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littlefreya · 4 years

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Penny Dreadful

Summary: Sherlock is cold, troubled and upset, his mind is fixed on cracking an unsolved murder. It’s the worst time to disturb him. But his hot-blooded little succubus wants to drag him into sin.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (First-person POV)

Word count: 2.5K

Warning: 18+, smut, teasing, bratty behaviour, ass-smacking with a cane, slight cane play, primal play, unprotected rough sex, biting, slight size kink, MaleDom, drug use. Lots of curly hair descriptions.

A/N: Not canon to books Sherlock, obviously, but seeing the photos and teaser Henry as Sherlock just sets up the vibe. So I had to. Many thanks to my beta @agniavateira !! Sorry for the ugly cover art :D.

Title: Penny Dreadful

Sherlock’s study was a bleak, musky chamber deprived of heat, notwithstanding the many candles that burnt at every corner. Perhaps it was the pristine heaps of snow that piled on the ledge of the window, or maybe it was his sullen mood that gave the room a sense of icy wilderness.

Fumes rose from his mouth, vaping into the air. The tawny light kissed his thick mane of luscious, chocolate curls while he stood at the fore of his desk and leered at some parchments that troubled his brilliant mind for whatever reason.

Fist seizing the golden tip of his cane, his thumb stroked the engravings that embellished the metal. Cases that he couldn’t crack often left him frustrated to the point of madness. Those wicked, sly obsessions made him even more irresistible.

My nails bit into the wooden doorframe. Consumed by yearning, a blaze licked up my soul with its monstrous tongue. I often wondered how something so pure as love could be dangerous, to which Sherlock would reply,

“Love is the greatest villain of them all.”

Unlike him, I didn’t care for evil.

The detective unclipped the small chain he kept fastened to his vest and opened the silver locket, gathering a wisp of white powder on the tip of his pinky finger and pressed it to his nostrils. A small grunt escaped him, his eyes turning glassy. The “fairy dust” tended to sharpen his perception and elevate his stamina.

I dropped to my knees at his sight, crawling on the floor. The black silks of my dress made a brushing noise as it dragged on the Persian carpet; my breasts peeked as my corset shifted with every move. Sherlock often said we must imagine ourselves as animals once we let desire play our strings.

Accepting my inner wildness, tonight I was a cougar stalking her prey.

By nature, his senses were sharp as blades, though the substance that streamed through his veins made a more heightened grip of the reality that surrounded him. He noticed and yet ignored me, letting his hot-blooded harlot crave for his attention.

If I was to be the feline predator, Sherlock was the hunter who pursued me for sport. An unfair game, yet nevertheless my favourite.

Bathing in my own little fountain of mischief, I allowed my fingers to sneak toward his cane, brushing up and down the mahogany in slow, languid motion. My slender digits licked along the shaft and my bosom followed, pressing against the hardwood. I dragged myself up slightly to glimpse at my master from below: my Sherlock, always a sight for a famished girl; a colossus, intimidating, and breathtaking. Like a moth to a flame, I inched closer dazed by the light, wanting to bask in its radiance.

The muscle in his cheek tensed, thick brows furrowing. A little squared wrinkle appeared above the bridge of his nose as he brushed through his dark locks with agitation.

“What ills that glorious mind of yours?” I hummed, playful fingertips climbing further up at the length of his cane.

“Something I can’t grasp,” he spat, not giving me the time of day. But I knew he noticed every detail of my wanton behaviour, it was evident by the way his breath swiftly became heavier. Sherlock might have solved crimes by profession, but all women were natural detectives; evolution granted us with a definite survival instinct, learning to read men between the shadows.

“You can possess me,” I offered, fingers scraping over his thumb as it pressed onto the cane’s golden tip. My voice dropped to a whisper while my hand left the cane in favour of his thigh. The muscle flexed and twitched under my sinful touch, the fabric of his breeches stretched as his cock grew with its natural need to fulfil the wet, convulsing void in me.

“You’re distracting me,” he warned, voice low and stern. His lashes hardly even fluttered to my direction.

Every delicate little hair stood up at the sound of alarm yet instead, I inhaled the soot of peril, allowing my hand to travel further and meet his hungry girth. It rose to my touch with gratitude, flinching even harder at the clutch of my claws. The flavour of desire was honey and salt on the tip of my tongue.

The low animalistic vibration of his voice wavered through his solid form. I felt it shudder all the way down to his swelling cock. A cautious man, Sherlock was measured and forbearing to a point that made me wonder if he even liked women at all before we fell into the vicious pit of decadence and violent delights.

It was the contrary that was true: Sherlock loved women very much, his desires were simply… of a certain quality.

His groin was warm and firm against my cheek. The crystalline-blue glare finally graced me with a sight so brooding my bones clattered.

“Later, I need to work.” By the drop of his voice, I knew there won’t be a third warning.

“Later, Later…” I taunted, rolling my chin over his aching need. “All work and no play…”

The gasp that pushed out of my lungs nearly whisked the candles off as Sherlock hauled me up by his hand and bent me over the desk.

“Should I teach you how to respect my time?” He snarled, throwing the skirts of my dress over my head like a cape of the midnight sky. Stars collapsed under my skin at the sensation of his touch exploring the curve of my bare ass. Talons ruptured the tiny blood vessels, squeezing with the affirmation of his ownership.

“No undergarments?” Sherlock growled dangerously while his thumb brushed over my silken entrance, toying with the rich elixir and smearing it further down my anticipating petals. I answered with a deep moan, stretching on this desk with a succumbing plea.

“You came here aimed at disturbing me while I work.”

Settling onto the surface of the desk, I reached forth one arm lazily and chuckled. “You are a great detective, I… oh!”

Something cold and solid caressed my dripping lips, driving between them in slow, calculated strokes. Throwing my head over my shoulder, I noticed Sherlock holding his cane against my sacred cove, staring at it as if I was yet another piece of evidence to be explored. The golden arched-tip pushed-slightly between my petals and entered just enough to make me hiss. For a mere second I wondered if he was going to fuck me using nothing but his cane.

“Look away; this is going to hurt.”

I hardly had time to protest when the first smack hit the pillow of my cheek. A wheeze of disgrace shot from my throat, husky and embarrassing, but not as degrading as the sting the metal left at my burning backside.

“Bad girl,” Sherlock ticked his tongue and lifted the cane midway in the air, a flare of noxious desire bursting in his pale-blue orbs. This time I turned away and shut my eyes, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned dead-white. If only it did anything to dull the pain, the sting was even more prominent, shooting all the way up to my spine where it coiled and forced a strident yip from my clamped lips.

Yet the throb in my cunt was unmissable.

Sherlock knew very well that the hurt allied with pleasure, enhancing it even, like his powdery magic dust.

Another smack and my nails scratched at the wood. Like a sinner nun indulging her own beating, I rode the waves of pain as they broke onto shores abundant with pleasure. There were hidden cracks in our public figure, the place where I burnt and Sherlock ascended as we pried our claws into mortal deadly sins. My senses rose to conflict with every smack and Sherlock took joy in every involuntary squirm of my body.

Tongue pressed between his lips, he hummed as he admired his handiwork, painting my ass in obscene hues of violence. “Had enough? Or want to see which will break first, the rod or your arrogance?” Sherlock chided and pinched my sore cheek to further increase the pain.

Embers whispered beneath my flesh, my legs jolted from the intense beating and by god, the trickle of my juices rolling down the back of my thighs made even a sultry woman such as myself drown in white shame.

Sherlock’s breath was a heavy guttural waft. His cane dropped to the floor and I heard the sound of metal clicking as he fumbled with his belt. I would be damned if I let him fuck me from behind. To have those eyes look away as he entered me was a vice I wouldn’t stand.

“No!” I yelled, bracing on my wobbly elbows as much as I could and turned to face him.

Sherlock’s glare widened, a chill of ice blew through his eyes and his pupils dilated like a crazed feline. “You’re saying no to me?”

“Yes!” I heaved and reached my hands to cradle his skull, pushing myself against the hardness of his body and forcing my lips on his. My kiss was feral, bruising the plush skin on and around his mouth, nibbling and biting until we tasted iron on our tongues. It was not long before I was shoved against the wall, our mouths still united, sharing one breath.

Or rather stealing it from one another.

We were pleasingly unequal. Sherlock was all iron and stone; a bulky, tall man who could tear me apart with his bare hands. I was a little lush thing, so tender, so easily bruised. Despite his power, the desire to claim the tiny wet hole between my legs was unquenchable, reducing him to a savage thing that spoke in raw inarticulate sounds.

He tore his mouth from mine and swept me up from the ground, hiking the skirts of my dress urgently to expose what he coveted the most. I felt the supple velvety texture of his hardness grind against my thigh, smearing the pearly drops of his arousal onto my skin. We both moaned at the sensation and moved to the rhythm dictated by our most primal instincts.

“You want my cock?” He growled and gnawed his teeth at my neck, biting deep enough to break through the skin. I whined in pain, my voice rising a pitch as I writhed against him to ignite the smallest of frictions and serve the demon of desire in me.

“Fuck me!” I begged, sliding my fingers through the mass of soft curls and tugging them with need.

Answering my plea, Sherlock speared into my unruly cunt, brutally spreading me open like he would tear the petals from a flower. I yipped into his luscious hair, my nails tearing into his nape as his intrusion claimed everything my body had to offer. I always found it odd how my flesh would resist and beg for him at the same time, my succulent canal fighting to push him by instinct yet he only further rutted into me. He reached his hands to my sore ass to squeeze my cheeks apart.

“Such a tight little harlot,” he groaned, engulfed by my garden of mysteries. Moaning so loudly, our duet reverberated through the corridors of the house. His lashes fluttered with ecstasy as he pulled back only to force me down on his imposing cock, attempting to rip through my denial. Or it was to tame me as I clenched around his girth, accepting and resisting him at the same time. I was nothing but a vessel for him to fill, and he did so with a fiery passion, glaring straight to my eyes while thrusting deep and hard into me.

Books fell from the shelves nearby as we battled against the wall, my legs sliding up and down his waist, spreading helplessly in the air until my boots pressed into his arse. One of his hands reached for my corset, tugging on the ludicrous outfit to expose my breast. Ravenous, he licked his bloodstained lips, giving me a stare that made my cunt clutch him harder before he sank his fangs to pierce cavities in my tit.

“No!!!” I cried out and gasped as he thrust deeper to punish me for my protest. His heavy cock hit a spot so deep inside me that tears instantly emerged and fell down my cheeks, the pang bringing through a spasm of odd relief.

Blood and saliva smeared along my cleavage as he dragged his lips further, licking and then kissing every patch he bruised. I moaned breathlessly, throwing my head back against the wall as his nimble fingers surveyed my neck, laying small threats to show me how easy he could simply suspend my very basic need.

But my survival instincts already flew out the window the moment he penetrated me.

