#his music. i feel it worming its way inside me. it dances on my blood cells | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

triplesilverstar · 3 months

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Helloo I love ur trigun fics

I dunno if ur blog is open to this but

The song "Love like You" from the show Steven Universe reminds me a whole lot of Snipes and Vash! <3

Mostly about Snipes singing how someone like Vash continues loving her even after what she's done... And her wanting to become how he sees her so that she feels worthy of his love (if that makes sense lol)

These lines hit had:

"I always thought I might be bad

Now I'm sure that it's true

'Cause I think you're so good

And I'm nothing like you

Look at you go

I just adore you

I wish that I knew

What makes you think I'm so special

If I could begin to do

Something that does right by you

I would do about anything

I would even learn how to love"

That's all. Okie, thank you for letting me in your ask box <33

Aw thank you I'm glad you've enjoyed them. As to the idea I totally loved it. I've never really done a song fic before so here's my best attempt. I decided to work it into one the fics as a chapter just because my list of one shots is getting a little long...

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Injuries, blood, pining,

Word count: 2.2K

A/N: I’ve made this Chapter two of Gunless Duet

You should have known that eventually, your good luck had to run out. It always does. And just like always it runs out at the worst possible moments. Sitting at the bar while watching Vash once more being the life of the party, and this time he had tried to bring you into the fun with him.

“Come on Snipes, let loose just this once? You deserve to enjoy yourself too.” A puppy dog for a plead and you shook your head watching him go back to cavorting around. You aren’t like him, yet he refuses to let that stop him from asking you to join him each and every time. If only you were half of the person he thought you were. You’re not. You’re the farthest thing from what he thinks you are.

Hiding how you feel behind an expression of boredom as a pretty brunette takes his hand and gets him to dance with her. A glare sent your way as if she perceives you as some sort of threat for his affection, a shake of your head as you take another sip of your water and listen to the music playing in the background with the sound of laughter.

Sensing a familiar presence slip up beside you it’s hard not to chuckle, he’s like a tomas with a worm. Determined to not stop trying to catch the damn thing. “Could I get what she’s having?” It’s a cute little ploy on his part to make it seem like he’s still drinking when really he’s had enough, your short glass making it seem like you’re drinking something far stronger.

As Vash throws the drink back you do your best to avert your eyes. Lately, all you can think about is the bubbling attraction for the tall sunshine blond. It’s becoming a problem you don’t want to face, because you know he can’t feel the same way. No matter how many times you’ve tried to slip away from him to find him waiting for you with a grin at whatever town's exit. Like he’s waiting for you and it makes your heart beat painfully inside your chest. He’s not. You’re a decent traveling companion and he’s an infamous bounty so traveling with a well know bounty hunter makes sense. No one would believe he’s the humanoid typhoon. Yet it still makes your chest do funny things when you leave him at the hotel, or a restaurant, like he’s worried you might try and slip away from, wondering when you’re coming back.

Your thoughts of reminiscing are out the window in no time when the sound of breaking glass reaches your ears and Vash is pulled against the brunette from earlier. A knife against his throat and there’s a crazed look in her eyes as she glances around the room like a wild animal that’s been caged against its will. “Nobody moves, I’m just gonna take my prize and leave got it!”

Shit. She’s not a woman that was hoping to get into bed with the blond, she’s another bounty hunter and all the glares sent your way make a hell of a lot more sense. She thought you were the competition.

Your body moves as if on autopilot, your rifle unstrapped, the butt pressed into the metal plate of your shoulder as your stare at her above your scope. At this range, you don’t need it. “I think you’re making a mistake. Let him go unless you want another hole in your head, cept this one will have some grey matter pouring out.” You can’t try to talk it out like Vash would, not with the fear clutching your heart. You also thought you were bad, and the more time you spend with the blond you know it’s true because even now he’s trying to diffuse the situation.

“I think there seems to be some kind of misunderstanding here ladies. No reason to pull rifles and knives out right?” He’s willing to always put his life on the line if it means saving someone, he’s too much of a goody-toe shoe, and you’re nothing like him. It’s a good thing because you wish you could see all the good he sees in people.

“No. I know exactly who you are.” It’s hissed from the woman like a curse and you have no doubt she knows she has the real Vash the Stampede.

“Are you sure? I get confused for a lot of people miss, I mean we were just dancing a little while ago.” A flicker across her face as if she does doubt herself now. You might not be willing to admit it, but it is something that charms you whenever you see it in action. Vash’s ability to talk his way out of almost getting dragged off by people he meets, all with soft words that resonate with the people he speaks to.

As Vash speaks his eyes never leave yours though, he maintains that eye contact like it’s his the string that keeps this bundle of chaos from falling apart. Almost like he knows you’re there to help him diffuse the situation instead of making it worse. You don’t understand it and you aren’t sure you ever will when he looks at you like you’re something special and you have no idea how he could have ever come to that realization. You wish you knew when he looked at you like that why he thought you were so much more than you are.

As the other bounty hunter begins to step back you see your opening, the briefest flicker of her eyes as she checks to make sure she’s heading out the door with Vash. You dart forward and in those few partial seconds you have your grip on your rifle reversed. Just in time to slam the butt plate into the side of her temple.

Only for her knife to slide along the side of his neck and you see red gush from his pale neck as both of them drop. It’s like watching the world in slow motion as your heart pounds inside your chest. The slow rise of his hand to place pressure against his neck and the deep slice that spurts in time to the pumping of his blood through his veins.

When your luck runs out. It really does run out at the worst times.

Your rifle is back in your shoulder as your eyes settle on the knocked out woman and you’re ready to pull the trigger.

“Snipes.” A quick utterance with his voice barely audible to your ears but he has your attention. “I know she didn’t mean.” He’s right. All of Vash’s wanted posters make it clear that he’s wanted alive, so slicing his neck adds a layer of risk to her getting the cash for him. No one pays for the dead when the poster clearly states the one option for turning him in. Grinding your teeth together as your rifle remains pointed at the center of her chest and you so desperately want to pull the trigger, that voice inside of you screaming how she deserves it. She could have killed Vash.

“Snipes. You’re better than that.” The rage flooding your system isn’t subsiding and it’s a hard pill to swallow, but the more rational side of you is winning over with the help of his statement. As much as part of you is screaming bloody murder, it isn’t what Vash would want, and in the end that wins. Stepping back before slinging your rifle and checking on the tall blond. He should have been your concern from the start.

“Keep the pressure on your neck.” Gazing around the room at the patrons who seem to be letting out a collective sigh of relief. “Is there a doctor or a nurse nearby? Both of them need to be seen.” You made this situation worse by dragging it out after the threat had been neutralized, so the least you can try to do to make it up to Vash, to make it right, is to make sure both of them are seen by a doctor. It’s a first step in trying to fix the mistakes you made today.

“What did he mean by mistaken identity?”

It’s a voice of reason in the bar and you’re quick on your feet. “A lot of people confuse him for Vash the Stampede because of how much he looks like the wanted poster.”

“Are they dumb? He’s nothing like that maniac.” You don’t miss the flinch behind Vash’s eyes but it’s better this way. He needs medical attention as you help him stand, ensuring he keeps the pressure on his neck and if it’s even possible he looks paler than before. Swallow as you share a bit more back and forth before following an older man out the door towards the clinic, someone else having been sent to fetch the doctor and tell him what had happened.

“I knew you could end that without more violence.” You keep your mouth shut as Vash whispers his version of a thank you. He shouldn’t be thanking you. He should be screaming how you made things so much worse as you trudge along the sandy road towards the clinic. Another reminder of how downright good Vash is, and you’re nothing like him. You never will be.

As you step into the clinic the doctor takes Vash first. “It’s not that bad honest.” Smiling gently at the doctor as Vash tries to get him to see the unconscious woman who’s being hand-cuffed to a chair in the waiting area. “Just wait here and I’ll be back in no time.” Biting your tongue before you can argue, a short nod and you head towards another chair and drop down into it.

A final meeting of your eyes as the door closes and you see how shaken he looks as the wood turns into a barrier between you. It strikes you then why you had been willing to throw your own morals and beliefs out the window the second Vash was injured like that because that could have been life-threatening. Well, you’re still not sure it isn’t life threatening and he’s just putting on a facade for your sake.

You’re hopelessly in love with Vash the Stampede.

The feelings you’ve been ignoring since your tussle in the sand when he found out about your scars, found out about the monster lurking just under your skin. How you’re nothing like him. Not in the slightest. A man-made monster from another world that was willing to let them start the process and was too foolish to see what it all would amount to in the end.

You're lying to yourself again. These feelings of attraction and affection started long before then, hell they might have started when he saved you from turning into hamburger when you were holding onto the edge of the metal floor over the cliff in that dilapidated old building. You’ve been shoving those budding feelings down because you don’t deserve them, and he deserves better than a broken morally grey person like you. Shoving those thoughts down once more as you remind yourself he doesn’t care for you that way. You’re a friend. Just a friend. Vash treats everyone he meets the same way he treats you, the difference is the two of you are still traveling together and the stubborn blond still joins you in the single bed to make sure you don’t run out on him again.

Snapped from your musing when the door opens once more and Vash strides out as if on top of the world. There isn’t even a bandage or anything on his neck from the slice, just a thin red line. “I told you it wasn’t that bad.”

“You were gushing blood.” Firing right back at him only for the doctor to intervene.

“Injuries like the one this young man received can often seem far worse than they are. I can assure you it’s no more than a scratch. There might have been a bit more bleeding than normal because of the alcohol in his system as well.” You don’t want to believe either of them, you know when you see arterial blood spurting.

Clenching your hand into a fist as you think back on how the rest of the night has gone, you do let it go. Maybe in your panic, your mind did play tricks on you, making it seem far worse then it was. “I do think a night of rest would help. Ready to head back to the hotel? I think I’m done partying for the night.”

The soft smile he sends you is dazzling and it’s not one of his masks that he wears to make others feel better. You see if so rarely that every time it makes your brain stutter, no wonder so many people flirt with him. “Yea. Lets head back.” When he looks at you like that, you know you aren’t like him, you’ll never be anything like him.

But.

It does make you think you could do anything, that maybe you could learn to be a little more like Vash and love the world the way he does instead of judging it.

To learn how to love like him.

Back to Masterlist for the series

#vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #trigun #twink writes #Bullets Bandits Ghosts & Typhoons #tristamp #vash x reader #vash x you

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laequiem · 3 years

Text

She kills my self control - Chapter 13

/ Includes dialogue from The Cruel Prince Chapter 29

“Prince Cardan,” Jude says stoically, “This is for you.”

Under normal circumstances, I probably would have caught on to the implication, but I didn't. I fought all my life for the people of Elfhame to look up to me, worship me, fear me, and they finally do. I am the villain in Balekin's story and everyone is waiting to see my next move. This high is greater than any powder ever gave me.

cw: unhealthy coping mechanisms (alcohol, sex); physical abuse; nsfw

read on ao3 • previous chapter • next chapter • all chapters

Balekin gets up from his seat at the head of the table. He raises his glass for a toast and I brace myself. I know this is the signal. Yet, I still yelp as the explosives go off.

Jude immediately gets up. I force myself to stay still, knowing the Roach is aiming at me. Still I flinch when the first bolt lands in front of me—at least I am making it look real.

Before the second bolt can find its way to me, my world tilts and I am on the floor. Not part of the plan.

It is then I see who is standing over me, shielding my body with his own. My oldest brother, my abuser, my only living sibling, the only person who ever cared for me. I am too stunned to do anything, to say anything. Just like this, I am transported back to the stables I used to sleep in, exiled from the palace for a crime I did not commit. A scared, angry princeling whose oldest brother sheltered, saving him from spending more nights sleeping through the grunts of animals and swatting at flies.

When Balekin gets up, I push myself up as well. Taryn is holding the crown and I understand someone mistook her for Jude. With fear written all over her face, I wonder how anyone could make that mistake. Jude would keep her chin up even when faced with the most vicious of monsters.

“Child, if you do not give that to me, I will cut you in half,” Balekin threatens, hand tightening over the pommel of his sword, “I will be the High King, and when I am, I will punish any who inconvenienced me.”

The word punish sends a chill down my spine. Will I be the first punished, for hiding from him? If I crown him, would he spare me?

I can see Taryn looking between my brother and Vivienne. Her hands are tightly gripping the crown, obviously trembling.

“Give me my crown," Balekin growls.

He takes a step towards her, but someone puts a hand to his chest to stop him.

"Wait," Lord Roiben of the Court of Termites orders.

Balekin tries to push Roiben, in vain, and I see The Ghost's crossbow follow his movements, ready to shoot if he tries to hurt the lower Lord. Off to the side, Queen Orlagh is watching. Thankfully, Nicasia seems to have followed my advice and is nowhere to be seen.

“She’s only a mortal girl," Balekin says, as if the excuse would turn any faerie to his side.

Roiben does not budge.

“This is a lovely banquet, Balekin, son of Eldred. But sadly lacking in amusements before now," Queen Orlagh drawls, "Let this be our entertainment. After all, the crown is secure in this room, is it not? And you or your younger brother are the only ones who can wear it. Let the girl choose whom she will give it to. What does it matter, if neither of you will crown the other?"

“This is ridiculous. What of the explosion? Didn’t that entertain you sufficiently?”

"It certainly piqued my interest," Roiben replies, arching a pale brow, "You seem to have lost your general somewhere as well. Your rule hasn’t even formally begun, but it certainly appears chaotic."

Jude walks to her twin and reaches out, but Taryn is holding tight to the crown. I cast a glance towards Locke and I see the familiar glint of amusement in his stare. The same glint I saw when I caught him in bed with Nicasia, when he teased me about Jude. I want to punch it off his face.

When Taryn finally lets go and Jude moves towards Oak and Vivi, I know I am to go to them as well.

“Prince Cardan,” Jude says stoically, “This is for you.”

“Stop!” Balekin shouts, then begins a symphony of blades unsheathing, “Stop them immediately.”

The Ghost shoots and I am afraid he killed my brother. When he calls my name, I turn to him and see that his hand is bolted to the table.

“I know you. I know that you’d prefer I did the difficult work of ruling while you enjoyed the power,” my brother tells me, as if we were the only people in the room, “I know that you despise mortals and ruffians and fools. Come, I have not always danced to your piping, but you haven’t the stomach to truly cross me. Bring me the crown.”

The little speech does not even scratch my stony heart. He knows nothing. He has never known me.

“Bring me the crown, Cardan.”

I turn away. I school my face in a mask of indifference.

“No, brother. I do not think that I will," I check my nails, admiring the way the light glints off the iridescent polish, then grin at my brother, "I think that if I did not have another reason to cross you, I would do it for spite.”

I reach Oak and Jude. The little guy is holding the crown. They trust me so little that they would give it to him instead of me? Did they really think I would crown Balekin? Oak looks so docile that he could be mistaken for a human child. None of that rage I had at his age, yet we are both the unwanted offspring of cruel fathers. He survived his father's attempt at killing him, then he was adopted by a bloodthirsty warlord. I suppose a warmongering general is a better father than none at all. I clench my jaw at the thought, at all these things the lucky kid does not realize he has. Perhaps Jude's plan will turn him into a great ruler. More tolerant than Balekin would ever be.

“Show Oak,” Jude whispers to me, “Show him what he’s supposed to do. Kneel down.”

I raise a brow, “They’re going to think—”

They're going to think that he will crown me.

How laughable.

“Just do it,” she shoots back.

Not a command, yet I kneel anyway. The irony of kneeling next to Jude, whom I have always wanted to see on her knees, is not lost on me.

Oak does not move, nor give me the crown. I gesture to myself, as if trying to show him how to kneel .

“See?” I ask harshly, “Now the crown.”

I want for this to be over, I want to crown the kid and get on with my life. Whatever they do afterwards is none of my concern. Madoc will rule until Oak is old enough, with Jude to keep him in check. I can finally leave Elfhame. Perhaps even leave Faerieland altogether. I doubt the solitary fey would be glad to have one of the Gentry in their midst, but I can stay away from them. How hard could it be to live in the Mortal realm, pretend to be one of them?

Oak walks tentatively towards me. I look up at Jude, but all her attention is on Oak. I could almost think she is ignoring me.

“Phase four,” I whisper to her.

She bends down towards me and whispers in my ear, “For the next full minute, I command you not to move.”

The realization hit me. This was her plan all along. Gain control of me so I cannot deny her. I curse myself for a fool—of course she would not put Oak on the throne right away. That would give too much power to the General, and she does not trust him. She doesn't trust me either, I don't think, but she now has me under her control, so she does not need to.

I try to move, but my limbs do not cooperate. Instead, there is a prickling all over my body, a growing numbness.

"Go ahead," Vivienne coaxes her foster brother, "Just like we practiced."

The kid is looking down at me. I can tell he is unsure, his eyes glossy and his eyebrows ever so slightly narrowed. He reaches towards me, crown in hand.

“I crown you… King," he says as he puts the crown on my head, "High King of Faerie.”

I feel a jolt of energy going through my body. The air suddenly feels… richer. I can hear the wind rustling branches outside. My palms are braced on the soft ground and I feel the shift of the earth as worms burrow their way through, the gentle pulse of roots feeding the trees. The land was asleep, and now it is slowly coming to life again, symbiotic with my own body.

I flex my fingers when I realize the prickling of Jude's command has vanished. Slowly, I push myself up to my feet. Immediately, my gaze goes to her. I can feel the power rising in response to my temper, this boiling anger inside me that wants to be freed, but I shove it down. I look around to the Folk gathered around me until I see Lord Roiben, Lord of the Court of Termites, kneeling.

"My King," he says.

Had he known that I was the one Jude wanted to crown? Surely he would not have agreed to help if he did. Ruthless Roiben, who killed his way to the head of his court. I doubt The Black Knight thinks me deserving of the Blood Crown.

One by one, the remaining guests kneel. As I look down on them, the words that have dictated my life come to mind.

He will be destruction of the crown and the ruination of the throne

Perhaps the prophecy was wrong? The crown is on my head, unbroken. The throne is not here, but with this new power in me, I just know that it is whole. I can feel the roots connecting all the land to it, keeping it alive.

The only people left standing are me and Balekin, locked in a staredown. He sees right through me, to all my insecurities and fear, and I let him. I refuse to cower, not anymore, never again.

"Rise," I command with more authority than I feel.

I can tell the people of Elfhame are waiting for me to give some kind of speech, but I have more pressing matters.

The guests get up and the silence is deafening. No music, no drinking, no cheering. I put a hand on my hip.

"Get all this rubble cleaned," I order the nearest servant, "the celebration has only begun. Bring the cellar's best wine."

I gesture the guards towards Balekin, "Take him away. I will speak with him after the revel. Until then, he is to be watched every moment. Do give him plenty to indulge while he waits, he is no prisoner."

I turn away from them, not waiting to see if they obey. I grab a goblet of wine from a passing servant and raise it.

"Let us toast to wine, for without its effect, my head would have rolled alongside my siblings'," the folk laugh and cheer, "Here's to all of you, who traveled far and wide to witness this feast of fools. I vow to have a reign worthy of this coronation, depraved and unpredictable."

I turn towards Jude and take in this mortal girl whose trickery is on par with the Fae, this mortal girl who poisoned my life. My one rival who tricked and cheated me. Yet I am in awe of her. Her knife-sharp gaze dares me to fight her, I grin at her instead.

"And to Jude, who gave me a gift tonight. One that I plan to repay in kind."

#the folk of the air #tfota #cardan greenbriar #cardan #jude duarte #jurdan #judecardan #the cruel prince #holly black #fanfic

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entitynumber5 · 3 years

Text

hurt never meant

Chapter 1: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723250/chapters/73101963

Summary: Jon and Martin enter a battle of wits regarding the hiding of injuries.

Content warnings: paranoia, blood, injury, canon-typical worm mentions, descriptions of wounds and scars, stitches, needles, internalised ableism, swearing, arguments, toxic work environment, nausea, food mention.

It was very fun to write Martin being petty and stubborn but my god, having Not!Sasha in this fic was PAINFUL!!!!!! Hopefully the second chapter will be finished soon. Full text below the line. I hope everyone’s having a great day <3

The Tube is choking with artificial heat, pumped unregulated through the vents so that inside in late November, cocooned in coats, the passengers shift and sweat and mumble in discomfort. Martin tries to remember the mundane cycle of complaints and platitudes he follows in circles every morning: the air is drying out my contact lenses. At least it’s not summer. I wish I wasn’t wearing a coat. You’ll be grateful when you get outside.

Each circle is broken, just before he completes it and begins again, by the sensation of heat crawling beneath his skin, a tingling upwards motion. It ripples across his face, inducing a drowsiness like fingers dragging his eyes closed, before the prickling across his scalp sends him spiralling into discomfort once again.

He tries to force himself back to his commuter’s hymn, but the heat feels internal, spreading outwards as if attempting to meet the warm air of the Tube. It’s different from the normal unpleasantness. It’s too distracting. He shifts his weight between bursts of dizziness—he gave up his seat three stops ago for a person with a tiny baby strapped to them, and now he is squeezed against the door by the passengers who have joined him since—and a fresh wave of stars burst across his vision at the sharp slice of pain through his left foot.

Martin clings tighter to the bar as the pain wraps around his ankle and flares up the outside of his calf. For a moment, he thinks his whole leg might collapse beneath him and he is almost grateful for the way they are all shoulder-to-shoulder in the compartment.

