

The three of you swam into a cavern. As you entered, the T-sub was floating on the water's surface and although it was extremely damaged, it managed to keep your teammates safe. You nodded to Beast Boy and the other teen and they let you go as you approach the other titans.

Raven asked, "where are we?"

"My place," the mysterious teen answered. "I told the whales to bring you here."

Raven and Starfire both blushed and gave bashful thank yous. You stared at them. Are they… in love with the new guy???, you thought, confused.

Beats Boy seemed angrier than ever. "He saved you?" He yelled, turning back into his human form. "Hel-lo? I was there too, you know."

Cyborg raised an eyebrow. "Were you? Because if anything I remember Aquagirl keeping us from drowning. What, you stopped Trident from kebabbing us with that souped up shrimp fork?"

"Way to go!" Robin said sarcastically. Beast Boy stuttered a response, but the blue teen interrupted.

"Aquagirl, huh? Well, I'm Aqualad. Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier, we Atlanteans like to keep a low profile."

You shake his hand, now taking in what Aqualad looked like. He was half a foot taller than you, with slicked back hair and black pupils. He wore a bodysuit with blue scales and black accents. He had nice features, but you couldn't figure out why the other girls were drooling over him, so you kept that thought to yourself.

"You're from Atlantis? That's so cool!" You say.

He nodded. "So is Trident." He opens up a hologram from a table in the cavern. "He's the worst criminal in Atlantis, with an ego to match."

He continues a sideshow filled with pictures of the sickly green monster. "Trident claims he's perfect in every way so he thinks he can do whatever he wants."

"Any ideas what he wants to do with all that toxic waste?" Robin asked.

"Whatever it is, it'll be bad for both our worlds. He's already gained some kind of new power. It's like he can be everywhere at once." Aqualad says.

"Noticed that," Raven says sarcastically.

"As long as we're after the same guy, maybe we can help each other." He looks at the six of you.

Your eyes sparkle. "Of co-" you begin, but Beast Boy pushed you out of the way.

"Whoa, hey, no, we're good. Got the whole Trident thing under control. 'Sides, I'm sure there's a school of minnows somewhere that need your--" He rejects Aqualad's offer, much to you and the other's dismay. Robin pulls him back, and the six of you group huddled.

"We're at the bottom of the ocean," Raven notes.

"Our sub is Swiss cheese." Cyborg adds.

"I almost died back there," You say.

"And we cannot breathe water," Starfire mentions.

Robin is the first to break away from the huddle. "We'll take any help you can give us." He says to Aqualad.

Aqualad nods and has some amphibian guy named Tramm fix the T-sub. He turns back to us. "While he's helping you, I'll track down Trident. " He turns to go into the ocean again, but Beast Boy intersects.

"You mean I'll track down Trident," He says, pushing him a little

Aqualad pushes him back a little harder. "That's ok, I can handle it."

"Thanks, but I think I should do this."

"Seriously, I can take care of it!"

The five of you watched as their quarrel turned into an all out brawl, and suddenly you couldn't take it anymore.

"GUYS," You yell, causing a wall of water to shoot up next to them to grab their attention. They both stared at you wide eyed. "Stop. The. Fighting." You say with a stern expression.

"Why don't you two both go track him down together?" Robin offers, but the two teens cross their arms and scoff.

"I usually work alone." Aqualad says.

"Yeah. Me too."

"You do not! You're part of a team!"

"And you hang out with Tramm the fish boy! What's your point?"

"Hey! Arguing isn't going anywhere. Listen, Aquagirl can go with you. That'll make sure you stay on task." Robin commands, and you perk up at the sound of your name. You quickly pulled him aside.

"What the hell man?? They obviously don't like each other, you should have seen how much they fought on the way here!." You argue, and Robin looks at you through his masked eyes.

"You're the only other person who can survive underwater, they're gonna need you. Besides, you're great at handling conflicts; you'll be fine." He says with a smile. You blush a little at his comment, and sighed.

"Alright Rob, you can count on me” You return to the rest of the group and the three of you jump into the ocean.