His lips hovered above mine as he fucked deep into my body, our cries creating an obscure symphony as he continuously slammed into my hilt, harder and more urgent with every plunge. The tears that fell down my cheeks were tainted with the conflicting aphrodisiac that pain brought through. In that instant I was whole, gratified by the friction created of the collision of our wet organs.

“Do it!” I gasped and nodded through glossy stares, swallowing hard to gesture what he already knew. With a swift snap of his hands, his fingers were bruising on my neck and he slammed into me at a furious pace, giving no care for my broken screams.

Euphoria tore through my soul, crashing like hot waves of eternal fire. I came apart around his thick rod crying for God and Satan at once. Sherlock never slowed down, not even as he felt the tightening of my ring around him. It only made him fuck me harder, burying his face at my collarbone, chasing his own rapture at a punishing speed, grunting like a beast. Finally, he shuddered and pumped me full of his thick, silky milk. The muscles of his behind flexed and he ground his hot load into my warm cavern, making sure I received every drop. My hands reached to squeeze his taut ass as my legs clutched him still, wanting to keep him inside me.

As if he had any intentions of leaving as he moaned and spasmed inside me.

Smoke filled the room as few of the candles died; the scent of ash and the musk of our sex seeped through our noses while we remained entwined, shaking in each other’s grasp. Breathless and damp with sweat, Sherlock lifted his face from my neck and glanced at me looking so vulnerable, almost appearing lost. I moved my trembling hands back to his face, my thumbs caressing his sharp cheeks.

“I know I am harsh…” he murmured, his eyes digging into my heart with nothing but a gaze of despair, “but please don’t ever leave me.”

My face fell at the sound of his words, my lips parting with awe. My detective could solve the most outrageous crimes, and yet he couldn’t realise I was shackled to him for all eternity.

#henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x ofc #henry holmes #sherlock holmes

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drakenology · 3 years

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their s/o has kinky curly hair with Bakugo, Denki, Midoriya and Todoroki

author’s note: hey so i smoked a lot of weed and tried to do my hair afterwards and I quit so now I’m writing about kinky hair because I have a mixture of 3c and 4c hair and detangling is not poggers. Like it takes an hour to detangle my hair... I don’t have the energy for this rn. But even though it’s a fuck ton of work to take care of natural hair it’s still gorgeous and beautiful and strong and all of the fucking above. Shout out to all my kinky haired girlies. And of course shout out to my beautiful black queens. I see you boo! <3

warnings?: fluff, swearing and mentions of sexual activity (yeah, this one aint nasty... that’s the next post. shhh!) ALL CHARACTERS AGED UP 18+

Bakugo

not gonna lie this mf ignorant as fuck

hates that you take so long to do your hair

but loves watching the process?

“What’s that stuff?” “What does it do?”

educates himself for your future babies

he likes a challenge so why wouldn’t he figure out how to properly take care of curly hair?

offers to do your hair sometimes

sometimes does it better than you do?

thinks you’re a fucking goddess.

i am a firm believer that bakugo LOVES sistas ok??

This morning is particularly stressful. You had already broken a comb or two trying to do your hair last night. So when you went to bed thinking that your hair was gonna turn out amazing you can imagine your shock when it didn’t turn out right. Well, as your taking down your twists, you see that your hair didn’t dry all the way. You try everything you can to salvage your style; you pick it, try and diffuse it but you’re still unsatisfied with the look. You sigh and just tie it up in two afro puffs. You lay your edges carefully and do some light makeup. Suddenly, you hear the bathroom door fly open to reveal your boyfriend Bakugo staring at you.

“So that’s what’s taking you so damn long.” Katsuki says leaning against the door frame. He was going to come in and yell at you to hurry up but with the way you looked all dressed up he was completely thrown off and blown away. You were wearing a bright yellow sundress that trailed down to your ankles. It hugged your body and flowed out towards the bottom of the dress. The bathroom smelled like your hair products; tropical and fruity smells smothering his nostrils. You were like a goddess standing before him. And he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

“Dammit, Katsuki wait a damn minute. I’ll be out in a second.” You said, adding the finishing touches to your face. Katsuki walks over to you and leans up against the kitchen counter to watch you finish your makeup.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” he said as he stared at your glistening mahogany skin. You tried your best not to giggle at his stares as you turn to look at him.

“You ready to go?” You ask, feeling a little flustered as he ran his hands up and down your hips, stopping at your ass as he cupped it with both hands. Katsuki plants a kiss on your soft, plush lips and shook his head.

“I’d hate to waste that outfit.. but now I don’t wanna even go out. I wanna fuck you instead.” He says as he kisses your neck. OOOOWEEE

Denki

my cute little idiot...

you had to remind him a lot to not touch your hair (it fucks up your style!)

had to explain what “shrinkage” was

asked once “WOAH IS THAT ALL YOUR HAIR???” making you get to cussin’

very infatuated with everything about your hair though. poor thing didn’t know no better until now

plays in your hair anyway when you’re cuddling

wants to do your hair for you but every time you let him it turns out a mess.

loves the way your hair smells when you put your products in it

lowkey wishes he had curly hair too

obsessed with you..

“‘Nari? How do I look?” You ask as you turn away from you vanity to look at your goofy boyfriend who’s playing video games and sitting on the bed in front of you. He paused his game to look at you and immediately turned bright red.

“Wow..” He said, completely amazed. You had your hair in flexi-rods; after you took them down your natural hair cascaded down to your shoulders in heaps and mounds of thick luxuriousness. He loved that your hair framed your face so well and the lovely smell coming from you intoxicated him.

“You’re so pretty, Y/N.” Denki smiles.

You giggle and shake your hair in the mirror, loving how your hair turned out. You put on some lip gloss and stood up to walk over to your full body mirror to pose in front of it. Damn, you looked good! You were feeling yourself for sure and Denki just couldn’t help but stare. He watched you pose in the mirror, playfully wiggling your ass and flipping your hair around. His eyes met your curvaceous body; the jeans you wore hugging your form graciously. The top you wore accentuated your cocoa skin so damn good that it appeared to Denki that you were glowing from within. What a beautiful fucking woman.

He stands up and walks behind you, wrapping his arms around you as he stared at your gorgeous visage in the mirror.

“How’d I get so lucky?” He asked, enamored by your beauty. He plants a kiss on your shoulder as you giggle and embrace him. 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Todoroki

was kinda ignorant to black culture and hair styles but after your careful explaination he’s fully informed and loves every bit of you

buys you all them expensive natural hair products (trust me.. they aint cheap)

Watches you do your hair

loves when you wear box braids, pulls on them during sex sometimes if you’re too fucked out to care (oop)

smells your hair when you’re sleeping (not in a creepy way I promise)

Doesn’t tolerate racism and will beat the shit out of anyone who tried it with you. Period.

loves your complexion, thinks you look scrumptious in yellow (yellow looks GREAT on black people ok???)

Todoroki’s favorite time of year was the winter. He loved the sweaters, the hot chocolate and more importantly you can finally wear your natural hair out. Since hotter months make your hair sweat out when you straighten it, you usually keep it in braids or locs. But come winter time, you try and wear your natural hair when you can since winter months can be drying to your curls sometimes. You had spend the day (yes it’s a fucking day long process.. for me anyway) taking down your braids while sitting on the couch watching daytime T.V while Shoto was out working. After everything was out, you showered and washed your hair, sighing as the warm water and shampoo soothed and cleansed your scalp carefully. You step out of the shower and comb out your hair while it’s still wet. You do your normal routine and fluff out your curls with an afro pick and smile at your new growth. Unbeknownst to you, Todoroki had been watching the process from start to finish as he was sitting on the bed next to your vanity. You thought he was asleep since he liked sleeping in on Sundays so you were surprised when he got up and kissed you on the cheek, admiring your natural beauty.

“You truly are the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen, Y/N. I’m so lucky.” He gushed. You giggled and kissed him on his lips, thanking him for the compliment.

“So, what you do want to do today, beautiful?”

Deku

When he met you he wanted to know everything about you

Secretly took notes 👀 has a notebook with your name on it with everything that has to do with you including your hair

Studies you and does your hair exactly like how you do it

Tries to impress you by coming up with new styles to try even though some of them are a bit crazy lookin

Loves you till the death of him

Very very sweet about helping you with your hair when you’re too tired to take care of it sometimes 🥺

You had a long, stressful and exhausting day. You spent all day at the hospital taking care of patien after patient nonstop with damn near no breaks in between. You had resorted to pulling your beautiful curls back and away from your face from all the sweating and running around the hospital, leaving stray curls hanging out. You were always a prim and proper girl almost never seen with your hair unkempt so when you returned home with your hair in a messy low bun, Midoriya knew what was up. He watched as you greeted him weakly and plopped on the couch next to him, laying on his lap and almost falling asleep.

“Rough day?” He ask. You almost burst into tears when you hear your boyfriend ask you about your day. It was rough and frustrating. You were just glad you were finally home so you can relax and try and forget about the taxing day. You sigh as Midoriya rubbed small circles into you back and undid the messy bun you had lazily tied hours before returning home.

“You just relax, princess. I’ll take care of you, ok?” He says lifting you up from his lap and carrying you to the bathroom. He sat you on the sink and put your hair in two braids for you so you could take a shower. He kissed your forehead and hummed sweet I love yous into your ear as you smile and kiss his nose. You loved that he was always so gentle with you, never hesitating to help you when you need it.

“I’ll make us something to eat. Pick out a movie for us to watch, okay? I don’t care if it’s something we’ve seen 100 times. Tonight is all about you.”

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

#bnha fanfiction #bnha imagines #bnha smut #bnha x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugo x reader #bnha bakugou #bnha headcanons #bnha midoriya x reader #bnha todoroki x reader #bnha denki

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littlelovelyspiderling · 3 years

Text

Unmasked

Spider-Man is forced to fight the Sinister Six while he’s sick, which leads to his enemies making unexpected discoveries about their arch nemesis.

Chapter 3

Ow.

That was the first coherent thought that registered in Peter’s brain.

Pain. He was in pain. A lot of it.

It started with the sunlight shining directly in his eyes through the ceiling-high windows. Then there was the sharp ache in his left leg. Then a sting in his shoulder. A cramp in his stomach. A throb in his skull.

And then, everywhere.

Peter was hurting all over. And yet, it was dull, distant, hazy hurt, like he was a ghost floating above his body after it had been run over by a dump truck.

Ugh…

His eyes scrunched into angry lines before fluttering open. His vision was fuzzy, unfocused, and no amount of blinking seemed to fix it. His brain felt like it had been replaced by three tons of bricks.

What…where…

He was…inside someplace. It was bright—way too bright. The ceiling overhead was tall and white. He was lying on a couch that felt like it had never been sat on before.

Am I…dead…?

His muscles were stiff as stone. He feared for a moment he was paralyzed, until he felt his fingers twitch, followed by his toes. It hurt—a lot—but hurt was better than numbness.

Okay. Not paralyzed. Hopefully not dead.