Perhaps he should have called Rosie and told her. But a deep-rooted part of him cannot bear to take time off, remembers the times he had dragged himself to work feeling much worse—smiling from behind the till even during a bout of flu that made his entire body ache, carrying plants to cars at the garden centre a few days after he dislocated his shoulder helping his mother up after a fall. At least, at the Institute, he has a desk and a chair and very few opportunities for heavy lifting. Given time to take some weight off the injury before lunch, he is sure no one will even notice. And by tomorrow, he will be fine.

The next stop is his. Outside, the cold air takes some of the unbearable flush from his cheeks and he walks the rest of the journey with his coat open to counteract the heat of the train. He resolutely ignores the throbbing in his left leg as he joins of the parade of commuters, bustling in tandem along narrow pavements. The Institute isn’t far.

Martin fights the instinct to immediately make Jon a cup of tea. He knows it takes Jon a while to warm up to him each day, withdrawn and nearly always absent in the mornings. By the afternoon, Jon is slightly more receptive after enough time co-existing without incident, slightly more willing to drink the tea offered to him even if he always smells it beforehand. Morning tea is fed to the plants; afternoon tea, Jon tolerates.

He should stop by the staff room, anyway. The first aid kit inside is well-stocked. He knows this because he did it himself, spreading the task out with extensive research on the empty, boring workdays before Jon and Tim had returned from their leave. There are painkillers inside and the sort of durable bandages Martin doesn’t have at home. But the urge to sit down drags him past the door and straight to his desk.

“Morning, Sasha,” Martin says, supressing a loud exhale of relief when he lowers himself into his desk chair.

Sasha glances up distractedly from her computer and pulls out one of her earbuds. “What was that, Martin?”

Martin tries to fight an unfamiliar nervousness, an old friend from his early days in the Archives where he wasn’t sure where he stood with Tim and Sasha. “I was just saying good morning.”

“Of course.” Sasha smiles, although her expression is blank, almost cold. “Good morning to you, too.”

Martin gives her a tight-lipped smile in return. Sasha pops the earbud back in and returns to whatever work she is doing on the computer. He wonders if she can hear the noise of the repeated error notification over her music, wonders what she is doing to make the computer so combative.

Before Prentiss, he has a vague memory of there being a radio on Sasha’s desk. She wouldn’t turn it on everyday—sometimes, she could only get work done if she was wearing noise-cancelled headphones—but whenever she did, she and Tim would sing along to cheesy ’80s hits. He thinks he remembers them dancing together, the middle of the open plan office becoming a makeshift dance floor, but he cannot hold the entire picture in his mind. It’s like a reverse polaroid, fading out of view rather than in. Perhaps he only dreamt it.

He shakes himself out of the fuzziness filling his mind and tries to focus on checking his emails. He left leg throbs dully beneath his desk, but the pain becomes peripheral as each email dredges up the irritation he tries to avoid indulging on weekends. Elias has sent a motivational Monday email about the importance of teamwork and rallying together, especially after a difficult few months for all of us. Rosie has forwarded a fundraising form from his old supervisor in the library, who is apparently raising money for Dementia UK. He tries not to think about how difficult it had been to explain to the aforementioned supervisor why he needed time off to help his mother settle into the care home in Devon. And there is no email at all from Tim, who has stopped bothering to even send his apologies for being late with each new blow to his and Jon’s relationship.

“Martin.” Jon’s voice, slightly raised to catch his attention.

Martin looks up. Jon’s door is open just a crack. Before he can reply, Jon adds stiffly: “My office. Five minutes.” And then he closes his office door firmly once again.

Martin resists the urge to groan and lower his head to his desk. While he’s glad that telling Jon about his faked CV seems to have been a small but significant turning point, he isn’t sure he can manage another complicated conversation dredging up old anxieties today. He doesn’t want to reveal each shameful, painful secret he has in a futile attempt to make Jon trust him.

He can’t concentrate for the next five minutes. He alternates between watching the second hand on the clock across the office and refreshing his emails. He resigns himself to giving a fiver to the library fundraiser and eating the leftover takeaway in the fridge for lunch rather than getting a meal deal. He tries not to think about where Tim might be or what sort of mood he will be in when he finally arrives.

As soon as five minutes have passed, Martin stands. But with his stomach twisting in anxiety and his thoughts spiralling, he has managed to relegate the pain in his leg to the bottom of his mental priority list. Now that he’s standing, it’s demanding first place again. He has to grab the edge of his desk, almost sending his nearly-dead office plant and pot of pens flying across the floor. His monitor, still displaying emails, wobbles dangerously with the desk. He stands completely still for a moment, trying to breathe around the wave of nausea induced by the pain.

The prickling hotness is back. He hopes his face isn’t red when he finally plucks up the courage—and energy—to knock on the door of Jon’s office. It wouldn’t be the first time, he supposes. No matter how hard he tries, he finds himself blushing quite often whenever it is just him and Jon in the latter’s office.

“Come in,” Jon mumbles from behind the door.

Martin creaks open the door carefully and steps inside, trying very hard to make himself smaller, non-threatening. Jon sits behind his desk, staring at his computer screen. He doesn’t look away, but he waves Martin into the spare chair opposite him.

Martin has a feeling that sitting down would be a dangerous decision. He clears his throat. “Actually, I’ll—I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.”

This finally draws Jon’s eyes away from his monitor. “Alright. Although I can assure you that, unlike some of its brethren in Artefact Storage, that chair doesn’t bite.”

Martin tries to smile. Jon has been doing this more since the confrontation and subsequent reveal over his CV—trying to make jokes, or some approximation. An attempt to diffuse the tension, even when Jon’s body language is nearly always screaming: I see you as a threat.

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Martin replies, “But I, um—I was just reading this article about the impacts of sitting at a desk.”

“A productive start to your workday, then,” Jon mutters.

“And so I’m gonna try standing up a bit more,” Martin continues, deliberately ignoring Jon’s comment, “Around the office.”

“Around the entire office or my office specifically?”

Martin can feel the irritation—stirred by the emails, deflated initially by Jon’s joke—rising inside of him again. “Does it matter?”

Jon sighs. “I suppose not.”

“So, what did you, um, what did you need from me?” Martin asks, trying not to shift with nerves. He knows it will aggravate his leg.

“Sasha still appears to be having difficulty with her computer, so I was hoping to delegate the task of digitising the disproved statements from 1995 to 2000 to you,” Jon says.

Martin tries not to visibly bristle. Jon has been doing this a lot lately, too—far more frequently, in fact, than the half-formed jokes. He hoards the statements that won’t record digitally, combs them again and again for details rather than delegating this task to any of his Assistants, and only asks for very vague follow-ups.

But Sasha had volunteered to digitise the disproved statements. She said she liked the clear structure it gave to her day, always able to take a full hour for lunch to visit her new boyfriend, and how it led her to different places within the Archives. Besides, she has a transcribing qualification, although she had asked Martin the other day how to insert line numbers into a document. Brain fog, she had explained with that same thin smile.

Martin is quite happy to do whatever minuscule tasks Jon would sporadically trust him with, as long as it meant he had some idea of what Jon was currently putting all of his energy into. He doesn’t want to digitise statements from the ’90s.

“Will that be a problem?” Jon asks after the silence drags on.

“Nope. Not at all,” Martin lies, “It’s just that…”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I thought I could perhaps… do some follow-ups on the statements you’ve been reading.”

Jon sighs again. Distractedly, he lifts his left arm, his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, and scratches at the slightly-raw but almost-healed wound along his forearm. The stitches have dissolved, but Martin can see the pink scarring where they were placed across the wound, which is raised in comparison to the flat worm scars surrounding it.

“Don’t scratch it,” Martin tuts, “You’ll reopen the wound.”

“Martin,” Jon replies, exasperated, “It’s almost completely healed.”

“Completely healed? It’s not—it’s never going to be—you needed five stitches!”

“Yes, as you keep reminding me.”

“Because I—” Martin splutters, trying to find the words. “Because I worry about you.”

“Your worry is entirely unnecessary.”

“Is it? Because I think you’ve given me more than enough reasons to be worried about you lately.”

Jon’s jaw twitches angrily, but his expression is level when he forces his eyes to Martin’s. “I didn’t call you in here to have yet another pointless conversation about my mental or physical health.”

“Of course not. You called me in here to…” To do a completely meaningless task because you don’t trust me with anything else. He takes a deep breath and knows he cannot say that. “Digitise the 1995-2000 disproved statements.”

“Well remembered.”

Martin manages not to roll his eyes. “I’ll get started right away.”

Martin turns to leave. The first step is easy. The pain arrives on the second, taking him surprise, a direct strike to his ankle. He stumbles and has to steady himself again, this time against the chair Jon had offered him at the start.

“Martin,” Jon says, a hint of something like surprise—or worry—in his voice. He is half-standing from his own chair when Martin looks over his shoulder at him.

“I’m fine,” Martin insists.

“You’re clearly not fine. Are you injured?”

Martin leans into the chair so he can turn to face Jon again. At this angle, Martin catches only a glimpse of the healing wound where it snakes behind Jon’s wrist. But even with a limited view, the memory of the first time he had seen it grips him.

It had been near the end of the day. Martin went to use the toilet before he headed home, but the moment he was inside, all he could smell was blood. And for a moment, all he could think was the worms, they must have missed some of the worms, where did I last see Tim, oh, god, Jon hasn’t left for the day yet, is Sasha still in the office, the worms, worms again, always worms, it was only a matter of time. It was like walking through the Archives after the siege to give his statement: the musty smell of the worm carcases and the metallic hint of blood beneath. Jon and Tim’s blood.

He had lifted his sleeve to his nose to block out the smell and tried to gather some semblance of calm. The blood was in the sink. One of the bathroom stall doors was closed but not locked, a shadow just visible underneath. When Martin called out a cautious hello, the door creaked open at the behest of the occupant’s foot and Jon stood sheepishly inside, pressing a wad of red-stained tissues against his arm.

“Ah. Hello, Martin,” Jon had said. And then, “Heading home?”

Martin had shouted. He can’t remember what. His voice was always higher than it was loud when he was upset. After that, it had been a blur of the same lies. “I’m fine,” as Martin tried to apply pressure to the wound. “I don’t need stitches,” when Martin insisted on taking him to A&E. “It’s really not that bad,” while the doctor was injecting the anaesthetic and stitching the wound. “Why would I lie, Martin? For the last time, I cut myself on a bread knife,” repeated in the days after, again and again, no matter how much Martin pushed.

“Martin,” Jon says again, interrupting his train of thought, “Are you injured?”

Jon is lying to him. Jon is playing a game. Perhaps unintentional, perhaps well-meant, but nonetheless—two can play and Martin has thrown his hat into the ring. The irritation scratching against his ribcage is replaced with a petty sense of satisfaction.

“I sprained my ankle on the way to work. Tripped while I was getting off the Tube,” Martin tells him, “You know me. Clumsy as anything. It’s nothing serious.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like nothing,” Jon snaps.

“It’s fine.” Martin smiles. “I’m sure it will clear up on its own,” he adds, since Jon had something to that effect to him while bleeding profusely in the bathroom stall.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be digitising the statements, after all,” Jon murmurs, almost to himself, “Sasha hasn’t yet transferred them to the office and the boxes can be rather heavy.”

“Honestly, Jon, I can manage,” Martin interjects. The satisfaction has faded slightly, replaced with that desperate urge to prove himself, to show he doesn’t need time off work. He won’t go home. And he won’t be a liability while he’s here. “Besides, what else is there for me to do? Unless you want me to follow up on that statement?”

Jon looks down at his desk. A flash of panic crosses his face when he realises the statement folder is open and Martin, at any time, could have read it. He closes it, deliberately slow, as if trying to hide the reason why. “I’m sure I can find you something else to do at your desk.”

Martin knows this has become a different point of pride now. A dangerous point of pride. He doesn’t want Jon to fuss over him. He doesn’t want to be handled. He will do his job as usual and no one will know he is in pain, no one needs to assume he is anything other than fine.

“I’ll digitise the statements,” Martin says, “In fact, I’ll get started right away.”

“Martin, I—”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Then…” Jon hesitates. “Have a good day, Martin.”

Martin almost folds at the softness in Jon’s voice. For a moment, he considers taking it back—the stubbornness, the bitterness, the insistence that he’s fine. Would it hurt to give in, for a day, to the urge for rest? But it would. He knows it would.

“You too, Jon,” Martin murmurs, dismissing himself from Jon’s office and managing to make it out of the door without flinching every time he puts weight on his left leg.

Jon refreshes his emails. He deletes Elias’s aggressively positive bulletin before panicking that he will somehow know and transferring it back to his inbox. He flips through the statement on his desk. He makes sure the pages are in order, properly aligned. He takes the tape recorder from the drawer. He takes a sip from the sealed water bottle he keeps in the same locked drawer as the tape recorder. He lifts his thumb, letting it hover above the button to start recording.

Martin, he thinks. And he can’t begin the statement.

Martin is not fine. Jon is going to prove it. He had decided this before the emails, the statement, the water. But at the crossroads of burying himself in work or investigating Martin’s denial, he realises that it was never really a choice. He needs to know.

Perhaps Martin is hiding an injury related to Jon’s clandestine investigation. The tunnels are dark and, in places, littered with debris. A person visiting without the right equipment—or, at the very least, without a torch—could easily hurt themselves. Or likewise, if the tables had somehow turned, Martin could have lost his balance in the station while following Jon. The best lies always held some element of truth.

The worry eating at him is for this scenario, Jon tells himself. Not for Martin. He is not worried for Martin.

Jon props his door open slightly with his shoe. Now that he has taken to working in his office, door closed, he no longer worries so much about working in only his socks. He never liked the feel of his firm work loafers, and it’s easier to sit comfortably in his chair when his feet aren’t covered. He checks to see if any of them have noticed him, but in the bullpen, Sasha doesn’t look away from her malfunctioning computer, earbuds in. Tim has yet to arrive. And Martin’s desk is empty.

He goes back to his own desk and sits down. From this angle, he can see through the small gap where his shoe is holding the door open. A direct view towards Martin’s desk. He will know when Martin comes and goes, will be able to examine his reaction to movement and pain. Jon begins a timer on his phone—he should keep a record of how long Martin takes, that might give him an idea of the extent of the injury—and then throws himself into scouring the evidence that Basira left the last time she visited.

Jon keeps stopping to check the timer. At fifteen minutes. At eighteen. At twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-four. Martin has been gone for far longer than Jon had expected.

At thirty-seven minutes, Jon steps out of his office.

Sasha gives him a brief wave as he passes, but the other two desks are still empty. Jon feels himself frowning. He checks the staff room, but it’s empty and the kettle is cold when he touches his fingers to it. Next, he forces himself to walk slowly to the stacks where the original statements, even disproved, are stored. It is light and temperature controlled here, adjacent to the room where Martin had once stayed for months while they waited for Jane Prentiss’s attack. Because he knows now that was what they were doing: waiting.

Jon keeps his pace slow and measured. He realises he’s still not wearing shoes, which makes it easier to walk quietly along the stacks looking for the right dates. 1980-1985. He’s getting closer. He stops just before 1995-2000, listening for any clue Martin is there.

The first thing he hears is heavy breathing, every other inhalation hitching in pain. Jon grips the shelf behind him, digging his fingers into the wood, focusing on the sensation of the grain. He grounds himself, refuses the first and overwhelming urge to check on Martin. And then, shifting his weight very carefully, he leans forward so he can see through a small gap in the shelving.

Martin is sitting on one of the wheeled, plastic stools used for reaching the higher shelves. His left leg, the one he couldn’t put weight on earlier, is extended in front of him. The hem of his left trouser leg has hitched up slightly, revealing Martin’s sock—covered in tiny dinosaurs and padded as if hiding bandages beneath. His body trembles, almost like a slight blurring around the edges. He is gripping his thighs tightly, digging his nails in as he squeezes is eyes shut.

Jon’s heart clenches. He knew, in his office, that Martin was injured. But this is something else entirely. Beneath the sickly lighting, Martin is pale, almost grey, his skin shinning with a thin layer of sweat. Jon recognises the tightness at the edges of his mouth, the way his throat works against a rising nausea.

“Martin,” Jon says, stepping into view before he can think about what he’s doing.

Martin leaps off the stool, but the motion sends him immediately careening into the opposite shelf when his left leg won’t hold his weight. He catches himself before he falls fully, but he lets out a breathless “shit” that Jon attributes to both the pain and the shock. He tries to pull himself back up to his full height, but Jon can see the toll the sudden movement has taken on him.

“Christ, Jon,” Martin gasps, struggling to regain his breath.

“You’re lying to me,” Jon says. He stops himself before he adds: again.

Martin’s eyes widen slightly in alarm, a look of panic washing out his features further. “Jon, I—I thought we—I’m not—”

“About your injury.”

“Oh.” Martin deflates. “Oh. That.”

Jon is so angry he doesn’t have energy to spare on being embarrassed by his lack of subtlety. “Martin, you look awful.”

“Thanks,” Martin mutters.

“You should take the day off, at the very least.”

“Jon, I’m grateful for your concern, I really am, but—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I swear I will—”

“It’s a sprain,” Martin interrupts, insistent, “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Jon sighs. His anger leaves him, replaced with a sort of sadness he can’t quite place. Nothing I can’t handle. That sentence implies a comparison, a time before that hurts Jon to think about. “Let me get the boxes, at least.”

“No,” Martin says quickly.

“Martin, you clearly—”

“I’ll get them,” Martin insists, “Your arm—”

“Is almost healed. The same cannot be said for your allegedly sprained ankle.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Allegedly?”

Jon doesn’t dignify his echo with an answer. “My physical therapist says I’m ready to start—”

“No, see, that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be here!”

“I know my limits, Martin. You, apparently, do not.”

Martin laughs humourlessly. “Oh, for gods—”

“What?” Jon bristles. “I attended physical therapy, didn’t I?”

“Because I texted you every day to make sure you went. Because I sent you home when you tried to come back into work too soon.”

“I am more than capable of looking after myself.”

“You stabbed yourself with a bread knife!”

For a moment, a rebuttal sits on the edge of Jon’s tongue. He almost reveals the truth—the door, the blade of Michael’s finger tearing through his flesh when he tried to go after Helen. But no, that would be too much. That would be giving Martin exactly what he wants.

“So you finally believe me,” Jon says calmly.

“I’m finally starting to believe you’re never going to tell me the truth,” Martin replies.

“I’ve already told you the truth.”

“And so have I.” Martin looks him in the eye, unwavering. “I sprained my ankle. I’m fine. I can do this.”

Jon sighs. He rubs at his eyes, wishing he had gotten more sleep for the past—well, the past year. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Jon echoes, although he has no idea why, and leaves before Martin can question him.

Back in his office, he paces. He checks the timer on his phone. It’s been an hour. He sits down, glancing between his computer and the door, the computer and the door, the computer and the door. Eventually, he hears Martin drop a large box of case files on his desk, far louder than he would ever usually allow himself to be. Jon sighs again. He is not sure what battle they are locked in, but he knows it is going to be long and hard-won.

Jon goes back to scrutinising Basira’s evidence. A collection of statements taken from people in the vicinity of the Institute during Jane Prentiss’s attack. A profile on some of the employees who had frequent contact with Gertrude, including Martin’s old supervisor in the library. He had sent a reference of thinly-veiled insults across with Martin’s employee record and, for some reason, Jon had never liked him since.

He is disturbed by conversation outside.

“Afternoon, Tim,” Martin says.

“Afternoon, is it?” Tim replies bitterly. “I didn’t realise.”

Only then does Jon realise it is after midday and Martin still hasn’t badgered him about getting lunch.

“Can I get you anything?” Martin asks, his tone much softer. “A cup of tea, maybe?”

“Thanks, but I prefer coffee these days.”

Martin laughs, a small, quickly fading sound. “Believe it or not, I do also know how to make coffee.”

“I guess I…” A loud, exhausted sigh from Tim. Then, in a smaller, kinder voice: “A coffee would be great. Thanks, Martin.”

Through the half-open door, Jon watches as Martin grips his desk and uses it to leverage himself up. The change of elevation clearly makes him dizzy and he stands for a moment, breathing deeply while he reaches an equilibrium. But when he walks, he is mostly managing to mask the pain, at least until he leaves Jon’s field of vision.

Jon listens. He hears the familiar squeak of the staff room door swinging closed. After a fortifying breath, he forces himself out into the main office. Sasha’s desk is empty; she’s probably on her lunch break with the boyfriend who works at the wax museum. Tim is sitting in his chair, hands in his lap, staring blankly at his computer. The screen isn’t on.

Tim blinks. Pulls his dull gaze away from the computer. The shadows beneath his eyes are deep and purple, and he doesn’t even attempt to smile. “Can I help you with something, boss? Must be big if you’re willing to leave that office of yours.”

“Have you noticed Martin behaving strangely at all?”

“Oh, bloody hell, Jon, not this again,” Tim hisses, “I’m not helping you spy on—”

“No, no, not that,” Jon interrupts, “I believe Martin injured himself on his way to work, but he won’t tell me how severe it is.”

“Wow. Sounds kind of like someone else I know.”

“Tim.”

“I suppose he learnt from the best.”

“Tim,” Jon snaps, “Did you notice anything?”

“No.” Tim sighs. “No, I was a bit distracted, to be honest. I was sort of hoping Sasha would be here. I, uh, I need to talk to her about something.”

“Will you keep an eye on him?”

“I already told you, I’m not—”

“It’s not spying.”

“It’s as good as!”

“It is not.”

“You would know.”

“Tim,” Jon says, lowering his voice for impact, “If you are not going to do any work, at least—”

The staff room door whines open. Martin walks out backwards, holding the door open with his shoulder as he shuffles into the office a mug in each hand. One is the novelty mug with a celebrity and slogan on it that Jon doesn’t recognise, no matter how many times Tim has tried to explain; the other is the plain, sunny yellow one Martin always gives to Jon.