As you headed towards the bottom of the ocean, you decided to ask Aqualad a question that's been bothering you.

“Hey Aqualad,” you say telepathically. “Before you said that you were able to communicate with sea animals. How come you’re able to communicate with me?”

“I don’t know actually,” Aqualad admits, still swimming next to you. He points to your necklace. “I’m guessing it's because of your necklace.” He stops to examine it. Beast Boy groans and stops as well. It glowed a little in his hand as he read the ancient text off of it.

“The Shell of Poseidon,” He read out loud. “I recognize this from the library in Atlantis. Only Atlanteans can use its powers, so you must be Atlantean then, right?”

“Woah! I’m not Atlantean, I’ve never even been there,” you sputter, absolutely shocked at what the teen said.

“Well, you must have some blood in you,” he shrugged. “Hey, maybe we’re cousins or something.”

You grin. “Aquacousin? I like the sound of that!”

Beast Boy interrupts your moment. “Ok, haha, family is fun and all, but while you were floating around finding out parts of your identity or whatever, I’ve actually found something on my sonar so, try to keep up.” He swims off, leaving you two to follow him. You expected to see the sea monster, but instead came upon a group of dolphins.

“No offense B.B. but these don't look like Trident to me.” you smirk.

Aqualad swims up to the dolphins, focusing on his telepathy. The dolphins swim up together and Aqualad turns to you and Beast Boy.

“They told me where to find Trident. Try to keep up.” He mocks Beast Boy, then swims with the dolphins. You look at Beast Boy, who seemed pretty grumpy, and turn to follow Aqualad.

You tailed behind as the two boys raced each other, Beast Boy turning into various aquatic creatures to catch up with the equally competitive teen. Then you see it. In front of them, Trident swam into view. You and Aqualad stop on instinct, but Beast Boy keeps going.

"Beast Boy! Stop!" You both yell, as he barrels straight towards Trident.

"What's the matter?" He taunts. "Am I too fast for y-"

You winced as you watched him crash into the sea monster and fall to the floor.

"Heh… how's it going," Beast Boy says telepathy to the monster towering over him. Trident growled.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself, you inferior fool!" He pointed his well, trident at beast boy and fires; Beast Boy barely dodges it.

Aqualad tackles Trident and they fall off an underwater ridge.

"Oh no you! This time he's mine!" Beast Boy yells, following Aqualad to the ridge.

"Beast Boy wai-" you yell, but was cut off by something grazing the side of your head. You turn, and see Trident swing his weapon at you. You dodged his next swing, wondering how he was able to get to you right after being attacked by Aqualad. You send him flying across the ocean with your water powers, when you hear Beast Boy yelling. You turn to see Beast Boy in squid form latched onto Aqualad's face. You could see Trident swim away from the corner of your eye as you swam to pull Beast Boy off of Aqualad. Aqualad glares at Beast Boy, his face peppered with red dots from Beast Boy's accidental attack.

“I said, ‘incoming’” he defends himself. Aqualad ignores him and points to another figure swimming into a grotto.

“He’s getting away!” Aqualad swims away, Beast Boy following.

“Wait-” you say, confused. Didn't you just send Trident flying in the other direction? How did he move so quickly? You reluctantly followed your friends into the cavern. You joined them as they observed the two tunnels that split off into two different directions.

“What are we gonna do now?” you think out loud.

“Maybe the question is where were you guys?” Aqualad snaps, turning to the two of you. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion while Beast Boy swims forward to be face to face with Aqualad.

“Where was I? Fighting Trident by myself!” He jabbed a squid tentacle into Aqualads shoulder.

“You barely laid a tentacle on him! At least I managed to break his weapon!”

“Dude, that's just wrong. I so broke that fork thing!”

“BOYS!” you yell. “I also fought Trident and I sent him in the opposite direction, and now he's here. There's something going on…” The two began to think, but then perked their heads up. They then point at opposite tunnels.

“There he goes!” they yell at the same time. You stare at the two of them in even deeper confusion. Beast boy swims up to you, making eye contact.