“Mmmgh,” he moaned. Slowly, he slid his hands back and pushed off the couch, lifting himself into a sitting position. “Oh, god…”

His skin was hot and sticky. Every bone, organ, and cell ached. He still felt sick, but now with about seventy extra ailments piled on top of that, which meant he was probably still alive.

Probably.

But how?

The last he remembered, he was getting his ass handed to him by the Sinister Six. For as long as he’d operated as the masked vigilante Spider-Man, he’d never gotten thrashed that badly. How did he get away? Did someone rescue him? Had the Avengers swooped in and saved his dumb, in-over-his-head ass right after he’d blacked out? But how could they have gotten there in time?

And where the hell was he?

Now that he was no longer lying down, the room had started listing a little. Peter reached up to rub his temple and felt something crinkly stuck to his head. He grabbed hold of it and started peeling it off his skin, wincing from the pain. Once he’d torn it free, Peter held the unknown object in front of his eyes. It was a large, bloody bandage.

Huh.

Peter’s eyes dropped to his lap. A thin blanket was draped over his body. When he lifted it away, he cringed.

His torso was a gruesome patchwork of Frankenstein-style stitches and bandages. He counted three sets of sutures on his upper body alone, plus four other cuts and scrapes held together with butterfly tape. His entire chest looked like one gigantic bruise. Plus, the burns—some from scraping across coarse concrete, others from actual fire. Every small movement sent waves of pain rippling across his body.

Yeesh, he thought, poking gingerly at the bandages on his shoulder. Well, someone friendly had to patch me up. But who?

Peter let the blanket slip from his fingers. Grimacing, he swung his legs off the couch and carefully placed his feet on the floor. Sweat slipped off his brow and dripped onto his knee.

“Okay,” he breathed. Peter inhaled sharply, then threw his weight forward, standing upright for an instant. Then he collapsed, gasping. Dizzying agony blossomed in his left leg and thumped like a second heartbeat.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. He glanced back and saw his shin had been fashioned with a makeshift splint: two metal rods and ass-load of packing tape.

Right. Broken leg. The sound of the bone cracking in half reignited in his memories, sending a shudder down his spine.

Peter used the sofa to pull himself off the ground. This time, he placed all his weight on his right foot, using his left only for balance. His body ached and trembled with the effort it took to stand, but he managed to stay on his feet.

Ouch. Ugh. Okay. Yeah. That’s a start. The fuzz in his vision was starting to dissipate, but the fog in his brain clung like fungus. It felt like he’d been inhaling a bunch of that laughing gas stuff his dentist had given him back in the 6th grade when he had to get a tooth pulled. His head was heavy and light at the same time.

The room was a lounge area with stiff furniture and minimal decor. A wilted fern sat in the corner alongside a weird, tall block with a piece of metal sticking out of the top that Peter assumed was some form of modern art. The walls were entirely bare except for a small landscape painting that looked like it belonged in a motel bathroom. There were two other chairs across from the couch, a coffee table, a gray rug, and that was basically it.

Beside the fern, a pair of double doors stood wide and closed. When Peter strained his sensitive ears, muffled voices could be heard conversing in the other room. Curiosity plucked at his chest.

“Um…hello?” he called, voice raspy. He approached the doors, hopping more than walking, gritting his teeth as his injuries burned and throbbed, heat radiating feverishly off his skin. By the time he transversed the room, he was out of breath, lightheaded. He leaned against the wall for a minute and cycled slow gulps of oxygen through his lungs.

Once he’d somewhat recovered, Peter limped in front of the large doors. The voices were louder now, but not loud enough to be recognizable. They sounded mostly male. Peter took a deep breath, reached out his arm, and cracked the door open just a hair to peek inside.

It was a kitchen—that was the first thing he saw. A man stood at the island with his back to the doors. Across from him was a round dining table with a bowl of fruit in the middle.

“How is he?” the man asked, biting into an apple. His voice was definitely familiar.

“Still hasn’t woken up, right?” another responded.

Maybe this is another one of Clint’s safe houses, Peter thought. Or an Avengers’ base I’ve never been to before. Or a secret sitting room in some tragically decorated S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Or—

Seconds before Peter opened his mouth to say hello again, the man eating the apple turned around. When Peter saw his face, his heart jumped out of his chest and splattered at his feet.

“I don’t know,” Herman Shultz said over a mouthful of fruit. “Has he?”

The oxygen around Peter vanished in an instant. It’s Shocker! The guy who broke my leg! W-what the hell? What is he doing here?

“Not from what I’ve heard,” the second voice continued. Another man entered his narrow line of vision, this one lit up like a neon sign, and Peter’s throat seized.

“You’re not being very helpful, Maxwell.”

“I told you not to call me that! I’m Electro!”

Shocker held up his hands. “Right, right, sorry. Electro, then. You’re not being helpful.”

What the shit, what the shit, what the actual, living shi—

“Don’t ask me about these things. Ask the doc.” He lifted his head and grinned. “Look—here he comes now.”

Clank, clank, clank. Heavy, metallic footsteps rang in Peter’s ears and shook the floor beneath him. Horror and disbelief flooded his veins as the eight-limbed scientist stepped in front of him, hardly three feet away, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Ask me about what?” Doctor Octopus said.

Peter leapt back from the door, clamping both hands over his mouth.

Oh…my god. It’s them.

“I just wanted to know how he was doing.”

They’re here. They found me. They came to finish the job.

Half of the super villains that had just wrecked his shit were standing in the neighboring room. Hell, maybe all of them were. They’d probably taken whoever had helped him hostage, or perhaps the poor soul was already dead. He wouldn’t stand a chance like this. He didn’t have his suit, his webs, nothing. He’d tried his best to fight them when he was just sick with the stomach bug, and look how well that had turned out for him. If they attacked him now, one solid hit was all it would take to knock him out. Or, if he was being fully honest, kill him.

Peter’s eyes darted frantically around the room. I have to get out of here! He hobbled toward the wall of windows and placed his hands against the glass. It was at least four inches thick; probably bulletproof. But it was his only option. With a shivery grunt, Peter hoisted himself off the floor and crawled toward the ceiling, every step piercing him with flashes of pain.

Okay. Launch off the ceiling, kick through the glass, make a run for it. In his loopy, concussed mind, the plan sounded foolproof. The voices of his enemies were growing louder; Doc Oc’s footsteps were approaching rapidly. It was now or never.

Hanging off the upside-down surface, balancing on his good foot, heart racing, head dizzy and faint, Peter threw himself at the window. He hit the glass with a loud thunk, bouncing off like a bug on a windshield, then crashed on top of the weird modern art piece, shattering the mahogany box into wood chips.

Peter lay sprawled in a heap in the wake of his failure, groaning and dazed. As he forced himself upright, gripping his head in his hand, the doors behind him burst open.

“What the hell?” Doc Oc exclaimed, alarm caked across his expression. When his gaze landed on the young superhero floundering in the splintered remains of his college art project, stunned and disheveled but now awake and wide-eyed, his muscles relaxed slightly. “Spider-Man?”

“Holy shit, he’s awake,” Electro said.

“And he destroyed your favorite sculpture,” Shocker added.

Peter’s eyes dashed between the three men, wild and afraid. He’d been unmasked by his absolute worst enemies—but that seemed the least of his troubles. I’m toast, he thought. Tiny pieces of wood clung to his hair, face, and back. Seeing him conscious for the first time sent a spark of relief through Doc Oc, though he hadn’t expected him to wake up for at least another day; the combination of pain meds he’d given him was pretty strong. When Octavius moved an inch closer to him, Peter scrambled to his feet and backed away, tripping over himself in the process and heavily favoring his right leg.

“Spider-Man—” he began, trying to keep his voice level. Spider-Man picked up a chunk of the destroyed box and chucked it at him.

“S-stay back!” he shouted. His voice was shrill and cracked at the end of the demand. Damn, Otto thought. The evidence of Spider-Man’s youthfulness was clear as day to him now—how had none of them noticed it before? Perhaps they had simply chosen not to notice.

Doc Oc dodged the projectile with ease. “Spider-Man, listen to me—”

Peter made a break for it, gunning for the opposite side of the room. He’d hardly made it two uncoordinated strides before three more figures emerged from a door behind the couch, blocking his escape path: Scorpion, Sandman, and Rhino. He skidded to a stop with a gasp.

“Whoa,” Rhino exclaimed, towering over the half-naked hero. “Would you look at that. Tiny spider is alive.”

Shit! Peter screamed internally. He whipped his gaze in every direction and realized he was surrounded.

“He needs to stop moving,” Otto said, knowing there was no way to accomplish that with words. He raised his tentacles above his head, the pincers snapping hungrily. “Grab him.”

Rhino made the first move, reaching out with his meaty hands to snag the kid by the arm. But Spider-Man ducked and rolled out of the way, moving surprisingly fast despite all of his injuries, though it was obvious the exertion was hurting him. Scorpion and Sandman tried next, lunging for his legs, but Peter hopped right over them and flipped backwards, wincing and staggering once his feet hit the floor and banging into the window.

“You’re going to reopen your wounds,” Octavius warned him. He thrust two tentacles at his torso, but Spider-Man flinched out of their grasp. Otto launched the other two arms at him, and Peter skirted between them, springing on to the wall. The exhaustion and terror in his face were evident. Otto felt bad for scaring him so much, but this was for his own good.

“Spider-Man—please,” he groused. His mechanical arms grabbed and snapped at the air, barely missing the slippery little hero every time. “Just—stay—still!”

Peter wasn’t listening to a word he said. All he knew was that he couldn’t let himself be caught. Every inch of him was screaming in agony. When the tentacles pounced on him all at once, Spider-Man shrunk small and dove underneath them, somersaulting past Doc Oc’s legs and popping up behind him. Peter bolted blindly for the double doors, only to ram straight into Rhino’s giant leg and fall flat on his ass. Three metal prongs clamped around his midsection before he could regather himself, pinning him to the floor.

“Agh!” Peter yelped, tugging uselessly at the claw’s strong teeth. “Let me go!”

Otto lifted Spider-Man off the ground. He continued to strain and squirm, kicking his legs and grappling with the mechanical pincers gripping his waist. The rest of the Sinister Six gathered around the frightened hero, forming a circle with him in the middle. He looked so small against the looming backdrop of super villains. His young face beamed with all the emotions his mask typically concealed—most prominently, fear.

“Spider-Man,” Octavius repeated, holding his hands out tentatively. “Calm down.”

“I’ll pass, thanks!” Peter quipped, betrayed by the tremble in his voice.

“Okay, it’s definitely him,” Electro groaned amusedly.

“I know you’re scared,” Doc Oc continued. “And you have every right to be. But if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to injure yourself further.”

“And if I don’t keep moving, you’re going to injure me further!” He thrashed and twisted valiantly, but it was evident he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His movements were slowing down, his attempts to escape growing more and more pathetic. Otto waited for him to burn himself out, crossing his arms against his chest. It didn’t take long.

“Are you quite done now?”

Peter hung his head, breathless and shivery, gripping the prongs around his torso less to try to escape and more to hold himself upright. Perhaps his impromptu acrobatics display hadn’t been his smartest idea. All that leaping and flipping and bouncing around had sapped the last whispers of energy from his bones.