“Oh,” Martin says, pausing when he sees them both, “Is… everything alright?”

“Fine,” Tim replies, “Jon was just interrogating me about why I was late. And I was just telling him how I was passing by London Zoo when I heard a scream and I immediately began running—”

“Alright,” Jon interrupts, “I’ve heard enough.”

Martin lifts the hand holding the yellow mug slightly. “I made you tea.”

Jon tries to push away the warm feeling that unfurls in his chest, every time Martin says this. “Thank you, Martin. Let me take those from you.” He adds, firmly, “Both of them,” for good measure.

With some manoeuvring, Jon manages to relinquish Martin of both the mugs. He places Tim’s down on his desk, receiving a mumbled thanks, before walking the distance back towards his office door. Martin lingers in the doorway to the staff room, looking casually at Jon, but there is a stubborn set to his shoulders.

“How are the files?” Jon asks.

“Terrible,” Martin replies with a slight pout, “I’ve already read five statements about three separate Oasis concerts.”

Jon shudders. “I never liked the ’90s.”

Martin chuckles. “Yeah, well, at least they weren’t getting up to anything actually spooky.”

Jon hesitates. He knows, if he moves first, he will have lost this particular battle. But the war is still all to play for. He assesses the determination on Martin’s face and decides that, on his occasion, he will concede. Just this once.

“Well,” Jon says, clearing his throat, “Good luck with the rest.”

“What, you’re not going to make him put a quid in the jar for saying ‘spooky’?” Tim interjects.

Jon startles. He had almost forgotten him and Martin were not alone. “It’s a first offense.”

“It is not,” Tim calls after him, but there’s something playful in his tone, at least, “That’s preferential treatment!”

Jon goes back into his office without replying. He keeps the door open.

For the rest of the afternoon, Tim doesn’t exactly keep his word, but he does do everything in his power to prevent Martin from getting any work done. Tim isn’t subtle about it, but Martin tries to resist. He only plays two rounds of online Battleships with Tim before insisting on returning to the disproven statements. Tim then attempts to throw pens from his pot into Martin’s, scattering most of them around the office. When Sasha comes back, he quietens slightly and they all fall into some semblance of productivity. Jon does catch Tim playing solitaire when he passes his desk on the way to the bathroom, though.

Sasha is the first to go home. She leaves without stopping by Jon’s office and the absence scratches at his consciousness, some long-buried sense of rejection that he soothes and smothers with the knowledge that this is what he wants. He wants space to work. He wants to snap the lines of connection that might lead him towards betrayal.

Less than twenty minutes later, Tim is next. And he tries to take Martin with him.

“Come on,” Tim whines, his voice carrying through the barely-open door to Jon’s office, “Just one round. On me.”

“Tim,” Martin replies, his voice gentle but holding his position, “I really can’t. Not tonight.”

“We could grab something to eat instead? I’ve been meaning to try this sushi place right near—”

“I can’t eat—”

“Oh, right.” Tim clicks his fingers in remembrance. “You’re allergic to fish.”

“Not all fish,” Martin adds, like an apology.

“Not all fish,” Tim echoes, “But no sushi, just to be on the safe side.”

“Yep.” Martin sighs. “Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologise.”

From his office, Jon can hear Tim shifting slightly. The floors are hardwood, carefully maintained over the years, and despite taking some damage during Prentiss’s attack, Elias insists on keeping them. They creak. He remembers Martin mentioning it once in passing, when he was staying in the Archives, how sometimes he thought Jon was there even on the nights when he left before it got dark.

“At least let me walk you home,” is Tim’s last attempt, “A sprain is definitely not nothing. I sprained my wrist years ago climbing and it still plays up sometimes. Especially when I’m caving, actually, but that’s a story for another time.”

“Well, um… I won’t go climbing any time soon, then?”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” Tim says in his most flirtatious voice.

Martin laughs. “I appreciate it, Tim. But I’m—I just want to finish this off. Before I leave.”

Through the crack in the door, Jon sees Tim raise his hands in surrender. “Well, I tried.”

“I’ll be alright,” Martin adds, almost guiltily.

“You better be.” Tim hesitates again. Jon watches him pat the pockets of his coat, searching for his phone or perhaps his keys. “You got my link? The NHS website one about strains?”

“I did. Thank you.”

“And you know about calling 111?”

“Also yes.”

“And you can call me if you need me?”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go,” Tim says, resigned, “Just—take care of yourself.”

“You too, Tim,” Martin replies softly.

Tim heads off, again without stopping by Jon’s office. And it’s habit, by now, it’s not unusual for Tim to do this, but Jon taps the desk lightly with his fingers to try and dispel the feeling of wrongness sitting on his chest. He watches Martin go back to the computer, a tension around his eyes that suggests at a headache and the same pallid, nauseous look visible even in profile.

Jon considers the work he has left. The work he knows, realistically, he will never quite finish because every statement, every piece of footage, every lead, only stirs up more questions. He could stay. He could push himself on into the night, as he has done so many times before. He could find another reason to go into the tunnels. But deep down, he is exhausted—by the need to know, by the itch at the edge of his knowledge where uncertainty lingers and festers. He wants to rest and he thinks if he leaves now, Martin might, too.

Jon gathers his things, stuffing a few statements inside his messenger bag before shrugging on his coat, his scarf, his gloves and his hat. The cold air hurts his scars and dries out his skin until they become tight, small movements made increasingly uncomfortable without intervention, so he’s resorted to wearing more layers. Finally, he puts his shoes back on, retrieving the left one from the door and then closing it behind him when he steps out into the main office.

Martin glances away from his computer. “Heading home?”

“Yes,” Jon replies, as casually he can, “I thought I would call it an early night. Would you—I thought—perhaps you would like to join me?”

Jon tries not to notice Martin’s cheeks flushing pink. “Oh, um, I—I was actually—I think I should stay. Just for another half an hour or so. It’s just, I’m nearly finished with October to December 1999 and I know it will bother me if I leave it.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow. “That interesting?”

“Hmm.” Martin shrugs. “Mostly just a lot of people worried about the turn of the millennium.”

“Ah. I remember that.” Jon doesn’t let on that he spent October to December 1999 researching that very phenomenon obsessively, walking the line between intense curiosity and deep dread at the possibility of catastrophe. There are some things—many things—Martin doesn’t need to know about him.

Martin smiles. “Well, I… I better get on.”

“Martin,” Jon says, trying to keep his voice measured. He feels like he is wavering between an offering and an argument. “I know I stressed the importance of digitising those files this morning, but there is no reason to spend overtime on—”

“There is, though,” Martin interrupts, “A reason.”

“Oh?”

Martin looks him in the eye and almost smiles. “I want to.”

“Right,” Jon sighs.

“Right,” Martin echoes.

“I suppose I’ll—I’ll be going, then,” Jon murmurs, tapping Martin’s desk just once in deference to the slight tremble in his body, the way he isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. “See you tomorrow, Martin.”

Martin smiles, this time. A full smile. “Bye, Jon.”

Jon turns. He begins to walk away. In his mind, he sees an alternative: going back, asking Martin to walk with him to the station, an offer he knows will, at least, make Martin think again. The both of them squeezed among commuters, hands stuffed into the pockets of their coats because of the cold, elbows knocking against each other every so often as the crowd tightens and expands. The awkward, protracted moment of goodbye when they part to separate platforms, the glimpse of the other walking away and the pang of sadness that comes with it.

It’s manipulative to ask, a cruel trick, and yet—is it? Is it, if that is something Jon wants, too?

Jon doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking, even though he knows—somewhere deep and hidden and insistent—that he will regret it.

#cw paranoia #cw worms #cw injury #cw blood #cw nausea #cw toxic work environment #cw internalised ableism #cw food mention #cw needles #i feel really shy about posting this?#idk why #it was genuinely hard to write not!sasha that might be it #my confidence might be low right now but my love for martin increases daily #so i will write him no matter what 😤#my writing #love to eveyone #thank you for reading #<333

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theawesomeally · 3 years

Text

Before We Met (Preview)

Prologue

In a world inhabited by mythic creatures, love was commonplace several millennia ago, though difficult to master. After his training advances over the decades, his powers became obsolete and were largely discarded.

[The camera zooms in on the city and two blazing specks of light dash all over the place as one shoots lasers at the other. We then see an enemy aircraft flying throughout while it's chasing a young man, who is running from the pursuer. We see full closeups of a guy in his craft and Rocky as he runs. The scene freezes after an explosion with Rocky barely missing it.]

[voice over]

Through the years I have been known by many names. Marshmallow, The Furry Lover, The Daredevil, Frisky Two Times and then The amazing Ryan Reynolds. But to most, I am Rocky, the awesome one!

[Some other women, leaning across the wall, and Rocky getting his shades from his pocket. Put it onto his eyes. While he puts his hoodie onto his shoulders. Rocky was dressed like a gentleman, but he fought with honor or dignity and pulled at the knot into his tie. Females are not meant to grab his attention, and if it does. To be fair, he heard most of what he'd said up to this point. The parts that weren't of his interest, anyway.

Okay, maybe that wasn't much]

His sigh is heavy with exasperation,

"Can you keep your dick in your pants at the gala?"

Grab his phone from his pocket, automatically switching it out of Bluetooth mode, and bring his earphone up to his ear.

I will never forget you, Margarita. [The female stops and cringe after hearing the name. His blue prominent eyes were not well adapted to winking. They were rather of the sort that closes solemnly in slumber with majestic effect.

Rocky pretend to consider as Rocky step out of the car and button his tux jacket. "Hmm."

"Nice wheels, sir," the valet says, unconcerned that he was on the phone. Rocky pull out his wallet and flash a fifty-dollar bill. "Take care of her and this is yours."

"Yes, Mr. Rocky."

"I mean, Rosa. Uh...sorry. I think maybe I should go.???." She wrapped her arms over her chest and shook her head with a smirk curved across her face. Rocky grinned and raised an ironical finger in salute Rocky starts backing away. "You can't get away with it." the security guard muttered, holding out one hand. He was moving very slowly, thinking Rocky was the enemy or something. Blinks at her as a farewell, but glance with a smug as he sees the vampire's ring. Mind was so wrapped up in thought that he didn't notice the familiar vampire standing behind him. A vampire with bad breath psycho. "Hey, come on, dickie! You're trashing public property here!" He is thinking about how he had to sneaked up onto the roof and is currently standing a few feet behind him.

Rocky then gently slides the ring off the vampire's finger using his katana.

Light glinted off a myriad of his Katana and the vampire ring. Spray from the dust to blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened his palms as he gripped the eagle. His eyes were as blue while the vampires eyes were cold as the stormy weather.

"Hey, it's Gale calling," says Rocky called over his shoulder to one nefarious vampire. "Love the shiny suit. Really brings out the sex trafficker in your eyes." Rocky had commented, half jokingly and straight up confident, how that guy would have been considered handsome - if he ever bothered to smile.

Cut to a shot of a cliff.

A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier's face as he gazed up at the jeering vampires, their bodies smeared with blood, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, one being was mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck as a human shield or the solid surface of the earth.

Cut back to the fighting scene. Rocky is skewering a guy with his swords, and kicks the vampire in the chest, sending him back down and puts his sword away. The guy gasp and starts fighting with Rocky. This continues for awhile until Rocky get's away again. Using two fingers he salute the vampire as a goodbye.

Making a soft chuckle. He flicks the vampire ring up into the air. It comes back down and lands into one of the streets, causing his background to explode. The shards of fire fell in slow motion behind him.

He is consumed in the explosion, as his body can be seen flying off the ground, flipping off the camera as it goes. "Oh, fuck." Rocky mutter under his breath. "Oh, I'm sorry." A small apology leaving his lips with a smirk.

"That will teach you, not to mess with me," A familiar voiced ask, up righting his head as he walk over the circles and appeared in front of him,

(narrator)

So, I know what you're thinking. Why is that incredibly handsome guy being chased by a madman with a huge shiny fangs from the Civil War?

[The scene freezes after an explosion sending Rocky flying off the ground from the ground. After the dust settles, leaving Rocky lying unconscious on the ground.]

This guy's got the right idea. Well, to be honest, it feels like I've been the captain of my whole life. Is this too much? Am I going too fast? It's kind of what I do--You know what? Let's back up.

[We see the whole fight going in reverse as well as frames of future clips for a split second each time, one passes as Rocky mimics a rewind sound effect] Cut to close-up of Rocky gets up to his feet. Cut to him sitting on the side of the gable roof at night. Wondering how long it would be before he saw the city again. He had been born with a wandering heart, and he embraced adventure, unafraid to face the dangers often presented by journeys into unknown places. Leaving civilization behind for the wilds of the frozen north, legs dangling over the side as he listens to his Walkman next to him playing 'Shoop.' Rocky was vaguely singing along, making hand gestures along with the lyrics, but he was focused on his own drawing, while listening to the music and coloring a picture with crayons. We see that the picture he's drawing is him shooting the vampire in the head, he was doing it with some crayons he had with him.

It was fun to see that getting shot in the head, even if it was just a crayon drawing. He'd never soon change it to a reality. And then turned his head and stared directly at the camera, or the person reading, or just whoever balls happened to be paying a lot of attention to him.

Wha- Oh! Oh, hello. I know, right? Who's balls did I have to snap to get my very own story? I can't tell you, but it does rhyme with dick. And let me tell you; he's got a nice pair of fucking underwear, he finished in an Swedish accent.

They'd get that joke, right?

Anyway, I got places to be, a kiss in the ass to fix, and - oh! hot weird vampire to kill.

He watched eagerly as the flashes of light began to appear below him – lots of rippers were a very dramatic little shit, after all – we're panning quickly towards the edge of the roof he was sitting on. Now having an appointment to keep, Rocky was quick to get onto edge of the roof and, in one fluid motion, opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman, and the song "Where Evil Grows" by The Poppy Family stays playing in the background as he jumped off the roof, landing in one of the coolest bar in Mystic Falls. It seemed that they had been drinking peacefully, listening to 'Angel of the Morning,' but when Rocky landed and that's when their peaceful night was over.

They look around for which they finally see as Rocky stands at a wooden doorway wearing a cowboy hat, black sunglasses, and red a white hoodie as he opens a music playlist called Tunes of Anarchy on his Walkman. Opens up and the door swings open and the music resumes with people dancing and lights flashing as he goes inside the bar.

Nothing.

Absolutely positively not a fucking thing.

First one person turned, noticing him. Then more followed, until the whole patron was hushed, waiting. Everyone was watching, the same bewildered look on all of their faces. Eyebrows raised and narrowed eyes, etc. God, for months he'd played this moment over and over inside his mind. It most definitely never turned out like this. Whatever this was.

As he walks up to the bar. The room was narrow and about 90 feet deep. Light did manage to worm its way into the establishment, though. It seeped through the windows scattered along the walls, and through the gaps in the door between its wooden panels. A bar on the left at the front, then some upholstered horseshoe benches, then a cluster of freestanding tables on what, on other nights, might have been a dance floor. Then the stage, with the band on it. The band looked as if it had been put together by accident after a misfiling incident at a talent agency. The bass player was a stout old black guy in a suit with a vest. He was plucking away at an upright bass fiddle. The drummer could have been his uncle. He was a big old guy sprawled comfortably behind a small, simple kit. The singer was also a harmonica player and was older than the bass player and younger than the drummer and bigger than either one.

The guitarist was completely different. He was young and white and small. Maybe 20, maybe 5-foot-6, maybe 130 pounds. He had a fancy blue guitar wired to a crisp new amplifier and together the instrument and the electronics made sharp sounds full of space and echoes. The amp must have been turned up to 11. The sound was incredibly loud. It was as if the air in the room was locked solid. It had no more capacity for volume. But the music was good. The three black guys were old pros, and the white kid knew all the notes, and when and how and in what order to play them. He was wearing a red T-shirt and black pants and white tennis shoes. He had a very serious expression on his face. He looked foreign. Maybe Russian.

I watched them for a minute, and then I looked away. My name is Rocky, and once I was the most wanted man, with heavy emphasis on the past tense. I have been out nearly as long as I was in. But old habits die hard. I had stepped into the bar the same way I always step anywhere, which is carefully. One-thirty in the morning. I had ridden the train to West and walked south on Sixth Avenue and made the left turn on San Francisco bar and checked the sidewalks. I wanted music, but not the kind that drives large numbers of patrons outside to smoke.

His attention was taken away from patrons. It was at that point that he saw the young beautiful woman alone at her table, Her name tag read Katy, and her shirt clung tightly around her chest. Her hands worked quickly and gracefully with the bottles as she poured them another and took the empty's away.

I watched her in the gaudy, reflected light, with the music shrieking and pounding all around me. The two guys watched her. Her bodyguard watched her. She watched the guitarist. He was concentrating hard, key changes and choruses, but from time to time he would lift his head and smile, mostly at the glory of being up on the stage, but twice directly at the girl. The first of those smiles was shy, and the second was a little wider.

What met my eyes was a beautiful girl with golden hair and a bright smile that melted my heart. She was blond and blue-eyed, American woman who have a glow, and a smoothness complexion. She lives in New York, singing, listening to a band, and I was in love with her angelic voice. That was clear. There I was, a guy further back in the room, stood in the room staring at her. I was 6ft tall, wide man with a white hoodie and a black leather jacket under a hoodie. She was part of the reason I was here with her back in a city when we were at the age of 19 or less.

It wasn't the kind of glossy place that had a policy about dating rich girls, either for or against. Some call it a gold digger, and I guessed they had looked at her and her minder and made a snap decision against trouble and in favor of tips.

The part of her gaze that wasn't wary was filled with adoration, and it was all aimed in his direction. She was rich. She was alone at a table near the stage and she had a pile of A.T.M fresh twenties in front of her and she was paying for each new bottle with one of them and she wasn't asking for change.

She was a waitress and I loved her.

The woman stood up. She butted the lip of her table with her thighs and shuffled out from behind it and headed for the counter in back. I got there first. The sound from the band howled through it. The ladies' room was halfway down. The men's room was all the way at the end. Rocky leaned on the wall and scanned the room. As Rocky watched her walk in and squeeze through the crowd and she sat down on the bar stool, 1 feet away from him.

"Hey, Raoul, look what this kid dragged in. Oh, wait! That is the guy!," but they didn't hear. Too much noise. He caught them by the elbows, one in each hand. They spun around, as if ready to fight, but then they stopped. Fortunately for him, the first two who approached her were quick to heed her dismissal. She wasn't there to mingle with huge ass in leather jackets. She was just there to grab a drink and relax and pretty sure she made that pretty clear when she shot the first couple of idiots down.

The third guy, however, wasn't ready to take no for an answer.

"How about you let me buy you a drink, sweetheart?"

Their sex appeal eyes pried upon their eyes from the television screen above the bar and looked at the newcomer. With his hair greased back and one-size-too-big biker jacket on, the guy looked like prime wife-beater material. Perfect. Just what they needed to interrupt his evening.

"Thanks, but I'm good," she said curtly, gesturing to the beer bottle in front of her.

"That's it? You're gonna chug that shitty beer and call it a night? Come on, let me get you a real drink."

She scoffed. "What? Like those idiots you got over there?" she glanced past him at the table where he and a couple of his friends had been sitting.

"It's a warm-up. Trust me, honey, we're just getting started over there. You should join us."

She wanted to roll her eyes. "Like I said, I'm good."

She made the move to turn away and focus her attention back on the football game on the television when the guy grabbed her by the arm.

"What the hell's your problem?" This guy gripped her arm tightly, this guy's face practically scrunched up in a beastly snarl. "I don't like to be ignored, y'know?"

She yanked her arm out of his grip and stood up to face him directly. She knew pretty damn well where the conversation was headed and sure as hell were not about to get in a bar fight with their ass glued to the seat.

Before she could open her mouth, a familiar voice spoke up from behind her.

By hearing it and raising their head to turn to his voice, her smile grew a tad wider, recognizing the voice immediately. They simply looked so annoyed, at least much more than usual. His lips pulled into a tight frown, while their eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowed, back hunched over slightly if you'd look hard enough. Yep, those guys are just being grumpy as usual, but seemingly much more grumpy, except with their eyes laced with the slightest bit of concern. For herself, most likely.

The said person stopped, and looked over their shoulder to the voice. She put on a mellow look close to her usual one. Confrontation- unnecessary confrontation- was not exactly his thing. He tended to avoid fights like these. He could hold his ground better than most, but he preferred to keep out of the brawls and spats that others got involved in.

A voice caught his ear, she sounded like she needed help, despite the overconfident tone the stranger used. "Look, I don't wanna interrupt, but is this guy bothering you?" he looks up at her and says greeted casually, as casual as someone could be hanging for dear life. She looked up at me, startled that he was there. "I'm sorry. Did I scare you up?" he softly asked, when she turned to get a good look at the stranger in his handsome voice. She wasn't expecting the sight she was met with. A pair of piercing blue eyes smiled over her, puffing out her cheeks childishly when she looked at him. After she looked to her right to find Rocky taking his place beside her. Her pinkish lips turned up in a small smile as she ducked her head briefly with a laugh before tucking her hair behind her ear, "No, you did not," she said. He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice. She turned her head to look at him, catching his gaze with her own. He gave a small smile, stroking her hair softly with his index. "So, What exactly are you doing here?" she said softly, trying to maintain an even tone of voice.

"Oh you know, I was just passing through the neighborhood when I thought I caught a whiff of filthy human garbage coming from this place," he said,

"And sure enough here I am."