“I saw him! He's that way! I'm right, he's wrong! End of story!” He crosses his tentacles. Aqualad pushes Beast Boy aside so that you were now staring at his dark pupils.

"I'm telling you, he's this way!"

"GUYS, we can just split up," You say flatly, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "Aqualad I'm sure you can handle yourself, so I'll go with Beast Boy."

"Aw sweet!- Heyyy…" Beast Boy says to your backhanded comment. Aqualad nods and swims off into the tunnel.

You and Beast Boy were alone in the tunnel when you sighed.

"B.B., why do you keep picking fights with Aqualad?" You asked, still looking ahead. Beast Boy turns to you, acting shocked.

"ME??? It's not my fault Mr. Pretty-Boy-Know-It-All keeps showing off!" He whines.

"Dude, he's just trying to help us. Maybe you should-" you were cut off by a loud booming voice.

"Worthless scum! You cannot beat perfection!" Trident bellowed from behind you. You and Beast Boy turned, already in a fighting position.

"How many of you fork things do you have?" He mumbled as you charged forward.

You dodged his energy bolts, Trident in return dodging your attempts to push him farther back. Beast Boy turns into a turtle, pulling his arms and legs inside. Trident threw his weapon and it bounced off of him, flying into you and sending the two of you hurtling through the water.

"I always win!" You hear him say as you regain your stance. Beast Boy turns into a giant crab, grabbing onto Trident's weapon.

"And I thought Aqualad had a big ego!" He yelled telepathically.

"BEAST BOY GET BACK!" You yell. He swiftly let go, and you shot a jet of water towards Trident, sending him flying into a cavern wall. The cavern shakes, and a mass of boulders come crashing down. All you could see was a crushed trident sticking out from under the rocks. You breathed a sigh of relief until you felt a searing pain in your leg. You look and see a burn mark; Trident probably hit you before you buried him in a pile of rocks. Beast Boy looks at you, a worried expression in his eyes (despite being in the form of an ocean animal).

“I’ll be fine,” you grimace. “Let's find a way out first.” You painstakingly swim until you find a cave similar to Aqualads. You drag yourself towards the land as Beast Boy turns back into his human form. Right after you pull yourself up, you see Aqualad jump out of the water. He sees the two of you, and runs to meet up with you. He and Beast Boy begin to talk at the same time.

“ I just saw Trident!... No, you didn't!... Yes, I did! Cut it out!”

“I don’t care what you say! I fought Trident!” Beast Boy yelled, a vein nearly jumping out of his forehead.

"That's impossible!" Aqualad counters, his fists clenched so tight you thought you saw blood.

They both seemed to be prepared to fight each other. You jumped in between them, holding both their heads back as they flail their arms, trying to get a hit at each other.

"You know," You begin, silencing the two boys. "When Robin asked me to join you guys, I didn't want to. You two are heroes that just met each other and you were already fighting! But he told me that I could handle it and he's right! I can handle the both of you; but it seems to me that you guys can't handle each other. So here's what's gonna happen: I'm gonna heal myself because oh right! I got BURNT and you two are gonna talk it out." You let go of the boys, and they watched as you limped over to the edge of the water, plopped yourself down, and started pulling the ocean water to your leg. You listened in a little as you concentrated the water on your leg. It only took a few seconds to heal your burn, it was only surface level and you had gotten better at using your healing powers. They were still talking as you noticed what was in front of you: hundreds of Trident clones and yellow Trident capsules-eggs attached to the ceiling.

"Uh guys…" you say, rejoining them, but they had seen it too.

"One Trident is bad…" Aqualad says.

"... but this is…" Beast Boy adds.

"... an entire …" You say.

"...ARMY!" One of the tridents finishes your thought.

They all charge, and the three of you brace or impact. You raise your arms and a wave of water takes out a small group of the monster clones. You dodge their attacks, shooting jets of water at their heads. You see Beast Boy get flung into a machine, and an egg hatching sequence begins on the screen. You regroup with the other boys in front of the machine.

"Oops," Beast Boy said sheepishly.

"Great," Aqualad groaned as the clones began to close in.

"We need a plan," You mumble.