“Ugh…room’s…s-spinning,” he murmured. Otto took that as a “yes.” He held Spider-Man closer and frowned at a red spot on his ribs.

“And now look what you’ve done, you idiot. You’ve torn your stitches. I tried to warn you. Half an hour’s worth of sewing, down the drain because of your recklessness.”

“What are you…what…what’s…?” Spider-Man slurred. He was suddenly seeing double of everything. He dropped his gaze to his midriff and watched two blurry lines of blood slip down his side.

“I sutured you up, and you ruined it,” Octavius explained. Peter slowly lifted his head and wrinkled his brow.

“You…” he said, blinking repeatedly. “What?”

“Told you we gave him brain damage,” Rhino whispered. Peter looked at him over his shoulder, then swept his gaze around the circle, making eye contact with every member of the Sinister Six. They saw him. After all this time, his face was finally exposed to his enemies. No disguise, no secret identity, no mask. He felt so naked without it. Not having a shirt or pants on didn’t help either. Strangely, their expressions lacked their typical thirst for spider blood. It dawned on him that over a minute had passed, and none of them had tried to kill him. And so far, they still weren’t trying.

“I’m…confusion,” he stammered. “What—what’s happening right now?”

It was somewhat amusing to see Spider-Man so delirious and out of his element. Doctor Octopus lowered him to the ground but didn’t let go of his torso. Peter was almost glad he didn’t; he doubted he could stand on his own right now.

“I tended to your wounds while you were unconscious,” Octavius said. “It’s not a perfect patch job, but I did the best I could.”

Peter shook his head slowly, his big, brown Bambi eyes wide and puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“I also gave you some pain killers, which might be making your head a bit fuzzy.”

“But…why?” he scoffed. “You did this to me. You’re the ones who…beat me up. You love beating me up. You—you hate me. You want me dead. You’ve tried to make me dead a million times.” Peter jolted suddenly, a cramp shooting through his broken leg. If he was on painkillers, they were doing a pretty piss-poor job. Everything hurt and was too confusing to comprehend. He closed his eyes and dropped his face into his hands, moaning. “Oh god…I’ve gotta be trapped in some crazy fever dream right now. Or maybe…I’m dead. Am I dead? None of this makes any sense…”

“You’re not dead, Peter,” Otto said, stifling a chuckle.

A shudder rippled through the teenager. He lowered his hands, revealing the colorless face behind them.

“How…how do you know my…?”

Shit, Doc Oc thought. It was a careless slip of the tongue. He had meant to keep his knowledge of Spider-Man’s alter ego a secret so as to not frighten him further, but it looked like the cat was out of the bag.

Peter’s gaze shifted anxiously between the six super villains again. Fresh fear clouded over his glassy eyes, and he went back to squirming against Octavius’ hold.

“Now what are you trying to do?” Otto asked, exasperated.

“G-get the hell out of here,” Peter answered. He yanked at the claw around his torso, grunting with effort. “I know what this is. This is—one of those—hrgg—P-Princess Bride situations, isn’t it?”

The team of villains exchanged bemused glances with each other. “What are you talking about?”

“You know—mmneh—when the bad guys—c-catch Wesley, then heal him—just so the life-sucky torture machine thing is—m-more torturous? That’s what this is, right?” His face was flushing red, and more of his sutures were starting to leach blood.

Scorpion threw up his hands. “What’s the brat trying to say?”

“I think he’s saying we only doctored his wounds so that when we kill him, it’ll be all the more slow and painful,” Electro clarified with a shrug. “Which honestly sounds pretty in character for most of us.”

“See? This guy gets it.” Peter pushed at the prongs with all his might. Even as a half-dead, half-conscious mess, the kid couldn’t stop himself from being a smartass.

“I’m just impressed he made a reference to a movie that came out before he was a concept,” Rhino said. “You know, instead of, like, Finding Nemo?”

Otto could see the strain Spider-Man was putting himself through in his pitiful attempts to escape, so he decided to see what would happen if he succeeded. When Spider-Man shoved at his metal pincers again, he let them snap open. Surprise flashed across Peter’s face as he dropped to the ground and wobbled on his feet, followed by weary triumph.

“Ha! See? T-told you I would…I could…”

He faltered and swayed, staggering backwards. Sandman enlarged his hand and caught him before he could hit the floor. Peter sat limply in his palm, breathing heavy, frail and febrile and injured and exhausted. He looked down at the sand-hand that had stopped him from falling, then back up at the surrounding circle of villains, fear and confusion stinging in the corners of his eyes.

“W-why aren’t you...trying to kill me?”

The room dipped into nervous silence. Spider-Man’s gaze continued to jump between them, searching for answers.

“Why did you treat the wounds you gave me?” he continued weakly. With every word that passed his lips, the shake in his voice increased. “W-what do you want from me? Are you trying to…turn me to the dark side or something?”

Shocker stroked his chin. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea…”

“No,” Sandman answered pointedly, shooting Shocker a sideways glare.

“Then what?” Peter snapped. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Why aren’t I dead yet?” Spider-Man dragged himself back to his feet, grimacing harshly. “T-tell me what you’re planning to do with me, or I’ll—I’ll…”

His scowl dropped suddenly, replaced by a look of panic. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched.

“Or you’ll what?” Scorpion asked in a mocking tone.

When Peter didn’t answer him, Octavius took a step closer. “Spider-Man? What’s wrong?”

Gradually, the terror in his face gave way to dread. Peter sucked in a gasp and cupped his hand over his mouth.

“I think…I’m gonna puke.”

Otto blinked. “Oh,” he said. That was not the response he was expecting, but it didn’t look like the kid was joking. He lurched forward, stifling a gag, making everyone exclaim and leap back. His pale face hinted a sickly shade of green.

“Oh,” Octavius repeated, animated by a new sense of urgency. He glanced around frantically until he spotted the fern in the corner of the room. He seized it with one of his tentacles, dumped the plant and the soil onto the floor, then slid the empty pot in front of Spider-Man. “Uh, here.”

Peter moaned in defeat before doubling over the pot and retching violently. The Sinister Six turned away in disgust, fighting to keep their own lunches down. There was hardly anything inside him to upchuck in the first place, but his body continued to dry heave for another half-minute. Once the bout passed, Peter was left wheezing and trembling with his head held low. His throat burned and tears were slipping from his eyes faster than he could wipe them away.

“Forgot about the stomach flu,” Electro said, sticking out his tongue. “Blech.”

Peter wanted to ask how the hell they knew he had a stomach bug, among many other things, but he was too fatigued to form words.

Octavius turned back to him squeamishly. The poor kid looked so small, hurt, and sick. It amazed him how quickly his hate for Spider-Man had transformed into a tentative fondness. He felt the need to comfort him somehow, the way adults were supposed to comfort young ones when they weren’t feeling well. But he had no idea how.

Instead, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and a cup of water from the kitchen and placed them both by his side. “Here,” he said awkwardly.

Peter eyed the items and whimpered softly. With miserable, lethargic movements, Peter washed out his mouth and wiped his face, every breath aching in his chest. Shame and fever radiated off him in waves. When he was finished, he just sat there, panting and shivery. Too weak to move.

“I think you ought to lay back down, Spidey,” Sandman said, plucking the hero off the floor between two massive fingers. He returned him to the couch with delicate care, guiding his head to the pillow and draping the blanket over his body.

“No…” Peter mumbled languidly, trying to sit up. When he closed his eyes, he couldn’t get them to open again. “Just…tell me…why…”

Something cold and wet pressed against his forehead, gently pushing him back down. Octavius had grabbed a hand towel from the kitchen and soaked it in ice water. The cool touch against his skin was soothing and unexpectedly soporific. Slowly, his muscles went lax. His tumultuous thoughts faded into sleepy nothingness.

“We will,” Otto lied. “But for now, rest.”

It was almost endearing how quickly Spider-Man drifted back to sleep. Octavius left the towel on his forehead and watched as his breathing eased to a steady rhythm.

“Damn,” Shocker sighed. “Poor kid.”

“We really beat him senseless,” Rhino said.

Electro stood over the slumbering hero with his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side. “Is it just me, or is Spider-Man, like…kind of adorable?”

Scorpion snorted. “Adorable?”

“You know! In that, like, puppy-dog, dumb little kid kind of way. I mean, look at him! Does no one else think so?”

Sandman shrugged, fighting back a smile. “I mean, maybe. Sorta.” His expression gradually hardened, and he looked at Doc Oc. “So…is what you said before true? Is he really, like, an orphan?”

Otto lowered his gaze. “Not exactly. His parents died when he was a toddler, and he was adopted by his aunt and uncle, who became like parents to him. But then his uncle was killed last year, so now it’s just him and his aunt. He hasn’t had a particularly easy life.”

“And we certainly haven’t helped on that front,” Rhino added.

“It’s insane to me that at his age, this is what he chose to do with his powers. If I’d gotten his abilities when I was fifteen and gone through all that loss, I’d have been robbing every store on 5th Avenue.”

Shocker smirked. “I hate to say it, but...he’s kind of a good kid. Even if he is an obnoxious little dumbass.”

Amidst the conversation, Octavius’ face remained stoic, unreadable. He waited a while before clearing his throat. “I…wanted to let you all know. I, um, spoke to Tombstone this morning.”

All eyes turned to him, alarmed.

“He saw footage of us capturing Spider-Man on the news,” he explained. “He’s offering us two million each in exchange for the kid.”

Rhino’s jaw dropped. “Two million dollars? For each of us?”

“Holy shit,” Sandman breathed.

“What the hell?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“And he just wants the kid?” Shocker exclaimed. "That’s it?”

Otto nodded slowly. “Alive, but yes. That’s all he wants.” He swallowed and looked at the floor. “He’s given us until the end of the week to accept his offer.”

Excitement and dismay swept across everyone’s expressions. Each person waited for someone to speak up, for someone else to say no, we can’t. But it was just too tempting a proposition to dismiss out of hand. They could finally be free to do what they wanted. Free to live as they pleased, villainous or otherwise. Free to punish this city the way it had punished them, if they so choose. Turning over the kid was all it would take. One quick transaction. Hand over their nemesis, their sworn enemy, and it was done. They’d be rich.

“What the hell does he plan to do with him?” Sandman whispered uneasily.

“We don’t have to decide right now,” Doc Oc clarified. “I just wanted to make you aware of the opportunity. We can discuss it more later.”

An air of tentative relief settled over the room. Electro puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms against his chest.

“In that case, what are we going to tell him when he wakes up again? That we want to sell him to some psychopath so we can all be millionaires? That we think he’s cute and want to keep him as a pet?”

Doctor Octopus shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. He turned back to his team. “I’ll keep monitoring him and re-treat the wounds he opened. I think it’s best we always have a pair of eyes on him to prevent another incident involving the destruction of my art pieces.”