Desire pools dark and deadly in his groin. Gaze up at her, releasing her lip. Katy flush a deep crimson in her cheeks, and he runs his index finger down her cheek before handing her the headphones. "I'd like to kiss you, too, but you won't let me down, are you?." Rocky asked her. Besides, he's pulled the straps so tight he can barely move.

Amused smile on his lips, he's wearing his enigmatic half smile. He glances down at her, light blue-gray eyes alive, he glances up when she looks at his way and their eyes lock. And in that brief moment, she was paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at her with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into her, as they lost for a moment staring at each other.

It's there in the air between them, that electricity. It's palpable. He can almost taste it, pulsing between them, drawing them together.

"Oh my," she gasps as she basks briefly in the intensity of this visceral, primal attraction. The two men stood back, saying nothing, but looking at him with hard eyes.

Katy had, somehow, stammered out some sort of reply that must have made her look insane. Coby, hearing her, had come over to check on her and had ended up having her go make Rocky's a drink while they chatted. Ever since that first meeting, though, Katy had completely fallen for Rocky. There was something about his smile, or maybe it was his eyes? Whatever it was, it made Katy's entire body feel light as a feather.

To be continued....

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jafndaegur · 4 years

Text

Noise of Rain | Chapter Two

Inside My Soul, I Hear You Calling

Sesskag

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

Sesshomaru’s brow arched and slowed his stride. The overwhelming stench of familiar hanyou approached at an alarmingly fast pace. His footsteps paused completely and he tried to sort the odd feelings that wormed in his chest.

It had been a long time since he had last seen the little Shikon Jewel group. He didn't know the exact time—that was a human thing. But Rin had grown a bit, and the seasons had changed from the balmy to near-cold.

And all through that time he'd not heard a peep of Inuyasha or his group. It was as if they'd disappeared completely from the earth.

"M'Lord?" Rin called from her spot next to Jaken, her skippy step half-hearted.

Sesshomaru’s brow furrowed as the dirt road kicked up dust and the wind blustered about them.

If it wasn't for the scent of utter desperation and surprising lack of hostility—the daiyoukai would have drew his sword before a heart beat.

Face to face with the horrid truth, Sesshomaru watched with growing alarm as Inuyasha sunk to his knees the minute he landed. His forehead touched the ground and his hands rested palm down against the earth. His body heaved, breathless, and his voice rasped.

"Please," he wheezed. "Please Sesshomaru."

"Get up you stupid brat," Sesshomaru gripped the boy's collar and yanked him up.

Inuyasha sat back on his heels, displaying the full front of his face. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, dulled bronzed color to once belligerent glare, the half demon hardly looked recognizable with a characteristic face fallen to the world. No fight, no charge, the hanyou was a shell.

"Please Sesshomaru, you have to help us find—"

"I will do nothing if you continue to snivel, Inuyasha," he snarled.

"Sesshomaru, Kagome is gone." Inuyasha pressed on. "You, bastard, are literally our last chance. It's been...it's been too long. We've searched, and searched, and—"

Sesshomaru flexed his fingers, not appreciating the discomfort roiling in his belly. "Have you considered, little brother, that she may be dead? If significant time has passed, I doubt she's been on holiday." However even as he spoke these words, he felt angered and uncomfortable. The idea of the little miko being dead was not pleasing.

Inuyasha stared, appalled.

Sesshomaru continued smoothly, eyes hooded and corners of his mouth tugged down. "But she is not as inept as you believe either. She can take care of herself. Unlike you she is not a child."

The smallest of sparks flitted through the hanyou's glower before it disappeared. His gaze swung to the side and grew laden with guilt. "Kikyo came back. Alive. Normal. The same time Kagome disappeared. We—I—started looking the moment we knew something happened."

"Hn." Sesshomaru doubted that his little brother started his search so soon. But the undead priestess being alive made things troubling. There was one way for her to regain her humanity… "What do you know?"

Inuyasha's ears perked up. "There were no signs of struggle. She didn't put up a fight, all of her things were neatly tucked away at our camp, she'd left while we were sleeping. There's no trace of her scent, Miroku has looked for her aura. It really is almost like…"

"So you have nothing useful then." Sesshomaru sneered.

Inuyasha bared his fangs. "Look. I checked on the other side of the well. You know...where she lives."

Sesshomaru had the vaguest idea, not the exacts, but enough to follow. Not that he would say—especially to Inuyasha.

"Her scent is stale. Her family is worried. She hasn't been back home in a long long time."

Turning on his heel, the daiyoukai gave his attention to his steward. "Jaken. Take Rin and head north. Make camp there. This Sesshomaru will find you once this has blown over."

"M'lord!" The imp screeched, but whether it was in affirmation or indignation, Sesshomaru could care less.

"Lord Sesshomaru, please find lady Kagome," Rin chirped out, her expression scrunched with worry.

He nodded and looked over her shoulder. "Where was the little priestess last?"

"We were somewhere unfamiliar. A mountain range to the west, we'd been going that way to find a shard. Maybe three days by foot from here. But we had to stop, there was a bad evil presence there."

He would start there then. He did not say goodbye. He did not promise anything. Sesshomaru flew off with a gust of wind in his wake, his mokomoko trailing behind him.

…

The little miko disappeared the same day that he and his group had passed through the area. Sesshomaru recognized their own path and the path that they had once taken as well. When they had crossed ways however and he had checked on them, something had been off about the girl.

He couldn't place what. But it was dark and alluring, a radiance quite different than her reiki but perhaps not as suiting. As he had observed it more with his youki, he couldn't find a word or placement for it. So he left it alone. The presence clearly was not harming her.

But if he'd said something that day, parted with a word, would she have still disappeared? Was that aura within her something he should have warned her about? Not that he cared.

His body phased through a surprising barrier guarding the mountain range. The energy seeped in anger, the strong hatred spread through mountain range was alarming. No pure evil aura, as far as he could tell, the only thing he detected was resentful energy.

He landed on a high outcropping, a bright yellow patch on the dark grey mountainside having caught him off guard. When he observed the area, he realized it was sheet upon sheet of yellow talismans. Not unlike the ones that the monk with Inuyasha used. But these...Sesshomaru’s nose wrinkled. These were written with blood.

We can't stop, Sesshomaru followed the trail of talismans leading him along the wall. The blood on the talismans, without a doubt, belonged to the miko. Their trace lured him with a tumultuous power drawing him closer and closer. We won't drop.

He stood at the epicenter of the mountains, a steep crevice before him—it's maw stretched wide. How far it went down he couldn't guess. But he noted the strand of talismans that appeared from the dark depths and lined one on top of the other up the wall. Like a rope.

Sesshomaru lifted his brow with a disdained calculation. The only questions now, how did she end down there, and why all the bizarre talismans?

The bloody writing had darkened and faded, the smell faint and on its last legs of detectability. So Kagome hadn't been in these mountains for a while, his guess was she left around the tail end of the warm season.

But where would she go—if not home or his brother?

A pulse surged through the air, a reverberation that rattled his teeth and caused his bones to shake with a single word. "Follow." Sesshomaru would not heed a command save his own, however after piecing apart the summons, he detected Naraku's aura and his brother's. So the spider had made a move. But the strange emulation of power was not his. It was new and foreign, something that had a strong tantalizing irregularity that beckoned him closer.

Light surrounded him and Sesshomaru sped in the direction of the scents, his blood rising in excitement—the overwhelming joy of a hunt starting to circulate through his veins. He appeared with gust and gale, his sword drawn. Except the the battlefield was not what he expected.

Dead saimyosho littered the ground, along with various unidentifiable incarnations. They were not mutilated or in any way harmed. Just cold and prone. While Inuyasha and his group fought to disperse the miasma on ground level, the overwhelming sound of a fife echoed through the air in a haunting and lilting call above the dark cloud. There, at the center, were two forms.

One was a figure dressed in a pale grey yukata and and dark green haori. Dark, inky hair wavered dangerously while fingers danced over the flute with ease. The music clawed through the air, while midnight tendrils danced around the figure in the sky. The flutist reverberated with overwhelming power and energy.

Sesshomaru’s eyes widened.

No more smiles you fake.

As Sesshomaru sped closer, his heart pulsed violently as the song summoned his. Bright, glowing crimson eyes lured him in closer. His pulse raced in his veins.

Thus—

The second figure at the epicenter was a writhing Naraku. His body trapped, quite appropriately, in a web of the dark inky tendrils produced by the melody of the fife. They twisted him and rendered him like a puppet, manipulating him like strings until a small but dazzling orb was produced from the hanyou. The orb. The Shikon Jewel. The figure fished the jewel back to themself—herself, Sesshomaru noticed as he grew closer. The scent of miasma no longer blocking it out with the growth of his proximity.

His eyes widened, the familiar smell bracing his senses. He hurried faster, shouting. Shouting what? A warning? A command? A plea? So unlike him.

But the darkness that warped Naraku into something unnatural, the darkness that she commandeered—it was unlike her.

She raised her arm to the air, the round and complete Shikon now clutched in her fingers.

—the hands of the clock that passed the twelve—

The resentful energy violently lashed through the air and into the jewel. In an instant it darkened. Time paused

—will pierce the starry sky, as crimson eyes flashed to azure as the jewel dispersed into dark flecks of dust.

The woman stared at him as the pieces fluttered away, as Naraku howled angrily, as the world around them quieted.

"You have a lot to explain," Sesshomaru growled, "Miko."

Her brow furrowed and lips pursed, her eyes screamed outragers drive me nuts. "Ah Sesshomaru. I've a hard time believing this is concern speaking. No offense."

His lips curled in distaste.

"Hold that thought," she smiled sheepishly as the red steeped back into her eyes.

Outragers drive me nuts.

The dark tendrils flashed into ravenous fury, attacking Naraku again without relent this time. Sesshomaru lurched forward, intent to prove that with his power and sword would be the demise of the spider.

She laughed as the resentful energy tore Naraku to pieces instead. She flashed the daiyoukai a girlish grin as the spider hanyou fell to the earth below. With a satisfied nod, she wiped her hands on the hem of her haori.

"Defeat Naraku, check. Shikon Jewel wished away? Check. Miasma gone to help them down there?" She gestured down to Inuyasha and her old friends below, now watching with disbelief as the poison cloud faded with the death of its creator. "Check."

He stared at Kagome with a narrowed wary gaze.

"How's that for just a shard detector?"

The raging howl of the underdog.

#sesskag #sesshomaru #kagome higurashi #sesshomaru x kagome #lolol this chapter got away from me but i hope you like #au: mo dao zu shi

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iris-ymir · 4 years

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The Torment of L’zetta - Part 5 : I love you, L’zetta Medrawt...

The cool winter months were slowly breaking towards spring in the North Shroud, where the Carnival of Broken Dreams had set it’s campsite. And with the coming spring also came L’zetta Medrawt’s coming of age. The little girl playing alone by the stream had bloomed during the years, and grown up into a stunningly beautiful young miqo’te woman, with olive skin and long, black hair, tied onto a thick braid. Celebrating namedays had never been much of a thing in Lizzy’s life. It had always been just L’zily making some food, and the two of them eating alone in candlelight, listening to music. This year was different though, as L’zily had invited Rougan to eat dinner with them. Lizzy knew her mother had been growing closer to the current leader of the carnival, and Lizzy’s tormentor. She had tried her best to tell L’zily about the things Rougan had done, but the man kept whispering sweet lies into the woman's ear, making all Lizzy’s words empty. It felt almost like Rougan had brainwashed the woman, which wouldn’t be a surprise, with the inner circle around the man starting to resemble more of a cult than a family of carnies. When L’zily told Liz who they would have the honor of eatingdinner with today, Liz had pulled on her boots and walked out of the tent, without sacrificing a word to her mother. They had had this conversation before, and Liz already knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. She would spend her nameday with Adamgar instead. L’zily did not exactly like the idea of her young daughter spending so much time with a man 15 years older than her, but Lizzy did not care. What was she so worried about? After the day he took care of Lizzy’s burn, Adam had been nothing but kind and caring towards her. Adamgar was waiting for L’zetta by the trees outside of the camp, raising his hand in greeting as soon as he saw the girl, walking out from the circle of colorful tents. “...Why is my beautiful Lizzer in such a hurry? Where’s the fire?”, the man asked, as L’zetta walked up to him, taking support from a tree trunk, to calm her wildly beating heart. “...M-Mom, she...”, Liz took a deep breath. “...S-She had invited Rougan to eat with us... I-I cant stay there, Adam... I just... I can't... Wait, d-did you k-know about this?”, the miqo’te woman rose the gaze of her crimson pool, up to the man, who moved his gaze away, like he always did. Liz had tried to ask Adam why the man never looked her in the eyes, but the only explanation she ever got was that the man was still feeling guilty for what happened years ago. Adam let out a deep sigh, shaking his head, so his long braids rocked from side to side. “No... I had no idea. I'm sorry your special day got ruined, Lizzer. But...”, the man glanced towards the forest. “...Maybe we could still try to save some of it, what do you say? Want a piggyback ride? Lets go see, if we can find some lilies of a valley? You like lilies, right?” The man kneeled down, to let Liz climb up onto his back. but the girl shook her head. “...Am I not... a b-bit too old for a p-piggyback?”, she said, pursing her lips. “Hah... Nonsense!”, the man got up onto his feet, dusting his pants, which had gathered some dirt. “...You are never too old for a ride. And on top of that, I just can't let you run around the forest with that poor heart of yours, can I? Now stop making excuses and get here, beautiful...”, Adam stepped up to Liz, sweeping the girl off her feet, like she was still a child, and lifted her onto his shoulders, heading out into the woods. The two walked through the woods, as the sun rays peeked through the leaves, painting the forest bed with pools of light. The warm wind blew gently from the south, and Liz leaned onto the neck of her trusty steed, who had remained oddly silent for almost the whole walk. “I-Is something b-bothering you, Adam? Hm?”, Liz finally opened her mouth, leaning over the man's shoulder, and wrapping her arms tighter around his neck. She could feel the man swallowing hard, before breaking into a sigh. “I-Its nothing. Don't worry about it...”, the man muttered in a weird tone. “I have just... I have wanted to ask something of you, Lizzer... Don't laugh at me, okay?” The man stopped onto the edge of an opening in the middle of woods, helping Liz down. The opening was covered with tall grass and wildflowers, and somewhere in the middle of that, rippled a small stream. Two dragonflies danced in the air, riding on the currents. Adam placed his huge hand on Liz’s shoulder, and to Liz’s surprise, for the first time, looked her into eyes. There was a weird glimmer in man’s eyes, and something in it, made Liz feel uneasy. “Liz... I...”, the hrothgar grunted, clearing his throat. “Yes? You what..? Talk so we can all hear it old boy?” L’zetta gasped, and turned around swiftly, as she heard a familiar voice from behind her, only to see Tristan, walking out of the woods. In his footsteps, followed a couple of young lads, who had joined the Carnival a couple of years back, and had rather quickly climbed their way into Rougan’s inner circle. A million thoughts crossed L’zetta’s mind, but on top of everything was panic. Normally, she would have counted on Adam in these kinds of situations, but the weird glimmer in man’s eyes had left a seamy feeling lingering in her guts. Liz turned around, and sprinted towards the woods, but she had never been much of a runner, and it did not take long until someone gripped her from the back of her dress. “Hey, hey, hey... Where such a hurry, Deadeye? We haven’t given you your present yet! You only bloom into maturity once, you know?”, Tristan croaked, while dragging Lizzy back to the opening, and throwing the woman onto the ground. The two men, who had followed him, stepped up with ropes, and tied the kicking and screaming miqo’te’s hands, holding her down.

“I... I did not want this... I did not ask for this...Please, believe me, Lizzer..”, Adam maundered, now sitting under the tree, and rubbing his seemingly bulging crotch. Tristan threw a rope over a stern-looking branch, reaching out, towards the opening, and jerked the rope hard. As he had made sure the branch was hardy enough, he proceeded to tie the end of the rope onto a noose. Lizzy’s scream was cut, as one of the men ripped off a piece of her dress, rolled it in his hands, and forced it into the miqo’te’s mouth, and taped it shut. The men made sure the ropes were firm and tight, before lifting the helpless miqo’te woman off the ground. They walked under the tree branch, and Tristan slipped the noose around L’zetta’s neck, while Adamgar got onto his feet, and slowly walked up, standing behind Liz. L’zetta could feel as the man rolled up her dress, and proceeded to rip apart her panties, letting them float down into the grass. A blind horror washed over Lizzy, and she tried to worm herself free, only to soon come to realize, fighting was useless, and only managed to hurt herself. She could hear the hrothgar, spitting onto his hand, and feel the man’s fingers, as he rubbed the saliva onto her crotch. Spreading Lizzy’s thighs, the man stepped closer, and after a couple of failed attempts, forced himself into the girl, with a low grunt. At the same time, Tristan pulled on the rope, and the noose around Lizzy’s neck tightened. The miqo’te man walked up to the girl, holding the rope tight, and tilted his head, to look Liz in her eyes. “Do you see your father now, Deadeye? Can you see your daddy..?” The tears ran free from Lizzy’s eyes, and the piece of cloth and tape couldn’t fully muffle out her animalistic screams, as the huge man behind her kept thrusting himself in again and again. Lizzy felt like she would soon tear apart. Somewhere deep inside, she realized how she almost wished for it. Anything, to put an end to this nightmare. Warm blood ran down her thighs in crimson rivulets. “T-Tighter... Tristan? Little tighter...”, the hrothgar panted, and Tristan proceeded to pull the rope, making the noose dig deeper into Lizzy’s neck. She couldn’t breathe. The world around started to roll like a twisted merry-go-round. “Ohhh, fuck yes... Damn... I... I love you! I love you, L’zetta Medrawt!”, Adamgar’s booming voice rang in Lizzy’s ears, as her vision started to grow foggy... turn black. Love? If this was love... there was nothing beautiful in it. Love hurts. It hurts so bad, you want to die. Never trust a man... All men are animals... ...Never fall in love. < Part 4 : Lizzy and Adamgar

Epilogue >

#the corpse weaver; Liz Morgue #the torment of L'zetta #storytime!#my writing #tw; abuse #tw; rape #tw; misandria

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ryxishein · 4 years

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June 3, 2020 // 23:08

She didn’t need to say it.

Her name. Everyone had heard of her. Everyone who mattered and didn’t knew of her. The face of Springlake High School. Vanessa Adams—Goddess Venus herself. She starred in various magazines. Millions of people following her in all of her social media accounts. She was pretty much equal with the celebrities and artist in terms of fame. Now that she had finish high school, she can enter the Entertainment Industry. Of course she would have chosen to be a star a little earlier but her dad insisted she at least finish high school.

So, when the last bell rang, signaling the end of the school year, she proudly announced that she would have a party at her place the same night. Everyone came—at least everyone who gained the favor of young beautiful Vanessa.

Everyone was having a blast. The beat of the music overlapping with the radiating neon lights. The drunken gazes exchanged between dancing bodies. The intoxicating liquor running in every pulsating veins. The night was endless.

Vanessa was cuddling with her boyfriend slash captain of the soccer team slash smartest boy in school, Bryan James in the sofa. Although the place was loud, the only thing Vanessa could her was the raspy voice of Bryan whispering in her ears and the beating of her heart. She was always playing around with boys but when she met Bryan, everything just seemed to matter. The things she took for granted suddenly became important. The boring stuffs became fun. It’s like when she’s with him, she can see the beauty of the little things. Only Bryan could make her feel that way.

“Promise me you won’t change,” Bryan whispered as he intertwined his hand with hers and kissed it. Her face flushed and a curl at the end of her lips formed.

“What are you talking about? Of course I won’t! Silly Bryan!” Vanessa answered between giggles. She put her hand on his cheek and kissed him.

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he said while catching his breath. “Come on!” He grabbed her hand and led her to the billiard table where everyone was playing. He whispered something to the person who was taking his turn to play and they grinned. The man left laughing and Bryan looked at her teasingly.

“What are you doing?” She asked, hiding her laugh. She didn’t know what Bryan was up to but she knew him enough to know he was doing something unexpected—maybe something for her. She blushed at the thought.

“Springlake High!” he shouted. He didn’t let go of her hand. Everyone looked at them. Even the people at the pool started gathering. She looked at him confused and tightened her grip. “Is everyone having fun? Yeah! Let’s give a hand to the pride of Springlake—Vanessa!” They all started shouting her name, clapping their hands. She even heard someone say “Vanessa, make me your slave!” She just laughed, embarrassed.

“Yeah! Shouldn’t the beautiful woman herself make a speech for us?” He said teasingly and looked at her. She was flustered but everyone was yelling her name with anticipation. This silly boy, she thought.

She raised her free hand as if to admit defeat. The yelling became louder. Bryan whispered in her ear. “I know you’ll nail it baby.”

He lead her at the top of the billiard table. She noticed that there was now a chair to help her climb up. That was probably what they were whispering about, she said in her mind.

While she was climbing up, guided by Bryan’s hands. She couldn’t help but be proud. Everyone loves her. She has a caring boyfriend. Her family supports her. She has a career waiting for her. She couldn’t ask for more. There were obstacles but despite that, everything was now perfect.

She couldn’t hear anything anymore, only the loud beating of her heart as she walks at the center of the table taking her time. It was like everything was in slow motion. She took a deep breath to wash off the overwhelming sensation running through her.

She could hear them back now. The yells were back. Vanessa opened her eyes immediately as she heard them. Instead of yells, they were like screams, shrieks, or cries for help. What was happening? She could no longer feel the warm hand of Bryan in her hand.