A group of the clones began to speak.

"My brilliant plan is already a success"

"If one of me was perfect…"

"Why not make more?"

"You can never have too much of a good thing"

"Once my army conquers Atlantis…"

"I will declare war on the surface world! Everyone on the planet will bow down before me"

"And praise my perfection!"

Aqualad whispers to the both of you as the clones cheer. "Any bright ideas?"

Beast Boy whispered back. "Just one. Try to keep up." He turned to the clones. "So if you're all perfect, which one of you is the best?" He asked.

One of the tridents answered. "I am!... Huh?"

As soon as you understood what Beast Boy was doing, you grinned. Aqualad stepped up.

"Come on. You can't all be the best." He says.

"One of you must be better than the others," You add.

One of the tridents step forward. "I am the original!I am the best!"

"You are not the original"

"I am!" Multiple tridents yell at once.

"Nonsense you inferior fools! I am perfect! I am Trident! "

You watch in amusement as the clones turn on each other and the fight turns into a full on brawl. The fight eventually ends, and all the tridents laid on the ground, defeated. Aqualad turns to Beast Boy.

"Great idea," He says. You noticed that there were no hints of sarcasm in his voice. Whatever they said to each other earlier must have made them work better together, you figured.

"Kinda got it from you," Beast Boy says."Now we just have to stop those from hatching." He points to the yellow pod filled ceiling. Right as he said that, the screen on the machine behind you hit 0 on the timer and the word "begin" flashed on the screen.

"Too late!" The three of you yelled at the same time. New Trident clones were breaking through their membrane "eggs". Beast Boy instinctively turns into a hippopotamus and tramples the crowd, creating a path to the ocean. You and Aqualad sprint behind Beast Boy, dodging the clones' outstretched arms. You all dive into the water, the Tridents close behind.

"We can't let them escape! We need to find some way of sealing the exit!" Aqualad yells telepathically.

"Right now, I'm just worried about getting to the exit." Beast Boy replies. You didn't look back, but you could feel the clones closing in. As you got closer to the exit you saw a familiar looking silhouette.

"The T-sub!" You exclaimed as you swam out of the cave. The clones stop in their tracks in confusion.

"Huh?" You hear one of them say.

You moved out of the way as the sub sent beams towards the entrance of the cave. The Blast caused a pile of rubble to fall, blocking the exit. You smile at your team who's cheering (along with Aqualad’s friend Tramm) inside their pods. The three of you turn bad to observe the T-sub’s work.

“Good thing Trident likes himself so much, 'cause I'm thinking he won't see anybody else for a looong time.” Beast Boy says.

You find yourself on the surface again, on the shore of the Titan’s Tower. Raven and Starfire both continue to look at Aqualad with heart eyes as Robin steps forward.

“Consider yourself an honorary titan” he says with a smile, holding out a familiar black and yellow communicator for him to take. “We couldn't have done it without you. Thanks.”

“Right back at you. It's good to know there's people up here I can trust.” Aqualad looks at you and Beast boy. He says goodbye to Raven and Starfire, who blushingly say it back. He then turns to Beast Boy.

“What can I say, dude? You're the best.” Beast Boy says.

“Nah. You're the best.”

“Yeah, you're right. And if you ever want me to prove it, I'm always up for a race.”

“Just try and keep up.” Aqualad laughs, patting his head. He finally turned to you.

“Aquagirl, it's been really nice to meet you. Next time you’re near Atlantis, give me a call and I’ll show you around. There's so much to show you,” he stretched out his hand for a handshake, but you pulled him in for a hug. He was surprised at your gesture, but soon returned it. Raven and Starfire looked at you with pure envy as you pulled back with a smile.

“I’ll take your word for it, Aquacousin” you say, making a reference to your nickname for him earlier. He laughs, then waves goodbye. The six of you wave back as he swims back into the ocean. Robin gently put his hand on your shoulder.

“You did a great job today Aquagirl. I knew I could count on you.”

“You know you can always count on me, dude.” you say with a smile. “Now I’m kinda hungry. Anyone up for pizza?”

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