The rest of the Sinister Six agreed, scattering throughout the complex, the proposition weighing heavily on all of their minds. Otto put on some classical music and began mopping the fresh blood off Peter’s torso.

#spiderman #spider-man #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman homecoming #Spider-Man: Homecoming #spider-man: far from home #sick fic #marvel #mcu #peter parker #spiderman ffh

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crownsandhawaiianshirts · 4 years

Text

Quick Techno, Tommy idea drabble thingy that turned into a not drabble, pt. 2? “Living is a luxury, Tommy”. tw. graphic descriptions

Part 1!

Technoblade took a long swig of his ale as he emptied the tankard, a few golden drops rolling down his chin as his sighed in content.

Techno halted on the first landing of the split staircase, staring up at the grand painting that stood tall like a statue and watched over the Hall like an observer of all.

Many had insisted to the crowned ruler that he should place there a gigantic portrait of himself, a great reminder to the people of what they served; but Technoblade insisted that the portrait was to be a landscape piece of the Kingdom, from the best view at the hilltop at the perfect time of the day when the sun hit the second spire just right. This, Technoblade claimed, was what the people of the Empire served; they served this land; and the dirt it stood on; and the insects which scuttled in that dirt; and the stone that they built their houses with. That, he claimed, is what he served.

Techno promised to himself that every time he walked up those stairs, that he would stand and admire that painting, and although it did the real thing no justice, he knew he had no time to sit at that hilltop and gaze at his fruitful home.

Tommy looked up at this great ruler, one who he remembered from his youth, who he looked up to so fondly. Tommy looked into his eyes that could set the world on fire, but chose to create warm homes for his people instead.

Technoblade resumed his walk up the red carpeted staircase and lead Tommy along a great hallway, every inch covered with paintings of revolutionary standstills of the Kingdoms history.

Tommy spied art of the three council members, some of them looking regal, and others that looked like quick sketches made in a moment to preserve a memory, scribbled up by whatever person had a pen and a knack for drawing nearby.

Tommy snickered a bit when he saw a sketch of Phil--who was wearing Techno’s crown--and Wilbur arm wrestling, with Technoblade standing adjacent to them--who was wearing Phils hat--arms full of coins and a... lute? ...Maybe it was Wilbur’s.

Tommy caught up to Technoblade who had entered a room with a roaring fire and cold-looking stone walls to match. There was a luxurious bed that stood opposite the fire; it looked so tidy that Tommy wondered if the sheets were smoothed with hot rods every morning.

But before Tommy could ask any questions, Technoblade’s voice stated, “This, Tommy, was my mothers room.” Technoblade put his crown down on the mantel piece, once again massaging his head, then neatly placing his royal red cloak on the bed.

Tommy’s face scrunched up in confusion, “uh...” He watched as Techno pulled his long pink hair around his shoulder which was braided carefully with runes and expensive stones encrusted in the woven locks.

Techno slowly extracted the stones and runes, placing them on the mantel piece, he absentmindedly said, “go on, take a look around.”

Tommy wondered around the room, he eyes trailing the curve of the fluffed pillows and the great sturdy mahogany with which the layered mattress sat on. He gazed up the walls and wondered in awe how he did not notice how high the ceiling was and how far up the decorations on the wall appeared to be.

Every object there seemed inconspicuous and uninteresting, but an object caught his eye. It was a pressed set of flowers that rested in a frame: a peony, a hydrangea, a purple tulip, and a bluebell. Those were his mothers favourite flowers.

His mother was a stern woman who had greeted death and haunted its nightmares; she was a batallion leader and had seen war with all the things it came with. Her and Techno’s mother fought in great battles together that only strengthened their bond. But when they retired and came home to their husbands and children, they were reminded what it was all really for.

She always had those flowers in her bedroom window. Tommy had asked many a time why she liked them so much, but all she answered instead was, “often, Tommy, in the peace after a battle has ended, I’d always find these flowers. I’d pick them up and throw them into the abyss and say: ‘here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.’”

...But that was all behind him now, he supposed.

Techno’s voice startled Tommy, “Do you know why I don’t condone killing in the championships?” Tommy turned around to face him and he saw Techno’s long hair that coasted his waist, flow back and forth in perfect tranquillity. Tommy was always curious how the man strode with such carefulness and grace.

Tommy thought he knew the answer but didn’t say it because he thought “because it would make more people dead” was a stupid answer.

“I died when I was sixteen, Tommy.”

“...Heh?”

Tommy shook his head in confused disbelief. Sure, they learnt legends about respawning but it was impossible to know for certain, unless you were well... dead.

In the early days, Tommy knew that the way to win your duel was by killing your opponent, but Tommy didn’t know that TECHNO fought back then.

Silence hung in the room as Tommy chose to let the man tell his frankly absurd story.

“The thing is; when you die, you’ll find yourself in a place you can’t quite comprehend. I won’t go into detail as I’ll probably never be quite sure what it was, but there’s a way out. A neural back door if you will. A way out that makes you gasp out loud and wake up with the feeling of a thousand choir songs blasted in your ears, shouting for you to get up.”

Tommy found himself unable to answer, only shaking his head and muttering, “if respawning is so easy, wouldn’t everyone do it?”

Techno shook his head, “see, it’s just that. It’s not easy, Tommy. I’ll never be able to re-animate the pain you feel when all the blood in your body melts back into liquid again and the excruciating pain of feeling your muscles start to contract as your body tries to collapse in on itself; refusing to revive itself. But the worst, Tommy. The absolute worst feeling is the first jolt of your heart as you wake up. That deafening sound of your body jumpstarting into action with no adrenaline to numb the pain. All you’re left with is a headache that never fades or wavers no matter the recipe or medicine you try, you are left with that dull migrane for the rest of your days.”

Tommy stood in awe as he comprehended all this information that was thrashed at him so suddenly. “...so does that mean you respawned five times?”

Techno stood silently as Tommy already knew the answer. After Techno’s victory, he changed a lot of things; the way the kingdom was run; he raised the quality of life for all civilians that resided in the stone walls of his kingdom; he allowed safe asylum for all; and Tommy supposed that he changed the rules of the games.

The resilience of this man baffled him. Tommy figured he’d never know what this man had seen.

“Tommy, you are perfectly fit to sit at my table. Just, please, for the love of it all, when you do win; don’t see your past performance as a failure, but rather a testament to your monumental act of courage to keep performing.”

----

This was alright

#technoblade #tommyInnit #mcyt #minecraft #mineblr #wilbursoot #philza #writing #au

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natromanxoff · 4 years

Text

My apologies if I made a mistake!

Queen of guitars

Queen, with their glam image and legion of young admirers, would hardly be the first band to spring to mind, for most people, as arbiters of musicianship. And yet, they’re all competent instrumentalists - even Freddie Mercury, darling of the pin-up brigade and arch-poseur, can play a mean piano. And he’s no novice when it comes to writing, either.

Lead guitarist Brian May, as well as being a good musician, also has another reason for respect - he built his own guitar.

Brian’s guitar took him two years to build, mainly in his spare time, and he used an averagely well-equipped workshop to fashion it.

“At the time the only guitar I had was a little old acoustic with a pick-up which I had made myself stuck on. That was about ten years ago.” he said.

“That was the only electric guitar I had, it was the only one at all, come to think of it, and obviously there’s only so far you can get with something like that.

“You haven’t got enough frets, the sound wasn’t very hot and that sort of thing. At the time I couldn’t afford one of the high-priced guitars. A Stratocaster was my ambition in those days but I couldn’t afford one. And I didn’t really like the cheaper ones, I didn’t feel they were what I wanted at all, so I decided to make one. I was interested in making things anyway.

“I was lucky to have a father who was interested as weill and I’d always had woodworking and metal-working tools around so basically we just sat down and made lots of designs.

“We drew lots and lots of pictures, thought about the stresses and strains, tremelo design, truss rod design, how the strings ought to be anchored down to what shape the body should be, the curve of the fingerboard - all that sort of thing. We drew lots of little drawings and gradually worked our way up to gigantic blueprints, all the time thinking about the kind of thing I would want to play.

The next step was a lot of experimentation, I wanted a good tremelo which was sensitive and yet could change the pitch of the strings and yet come back to exactly the right position - a lot of them don’t.

“So I did a lot of experimentation with tremeloes, tried two or three different designs, some with pivots, some with hinges and different sorts of things all on a piece of wood with the tremelo attached and some strings just to see what would happen.

“You have to design something which is going to stand the strain which is quite considerable. The system I eventually ended up with was a plate to which the strings are attached pivoting on a knife edge which is attached to the guitar and the tension of the strings is balanced by some motorbike valve springs on the other side.

“That was the second step really and then I went on to things like truss rods which would stand the strain. You have to find something which is strong enough to counteract the bending effect of the strings on the neck. At the same time you don’t want it to be too heavy. It’s a question of simply finding the right material.

“You can look up breaking points of metal and stresses in books. All the information is there if you just know where to look for it. You can measure the tension of strings with spring balances which are quite cheap. So it’s pretty straightforward.

“The next thing was to find the wood. I was lucky in that as well because there happened to be some wood kicking around in some of my friends’ houses. Particularly the neck - the mahogany came from a 100 year old fireplace which had been ripped out of a house someone was knocking down nearby. It’s a beautiful piece of wood, really well seasoned.

“I used mahogany simply because it was handy at the time but it’s a lovely material to work with and I think I would have used mahogany or oak anyway.

“Shaping it? It was just a plank of wood when I got it so I drew projections of the shape I wanted on all four sides and then I just started hacking away. First of all I cut in the planes and that left me with an angular sort of thing and then it was just a question of rounding it off. A lot of it was done with a penknife. I just worked away and kept trying the templates I’d made until it fitted.

“When it was roughly the right shape I attacked it with sandpaper for the final shaping and then finer and finer grains of sandpaper to get a good finish.

“Then of course there’s the polishing which I did with plastic coating stuff. You just pour it on in quite thick layers, let it dry and then start sanding again! Finer and finer grains until you get down to something like metal polish for the final shaping and polishing.

“And that’s the wood-working side. The same sort of thing goes for the body. The way I designed that was that the strain was taken by a solid piece of oak - that’s what the neck is screwed to - and the rest of the body, which takes no strain at all, is just glued to that.

“At that stage you do all the hollowing out and you have to decide what you want in the way of electronics. There are quite a few hollow pockets in this one which help the sound.”

What about the electronics, the pick-ups and so forth? “I started off making my own pick-ups, just getting some magnets and winding wire around them, that’s all it is really, and they were very good. They made an excellent sound but because I hadn’t designed them properly when you pushed the string across the fingerboard the field wasn’t uniform enough to take it.

“I bought some Rose pick-ups and they were so different in sound to my own I decided to put new coils in them. I kept the magnets and that’s what I ended up with.

“The sound of the pickup is only the start, it’s a question of how you combine the different pickups - I’ve got three - on the guitar. There are practically no electronics in the guitar at all.