And suddenly, everything fell silent. She was panicking inside but she put on a brave front and faced what was behind her. Was she imagining them? She slowly turned around.

What she saw was red. Cold blood red splattered everywhere. She looked at the windows which were now dyed red with blood. The sofa where she and Bryan cuddled was dripping with red liquid. Bryan! she said in her mind.

She turned her head to where Bryan should be but all she saw was a cut in his throat and a slash on his face. Red oozed out of his body and showered him with his own blood. She was about to jump down when she realized there was another living person in the room, standing just beside Bryan’s body.

“Who are you? Did you do this?” Vanessa shouted as she fell on her knees, crying. She heard the tapping of the person’s feet as it made its way towards her. She couldn’t look up. She was overwhelmed with fear, and shock, and pain.

She felt the person’s hand touch her. Its hand was wet with blood. Vanessa didn’t know what to do. Tears overflowed in her beautiful face and her voice was filled with horror. The person gripped her chin upwards so they could see eye to eye.

The first thing Vanessa noticed was the slash in the person’s face. Next was revenge in her eyes. She knew this person. It was Polly Ambers. The girl she so hardly want to forget.

“Beautiful Vanessa, even though you’re crying, you’re still beautiful. It’s unfair, isn’t it?” Polly said slowly. Her breath was ragged and she smelled of rotten corpse and wet earth. Vanessa was shivering. “Remember me?”

“Polly?” Vanessa was stuttering as she said her name. She never thought she’d see her again. “I thought you were dead,” Vanessa added. She couldn’t make of anything that was happening. Was this an imposter? Was this a prank? Polly was inches in front of her but she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Polly tightened her grip on Vanessa’s face.

“Oh, I am dead. It was you who killed me after all,” Polly answered. Although there was teasing in her voice, her face was serious. Vanessa remembered Polly quite vaguely. It was raining that night. She was drunk and out of her mind. There was a party held outside of the city and she was heading home. Everything happened so fast that the only thing she could remember was a loud thud and her car spinning and stopping abruptly. The moment she woke up she was in a hospital and her mom telling her everything was alright. She didn’t know what happened and heard later on that she accidentally killed somebody. She visited the mortuary without anyone knowing and what she saw there was a girl, heavily bruised with a slash on her face. She never went to the funeral nor went outside after that. The slashed face haunted her for months, in her dreams, in her room, in her mind. It was only because she met Bryan that she managed to get herself together.

“You were forgetting Vanessa,” Polly said, her eyes staring at Vanessa’s smooth cheek. “I couldn’t handle that,” she added. She touched Vanessa’s cheek with her free hand. Her nails pushed down deeply in her cheeks, they almost tore. Vanessa was still sobbing.

“Your face is painfully beautiful, I wanna mark it. Just like what you did to me.” Polly said in gritted teeth, emphasizing each word. And then she grinned, a grin so horrible, it made the slash on her face ooze with blackish blood and rotting worms.

The next thing Vanessa knew was that there was loud thud and her head was spinning and her heart stopping abruptly.

The following days, the whole city—the whole world was talking about of the massacre that took place at the Adams’ residence. How each students were found dead with a cut on their throat and slash on their faces. But what made this massacre peculiar was that young beautiful Vanessa, the face of Springlake High, was found dead not with a cut on her throat nor a slash on her face. It was even argued if it was even Vanessa for what they saw was a girl with her face peeled off from her own and an endless amount of cuts on her body. Young beautiful Vanessa was no more.

—i’ve always liked writing but i just didn’t know how and when to start (plus im incredibly lazy) but this is one of the few stories i wrote during quarantine. i beg y’all for some tips on how to improve my writing pls?

#my writing #writing #books #bookworm #black and white #reading #horror #life #what to tag #original character #aesthetic #send help #how to write

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theashofwkm · 5 years

Text

Recruitment in a Club

Summary: In which Dark... recruits William as his partner.

Prompt: Goretober, Demonic

Warnings: strangle mention, mass shooting, blood mention, dark having power to control fear, lack of sanity, manipulation, dark is referred to as a demon.

Note: Day two is a success! I actually really like this one, so I hope you guys do too!! (Also apologies again for the lack of read more)

———

Dark strides into the club, the bouncer coughing and clutching his reddened, bruising throat, eyes wide and white in terror, crotch dampened. The receiving end of his version of a ticket that allows him to step inside and skip the line. Very effective.

His aura had played a crucial role, sneaking in the man’s fears to play in his mind on a loop, startling him stiff. He’d recover from that before the night’s end. Probably.

Music throbs in the air, twisting around flailing bodies and thrumming in their chests besides their beating hearts. Unconsciously, they all veer away from Dark’s path, providing him a narrow pathway to the foot of the stage.

Dancers atop it pay him no heed, continuing to twist their bodies in time with the heavy beat. The central dancer, a brightly colored man with dyed hair, is by far the most enthusiastic of them. The others simply follow the tune of the music, mimicking the man while he dances with it, a partner to the song and a showman of its grace.

Dark clears his throat, the sound cutting through the music, disrupting the steady, flowing pace and the dancers trip, stumbling over themselves to stagger away from the creature who emits horror. Except one. The man continues, lithely avoiding the stumbling figures of the lost dancers. The man is blind to the intrusion, deaf to anything besides the music as he now commands it.

Three small steps lead up to the stage and Dark walks up them, aura wide and thrumming, dimming the lights, muting the music, sending a chill of warning throughout the club.

The man continues to dance.

“William,” the demon calls, voice low and rumbling yet somehow louder then the music still ringing in the air.

The man, the dancer, William, ignores the call. Dark steps closer, his arm brushing against a backup dancer who gasps and falls off the stage. No one notices, continuing to dance and enjoy the vibrant vibe, accounting the chill grasping their spine and whispering ‘danger’ as a side effect of the alcohol.

Taps of heel against wood echo. A slight sound that dwarfs the deafening music. Reaching out a gray, chilled hand, Dark grasps William’s shoulder.

Finally, he gains the man’s attention. His head still bobs and his hips sway, arms swinging around himself as he performs complicated footwork that keeps him in the same relative area, but he stays near Dark, eyes fixed on him. Practically giving him a lap dance, a private show. Grin still plastered to his face.

Dark sighs through his nose, closing his eyes for a brief moment in annoyance. “Colonel,” he says, his tone a strange mix of soft and commanding and regretful.

The man stops.

Confusion laces across his features, pinching his brows and weighing down the upward slope of his smile. “Colonel?” He repeats, mutters to himself because the word sounds... familiar. The meaning escapes him, but it rings in his head, a familiar sound.

“William.” Dark takes a half step forwards, grasping at the man’s wrist, pulling it between them to flip it palm up. His hand lays limp in his grasp, mind still whirring for the connection he can feel, the words clinging to his tongue, words burning in his throat, memories lurking in the shadows.

“Do you remember me?” His face is flat, expression artfully neutral even as the final word tremors.

William bounces his gaze over Dark’s face, over the hand holding his, between his eyes. His search stops there. Those eyes. Why do they look familiar?

“I think,” he clears his throat, eyes still pinned to the demon’s, “we’ve met before.”

Dark scoffs a laugh, expression lightening for a moment before he cools it again. “Yes,” he says, voice notably softer then it has been previously, “we have. A very long time ago.”

“Ah!” William pulls his hand free, snapping in Dark’s face. “Are you looking to work here?” He appraises Dark, scanning him with his gaze. “A singer? Musician?”

“No.” Dark scrubs a hand on his forehead wearily. “I’m not a musician or singer.” Not anymore. He could have been, once. He had the talent for it.

William blinks, tilts his head in confusion. “Then who are you?”

It hurts, that he’s asking. They used to be close, used to be brothers, used to be lovers.

No. Dark shakes his head, warding off the old forbidden memories. He wasn’t them anymore.

“I’d like to make you an offer.”

The dancer snorts, shaking his head. “Of what?” he asks. “I’m having all the fun I need right here.” He sweeps his arms out, gesturing to the mob of sweaty people still dancing to music that’s no longer playing on the stage. He frowns. “What happened to the music?”

The demon tilts his chin up, bristling. “The music does not matter.” It’s muffled, nearly gone in the bubble of Dark’s aura engulfing the stage. Irritation prickles across his skin. “I’d like to make a deal with you.”

“Not interested. Put the music back on.”

Anger flashes in his eyes. Leaning forward, he locks William in his gaze, in the dark pools of his eyes. It’s instinctive, to pull him in when he’s not cooperating.

He worms his way to the brain, where he dredges up the manor and tugs it to the forefront of his mind. Warped, aged memories filter back in flashes. Giant booms, fallen bodies, a fantastical prank.

He takes the bones of that night and fleshes it out with horror, with a mix of brutal reality and anxious fiction, showing William shooting Abe, shooting Mark, shooting Damien, shooting Celine, shooting Y/N. Showing William the fear he’s been denying and fleeing from.

Muzzle flashes spark across his eyes as Dark leans away, straightening his posture and smoothing out his suit.

William falls to the floor, shaking and terrified. “What was that?”

Dark crouches, seeking eye contact that William flinches away from. Dead friends hang in his eyes and they’re not dead, they can’t be. He would never kill them.

Sighing, he lowers his gaze to the floor. A reprieve that allows William to breathe. “I can make it stop,” Dark says, “the memories, the horror, the guilt.”

“I— I didn’t do that.” William scrambles away, shaking his head. “I didn’t shoot them.”

Dark lifts his head, finds his gaze. More shots, more bodies, more blood.

“No, stop.” William cries, terror locked around his heart.

Dark pulls the gun out of pocket, shining silver and far too heavy in his hand. He holds it out to the man. “Do you remember this?”

“That didn’t happen,” he whispers. “It’s not real.” Shakily, he grabs the gun, cold metal biting into his skin and aiding in the return of old feelings, aiding in the twist of Dark’s power in his mind. “Damien’s not dead.”

Something flinches in Dark, twisting his organs. He remembers a bright light, a soft chant gone too far. Snowy woods, cracking ice and a small cabin. Pain filters across his face. “No,” he finally says, “Damien is dead.”

Strangled laughter. “No. No, no, no, he’s not dead, he’s just playing a prank!” The old manic look, familiar and new all at once, lights his eyes. Decades of parties and dancing melt away to leave William’s core, barren and open to the outside world. Returning him to the man who killed and thought it to be a joke. Washing away the years he’s spent toeing the line of sanity and now forcing him to choose.

“Join me,” Dark says, reaching out a hand, promising something the other man doesn’t understand.

William eyes Dark’s hand, hesitant. He was enjoying all the clubs and the dancing. Twisting the gun his hands feels right. Natural.

Dark expands upon himself. “If you agree to become my partner, I’ll let you keep the gun. Deal?”

Their hands shake before William puts in any thought. It’s second nature, habit, what Dark is offering him. With the shake, the deal is sealed, unbreakable, irreversible, and easily struck to the man with a mind of putty.

William agrees out of a desperate need to keep the gun. It feels like an expansion of himself and he remembers now, all the fun he used to have with it. He’d like to have that fun again.

Dark tucks his hands back into his pockets, nodding at his new partner. Spinning on his heel, he retracts his aura, allowing the music to swell throughout the entirety of the room again.

“I’ll be in touch,” he states, as William hefts his new toy upwards and pulls the trigger, staining the floor red and painting the air with screams.

His grin is estastatic and his laughter follows the demon out the club.

———

Masterlist

TAGGING: @pleaseletthisjimbetaken @electricprincess888 @berrie-b @mackenziplier @gerardwayslips @risiskifi @cawestad @theinvisiblespoon @californiakxng @just-another-starfish @superawesomeamazingname @moonstonefox12 @bones-and-tomes @am-i-heaven-or-am-i-hell @itsbumblebunnybee @noisyfreakpersonlover @nightmarejim @schuyleryette @withjust-a-bite @statictay @muraae @harmonyofstars @cosmic-frapuccino @jmweezy (tags are open)

#theashwrites #writing #wkm fic #theashangst #goretober #wkm angst #wkm dark #wkm william #tw strangulation #tw manipulation #tw gun violence #tw mass shooting #tw gunshot #tw blood #manipulation #recruitment in a club #RiaC

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sheerioasteroidpanda · 5 years

Text

Couple’s Holiday, Getting Dicked Good and Monster Girls

Uhh so as usually, when I’m most stressed I write and lately I’ve been reallyyyyyyyyy feeling some Ed Sheeran story so I wrote this. It’s just short and silly and yeah. Just blah. I know I haven’t written anything for tumblr in a while and my AO3 is kind of dead but its cause I let a snide comment get to me plus I’ve been super busy with finishing up college so. Anyways enough rambling. Here’s my first Ed fan fic in a long time. And yes, I used my name cause I’m lazy and selfish and needy for Ed.

"Babe?"

"YEAH?" amanda shouted from her position on the couch, which was currently upside down, legs on the head rest and head on the foot rest.

"Why are you yelling?" Ed asked not looking up from his phone as he entered the condo he had rented for the holidays.

"Oh sorry, thought you were farther away. All the blood is rushing in my ears and it's kinda hard to hear."

"What the hell are you doing?" Ed asked finally looking up to see his girlfriend sitting the complete wrong way with her head nearly touching the floor.

"I dunno, what are youuu doing?" Amanda grinned back. They had been staying at a luxury condo in Colorado Springs for the past 2 weeks and she was getting antsy. While it was supposed to be a holiday vacation, Ed had gotten together with a few music buddies and of course, being Ed, had worked the whole 2 weeks. She didn't mind, she loved seeing him happy and working but still… antsy.

"Wanna go to a party tonight?" Ed checked his phone again as it dinged.

"Hmmmmm what kinda party? We takin party hard party? Rave party? Club party? Pub/dive bar party? You gotta fill a girl in here, ginger boy" amanda rolled over so she was sprawled on the long couch laying on her stomach, her feet kicking in the air.

"Oh I'll fill a girl alright!" Ed wiggled his eyebrows and quickly pocketed his phone so his hands were free to grab Amanda's sides and tickle her. "Fill her right up with my ginger cock is what i’ll do!"

"Edward!" Amanda squealed and wiggled trying to get away. Or maybe get closer, it could be hard to tell sometimes. "You're so lewd!"

"Aye but you love it" ed said as he nuzzled his nose against her cheek, his body now laying fully on top of hers.

"Nah, i love you" amanda said while pushing her hips up to rub against his groin.

Ed nearly growled at the friction. "Babe before we start, do you want to go out tonight? It'll be club and my friends will be there" ed explained as he trailed kisses behind her ear and down her neck.

"Oh" amanda said softly trying to focus. "Which friends?"

"Hmm?" Ed mumbled while he rested back on his hunches and started to push up Amanda's top.

"Ed which friends are going to be there tonight?" Amanda asked a little more firmly.

"Uh, I don't know, probably Dillion and JB and Dia and…" ed listed off a few others.

Amanda felt her heart sploot a little, these were definitely not her types of people. "Uh, why don't you just go. I know you'll have a lot more fun without me to be your ball and chain" saying a little more cheerfully than necessary.

"You don't want to go? Is it cause of Justin? You know he's grown up now. Just like I did." Ed says seriously, all future sexy times are thrown out the window.

Sighing amanda scooted out from under ed so she could sit properly. "I know ed but i just don't enjoy his company not to mention a few others you mentioned would be there. You know that's not my scene anyways. Id just be awkward and distract you from having a good time. Go have fun with your friends. Seeing them is just as important as seeing me or seeing family."

"Dear god I love you" ed said, cupping Amanda's cheek and giving her a sweet and light kiss. "What about you, love? What will you do if i go out?"

Amanda laughed loudly "darlin i have a bottle of wine in the fridge, internet connection and my kindle app. I promise ill be fine for a few hours." It was amanda's turn to give ed a peck on the lips. "Go. Have fun. I'll be here enjoying me time."

"God i fucking love you!" Ed said excitedly as he jumped up after kissing her again and grabbing his jacket and ran towards the door.

"Wait!" Amanda shouted just as he was about to close the door. Ed poked his head back in with a question.

"Phone?" A nod.

"Wallet?" Another nod.

"Keys?" Amanda asked with a raised eyebrow as she looked from him to the coffee table in front of her with his keys sitting on it.

"Have I mentioned you are the most wonderful woman ever to exist?" Ed said as he sheepishly came back inside and grabbed his keys.

"Hmm ill be sure to let your mom know you said as such" amanda grinned wickedly.

Ed gasped "you wouldn't"

"I will if you don't leave right now. You're gonna miss all the fun."

Ed rushed out the door with a final, ‘love you!’ and left Amanda on her own once again. Sighing to herself, she allowed herself to pout at being left alone once again but only for a moment. She truly meant what she said about wanting him to see his friends. And it wasn’t that she didn’t not like some of his friends, she just knew she wouldn’t enjoy herself. If she wasn’t enjoying herself, she didn’t want to distract Ed with her problems.

But honestly, did he have to leave her all hot and bothered? Just rude. Thinking about ways to fix her problem she slammed her fist in her other hand. “I’ll need my laptop and that bottle for sure” Amanda giggled. If Ed is going to have a good night, so was she.

----

“Dude? And she just let you go?” Justin looked at Ed in disbelieve. “Sounds fake but okay” he muttered as he sipped his drink.

“Well I think it’s nice” Dillion said. “You two are so good for each other, she has totally got your back.”

Dia snorted, “That or she’s fucking someone else.”

“What the fuck?” Ed slurred a little. “She wouldn’t do that to me. If she wanted me to stay in, she would have told me. Besides, she loves my dick. Why would she look for another” Ed said smugly.

Dia eyed Ed up and down while sassing her head. “Who said she’s looking for some dick?”

“She is pan” Justin chimed in unhelpfully.

“Let Ed be. Y’all should learn to trust your partners. That’s why y’all can’t stay in a relationship while our boy Ed here is in a 3 year relationship with a lovely girl.” Dillion praised with red cheeks.

“I don’t know about that. You have seemed to be avoiding her lately” Justin muttered, glancing at Ed before looking away just as quick.

“No I’m not!” Ed said a little louder than he had meant to. He was more drunk than he thought.

“Ed, you two have been here for nearly 2 weeks on a ‘couples holiday’ and all you’ve done is work. Amanda hasn’t even been coming with you cause me and her don’t mix well” Justin pointed out. “If I gave up seeing my family and friends for the holidays to go on take a trip with my boyfriend to a luxury condo resort only to be left almost daily cause said boyfriend is working, I’d be a little irritated myself.”

Ed sat with a large pout while he picked at the label on his beer. “I always ask before I leave and she has asked for me to stay a few times and we’ve gone out and skied and went ‘round her old hometown. Even went to that coffee shop she remembered as a little girl.”

Even Dillion started to look doubtful. “I don’t know Ed. I don’t think Amanda should have to ask you to stay when you’re on a couples holiday.”

“I know my girl,” Ed stated again louder than he meant to, setting his beer bottle down a little too hard on the table. “If she had a problem with me going out, she would have said so. She isn’t seeing anybody else and she isn’t sleeping with anyone either.”

Dia raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Sure Teddy, but I know females and that girl is totally feeling ignored and pushed aside.” Dia stood and winked at the whole table, “I’m going to dance, see you boys later.”

The 3 men sat in silence for a moment before Justin spoke up. “Okay, I can see what Amanda was saying about not being sure about her.”

“You talked?” Ed looked shocked at his friend.

“Hmm?” Justin looked to Ed after watching the girl he was currently talking to start 2 guys eyeing her like meet. “Uh yeah. We don’t click well but we’re civil enough, jesus Ed. It was on the 3rd day you two showed up and I came to pick you up to record. You were still in the shower and I waited and we talked a bit.

“Amanda seemed a little more off than usual with me so I asked. She confessed that Dia made her uncomfortable and didn’t think she was a good match, before back-peddling and saying she didn’t mean to intrude on my private life and apologized. And... “ Justin stopped and looked a little embarrassed. His red cheeks from drinking didn’t help hide his guilty look.

“What?” Ed asked irritated for some reason.

“And she said she was sorry for not being able to get along with me. That she knew we were really good friends and didn’t want to ruin that but she wasn’t going to change herself to please you. Then she hoped she was wrong about her feelings for Dia and wished me luck.” Justin looked away, too embarrassed to look Ed in the eye. “I gotta say man, I got a little jealous of you right at that moment.”

“See Ed, there’s nothing to worry about. Just relax and enjoy yourself.” Dillion said with a pat on Ed’s back.

Ed squinted at Justin, taking in his words. He had a sudden swell of unbelievable pride in his girl but the ear worm had gotten to his brain already and now he couldn’t stop thinking about Amanda being in bed with another man. Or woman. Oh god, or both. Ed stood up abruptly, almost knocking his chair over. “I have to go!”

“Wait, Ed maybe you should sober up a bit first” Dillion looked worried.

“I’m fine” Ed grumped and marched out of the bar. They weren’t that far from the condo complex and the cold air would sober him up just fine.

After walking the 10 minutes back to their room, Ed’s head had cleared and realized how stupid he was being. Ed smiled to himself as he unlocked the door and shook his head at how silly he was and what a great girl he had.

Until he heard a long, wonton moan.

Ed froze and could literally feel his heart break. His shoulders slumped and let his coat and keys fall to the floor. He dragged his feet but couldn’t stop his movements towards the bedroom where he was hearing more moans and obvious sounds of sex.

He raised his hand to open the door when he stopped again. There was another moan but listening again, he realized it wasn’t Amanda’s moan. And then another voice groaned and then… someone speaking Japanese?

Then to top it all off, he heard Amanda snort and laugh out loud.

Now he was mad and confused so he peeked inside to find Amanda sitting on the bed, cross legged and in one of his nightshirts and a pair of boy short panties. She was sipping wine from a plastic bright green wine glass and was watching something on her laptop.

Again Amanda being Amanda, she was positioned oddly so her back was actually towards the door and Ed could see what was playing on the laptop.

“Oh my god! Are you watching tentacle pron?” Ed shouted as he stepped inside fully.

Amanda screamed and jumped, spilling her wine all over herself and the bed. Ignoring that, she slammed the laptop screen down so fast, Ed barely saw her hand move. “What are you doing here back so soon!?” Amanda shrieked.

“I, well, uh. That doesn’t matter right now, were you watching tentacle porn?” Ed asked again trying not to laugh.

“You were supposed to be gone the whole night! And you left me horny! And you weren’t supposed to be home so soon!” Amanda rambled, blushing so much her neck was turning red too.

“I didn’t know you were into that” Ed said smirking.

“Shut up, ginger boy!” Amanda shouted as she stood up off the bed but now standing she didn’t know what to do with herself. “I just. The thing is. You see it started. I mean, I discovered it when I was in high school. I mean, why am I explaining myself? Why were you skulking about trying to scare me?”

It was Ed’s turn to look embarrassed. “If I explain my embarrassing story of the night, will you tell me about your kink I never knew about?”

Amanda crossed her arms and looked away with puffed cheeks. “I’ll think about it after you explain yourself.”

“Okay well, I was a little drunk when it was brought up how I was ‘allowed’ to go out without you and then the guys were saying how great that was that you were cool with it but then Dia had to say something about you maybe looking to find some dick somewhere else and then Justin pointed out I’ve been working almost this whole holiday and I’ve been a rubbish boyfriend. So in my drunken stupor I thought I’d come back to find you and dick you down so good, you’d never even think of another man but then I came through the door and heard moans and sex and panicked and felt my heart break and followed the sound and then found you looking so beauiful in my shirt and those panties on that lushous ass of your’s and you watchin porn after I left you alone, I just… My brain stopped working.”

Amanda stared at him with a raised eyebrow and a doubtful look on her face as she listened to him ramble. Though once she heard that Dia had started spewing her poison, she wasn’t surprised to learn that a seed of doubt was planted. “Wait you’re telling me that brain of yours works sometimes?”

“It’s up for debate to be honest, love” Ed smiled sheepishly.

“And you were gonna ‘dick me down so good’ huh?” Amanda said as she still kept her arms crossed but now jetting her hip out as well, sass surfacing in defense of the embarrassment of being caught.

“Okay so maybe my brain isn’t working at all tonight” Ed said as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Not the most romantic thing I’ve said.”

“Ironic sense you know, Ed Sheeran and all” Amanda smirked and nudged her chin in his direction.

“Are you seriously gonna keep sassing me when I caught you watching tentacle anime porn?” Ed said exasperated.

“Are you seriously gonna keep bringing up the hentai?” Amanda sighed.

“Oh it has an actual name? Please tell, love, why haven’t I learned about this private enjoyment before?” Ed said, slipping into to his low baritone and stepped up to cupped Amanda’s warm cheek.

“Cause I haven’t needed to watch porn in a while and plus it’s just sort of a once in a blue moon type thing” Amanda confessed, blushing straight to the tips of her hair. “Plus it wasn’t tentacles…”

“Oh? Please correct me than?” Ed smirked, loving the way her whole body was warm.

“It was monster girls and aliens” Amanda whispered. “I like the succubuses” Amanda muttered as she placed her face against his chest.

“That. Is. So. Cute” Ed laughed as he hugged Amanda. He lowered his head so he whispered in her ear, “Would you like to watch it together?”

“Well…” Amanda snuggled her face more into Ed’s chest. “I spilled my wine of the bed.”

“Wanna do it on the couch?” Ed asked simply.

“Edward!” Amanda pulled back and slapped her hand against his chest. “You’re so lewd.”

“That wasn’t a no” Ed wiggled his eyebrows.

“You’re right, it wasn’t” Amanda giggled back.

#ed sheeran #code ginger #ed sheeran fan fic #Couple’s Holiday Getting Dicked Good and Monster Girls #asteroid panda's bad writing

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goatsandgangsters · 5 years

Text

Reel Against Your Body’s Borders (Clark/Shauna)

[ao3] contains: shameless smut and vampire mindfucking, double entendre 100% intended

He’s awakened by her next to him, fingers dancing across his chest. He blinks in the light—warm, golden, glowing from twin lamps on each end table. That can’t be right. He never leaves the lights on; it’s wasteful. But then, a lot of things haven’t been right lately.

“Alone tonight?”

Like that, for example. Shauna can try to hide behind an innocuous question all she wants; there’s nothing innocuous about what she says to him.

He rubs a hand across his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes. “Apparently not,” he retorts, throat dry and heavy.

She smiles at that, cocks her head and spills strands of hair against his cheek. He tries to hoist himself onto his elbows but she presses him flat against the mattress with one hand against his chest—stronger than any normal human’s. “You might as well make yourself comfortable, because I’ve got a lot of time on my hands.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” he says, flat, curt. “I’ll get cable installed in the whole block first thing tomorrow.”

Those bright eyes meet his, never deterred no matter his brusqueness. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but that’d be nice, actually.��

He forces himself to look away, steer the conversation onwards before she can get too hooked on the idea. That’d be a hard expense report to justify. “You want somethin’, or you just like keeping me awake?”

When she smiles again, it’s that dangerous smile. Not as dangerous as it could be—no sharp teeth or anything. But it’s a bright smile, gleaming, and that’s what makes it such trouble. “Oh, I do.”

It’s a good thing he’s had practice keeping his voice indifferent. “You mind tellin’ me what?”

“Like you have to ask,” she pouts.

“Just did, didn’t I?” A steady tone is aways the best strategy; it’s seen him through more dire situations than this.

She tuts at him, a spark in her eyes that says nothing’s ever been so dire. “You are being a grump tonight.”

He swallows. “That happens when you get woken up in the middle of the—”

Her fingers press against his lips and slip inside. His eyes go wide, searching her face, brow knit and heart hammering. “Shh, enough of that,” she coos. “Enough of that, baby, just relax.” She’s smiling, soft and safe, as she pushes her fingers over his tongue, down deeper into his mouth. He relaxes, lets her in. This, he thinks, is new.

“Don’t get this every day, do you?” she says with a grin, and he wraps his lips around her fingers and sucks. He strains his neck up, more insistent; she laughs, wrist dangling in front of him. “Ooh, but maybe you should. You seem to like it.”

Her eyes are alight watching him. It thuds in his chest, the way she watches, the hunger. His mouth would work for days to keep those eyes burning into his skin.

“That’s it, get them nice and ready. You can do that, right?” Of course he can. The what and the why don’t matter, only that he can, that he will. “It’s relaxing, huh? I’ll do all the talking, I don’t mind.”

He dissolves into those words, into the peaceful promise held in the pads of her fingers. There’s always someone looking to him for something—orders, reassurance, resolve. The weight is invisible until it’s lifted, until he can slip out of himself for one moment’s peace.

His tongue whorls around the soft curves of her fingers. “It’s nice of you to let me in like this. Up here, I mean.” She presses her nose to the skin of his temple.

Her fingers pull back and out, and he gasps—for air, for more—resurfacing from deep within himself. “What do you—”

“Ah, ah.” She waves one finger in front of him. His eyes follow it, back and forth, before settling on her face, so soft, so warm. “What’d I tell you? You just need to relax and listen, remember?”

It sounds nice, natural even. There’s a tug deep in his mind, like the heaviness of sleep worming its way through his thoughts and threatening to pull him under a hazy fog. That must be her. Of course it is. Some junior lab technician is charting her brain activity going haywire, without a clue what’s held in those dips and swells. Clark only knows the dance of those arcs by shape, not by scientific detail, but he knows how they feel. They’re becoming as much a part of him as his own pulse.

And then he gasps, breathless shock twisting his fingers into the blanket. “Shauna!” She’s in him with one hand, the other pushing his thigh aside.

He tries to sit up, tries to pull away, but she swirls her wrist; he shudders. “What? It’s only one finger,” she says with a shrug. “You’re how old, anyway? Haven’t you had like, a prostate exam or something by now?”

Christ, really. “I’m not that o—” He struggles against a gasp. The second finger that had been in his mouth moments before pushes into him. His body responds—tightening and opening—like he was meant to be played this way.

She laughs and shakes her golden head. “Hey, enjoy it. I’m doing you a favor. You seem tense.”

“Wonder why.” His teeth grit tight, eyes squeezed shut. But as he breathes, as she moves her hand in slow, deliberate motions, brushing effortlessly against him, the presence of her surges through his body like a current, from head to—well, other places.

She curls her fingers and he nearly bucks off the bed. “Sensitive, huh? But we knew that already, didn’t we?”

There’s a glint in her smile, a hunger in her eyes that jolts in his stomach. He struggles to keep his eyes open, stares down the length of his body—hadn’t he been clothed when he went to sleep?—and knits his brows as he watches her, perched between his legs as calm and collected as if they were having any old conversation.

She tuts at him when his stare remains blank. “I’m not talking about here,” she explains with—jesus—another curl of her fingers. “You know where I mean. That little spot in the back of your mind. It wasn’t hard to get in there, open you up.” She says these last words slow and deliberate, with a sly grin and a motion that makes his head fall back and a low moan slide through his throat. There’s a giggle hiding behind her grin. His breath is shallow; her words make him tremble with something that should be fear, but isn’t.

“I’m not even in you, you know,” she continues conversationally, working her fingers in and out. His muscles tighten around her, eager hips rolling into each motion. “I’m not even here.”

“Feels—like it,” he grunts. Every nerve ending in his body would agree.

“Clark.” He goes still at the sound of his name, despite the motions of her hand and the twists and coils of his body. There’s something else in her voice now, something firm, something true. “I’m in your head, Clark. You know that.”

He does. He does know that. But it feels—oh, it feels. His eyes fall closed as his mouth falls open. The mattress creaks at a distance from his consciousness as he pushes back onto her, closer for more and more. She gives it to him as his back slides against the sheets, sweat collecting on his brow. He can still taste her on his tongue as he opens his mouth to breathe, to moan, to let the desperate air out of his rapidly rising and falling chest.

She’s in him. Deeper than before, pressing farther inside. It’s not just her fingers, it can’t be; he feels too full of her, but he can’t open his eyes, can’t bring himself to raise his heavy head to look. He can only feel her, pushing, pulling, deeper inside. Every thrust shoots through his spine, straight to the top of his head, the world melting away until there’s only her.

The sound of her voice is like an anchor, his own body the waves tossing side to side. He hardly knows what she’s saying, only that he hears her, filling him until there isn’t room for anything else.

“That’s it, let me open you up. Keep making room for me in your mind, Clark, and I’ll keep making you feel as good as you want,” she promises.

He shudders, head falling to the side in a desperate moan. Nothing has ever been like this—in him, around him, through him, to every corner of his body. It’s hard to know where he stops and where she begins, hard to remember if he ever knew those lines, if there ever were any.

“It’s not like I’m asking for anything you don’t want to give. Win-win, right?” She says it so simply. “Makes it nice and easy for you.”

All he has to do is slip into the sound of her voice, let his body twitch and thrash, let her make music out of his moans and sighs. Lights dance behind his eyes, squeezed tight. She’s a fever that burned through every corner of his body until there was nothing but sensation, pleasure, her words coiled deep in his head and burning hot.

“Just let me in,” she whispers, and he wants to. The push-and-pull is building in his gut, mouth hanging open in a silent moan—letting her give voice to all that’s in his head instead.

His back arcs as she twists and thrusts, faster and faster, a rhythm so sharp and steady he swears its his heartbeat. Her hair falls against his face, her words against his ear. “It makes you wonder… was I even here?” she asks. “Or do you just want this?”

He gasps in silent cry—body shudders, rolling through spasms that shake through to his core. His eyes fly open, her name heavy as it falls from parched lips. He blinks into the ink of the shadows, the blood thrumming in his veins, breath struggling to steady. The room is as dark and as empty as when he went to sleep.

#the passage #clark richards #shauna babcock #my writing #HELLO EVERYONE PLEASE ENJOY SOME SHAMELESS MINDFUCK SMUT #cLARK IS ALL-ABOARD THE TRAIN TO VAMPIRE POUND TOWN #sorry not sorry to uh. kick off the fic writing for this fandom with nothin but smuts but it can't be helped

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save-jacksepticeye · 6 years

Text

Chapter 1: Awakening

A/N: Here’s the full first chapter. I don’t have an actual name for this fic yet, so bear with me.

WARNINGS: Gore and blood, as well as depressive thoughts and torture, both physical and psychological. This is pretty dark, so be warned.

Awakening felt more like drowning, like his head was being held under in a bucket of ice water. For a minute, he could do nothing but gasp for breath and flail, grasping desperately for some kind of handhold or landmark to haul himself out with. Then he was on his knees, bent double and coughing, mind racing as he tried to place himself. He fell to his side and lay like that as his breathing steadied and his heartbeat calmed.

He was hauled roughly to his feet and he glanced up to find himself face-to-face with the monstrosity that had put him there. He yelped and jumped backwards, only to stop dead when he the ice-cold touch of the puppet strings tracing paths down his back. Their touch brought vivid images, grotesque creatures and twisted creations of his own mind, like the nightmares that plagued him when he was in their thrall.

Jack shook his head, banishing them as well as he could, and focused on his present situation. The only time Anti drew him from his slumber was when he wanted to have a little fun turning Jack’s insides into his outsides. Cold fear shot through his veins at the prospect of another long and torturous session beneath Anti’s favorite blade.

“Now, Jack, is that any way to greet a guest?” Anti purred. His voice was rough and broken, like he was speaking through a faulty radio connection, or a voice distorter. His body glitched spastically, his head jerking from side to side and his body flickering in and out of focus like a dying lightbulb. Blood spurted from the ragged tear in his neck, soaking his front, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to enjoy how uncomfortable it made Jack.

There was the sharp sound of the knife as he drew it down the length of one of the iridescent strings. The string seemed to curl around the knife, and the others hovered around Anti like a hive-mind. Jack’s skin crawled, but he bit his tongue, determined not to give Anti the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

There was a long sigh. “A puppet’s no good if it doesn’t jump.” Still, Jack didn’t respond. He knew it would come back to bite him later—maybe literally—but for now, he was feeling rebellious.

Anti glitched and disappeared, and suddenly, Jack’s head cracked against the ground and a cold hand tightened around his throat. Feebly, he clawed at the hand, gasping for breath as his lungs began to burn. Anti laughed at his struggles, fresh blood spurting from his throat and catching Jack in the eye, turning his vision red. “When are you going to learn, Jackaboy, that I’m the one in charge?” Jack made a choking sound and the hand released him. He gasped and coughed, sucking in air greedily and wiping the blood out of his eye.

“What do you want?” he asked hoarsely as he massaged his throat and hauled himself to his feet. The glitch toyed with his knife, a grin on his face that sent chills down Jack’s spine. Whatever Anti had planned, Jack wasn’t sure he was going to like it.

“I have a task for you, puppet.”

Jack frowned at his words. “I’m not your puppet,” he spat. There was an angry hiss from the strings and one lashed out, digging into his shoulder, and another wormed its way into his hand, pulling taunt and lifting it into the air. Jack cried out in agony and tore at the strings, willing to do anything that could stop the awful burning that had spread throughout his arm. Two more strings latched onto his other arm and yanked it away. Anti grinned at the show before him, his entire body glitching spastically.

“Are you sure, Jack? Don’t you remember what I told you? You became mine the moment they started calling my name.”

“No,” Jack growled through clenched teeth. His muscles trembled as he tried to move, but he was frozen in place. “No,” he said, his voice raw with pain. Tears streamed down his face as more strings dug into his back, his legs, his chest, the back of his head, setting his entire body alight with cold fire. Jack would have screamed, but even his vocal chords were under Anti’s control now. He was beginning to regret giving in to his rebelliousness.

“See?” Anti ran his knife down one of the strings, sending a bolt of pain through Jack’s arm. “You are nothing. I control your every move. I can make you dance.” He raised his arm and the strings pulled at Jack’s flesh, contorting his muscles and sending new waves of pain coursing through him, forcing him into an Irish jig. For a single moment he released his hold on Jack’s throat, and a ragged scream tore from it, music to Anti’s ears. He dropped his arm, satisfied, and the strings let Jack rest.

The string in the back of Jack’s head retreated completely, relinquishing control, and he let his chin rest against his chest. He was in too much pain to do much else. Anti tipped his head up with his knife, that hideous grin still on his face. Vaguely, Jack wondered if he ever stopped smiling.

“I can make you sing.” He snapped his fingers and Jack’s face contorted in agony as another scream was ripped from him. Anti snapped again, and the pain stopped. Jack slumped against the strings, his vision swimming in front of him. He felt warm blood trickling down his back and arms. “You are at my mercy, all because of them.”

Jack couldn’t count the times they had been through this. Over and over Anti had drilled this into his head. At times he had believed it, but there had always been something to pull him back from the edge, whether it be the community, or the egos, something that gave him the strength to continue fighting back. This time, however, something changed. The community had abandoned him, Schneeplestein was probably dead, and the rest of the egos were at Anti’s beck and call. There was no one out there that could help him, no one that cared. He began to believe that maybe it would be better if he just gave in, that maybe Anti was right.

Stop it, he told himself. He knew better than to listen to the demon’s lies, why was this time any different? Maybe it was the nightmares when he was in the thrall of the strings, or his seemingly endless sessions with Anti, but Jack found it harder and harder to believe that. He felt himself breaking, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“You’re weak,” Anti sneered, as if he could read Jack’s mind, “You’ve given in before, and no second wind will save you this time. You’ll never be free of me, never.” He gestured to the strings and Jack held his hand out, palm up. He hissed in pain. Anti placed the knife in his hand and his fingers closed around it, gripping it tight. Stalking around behind him, Anti grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat as the knife rose, agonizingly slow, the blade glinting ominously.

Memories flashed through Jack’s mind, sending a bolt of fear through him. His eyes widened and he tried his hardest to move, if only to protect his exposed neck, but the strings held tight, not allowing him to do more than shake his head. He couldn’t do it again, he couldn’t feel that pain again, that helplessness. Anything was better than this, anything.

“Please, don’t,” Jack pleaded frantically, “Please, I-I’ll do anything.” The knife drifted closer to his throat, pricking his skin and making him wild with fear. Anti giggled next to his ear, wrenching his head back even farther.

“That’s right, beg. Beg for your pitiful life.” The knife pressed against his throat. One wrong move and it would all be over. Jack gulped, the sensation of the blade against his neck eliciting another spike of fear and adrenaline.

“Please, Anti, please. I’ll do anything, anything at all. Please,” Jack whispered. He was crying now, terror overruling his mind. Nothing else mattered, nothing but getting that blade away from his neck.

“What are you?” The knife pressed harder, drawing blood.

Jack could barely speak through his sobs. “Y-Your puppet.”

“What was that?” Anti cupped a hand over his ear. The knife shifted, splitting skin. Jack gasped.

“Your p-puppet,” he said, louder this time. “I’m your puppet.” The pressure disappeared from his neck and the strings in his back retreated, allowing him to take a deep shuddering breath. Anti patted him on the shoulder, making him wince, and he pried his knife from Jack’s fingers, turning it in his hands. Bringing it to his lips, he licked the blood off the blade, savoring the taste.

“Now that you remember your place, I have a task for you.” Jack raised his head, but said nothing. His blue eyes were dull and listless, still red from crying, exactly how Anti liked to see them. “Your community has been getting a little…cocky. They think they know who’s in control, that there’s still a difference between you and I. I want you to make some videos for me, and pretend nothing ever happened. We’ll show them that we are one and the same.”

Jack fell to the ground as the rest of the strings retreated, glistening red with his blood. His muscles spasmed as he tried to sit up, forcing him back to his side and making him whimper. He nodded in submission, and Anti grinned.

“Good.” Grabbing Jack by the back of the shirt, Anti hauled the trembling man to his feet, placing a hand on his forehead. “I have some unfinished business to attend to, so get to it. Oh, and Jack? Don’t do anything that you might regret.”

There was a blinding flash, and suddenly, Jack was in his bed, starting awake as if from a nightmare. He was drenched in sweat and his nose was bleeding, but all he cared about in that moment was the rush of fresh air in his lungs, the familiar smells wafting into his nostrils. He took a moment to breathe deeply and he savored every last breath. His heart ached as he glanced at the figure in the bed next to him, sound asleep. How long had it been since he had seen her?

Shakily, he got up from the bed, careful not to wake Signe, and made his way to the bathroom, bumping into stuff as he felt his way through the unfamiliar house. He had gotten a feel for the general layout of the house in the times he had managed to weasel his way past Anti’s defenses and steal control, but he still wasn’t completely sure where he was going. He flicked on the light and his eyes widened at his reflection in the mirror.

His brown hair—the result of his last attempt to stay in control—was matted and dirty and his once-sparkling blue eyes were now dull and haunted. He could see the beginnings of scars, both new and old, crisscrossing his collarbone and his arms, but the one that caught his attention was the faint slash across his throat, and the new shallow scratch just below it. There were ragged tears in his hands, and undoubtedly all over his body, from the strings, still oozing blood. He shuddered and felt the need to vomit, his empty stomach groaning in protest.