“If you combine two of them and just have the two sounds you get a normal blend of the two. If you reverse the phase you’re in the situation where one is cancelling out the other to a certain extent and what gets cancelled out is the thing they’ve got in common - the fundamental.

“By using different combinations you can bring out different harmonics from different parts of the string. You can vary the sound a lot.

“By the switches I’ve got you can get every combination from the pick-ups I’ve got.

“I’ve got six push buttons on the guitar - one phase reversal for each pick-up and one cut-out for each.”

Brian estimates his guitar cost about £8 to build but he was fortunate to have a reasonably well equipped workshop at his disposal.

So it looks like a good deal to put some time away and set about building your own guitar, but Brian stresses one thing. “If you are going to build a guitar you’ve got to remember that it doesn’t happen overnight. You’ve got to have patience so that when something goes wrong you can go away, think about it and come back again in a constructive frame of mind.”

#queen #queen band #brian may #queen scans #melody maker

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rollerman1 · 1 year

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#ditchburn #woodboat #mahogany hot rod #power boat #classic

192 notes · View notes

choerrypuffs · 4 years

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the element of power.

pairing: firebender!renjun x avatar!reader

genre: fluff, angst

word count: 5.4k

author’s note: renjun’s chapter to my 00 line x avatar series! i’ve gotten such kind feedback so far and i want you guys to know that your messages never fail to brighten my day and make me smile :’)))) thank you so so so so so much!!! 💕💞💓💗💖💘💝

warning(s): abuse, suggestive content

additional: check out the art that the lovely and EXTREMELY talented steph ( @aqiaquas ) did for this fic here!

There’s just something about the Fire Nation that unsettles you.

Perhaps it’s because you’re from the Water Tribe, making you their (literal) polar opposite. Or because you’re sticking out like a sore thumb with your blue garb in a sea of red. Or the fact that they’re all staring at you and whispering amongst each other. It also doesn’t help that you’re being escorted by soldiers. Whatever the case may be, you just want to get this over with.

You’re on your way to see the Fire Lord, who had his elite palace guards pick you up immediately upon your arrival. Most people would just see it as a courteous gesture, but Fire Lord Yoo is not a hospitable man. This is clearly a warning, though you’re not really sure what for. You may be the Avatar, but even you couldn’t take on the entire Fire Nation alone.

Honestly, you feel more like a prisoner heading for execution than an esteemed guest.

The royal palace is exactly as you had imagined it. Tall, grand, and intimidating: the epitome of what the Fire Nation stands for. It looms over you like an ominous presence, and you’re almost a little scared to step foot inside. You don’t realize you’ve stopped in your tracks until one of the guards clears his throat and gives you a small nudge with his elbow.

Gulping, you begin to walk forward again. The entrance is manned by more guards and two giant red doors branded with the Fire Nation insignia in pure gold. The guards escorting you nod at the guards by the doors, communicating only by expressions. Nobody says a word to you as the doors slowly begin opening, making you flinch at the sudden noise.

You expect to see a palace bustling with life, with various staff running around, but it’s completely deserted. The inside is eerier—pitch black corridors lit only by a couple of torches. Every step you take echoes in the hollow interior and it feels like someone is following you.

The throne room is the most nerve-wracking of all. Surprisingly, there’s actual people in it (which only makes things worse). About six or seven men clad in military uniforms sit ram-rod straight around a long, rectangular mahogany table. It looks like some sort of ritual is happening, and you nearly yelp when all of them turn to look at you at the same exact time. Their expressions are neutral and that scares you even more.

“Avatar Y/N.”

A loud, booming voice not coming from any of the men in front of you announces. Glancing up, you see a shadowy figure sitting upon a dais behind a wall of fire. You can tell by the sheer authority radiating off his silhouette alone that he is Fire Lord Yoo. A war hero known for his ruthlessness, he was a boogeyman of sorts to you when you were a child. Your mother would tell you stories of him to scare you into doing your chores and that trauma seems to still be ingrained into your psyche because you feel yourself trembling.

“Welcome to the royal palace,” Fire Lord Yoo continues, “the Fire Nation is honored to have you.”

“The honor is mine, Fire Lord Yoo,” you quickly say, bowing your head.

“Your reputation precedes you,” he muses.

Yours too, you think wryly.

“Some are hailing you to be the strongest Avatar since Wan, the first.”

“Nothing but frivolous rumors,” you say, shaking your head. “I haven’t even mastered all of the elements yet.”

“That’s more impressive, no? To already have such rumors when you’ve barely mastered two out of the four,” he shoots back.

“You think too highly of me, Your Majesty,” you awkwardly say, not really sure how to respond.

“I suppose we shall see.”

There’s something foreboding about his words, and it makes your blood run cold.

“But I digress. Let us discuss your firebending tutelage,” Fire Lord Yoo finally moves on after watching you squirm for a couple of seconds. “General Huang Renjun of the Fire Nation Navy will be your teacher.”

The youngest one, by at least a few decades, at the table stands up. Even with that nasty scowl on his face, Renjun’s beauty shines. His features are delicate, like a prince, and you would have never believed that he was the fearsome general of the navy. Though the way he’s glaring at you is just a tad frightening.

“Hi,” you say dumbly, giving him a small wave.

Renjun gives you a curt nod, barely even looking at you, before sitting back down.

Rude, you think to yourself.

“Your training will begin tomorrow. For now, the maids will lead you to your quarters so you may rest,” Fire Lord Yoo explains.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” you say, quickly bowing again.

A handful of maids begin to usher you away and though you can’t see Fire Lord Yoo, you feel his gaze (even through the wall of fire) linger on your back. .

It seems your stay here is going to be worse than you’d imagined.

Despite the fact that you felt like someone was going to come into your room and murder you at any minute, you sleep like a rock. It takes a rather hard shove from a frazzled maid to wake you. Barely registering what’s happening, you let yourself be manhandled by the maid. Within ten minutes, you’re dressed and somewhat alert. She leads you by the hand down a corridor, clearly in a rush. She’s mumbling to herself, but you can’t make out what she’s saying, though she does sound pretty scared.

“Is something wrong?” you finally ask.

“No, I—it’s just that General Huang hates tardiness, and we are about five minutes late.”

“Five minutes isn’t that bad. I’m sure he’ll understand,” you shrug.

The maid turns and gives you a pointed look. “You have not met General Huang.”

“Well, he sounds like a bit of a hardass,” you say wryly.

Shushing you furiously, she looks around as if Renjun is going to be right behind her. “Mind your words, Avatar Y/N. Someone is always listening.”

What she says slightly terrifies you, but you’re not about to tell her that.

When you finally arrive at the training room, the maid bolts. Dumbfounded, you watch her scurry off and awkwardly stand at the entrance, unsure of what to do. Just as you raise your hand to knock, the doors suddenly open. You let out a small squeak as an extremely angry Renjun glares down at you. The height difference between the two of you isn’t that large but you feel tiny underneath his intense stare.

Now you know why the maid abandoned you.

“You’re late,” Renjun says, scowling.

“S-Sorry,” you mumble.

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to be on time,” he snaps, stepping aside. “Aren’t you going to come in?”

Every rational fiber of your body is telling you to bite your tongue as you stiffly walk past him, but you just can’t. Whirling on your heels, you turn and look him directly in the eyes. “There’s no need to be so cross, general. It was an honest mistake, and I’ll make sure it won’t happen again. Besides, it’s only five minutes.”

Renjun’s dark eyes narrow, flashing dangerously. “Perhaps punctuality is not as strong a value in the Water Tribe, but we do not take it lightly here.”

“What did you just say?” you demand, temper finally bubbling over.

“I said that the Water Tribe needs to teach their benders to be on time,” he taunts.

“Leave the Water Tribe out of this,” you hiss, “Your qualms are with me.”

“Are you not a waterbender?”

“No, I’m the Avatar.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Renjun raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe not, but I’ve been trying to treat you with respect and I deserve the same from you,” you say through grit teeth.

“You’ll get my respect when you’ve earned it,” he sneers.

You’re so angry that you begin to shake like a wet dog, unable to form a verbal response. Instead, you contemplate drowning him in the palace’s toilet. However, Renjun isn’t bothered by your murderous glaring as he brushes past you.

Rolling his sleeves up, he walks toward the center of the room and waits for you to join him. “Now then, let’s get this over with.”

Reluctantly, you skulk over to him and cross your arms. Despite how despicable Renjun is, it is extremely hard to ignore his beauty. He’s clearly put in the bare minimum—mussed black hair, simple long-sleeved shirt, and linen trousers—yet even you can’t help but admire him for just a moment. Then, he shatters the mirage by opening his mouth.

“I’m only going to do this once, so pay attention.”

Renjun takes his stance, left leg bent and right leg straight out behind him. Inhaling deeply, he delivers a swift punch in the air. You don’t even have time to register the dangerously close fireball that whizzes past your face. All you can feel is the lingering hot air against your cheek. Some of your baby hairs have been charred too.

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself in time.

His eyes widen slightly at the insult, and you brace yourself for some sort of retaliation but it never comes. To your utter shock, he’s smirking, as if your words are amusing to him. “Your turn.”

Smoothing your hair down and tucking it behind your ear, you shoot him another dirty look before taking the stance he showed you. Squeezing your eyes shut and imagining Renjun’s face right in front of you, you punch the air as hard as you can.

Judging by the total silence that follows, you’re guessing you weren’t that successful. When you open your eyes again, he has his arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “So...did I do it?”

“What do you think?” he asks, tilting his head.

You sigh, lowering your fist. “Damn.”

“For starters, you could keep your eyes open. How are you going to know where to aim when you can’t see your opponent?” Renjun shakes his head. “Your form is sloppy too.”

Reaching down for your hand, he balls it back into a fist and yanks it toward him. Gasping at the sudden force, you stumble forward and faceplant directly into his chest. He smells like cinnamon and soap, and it’s making your head swim. Dazed, you slightly step back, trying to regain your balance. “Wh-What the hell was that for?”

“I was trying to show you the proper form, but your foundation is so weak that you let me pull you around like a ragdoll,” he scoffs.

Your head shoots up so you can give him a piece of your mind, but your words die inside your throat when you realize how close his face is to yours. There’s virtually no space between your bodies, despite the fact that you thought you had stepped away a considerable amount. You can feel the heat radiating from him and the rise and fall of his chest against your own. It surprises you just how much power you can sense in him. Chi courses through his veins almost more than his blood, and it pulls you toward him like a magnet. Huang Renjun is a live wire, ready to blow at any moment.

He’s watching you carefully, waiting for a response. His eyes are pools of molten gold that you find easy to get lost in. You don’t notice his hand is still holding your fist until he lets go, and you mourn the loss of warmth. Clearing his throat, Renjun takes a step back—a light pink dusted across his cheeks. Now that there’s finally a substantial amount of space between you and him, you snap out of your haze.

“Jerk,” you mumble weakly, too wobbly in the knees to snap back.

“Again,” he orders, crossing his arms.