After dry-heaving over the toilet bowl, Jack took out some rubbing alcohol and carefully cleaned his new wounds, wincing occasionally at the pain. He bandaged his hands and did his best with the others, but he couldn’t reach the ones on his back. Then, he took the time to examine his body in greater detail. Carefully, he removed his t-shirt and stared in horror at the puckered lines of scar tissue that painted a picture of the torture he’d endured for more than a year. Some of the lines were only half-healed; he would have to be careful if he didn’t want to rip them open again. All of them brought back vivid images, things he would have given almost anything to forget. The flash of Anti’s knife, searing pain, the blood drying on his skin, the cruel taunts and realizations.

How was he going to explain this to everyone? There was no way this was what his body had looked like when Anti was in control. And unlike Anti, he didn’t have powers to cover them up. He’d have to find another way to hide them—maybe wear a sweatshirt or something.

He ran a hand through his hair and, after a second of deliberation, stripped off the rest of his clothes and turned on the shower. He sighed in relief as the hot water coursed over his head, and slowly, he let himself relax. It had been a very long time since he’d had the luxury of a shower.

The water stung a little as it hit the fresh cuts, but it was well worth the pain if it meant he could wash away the layer of filth that had accumulated on his body. Jack knew that this might be the last time he would ever be able to enjoy this, so he took his time, comforted by the sound of the water sloshing out of the shower head. Too bad the water couldn’t wash away the scars and memories as well.

When he was done, Jack patted himself dry with a towel, dressed, and made his way along the route to the recording room, a coil of nervous energy forming in the pit of his stomach. Briefly, his mind flashed back to the last time he had recorded in this studio; the day Schneeplestein had tried to save him. He nearly started dry-heaving again at the thought of what had happened afterward. He wondered where the doctor was now, or if he was even alive. He forced himself to push the thought to the back of his mind and opened the door.

It was just as he remembered it, black padded walls, his setup in one corner, the whiteboard on the wall opposite it. With a shaky breath, he took his seat in his gaming chair and reoriented himself. Glancing around, he saw a sweatshirt laying draped across the computer. Hands shaking slightly, he grabbed it and pulled it over his head, wincing as the rough fabric brushed against his wounds.

He didn’t turn on the computers, or touch his camera. He just sat in his chair, letting everything sink in. He plucked Spiderloaf from where he sat on top of his monitor and gazed at him for a second, a lump in his throat. Jack knew very well that this may be the last time he would ever see the outside world, and that there was nothing he could do about it. He had tried, at least, he had fought until he could no longer move, until he could barely breathe. He had even called for help, screamed until his throat was raw and his lungs hurt. But nobody had come. Nobody cared. All that was left was to accept his fate.

After a minute, he rose from the chair and slipped out into the hallway, quietly making his way back to bed. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, but he wanted to be there in case Signe woke up, to keep her from being suspicious. The covers shifted as he lay back down, and Signe turned in her sleep.

“Sean?” she murmured sleepily, propping herself up and rubbing her eyes as she gazed at him, “What’re you doing up so late?”

“Sorry, Woosh, I had to go to the bathroom. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“’S alright.” She yawned. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I just need to stop drinking so much coffee before I go to bed.” He could tell from the look on her face that she didn’t believe him, but to his relief, she didn’t question it. She just gave him a long, hard look before relenting.

“You do that. Now go back to sleep.” With that, she rolled back over, and was asleep within minutes.

For a while, Jack watched her sleep, guilt and longing welling up inside him. He wanted nothing more than to snuggle up close to her and forget everything, pretend that none of it was real, that it was like before. But that could never happen, not again. Had she even noticed he was gone? Would she have cared if she had?

She doesn’t care about you, Anti crooned in the back of his skull, She never did. She didn’t even notice when you disappeared, when I replaced you.

Laying his head on his pillow, Jack stared at the ceiling, his longing giving way until he felt empty, hollow. Anti was right; nobody cared, nobody wanted him back. There was nothing left in this world for him, and as much as it pained him to admit, he wouldn’t be missed. Tears welled up in his eyes.

The hours ticked by slowly, giving Jack plenty of time to mull over these thoughts and pull himself deeper and deeper into the abyss. When it was time to start the day, he felt like nothing more than an empty shell, never to be filled again. It showed in his movements as he made his way to his recording studio, a shuffling, defeated gait with slumped shoulders and downward cast eyes. He forsook breakfast, even as his stomach rumbled and Signe chastised him. Finally, he had agreed to take a plate of pancakes, only to slip them into the trash can when she wasn’t looking.

The recording itself went well enough. He was able to emulate his former enthusiasm, and the sweatshirt Anti had left for him had hidden his scars well enough. He got the footage sent off to Robin, then sat in his studio, wondering how much longer he had. Absentmindedly, he scratched at his hands where the strings had slipped under his skin. He didn’t mind the pain so much, in fact he was beginning to like it; it was the only constant in his life nowadays.

He slept that night, deep and dreamless. When he woke, he started his new routine all over again, dodging Signe’s insistent attempts to get him to eat and focusing solely on his recording. Nothing else was more important than fulfilling Anti’s wishes, after all. It was all he had left in his pitiful life.

The next night, however, did not go as smoothly. He tossed and turned, haunted by his own memories and the twisted creations of his nightmares. Three or four times he jolted awake, his entire body breaking out in a cold sweat. Eventually, he moved to the couch to keep from disturbing Signe. The next nightmare was the worst.

He was back in his prison in the void, cold and shivering, fresh from yet another one of Anti’s sessions. Even though he was wracked with pain, and cold, and damp, he was willing to deal with it if it meant he could avoid being thrown back into the grip of the strings and trapped in an endless cycle of his own worst fears and nightmares. He didn’t think he could handle being stuck there again.

Someone rapped on his cell door, making him jump and dragging him out of his thoughts. He rose to his feet and cautiously peeked out through the bars. Anti never knocked, and the others would never visit him. Who could it be?

“Jack, are you in here?” Jack recognized the voice immediately, and his suspicions were confirmed when a face appeared in the window a second later. A blue surgeon’s cap over scraggly green hair, and a blue surgeon’s mask around his neck, below an unkempt beard. His bright, tired blue eyes fixed on Jack’s dull ones.

“Schneep? What are you doing here?”

“I have come to help,” he said simply, “Now hold on ein minute, and I vill have you out of here.” Schneeplestein disappeared from his view and he heard the doctor rummaging through what must have been a large bag full of tools. Schneep let out an exclamation of triumph a second later, and the sharp rasping of a saw filled the air.

Two hours later, Schneeplestein pried the door from its hinges and set it aside. He stood in the doorway for a minute, gasping for breath and wiping the sweat from his forehead. Jack didn’t move from his spot against the wall, and instead pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned his head against the cold stone. He had been fooled enough times, and he wasn’t about to fall for it again. He closed his eyes.

Schneep’s eyebrows furrowed. “Jack, vhat is vrong buddy? Are you not feeling vell?”

Jack didn’t respond, just pulled his knees tighter against his chest. He shied away when Schneeplestein knelt down beside him and put a hand to his forehead. Schneep withdrew his hand, hurt flashing in his eyes. “It is just me, Schneep. Vhat is vrong?”

“He sent you to torment me some more, didn’t he? You can tell him that I fucking get it. None of you are coming to save me.” Jack turned away from him, eyes fixed on the ground. Schneeplestein recoiled as if he were struck.

“How could you think zhat? Zhe only reason I ever dared to ally myself vith him vas to save you!” he said.

Jack said nothing.

“Jack, please, ve have to get you out of here.” He reached out, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry. All I vanted vas to save you.”

The air in the room seemed to change, suddenly oppressive and terrible, the temperature dropping noticeably. A green light emanated from every crack and crevice, casting the room in its sickly pallor. Jack leaped to his feet, adrenaline pumping as he saw a shape rise up in front of the door, his throat tightening with fear, strangling his voice. An eerie chuckle reverberated off the stone walls.

Schneeplestein whipped around, startled, only to be met with the cold steel of Anti’s knife sinking into his gut. He let out a strangled cry and sank to the floor, batting feebly at Anti as the glitch beamed down at him, delighted with his handiwork.

Jack stared in horror, guilt blossoming in his gut. Schneeplestein had been telling the truth, he had honestly been trying to rescue him. And now…

The doctor lay unmoving on the ground, in the middle of a spreading pool of his own blood, eyes glassy with death. His face was frozen in an expression of utter terror mingled with regret, and if he could still cry, he would have. His unbuttoned lab coat had fluttered out around him as he fell, like the wings of an angel, slowly blooming red. Jack knew it was all his fault, this grisly, horrible scene. If only he had trusted him, if only…if only…

Suddenly, Schneeplestein jerked to his feet, his joints cracking as his limbs moved unnaturally, head jerking from side to side. He turned to face Jack as his limbs twisted, then straightened, an evil glint in his cloudy eyes. The wound in his gut still oozed blood as he moved forward, hands outstretched.

“All your fault. All of zhis is your fault.” A syringe appeared in the doctor’s hand. Grinning, Schneep leaned down, trapping Jack in his corner, preventing escape. He froze when he felt the cold around his neck, warning him against any sort of movement. “Now, now you must sleep…” The needle drifted closer, pierced his skin. His breath hitched as his veins exploded with fire, and then he was drifting away, off to God only knew where.

He screamed hoarsely, barely any sound escaping his throat as he awoke. Fingers immediately caressed his throat, easing the lingering sensation of the dream and reassuring that everything was as it was when he drifted off, that he was still here, still in control, at least for the time being. He did not sleep for the rest of the night. Any attempt to close his eyes yielded the same gruesome images, the same outcomes, the same choices. Instead, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and scratching at his hands until he could feel the warm, sticky sensation of the blood on his arms.

Tags: @nebula-starlight @rainymae523 @farming-chick

#jacksepticeye #jse #jacksepticeye egos #dr schneeplestein #antisepticeye #jacksepticeye fic #jacksepticeye fanfiction #creek's imagines #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: torture #septic egos

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myselfinserts · 4 years

Note

❝ I’m a busy man and I can’t stay long… ❞

Lucienwas joining their group. Aizawa passed Marianne’s physical. Camilla seemed totolerate both. With the exception of the slight tension building between Regiand Étienne (which mostly amounted to ‘You asshole, they’re too hot’, 'I know.Die mad’), things were finally looking up. Ceri even woke up to a brand neweyepatch waiting for him in a box on the kitchen counter that morning.

Thingsfelt good, for the first time in weeks.

Thatis, until he started shopping.

Itwasn’t too noticeable at first. A few glances here, a missed look there. Hethought he was being paranoid. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Butthen he entered the shop with specialty wines, intending on finding the perfectbottle for tonight. He’d headed towards the reds, wanting to find somethinglight yet bold to pair with dinner. He had hoped it had just been hisimagination. Or a ghost.

Well,he was half right. It was a nasty spook. A woman with his face. His hair. Eyes.Everything. And yet, there was no warmth to her. No care. No love. And, judgingby her expression, no time to beat around the bush.

“HelloCeri.”

Sobeat around it he would.

“Mother.”

“It’sbeen a while, dear. You never answered any of my calls.”

Ceriraised an eyebrow. “Funny,” he said. “I could have sworn Iblocked your number.”

“Now don’t be so sour,” Karina chided. “I came all the way outhere to visit you.”

Oh,that was rich. Ceri felt his blood burn as he turned back to the rosé, tryingto remain as composed as possible. “You picked the worst possible time. Ihave a meeting with a client this evening and I need to focus. I’m a busy man and I can’t stay long.”

Karinatilted her head, giving a slight pout. “You’re mad at me.”

“Isn’tit obvious?” He didn’t turn back to look at her. He couldn’t. It was like lookingin a mirror. Or perhaps more accurately, his hand brushing over the eyepatch,it was like looking at a photograph. He couldn’t handle it.

“I know things haven’t been good since the incident, dear. But I want to try to make amends.”

Ceri gripped the handle of the bottle tightly. “Make…amends?” He set it back down before a nasty thought could worm its way into his mind. “Mother, there is nothing you can say or do that’ll ever make that a possibility.”

“Never say never, Ceri.”

“Never ever in the future history of forever.”

“That’s not very mature.”

“Stop mimicking me.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Finally, something we agree on.”

Karina’s face went red. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a large manila envelope, shoving it into his hands. “Here,” she spat. “Since speaking to you is clearly a waste of time. I’ll just come by the office when you’re not ‘busy’.”

Ceri couldn’t help the smirk crossing his face. “Oh trust me when I say that’s not gonna go over well at all with the rest of the troupe. You know dad and papa will probably be stopping by this week. And it’ll be a miracle the doctor doesn’t lock you in a bubble.”

“Just be sure to look over everything in there before I come by.”

“Don’t come by.”

“See you soon.”

Karina stormed away, leaving Ceri alone with the wine. He looked down at the envelope, a sense of unease gripping his bones. He knew he’d have to look eventually. But he didn’t want to. He knew exactly what was in that envelope.

Ceri slipped it into his cart and continued shopping, eventually grabbing a few bottles to choose from and heading back to the van. The drive back to the theater was the slowest ride he’d ever taken.

The envelope waited in the passenger seat the entire way there.

He pulled up to the back entrance, grabbing the envelope and hurrying inside. His throat was tightening, eyes were burning. He could feel every scar begin to tingle and tremble. As he headed for his office, Ceri spotted the others. Marianne was dressed well, but still ready to perform her duties as a doctor. Chris and Sam were well kept, of course, and Étienne…

God, seeing him made Ceri want to cry.

“Hey Ceri, is everything ready for-” Marianne stopped. “What’s wrong? You look-”

“Everyone go wait in the car,” he said. “I’ll be back in a bit. I just need a minute.”

Without another word, he went into his office and threw the envelope on the desk. He tried to calm himself, taking as deep a breath as possible. He turned on the speakers, attempting to drown out any potential tears with music. Ceri paced around the room, tugging at his hair and trying hard not to run out of there. To run, and run, and never look back.

It always happened after seeing his mother. This was always the end result.

He didn’t even notice when Étienne came in.

“Ceri, what happened?” He reached out, hands grasping Ceri’s shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. “What’s going on?”

Ceri was shaking. He couldn’t even look at Étienne. “I…I ran into my mother while shopping. She said she’d be stopping by here sometime.” He looked over his shoulder at the desk. “She gave me that.”

Étienne glanced at the desk, spotting the envelope. “What’s in it?”

“Knowing her…it’s probably a list of potential dance partners, along with a USB of their skills on tape, and probably some of my old competition videos. Maybe a few match making files along with it.” He swallowed, trying to lessen the tightness on his throat. “I just want her gone.”

“I’ll have Sam draw up a restraining order.” Étienne lightly tilted his chin up, smiling softly. “Do you still want to do the dinner tonight? Or would you rather wait?”

Ceri shook his head. “No, we can’t put it off. We already wasted too much time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I just…I need a minute to recompose.” He could feel his body already starting to relax as a hand caressed his face. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but Étienne didn’t press him further on it. “Okay. Then how about after dinner, you and I have a little dance session of our own? Just the two of us. I think it’d be a good way to clear your head.”

Ceri smiled, leaning into the touch. “I’d like that…I’d like that very, very much.”

“Okay.” He took one last look at the envelope. “Do you want me to keep that in my safe for now? Or should I dispose of it entirely?”

“…if it’s not too much trouble, the safe would be alright. I might want to look at my videos later. But only if it’s no trouble.”

“Not at all.” He leaned in close, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll take care of it. You take all the time you need. I’ll meet you in the car.”

Ceri nodded, his ears burning. “…thank you, Étienne.”

Étienne pulled away and took the envelope out of the office, closing the door behind him. Ceri waited ten seconds before leaning against the desk, burying his face in his hands as he tried to steady himself. He wasn’t on edge just because of his mother now.

He wanted so badly to turn that forehead touch into something more.

“Dammit.”

#myselfinserts #mybnhaocs #friends ocs #class of aus: ballet au #this was fun #we're having fun here #some slight angst with a side of soft #Anonymous

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souslejaune · 5 years

Text

Folio 2: Listen to All my Words

“Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me” – Job 42:3 i

The changes came slowly. I was the same incurably curious boy, same over-loud voice, same stamping laugh, but I felt a shadow over me.

It started with a stabbing pain in my chest the night after GeeMaa spoke to me in the kitchen, a woodpecker drilling into the forest of my being. I woke up, clutching my left breast and screaming. My father burst into the room; he arrived in his half-closed dressing gown, his penis dangling in the pale light streaming in from the corridor. My mother trailed in after him, a tie-and-dye cloth wrapped expertly around her chest. She fixed the belt on my father’s gown for him. Naana was already by my side, holding my hand, wide-eyed and trembling.

“What’s wrong?” My father’s voice was deeper than it was during the day.

“I’ve had a heart attack.”

“Ebo,” he glanced at my mother, who had taken Naana’s place beside me and put my head in her lap, “you can’t have a heart attack. You’re ten…”

“What happened?”

Everyone turned. GeeMaa stood at the door in a faded green and orange cloth tied round her body and knotted behind her neck. One of her arms was rested against the doorframe. The now-flaccid flesh from her triceps was made sharp again by the light in the corridor behind her.

My father responded. “Ma, he said he’s had a heart attack, but…”

“It’s OK, Kojo.” She waved my mother and father towards the door, but my mother didn’t move. Her grip on me tightened.

“Sarah, I’ve seen this before. I’ll look after him.”

My mother caressed my forehead. My father stopped near GeeMaa and said my mother’s name softly.

“Sarah…”

I felt her look up, heard her inhale.

“Sarah, she’s a nurse.”

My mother exhaled the breath she had taken, smoothed my cheek with the back of her hand and eased my head back onto my pillow. I still had a hand on my chest but I could no longer feel any pain. I watched my father put his arm around my mother’s waist and rub her side like a good luck charm as they went back to their room.

GeeMaa turned to my sister. “Naana, please get me some hot water from the kitchen.”

“Yes, GeeMaa.”

I shifted to lie on my side and looked up at GeeMaa.

She leaned over, rubbed my back and started talking. “Oh, mi bi, did it hurt badly?”

I nodded.

She sat where my mother had been and looked around the room. Nobody had thought of turning on the light so the room was in half-darkness. The ceiling fan hovered like a bored watchman. My mounted spider was a stain on the wall.

GeeMaa started humming then stopped. “Sometimes you can stand in a storm but it won’t rain until you notice the clouds.”

I shifted my head to peer at her. My eyelids felt like clay.

GeeMaa made another statement. “Sometimes you make a new friend and then begin to run into them everywhere you go.”

I latched onto the familiarity of this new observation. “Yes, that’s how it was with Ato Table. After I played football with him for the first time I started seeing him at the plantain seller’s and Auntie Aba’s, even on his way to school. Then I found out we lived on the same road.” I paused. “GeeMaa?”

“Hmm?”

“GeeMaa, what’s wrong with me?” I put my right hand on my left breast. My mother had warned me several times about leaving the fan on and not wearing a shirt, but I wasn't wearing one. GeeMaa took my hand away and put hers there. I heard the kettle's whistle in the kitchen.

“There’s nothing wrong with you; your uncle Narteh had this before he started working, then it stopped.”

I peered into the shimmer of GeeMaa’s pale brown eyes, confused. “Who is Uncle Narteh?”

“One of my cousins’ sons. In the mountains.” She sighed and held my face, her fingers below my chin. “Did it hurt badly, mi bi?”

“Yes, GeeMaa.”

“Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have told you…”

Naana arrived with a bucket of hot water. GeeMaa didn’t speak after my sister returned. Naana stood by the blue plastic bucket, framed by the corridor's rectangled glow, until GeeMaa waved her to her bed. She wrapped her covers around her and watched us. A grating sound cut the silence as GeeMaa pulled the bucket closer. She reached into its depths, with her back turned to me, until her elbows were covered. She stayed hunched over the heat for a while without flinching, then took her hands out and turned me onto my front. Naana sneezed.

GeeMaa turned to her. “Naana, lie down. You’ll catch a cold sitting like that under the fan.”

Naana burrowed into her bed and GeeMaa placed her hand on my back. Under the coaxing of GeeMaa’s hot palms I hovered on the borders of sleep. She massaged the area between my shoulder blades slow and hard, so that, although it was comforting, it was impossible to fall asleep. She hummed as she briefly placed her hands back in the bucket to warm them, then kneaded my lower back and the area of my back directly behind my left breast. Her arms were heavy, her hands nimble. A floating image of my heart appeared beneath my eyelids and I drifted into a mild slumber. I saw a self-lucent ferruginous diamond of pain eject from my heart in slow motion and parachute its way down. I followed it by flying with my mind until I got caught in a tree awash with webs and red ants. I started screaming.

GeeMaa slapped my back, waking me. She put her finger to her lips and inclined her head towards Naana who was curled up like a chameleon’s tail, snoring softly. GeeMaa turned me onto my back again and put her hands in the blue bucket. I expected the water to be cold, but when she laid her hands on my chest they were hot. I shrank into the mattress in surprise. GeeMaa shook her head and smiled. Her teeth shone. In the murkiness of the room the glow from her ivory hair looked like it was suspended in air. Her eyes were drugged fireflies. Outside, an owl hooted and I tuned into a wealth of nightlife I had never explored: the muted beats of dogs prowling the street seeking challenge, chickens sleeping beneath bushes and on low branches, cockroaches scouring kitchens, trees swaying, worms and snakes sliding across the earth, tides in, fishermen out to sea. Everything was alive and vital, assaulting my ears and skin. I felt like I was dreaming again, but GeeMaa was right there in front of me holding my eyes with hers. She removed her hands from my chest, and the night turned quiet again.

She stood up, held out her arms, then reached across with her left hand to pinch the flesh under her right arm.

My right arm jerked and I winced in pain. I looked at GeeMaa, puzzled.

She approached my bed again, leaned over, hugged me and whispered. “Remember, your father is my son; he is also your mother's husband.”

I frowned, uncomprehending.

“Tomorrow, when you go to pass water there’ll be some blood. Don’t worry.” She straightened up and left.

I woke up disoriented and hungry. Sunlight had invaded my room from the windows on the side wall and through the open door. For a while I looked around me, seeing nothing. Eventually, the pale blue expanse of wall above Naana’s bed gained definition. The periodic table she had stuck on it when she moved in became a clear block with individual squares. Naana’s bed looked as though a pack of dogs had ran through it. I heard her voice from the kitchen, singing, If you leave me I go die oh, in harmony with GeeMaa, trying to drown out my father’s Sunday jazz record, which was all horns, bass, keys and drums. I knew without moving that this was not one of the Sundays when we went to church.

On church Sundays, my mother shook sleep out of us with firm hands and hounded us with toothbrushes and spoons. We brushed our teeth with the enthusiasm of zombies and sat at table to eat our rice or maize porridge with two thick slices of sugar bread. We rushed to the bathroom – Naana first because she spent more time picking clothes – then got dressed and piled into the car. By 7.40 am the Datsun was on the road, streaking a navy blue gleam across the streets of Accra to Adabraka, where the church was. There was no banter, no cross-house battles. There was no music – for the tuneless singing of the Methodist old ladies could not be called music – and no dancing.

I preferred the no-church Sundays, when my father got up early to clean the inside of his car and then went to turn on his jazz. Head bopping, he jived to the kitchen to make freshly squeezed orange juice for my mother who emerged on cue, waved good morning to my father, then went to the toilet to urinate. She returned to hug him, jive with him to the living room where he handed her the juice and sat beside her with his eyes closed. Then GeeMaa, Naana and I woke up and the music battles began.

Of course, it wasn’t always like that. Sometimes my misdeeds were uncovered. Like the time when my father decided to have a brandy while listening to jazz and found the bottle’s contents to be lower than his last mark. That Sunday I got a resounding beating from a father who claimed he was doing the Lord’s work for him.

But this Sunday was fine. I could tell by the intensity of the sun that it was about 10 am, and no one seemed rushed. I stretched and swung my legs out of the bed. I reached for the yellow T-shirt I had dumped on the little table between Naana’s bed and mine and headed for the living room. I didn’t wear the T-shirt; I just held it.

The living room was small. A black three-seater cane settee and two small matching armchairs on a woven raffia carpet. My father’s record player was to the right of the door by a bookcase and a drinks cabinet. The armchairs faced the door and there were three sheepskin cushions that lay at random on the floor beside them. The settee was to the left. That’s where my parents sat, holding hands in stillness.

“Morning Dad, morning Mum.”

“Morning Son.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, Mum, GeeMaa gave me a massage. I feel fine now.”

“Your eyes are red again.”

“I’m OK. I feel fine.”

My father hadn’t opened his eyes. A Yusuf Lateef sleeve lay on a coffee table beside him. I stood for a moment as a sign of respect; so he wouldn’t think I didn’t appreciate his music. But I was famished so I couldn’t hold on for long. He spoke as I turned to go, his eyes still closed.

“So, no more heart attacks?”

I smiled and kept walking. I heard him chuckling as I went. My mother slapped his arm. He turned the music up as Naana and GeeMaa broke into a new song.

I headed outside, towards the orange tree, where I offloaded the rose urine GeeMaa had warned me about. I stood watching the pool gather at my feet wondering what it all meant.

—–

continued >> here <<… | start from beginning? | current projects: The City Will Love You and a collection of poems, The Geez

#niiayikweiparkes #fiction #short fiction #novel series #novel #series

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justwritingscibbles · 7 years

Text

Just a Little Evil

Here’s an Anti fic! So this is a sort of sequel to Just a little Anger and also I’m throwing in another request because it also has something to do with this topic! Also, I sorta forgot that I was planning to do a part 2. Sorry! Hope you guys enjoy!

Fic Requests:

- “Hey! Can we like maybe get a part 2 to just a little anger where the reader goes fully dark. Thank you for all that you do! You are wonderful”

-“It was like an Anti were him and the reader had been in a relationship for a long time but this entity like Anti tries to overcome the reader and one day is successful. At first it's just trying to be the reader but it quickly becomes fascinated with Anti as as soon as he realise it isn't her it kinda toys with him and her body.”

P.S: (I sorta go off the requests again, sorry. I tried to keep it close.)

The Entity’s PO: The little meat-sack was easy to possess. It only took a few weeks, easing into her mind, worming my essence into her bloodstream. So foolish. Oblivious. She was so plain too. Her lifestyle was simple to replicate and her friends were just as moronic as the girl. An easy home with a simple host. You might as well serve them on a silver platter. But, I had to wait. Be patient and cover my tracks. Because the girl, even how mundane she was, had acquired the affections of one such as me. He was different than the other’s I had encountered. He was unaware of my presence and he treated the meat-sack with as much respect and adoration as he did himself. Anti, was what the girl called him. And he was marvelous. An odd creature, I’d purr to myself as the girl slept beside him. How does such a tedious creature keep a God under its thumb? The power that raged inside the other entity was almost blinding to witness. He used it for the human’s entertainment, leisure and even use it during their intimate moments. It made me jealous, angry. Such magnificent power should not go to waste on something that evolved from an ape. As my power grew, it became harder to keep control of her emotions. Too much anger and she’d lose it. My power, mixing with the chemicals in her brain, fired her up like a pistol. And on one unfortunate day, I had allowed her rage to slip my grasp, and she pummeled another human’s face. The girl was fired and she returned home with a storm in her wake. But not all had ended badly. The one called Anti had enjoyed our little outburst. I slipped into the glove of the girl’s mind as he started on her. The girl no longer knew the difference between me and her own mind. And the creature between our legs was too occupied to see our eyes glow purple. When he was done, I was exhausted. The strain to keep my own pleasures under control was enough to render me powerless. But I managed to swap a few words with this, Anti, before allowing the girl to gain control again. “I should hurt people more often,” The girl and I joked as the God kissed us. “You might just break my heart if you turn dark,” Anti purred. “You’ll get more if you do.” Oh, I wanted more.

Your and Anti’s PO: The grocery store wasn’t very busy today, you noticed absently. Which was nice because you didn’t really feel like being around people. Even ones you’d never see again. Anti trailed along behind you as you shopped. He whined about the time it was taking to get the ingredients for dinner. Saying it would be quicker to get pizza. “We had pizza last night,” You said with a chuckle. “Yeah, and it was good!” Anti replied like a child. “Come on. I’m booorred, I wanna go home.” “You didn’t have to come,” You pointed out. You turned down into an empty aisle, stalling by the food that was on your list. Anti didn’t reply. His eyes followed you as you went from aisle to aisle. Something had been nagging him ever since the day you were fired. You were grumpier, more likely to blow up at a little prank than laugh it off and playfully whack him with your hand. Something was off. And until he knew what, he wasn’t letting you leave his sight.

Above, the lights of the grocery store flickered wildly and the ambiance music that was playing, jumped tracks, slowed down and then died with a pop. You turned to Anti, “Playing around with the electronics won’t get me to hustle any faster.” “That wasn’t me,” Anti said, confused. He looked up at the ceiling. “For once someone else might be fucking around with the power.” Anti’s attention snapped back to you as you swayed. You groaned, holding your head. “Anti...” You reached out to him and he caught you as you fell. “Hey, babe, (Y/N)!” He cradled you against him. His eyes searching your face as you grimaced in pain. “What’s wrong? Can you hear me?” Your head felt like it was going to explode. White hot nails scraped the insides of your skull and you whimpered as a pressure began to build behind your eyes. “My...My head...” You managed to say. “It hurts really bad.” Anti slid his other arm under your legs, lifting you up bridal style and hurrying towards the toilet sign. He rushed into the restrooms, locking the door behind him and lying you on the bench by the sinks. “Talk to me,” He demanded, leaning over you. “How does it hurt? Are you hearing voices? (Y/N), answer me!” Your tongue felt heavy and Anti’s voice sounded distant. You were slipping into darkness, falling into a sense of warmth and comfort. Like a pillow or a cloud. “No, no, no!” Anti cupped your face in his hands. “(Y/N), (Y/N) don’t let it take you. I know it feels nice, but you have to fight it. Stay with me. Listen to my voice. Stay with me, goddammit!”

A high-pitched chuckled rippled out of you. Your eyes opened, the world danced in multiple shades of violet. You groaned, but no sound came from your lips. What was happening? Anti’s eyes flared with green fire and his lips curled in a vicious snarl. “Who are you?” He asked. “Give her back!” Anti, it’s me! You tried to say. But again, no voice sounded your words. Only another siren like laugh. “Oh, honey, you have no idea how good it feels to have control of this body again.” Your voice sang. Your arms stretched above you and you heard a few joints crack as your body twisted lazily. “I’ll give you five seconds to get out of her,” Anti growled. His expression was frightening. Anti...what was going on?

Entity’s PO: I swung my legs over the side of the bench, sitting upright as Anti stepped back. The feral gaze was a real turn on. “What? Don’t feel like playing?” I pouted. I lifted my leg, gently stroking the man’s groin with the toes of my shoe. “You were so frisky last time I was out.” Anti slapped my foot away, marching forward and gripping my throat with his hand. “Let. Her. Go.” He demanded through clenched teeth. “Aww, boo-hoo.” I said testily. “Your little pet is gone. Get over it. I can be just as good, no better, than this little rodent.” Anti squeezed my throat, forcing my head back against the mirror with a painful crack! “I won’t ask again, cockroach.” Anti hissed. “Oh? And what will you do?” I cooed teasingly. “If you hurt me, you hurt your little meat-sack. I know she likes a little pain in bed, but, how will she cope with her heart being torn from her chest?” Anti squeezed tighter and I laughed. Gasping slightly. “Go on, break my neck.” I dared him. “Then neither of us can have her.” My lungs began to burn, and just before the black dots consumed my vision, the man released me with a infuriated grunt. I laughed, rubbing my neck as I breathed in lovely air. “See, you can be nice. I’ve seen the way you treat this little porcelain doll. Why can’t we share?” “Because she isn’t yours!” Anti snapped, green eyes flashing. “She isn’t someone that-” “That what?” I barked, “That should have an entity inside her? You’re selfish, Antisepticeye. We need hosts to survive and I’ve found one that can finally hold me, and here you are trying to get rid of me.” Anti turned away, his fists clenched and the veins in his neck pulsing under his skin. I stood from the bench, crossing the room to glide my hands over his back. “I can be her for you,” I said with her voice. “I can offer you more than she ever could. I can survive harsh treatment, last longer between the sheets. Come on Anti, you know you’d prefer a entity to a pathetic human.” The lights overhead fizzled, flickering as Anti turned to me. The whites of his eyes had darkened and the green was now bright enough to outshine hell-fire. “Do not use her voice,” Anti snarled. “Don’t you dare use those words with her tone.” I laughed and stepped back, “You actually care for this bag of blood?” I asked, appalled. Insulted. I slammed my fist into the mirror, shattering the glass and picking up a large shard. Anti’s eyes glowed even more as I rested the jagged edges against the my stomach. “Your little lamb couldn’t survive this,” I said, teasingly sliding the glass across the material of my shirt. “I could. I can see that blood-lust in you. You can take it out on me, I can heal. I can pleasure you and still survive.” “Don’t...” Anti said, his voice softer than before. The shard paused just above my folds, the point digging into the pants I was wearing. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to get a reaction from the man in front of me.

“What was that?” I asked, grinning. “Don’t....” He breathed in, calming himself. “Don’t hurt her.” “Aww, isn’t that sweet,” I chuckled. “Are you begging for the girl’s life?” Anti jerked forward when I dug the shard a little into my skin. Crimson dotted the material, but I held it there, not going any deeper. “Beg for me, Anti,” I said. “Come on, beg for this rodent’s life.” Anti was breathing heavily. His eyes darting between the glass and my gaze. “Please...” He said. “Don’t hurt her. Please.” A laugh bubbled from my chest, “Oh, wow. I actually didn’t think you’d do that.” “Just drop the glass and we’ll talk,” Anti suggested. “I won’t do anything and you won’t harm her.” I hummed as I thought about it. Swaying my hips slightly as I moved the tip across my stomach again. “No, I think I’ll kill you.” I lunged at the other entity. His arm came up just in time to block the attack. The shard sliced his arm, spilling red blood over the floor. He cried out and danced back, batting another swipe away from his chest. Again and again, I struck. The glass whistling with my movements. He countered and dodged, but his blows never landed hard enough to hurt me. Nudge me back perhaps, but they were like a flick to the arm. “Stop holding back!” I hissed. “Fight me!” Anti’s left arm rose up to meet my weapon. The shard sliced through his shirt, cutting deep into his shoulder. But his other arm snaked around my throat, spinning me around trapping me against him. “(Y/N), I know you can hear me,” He said into my ear. “Please, fight it. You can do it. Please, come back to me.” “Get off me!” I screamed. “She’s gone! I consumed her, we’re one person now.” “No,” Anti shook his head. “That’s not how we work. We might take over a body, but the host is still there. Hidden in a dark corner. (Y/N) just fight it. She isn’t you. You’re better than she is.” “Stop it!” I yelled, flaying against him. “I won’t go back!” Anti gripped me tighter, his head nuzzling into my neck. “Come back to me,” He pleaded. I went to scream again, but my voice only came out as a whimper. No! No! My body relaxed, falling into Anti’s embrace as we both slid to the ground.

You opened your eyes, your head pounding painfully. “(Y/N)?” Anti asked, his voice just above a whisper. “A-Anti, what...what happened?” Your body felt heavy and something warm was spreading against your arms. “Anti, you’re hurt!” Anti chuckled. Relief washing through him as he hugged you against him. “It’s ok now.” He said into your shoulder. “You’re ok.” “Anti, what-” “I’ll tell you later,” Anti assured you. He turned you in his arms, his hand cupping your face as he gazed into your eyes. “Just...Just stay here for a moment, please.” You nodded, pushing back your confusion. He sighed and rested his forehead against yours. His eyes closed and he pecked your lips. “I won’t let her take you again,” He promised. You weren’t sure what he was talking about. But you nodded, taking his weary form into your arms.

#antisepticeye x reader #reader insert #youtuber x reader #Antisepticeye

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croptopshiro · 7 years

Text

Care to Dance?

A fic for the friendo: @misterpoofofficial Based on their Voltron planet au! He hadn't felt this pathetic in a long time. Shiro sat miserably in his room, reevaluating himself and all of his life choices. The prince had excelled in combat, diplomacy, and leadership. He was placed amongst some of the highest scholars in his kingdom, and was the rightful heir to the Moon's throne. Yet, he couldn't learn a simple dance. Shiro groaned in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, pulling the white and black locks back. He had seen so many of the other nobles do it with ease before, so why did he struggle with this? So many had praised his fighting style as a fluid and graceful dance, but the real thing was much harder. He got up and readied himself for the worst, heading over to the music player to again review the same annoying waltz. By now, he was far too familiar with the song, and so were his servants; they winced in sympathy as they heard the thuds and crashes from inside his room, punctuating the music with another embarrassing fall. ----------- Keith had arrived to the Moon Kingdom in secret, wanting to spring a surprise visit on his (bride) husband to be. He swept in with his robes of shimmering red and gold, the brightness and warmth of his presence lighting up the cold marble halls of the moon palace. The young prince was delighted at the prospect of seeing Shiro, but his mood was soured when several servants and nobility came up to him, engaging in small pleasantries. He returned the greetings dismissively, the only time he showed any interest was when he asked of Shiro's whereabouts. Strangely, the small crowd that had gathered around him all paled simultaneously and glanced at each other in nervousness. What could they possibly say? That the prince was busy trying to not bust his skull on the floor? That his majesty wasn't tripping over his own coattails in an attempt to master the simplest of dances? No! They were his majesty's most loyal, and they would protect whatever dignity they could! One was pushed in the direction of Shiro's chambers, scampering off to warn him of Keith's arrival, while the others desperately tried to stall for time. The prince of the sun raised an eyebrow and his violet eyes darkened with suspicion as he parted the crowd and began to follow the servant to Shiro. "S-Sir! P-Prince Keith of the... Sun Kingdom! Has... Arrived! Oh goodness..." It was hard to tell if the last exclamation was out of exhaustion from running, or a gasp of horror at the state of the crown prince of the moon. He was in a disheveled and hopeless state, his circlet crooked and a little tangled in his white locks, his fine black robes were a bit wrinkled, and some scuff marks on the floor were clear evidence of where he had slipped. Shiro looked up in horror at the news, but he nearly froze in shock when he saw Keith towering behind the exhausted messenger. The prince gently shooed the servant away and stepped forward, clearly upset. "Shiro, your court and staff were stalling me from getting to you. What is the meaning of-- What the quiznak happened to you?" The moon prince blushed, the fine particles of stardust in his hair already beginning to glow in the dimmed lights of his room. Shiro straightened up, quickly readjusting his circlet before throwing his betrothed a nervous smile. "Would you believe me if I said I had just slain a mighty invisible beast? His body lies before you." It was a weak joke, and his voice cracked in the middle of the delivery, only adding to his self deprecating mood. Keith snorted, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "Yes yes, I commend you for your act of bravery. But did you have to battle him to that distasteful tune? It's hardly fit for a dance, forget using it for a battle." His voice was laced with sarcasm; one slender finger pointed in the direction of the music player, still spouting its repetitive waltz. Shiro couldn't help but duck his head and hide his face in his hands at this. He felt ridiculous, and much too ashamed to tell the truth. He was supposed to be the leader of the Moon Kingdom for heaven's sake! He was supposed to be perfect in every way possible. To admit to his betrothed and his best friend that he was an absolute mess on the dance floor was embarrassing. To admit that he wasn't perfect was too much shame to bear. With this thought, the stardust dimmed suddenly, the prince feeling less and less flustered, and more like he'd rather hide away for the rest of his life. Inside of himself, some tiny voice began to scream, freezing him to the spot. It screamed of his failure to not just master something so simple as a dance, but of his failure to live up to the high standards he had been raised with. His failure to become a carbon copy of the pristine leader that his predecessor was. His failure, his failure his failure his fail-- ------------- It became rather concerning when Shiro still hadn't responded after several moments of concealing his face, so Keith quietly stepped over to the music player and stopped the music. He then walked over to the other prince and gently pried his hands away, kissing him on the cheek softly. It wasn't hard to sense the waves of panicked anxiety washing over Shiro, but Keith's bond with him only made it more obvious. "You don't need to feel so afraid around me," the prince of the sun whispered tenderly, rubbing gentle circles into the hands he held, one hand of flesh and blood and the other of cold metal. "I know you're not perfect, but you're trying your best. It's alright, Takashi." Shiro stiffened at the more intimate use of his name but only nodded numbly in response. Keith sighed, knowing he wasn't convinced. He chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to think of what to do. He eyed the music player as a thought wormed his way into his mind. The violet eyed prince let go of the other's hands, and walked back to the instrument. This time, he selected a much sweeter waltz number filled with uplifting strings and the bright keys of a piano. Walking back to his betrothed, Keith took Shiro's hands and positioned them, with one on his shoulder and the other outstretched, cradled delicately in Keith's own. The moon prince couldn't help but blink inquisitively at this, and cocked his head. Keith could hardly contain his smile, the other was just far too cute. He spoke in a soft voice that could barely be heard above the flowing tune. "I'll lead this time. You wanted to learn, didn't you? Just relax and follow me, okay? Let me help you Takashi. I'll be right here to guide you." The stardust flared back to life just as a pink blush painted itself onto his cheeks. The shrill voice inside didn't have time to object and deny this show of affection as Shiro was swept off into a waltz, his eyes downcast as he tried not to step on his partner's toes. It was a soft snort that made his head snap to attention and redirect his eyes to Keith. "Just let me and the music move you. If you loosen up and listen to the rhythm, this won't be so hard. Form a box with your feet, and move across the room. See?" The action was demonstrated, and the prince finally caught on. The music and the hypnotic movements of the dance were finally beginning to melt Shiro, putting the softest of smiles onto his lips. The prince of the sun noticed the slight change and smiled as well but said nothing, choosing to instead continue gliding across the floor with his partner. ------------ He was finally getting into this! Now the smooth patterns felt much more natural, and it actually began to feel fun! He was however disappointed when he heard the music begin to swell, announcing the approaching end of the song. But it turned out that Keith had one last surprise for him, as he was determined to make this last for as long as he could. Keith swept him into a dip, cradling Shiro's waist in a strong embrace as he held him close. Just as the sweet notes began to fade, Keith leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Shiro felt a little surprised at the sudden motion, but was more than pleased. He had to stifle the little giggle that threatened to escape his throat and instead kissed back, wrapping his arms around Keith securely. When they pulled away and righted themselves, both a little breathless and both painted with a faint blush, Shiro couldn't help but finally laugh. "You cheeky bastard. Of course you'd pull a move like that." The sound of his laugh was what made Keith break into his signature grin, and he couldn't help but tease back. "Anything for my moon princess~" Shiro almost choked at this, and Keith laughed back. The evening devolved into teasing and little affections, each prince just enjoying the other's company. From much farther away, the moon and sun seemed to shine just a little brighter that night.

#thanks for beta reading it chief #I know you saw it already but I wanted to post #sheith fic #planet au #fan fic #voltron #Shiro #keith #sheith #misterpoofofficial

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