Renjun makes you practice the same drill for the next hour, until you’ve got it down perfectly. Your entire body aches just from that one simple move, but you’re definitely not going to tell him that. You had always assumed firebending was simply pure aggression and brute strength. Oh, how wrong you were. Firebending requires control of every muscle in your body; it’s a delicate balance.

Despite your attempt to hide it, Renjun notices your exhaustion. Instead of taunting you like you were expecting, he gives you a five minute water break. Your fatigue trumps your pride, and you plop to the ground without a single word. He tosses you a canteen, and you don’t hesitate gulping the water down.

“Pace yourself,” he says, almost kindly.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, it finally occurs to you how much of a mess you must look like right now. Flushed cheeks, ponytail falling apart, and chunks of hair matted to your neck with sweat.

No wonder why he gave you a break.

You’re not sure what possesses you to say this because you still think Huang Renjun is a total asshole that doesn’t deserve anything from you, but the words are spilling out before you can stop yourself—

“Thank you.”

He’s equally as shocked as you are when he hears you say it. Coughing, he fidgets slightly and mumbles in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard:

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t even have time to register his words because the doors are thrown open, making Renjun flinch and you almost spit out your water. Two frantic-looking soldiers rush in, sweating and out of breath. “General Huang!”

Renjun’s brows draw together in concern, but he stays calm as he walks to the men. “Breathe for a second, and then tell me what’s wrong.”

His sudden switch in demeanor slightly jars you, and it also kind of pisses you off. Why is he only cranky with you?

“One of our fleets is under attack by a band of pirates, near Crescent Island. They’re requesting immediate backup,” one of the soldiers finally manages to pant out.

Renjun’s face pales. “Did you already notify the other fleets stationed nearby?”

“We did, but the closest one is hours away. You’re the only one you can get to them in time and that’s only by speedboat.”

“Go prepare one for me then,” Renjun orders.

“Yes, General!”

Renjun finally turns to you after they run off. “I have to go.”

“I’ll come with you,” you immediately say.

“Absolutely not,” he snaps, “you’ll only be in the way.”

“Don’t you think having a waterbender with you while you’re out on the ocean would be helpful?” you retort back.

“I thought you were the Avatar, not a waterbender,” he mocks.

“I’m coming with you, and you can’t stop me.” You cross your arms, ignoring him.

“What makes you think I’ll let you get on the boat?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You won’t be able to let me do anything when you’re tossed overboard.”

You and Renjun have a staredown, but he eventually relents because he knows he’s out of his element on this one (pun intended).

“Fine, but stay out of my way,” he warns.

“You stay out of mine.”

Once you two get on the boat, Renjun stops picking a fight with you. In fact, he goes completely silent. His grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are white, and his jaw is clenched tightly. You don’t say a word either, knowing that his mind must be a whirlwind of thoughts. Despite your dislike of his personality, you have to acknowledge Renjun as a leader. He didn’t hesitate to jump right into action for his men, even planning to take on an entire band of pirates by himself.

“Why can’t this damn thing go faster?” You hear him curse under his breath.

The lightbulb finally goes off in your head, and you chide yourself for not doing this from the beginning. Turning and walking to the back of the boat, you hold your hands over the water. You create a wave that pushes the boat forward at a much quicker speed, almost using too much strength and falling backward.

“What are you doing?” Renjun calls back to you.

“Making this damn thing go faster,” you answer.

He doesn’t respond.

“What were you saying about me being in your way again?” you muse.

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirk up.

With your help, the two of you arrive at Crescent Island in no time. You can hear loud explosions and yelling in the distance. It’s not long before you see two battered ships in the middle of all the chaos. One of them has a tattered Fire Nation flag on it, so you direct the boat toward it. Renjun is already at the very front of the boat, ready to jump onto the Fire Nation ship.

You’re not far behind him as you two jump over the railing of the ship, abandoning the speedboat for now. Fire Nation soldiers are wildly running around; some trying to take cover, some trying to fight back. There is absolutely no hierarchy of command, which means the attack clearly blindsided them.

“Stay here!” Renjun yells over all the noise.

“Wha—”

“The soldiers don’t know who you are! They’ll think you’re an enemy, so just stay put!”

He doesn’t wait for you to argue with him, running in the opposite direction as he barks orders at soldiers he passes. You’re about to follow him anyway, but you nearly get killed by a stray fireball. The pirate ship has a squadron of benders lobbing fireballs at the Fire Nation ship like cannons.

Chewing on your lip, you decide you have to do something about the pirate ship for order to be restored on the Fire Nation ship. Taking a deep breath, you lift your hands up, palms facing out. Conjuring up the biggest tidal wave you can muster, you push your hands forward. The wave is bigger than the actual ship, and you capsize it.

Letting out a relieved sigh, you dust your hands off as you watch the pirate ship sink. However, you don’t get to relish in your work because there’s another loud explosion. It’s coming from the front of the Fire Nation ship, and it was strong enough to rock the entire vessel.

When you arrive at the scene, you see a standoff between Renjun and his soldiers and a handful of pirates that were already on the Fire Nation ship before you sank theirs. They appear to have stopped attacking each other, since they just now realized you capsized the pirate ship.

“It’s over,” you announce, “Your ship has been destroyed. Surrender now while I’m feeling nice.”

“You did that?” Renjun gawks.

“What do you think?” you echo, tilting your head.

His eyes sparkle as he breaks out into a full-on grin. You feel your breath hitch slightly—

But your moment is quickly ruined when the remaining pirates let out strangled cries, seemingly refusing to go down without a fight. They begin hurtling fireballs blindly, trying to use up as much of their power as possible.

You’re not in their main line of fire, so you manage to dodge pretty easily, but the other soldiers aren’t as lucky. Since they were in a military formation, they’re much more compacted together, thus making them as easy target. Renjun does his best to redirect as many fireballs as possible, but there are just too many. You quickly trap the berserk pirates in a ball of water, freezing it, then letting it fall onto the ship like a giant boulder.

However, you’re not fast enough.

You hear one of the soldiers cry out. Whirling around, you see Renjun slumped over another soldier—clearly having taken a hit for him. He’s unconscious (which is for the better), face pallor and sweat collecting on his forehead. His shirt has a charred hole in it, and the smell of burning flesh hits you all at once. Renjun’s side is scorched; his skin almost black from how bad the burn is.

Everything becomes fuzzy after that. You run toward Renjun, nearly falling onto him because of your momentum. Pulling just enough water from a soldier’s canteen to cover the wound, you try your best to at least keep the bacteria out with the limited healing abilities you have. You scream at a soldier to find the speedboat you and Renjun came here on.

When he does and pulls it over to the side of the ship you’re on, you freeze the water on Renjun’s wound—a makeshift bandage for now. You lower him onto the boat with a stretcher made out of water.

“Backup is on the way for you guys. I’m taking General Huang back to the palace,” you explain, turning back to the men. Looking around, you point at the most reliable-looking soldier. “Hey, you.”

He straightens up. “Y-Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re in charge. Have a plan of defense in case there are more pirates. This ship won’t be able to withstand many more attacks until backup shows up, got it?”

“Understood, ma’am!” He salutes. “But, um...who are you?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

With that, you hop onto the speedboat and drive away.

After creating the wave that capsized the pirate ship, you knew that you didn’t have long until your chi was completely exhausted. Your body is protesting profusely as you continue to use waves to make the speedboat go faster. There are black dots in your vision, and you keep losing your balance. Gritting your teeth, you make the waves even stronger.

When you finally get to the dock, you barely have enough energy to stand up, but you put Renjun on your back and you stumble toward the gates of the palace. Your limbs feel like jelly at this point, but you trek on.

The guards manning the entrance of the palace notice you from a distance and rush over when they see Renjun. You collapse onto the ground when you see them coming. One of them picks up Renjun, while the other picks you up.

“Medic,” you mumble continuously. “Medic, he needs a medic, medic, medic...”

The guard carrying you says something, but it sounds like you’re underwater and you can’t hear a single word.

“Medic,” you say again.

Then everything goes black.

You’re not sure if you’re awake or still dreaming because of how dark the room is. You feel sore and achey to your fingertips, and blinking even hurts. You suppose pain means you’re conscious. You lay in the darkness for a little longer, trying to piece together everything that happened before. You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep, but it feels like years.

Get up. If you’re late again, Renjun’s going to kill you.

Renjun.

Gasping, you are out of bed and your room in an instant. You dash down the corridor in your nightdress, looking around for anyone to give you information. Luckily for you, the maid that abandoned you the other day is headed right in your direction with a stack of laundry. Judging by the blue, it’s your clothes, but you don’t particularly care at the moment.

“Where’s General Huang?” you ask, grabbing her by the arms.

“Avatar Y/N, you need to be rest—”

“Nevermind that! Where is he?”

“The infirmary, but—”

“Where is that?”

“Avatar Y/N, I really—”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to wander around until I find it.”

She sighs. “Down the hall, on your right.”

You quickly thank her before taking off again. Before you even get to the entrance of the infirmary, you are already able to sense Fire Lord Yoo’s presence. The pure terror and authoritarianism in his aura is enough to stop you in your tracks. The door is ajar, however, so you’re still able to hear them talk.

“Why are your men telling a different story than you are, Renjun?” Fire Lord Yoo asks calmly, but there’s venom in his words. “Did she or did she not single-handedly capsize the ship?”

“She claimed she did, but it’s not possible. There’s no way a mere pacifist waterbender could conjure up a wave large enough to capsize a boat. My men believed her because she’s a good liar, but she can’t fool me,” Renjun says.

“Hm. Very well. I shall take your word for it.”

“Thank you, Fire Lord Yoo.”

“Injured or not, I still expect detailed reports of her progress from you.”

“I understand.”

“Do not fail me again, my son.”

“Yes, Father.”

You don’t sleep that night. You lay in your bed, eyes wide open, until the maid knocks on your door to wake you for training. Sitting up without a word, you don’t miss the surprised look on her face when you get up without protest. You let her dress you in total silence, and you’re in the training room five minutes early.

Renjun arrives shortly after, also shocked that you’re early. His face has a much healthier glow now, and he doesn’t look to be in much pain anymore. You hate that you feel relieved.

“The maid said you were looking for me yesterday. What did you need?” he asks, raising an eyebrow when you don’t initiate a conversation.

“How’s your injury?” you deflect.

“It’s basically gone, just a scar now. We have great healers,” he replies. “I, um, owe you both an apology and a thank you—”

“Can I see it?”

Renjun sighs irritably. “I told you it’s fine—”

While he’s distracted, you walk over to him in two large strides and lift his shirt up. The injury from last time isn’t the only scar he has. His entire chest and torso is covered in them. Jagged, tough ones that you knew hurt like hell. Ones that were purposefully inflicted. And you’d bet that he has more.

Renjun recoils from you, turning away. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Where’d the others come from?” you ask, even though you knew.

“That’s none of your fucking business. What the hell is wrong with you today? You’re acting crazier than usual.”

“I’m trying to buy you time,” you answer simply.

“Can you please say something that actually makes sense?” Renjun scowls.

“I’m going to kill you, and I want to see if you can convince me otherwise.”

There’s a beat of silence as he processes your words.

“Oh? Pray tell, why are you going to kill me?” He smirks, tilting his head.

“Because you’re spying on me and relaying information to the Fire Lord.”

Renjun’s eyes widen and his body stiffens.

“But you lied about me capsizing the boat yesterday, so I’m confused. Therefore, I’m giving you some time before I decide,” you explain. “Let me ask you again. Where’d the others come from?”

He continues staring at you in stunned silence.

“Actually, I’ll re-word the question. Why did your father do that to you?”

The cogs finally fall into place for Renjun. “So you were listening.”

“Yes.”

There’s no longer anger or shock in his features anymore, just defeat and weariness. “When I fail one of my missions, I receive a lash. They are marks of remembrance for soldiers. It signifies incompetence and the oath to never make the same mistake again.”

Your insides twist at how sick this all is. “No, it’s wrong. It’s cruel. Soldiers are not livestock that can be whipped into submission. They’re human beings too. You are his son, the most beloved to him. Or supposed to be.”

“Our loyalty is to the Fire Nation first, not blood.”

“Are you nothing more than sheep? You don’t have any free will of your own? You are your own person first. You have feelings. Those feelings will not always fall in line with your loyalty. There needs to be a line between right and wrong, Renjun. What the Fire Lord is doing to you is wrong. It’s absolutely nauseating,” you plead, stepping closer to him.

“You think I don’t know that?” Renjun whispers harshly. “My mind has been so damn muddy the moment I laid my eyes on you. You’re my mortal enemy. We were taught that fire was superior to the other elements, especially water. Waterbenders were caricatured as weak and feeble, and I believed it. But you weren’t. In fact, you were the opposite: confrontational, stubborn, damn annoying, and strong as hell. And I liked it. You made me question everything I knew. Then, you went and saved my life and made me even more stupefied. I was nothing but a jackass to you, but you still exhausted all your chi for me. When I woke back up, all I could think about was you. Without even realizing, I lied to the Fire Lord. Every fiber of my being wanted to protect you. But I know I shouldn’t have these feelings. You say that I should be able to draw the line, but this—the Fire Nation—is all I know. It’s all I have. Fire Lord Yoo, no matter how cruel, is still my father. What am I supposed to do, Y/N? Tell me.”

“What do you want to do?” you ask softly.

“I want,” he swallowed, eyes flickering to your lips. “you.”

Renjun’s hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. He places his forehead against yours, shutting his eyes. “Why aren’t you resisting?”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” you whisper. “Maybe I want this too.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

In an instant, his lips are sealed against yours. Your mouths move together in a desperate, frenzied dance. You whimper when he bites down hard on your lower lip before running his feverish tongue across the indent. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you card your fingers through his hair, pulling on it slightly. He moans into your mouth, and his hands slide down to your thighs. Renjun picks you up and presses you against the wall, slotting your bodies together perfectly. You begin tugging at his shirt until he finally gets the hint to take it off. You trace your fingers across the scars on his chest.

He leans down and kisses your fingers. “You aren’t disgusted?”

You brush some stray hairs from his face. “Never.”

You promise yourself that you’re going to kiss every scar on his body when you get the chance.

“You can’t stay here,” Renjun murmurs into your hair, running the the back of his hand up and down your bare arm. “I won’t be able to lie to him forever.”

“I know,” you say, burying your head further into his chest. “But where will I go? I need to learn firebending.”

“I have an old friend who lives in Ba Sing Se. His name is Doyoung. He defected from the Fire Nation when we were children and the Earth Kingdom granted him asylum. I used to hate him so much, thought he was a coward and a traitor,” Renjun says wryly. “Turns out he was the smart one.”

“But will he even agree to teach me?”

“You’re rather persistent. I’m sure you’ll be able to convince him,” he laughs.

“Come with me,” you whisper, propping yourself on your arms.

Renjun has never looked more beautiful. His pale skin illuminated by the moonlight as he stares at you like you created the universe.

“You know I can’t,” he says softly, pulling up the blanket that slipped from your bare back. “Get back under the covers, you’ll get cold.”

“Why not?” you ask, slipping back under the blanket and wrapping an arm around his torso.

“I can’t leave my men.”

You already knew what his answer would be, but you wanted to ask anyway. “When I master firebending, I’ll come back for you.”

He smiles, kissing your fingertips. “I’ll be here waiting for you.”

You grab his face, squishing his cheeks together. “Until then, you better not do anything stupid. If you get killed, I’ll revive you and then kill you myself.”

“That does sound pretty terrible.”

“That’s why you have to stay alive.”

“I promise.”

You wished this night would last forever, so you wouldn’t have to say goodbye.

#neowritingsnet #ncitynetwork #cznnet #neocaratnet #nct scenarios #nct imagines #renjun fluff #renjun angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct dream imagines #renjun #nct #choerrypuffs #master of all elements

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courtrae89 · 4 years

Text

Queens of Odins Eye Vikings/SOA crossover AU. Final Chapter part 1.

Warnings: smut, intercourse without condom (always use ptotection folks) language, minor arguments, cheating, tiny bit of pregnancy kink, but barely there, and bitchy friends being bitchy to each other 😂😉

I know it's been a very long time, but I really wanted to finish this, however I think its going to take at least one more part. Love you guys!

This fic is a collab with the beautiful, lovely crazy talented @laketaj24 @imgoldielikehawn @grungyblonde

“I promise I’ll be back home to you soon Hap, I’m so sorry babe I have to go. I’ll call soon.. I’ll be home soon” I flipped the phone shut quickly, the shower curtain sliding across the rod signaling the end of my conversation with Happy. “forgot my towel, but seeing as your not dressed yet, maybe I didn’t really need one” Ragnar smirked, pulling me against his chest. I gasped feeling that his chest wasn’t the only thing hard, I could feel his member against my thigh as he leaned in to plant sloppy kisses down my neck, making his way to the valley between my breasts.

As much as I hated to admit to myself, gods he felt good. His hand reached around and yanked my head back by my hair, a moan falling from my lips. “fuck.. I love it when you make those sweet fucking noises, get on the bed. All fours. I want to hear you choke on my cock.” I of course did as he said, crawling on to the bed, turning to face his beautifully crafted cock. The Gods must have favored him greatly to give him such blessings. I was still sore from the night before.

“open your mouth.” Opening my mouth nice and wide for him, sticking my tongue out, my mouth was already watering in anticipation for him. He slid his cock between my lips, bringing it back out to slide it around my lips, coating them in my spit. “fuck you take my cock so good.” His cock slipped back into my mouth, and with each stroke he forced it down my throat a little more.

Grabbing a handful of hair in each hand he began to fuck my face without warning “I know you love chocking on daddy’s cock, don't you baby?” I did my best to moan out an answer, but that wasn’t good enough, Ragnar reached behind me spanking my ass. I almost came between the sting of his rings on my ass and the rawness in my throat, but I knew better. I was going to be a good girl for him today, tonight.. well that was a different story.

Without warning the bedroom door swung open Ragnar never lost his rhythm, and I never took my eyes off of him. “ahh starting without me again old friend, one might think you want Court all to yourself and a little to often recently” Floki always had a jealous side, especially when it came to Ragnar. It was kind of that way with all the men that had been in my life I suppose.

Without second thought to what Floki was implying Ragnar continued to fuck my face, my sloppy moans becoming louder “ you ever make her cum just by sliding your cock down her throat my friend?.... get the fuck out Floki, you'll have her tonight, we both will.” With a scowl on his face he turned and walked out the door, just as quickly as he had come through it.

______________________________________

Ragnar could be insatiable, and today was definitely one of those days. Walking out of the front door together, he stops grabbing me by my wrist and pulling me back to him wrapping his arm around my waist, and looking at me with that hunger still in his eyes, his hand wraps around my neck and he gives me a sloppy kiss. “I'll see you at the bar in a few hours. Make sure Charlie is around, I may need to see you alone in your office for a bit.” Chuckling Ragnar finally made his way to his bike, the engine thundering as he took off for the club house.

I shook my head in disbelief, I had gone so far down this hole, I wasn’t sure how I would get out, but I had a plan. On still shaking legs, I made my way to my truck. Once inside I took a deep breath, I needed to get my head right before I called Happy again. Grabbing the rearview mirror to make sure my lipstick was still in tact I let out a scream, startled by the ghost that sat in my back seat. “what the fuck Brie! Are you fucking kidding me? Trying to kill me? Is that you, or are you playing one of your games again?” Bri laughed, fucking laughed! “oh it’s me sweetheart. You wanna tell me what the fuck that was I just saw?” I scoffed turning back around and starting the engine.

“I had to do something Bri, I couldn’t run away from it. It’s true, I don’t have to be attached to this club, but people I love are attached to this fucking town, this fucking club, and that fucking asshole has ruined everything!” I was pissed, my voice raised with each word, not because I felt like I was being slut shamed, but because why the fuck did she get to run away!

“Court, don't. I can feel it, don’t start on me. I had a million reasons to do what I did.” Bri’s death glare from the back seat caused goose bumps to spread over me. I knew her powers had grown tremendously, it wasn’t likely that they had ceased to do so while she was away. Still there weren't many I backed down from. “a year and a half Bri? Well your back at least, no doubt just in time for the final scene. Ivar has been insufferable, maybe now at least you two can hash this shit out.” I threw the truck in drive and pulled away from the curb, Bri's face unscrunching, a smile lightly playing at the corners, before she began to chuckle lightly. “you got balls bitch, but remember mine are bigger.” Oh how I was aware.

I dropped Bri off at her club and made my way to the bar, making good time. “Good morning Charlie! I gave him a bright smile. He chuckled “morning boss, you have a visitor in your office.” The devious smirk on his face confused me. “Thanks Charlie, be out in a bit” I called over my shoulder, making it to my door quickly, my heart was in my stomach, what if Ragnar beat me here and wondered why it took me so long to get here. I guess he would find out before the days end that Bri was back anyway.

I swung the door open, fully expecting those I icey eyes to be staring back at me, instead rich mahogany eyes stared back at me. I had longed to see those eyes for weeks, I was frozen. “I had to make sure you were okay.” Those words made me flash back to this morning, the desires I felt, the guilt was a heavy feeling in my chest, but I was doing what I had to. “Court come here… please” Happy broke my haze of guilt for the moment.

“Happy, God’s I’m so glad to see you.” I quickly dropped my bag in the chair by my desk, rounding it to curl myself into his arms. “Babe please don’t take this wrong, but you can’t be here, Ragnar, Floki, they could be having the place watched.” Hap tensed at those names, he hated having a constant reminder that I still wasn’t his completely. “I was careful, Charlie helped me out, but I could give two fucks, they’re just two more faces to add to my collection.” I understood his frustration, but he was jeopardizing everything I had been working so hard for. If they didn’t trust me I was as good as dead.

“Hap it ends tonight, I’ll be back in Charming and sporting your crow within the month baby, I just need you to let me finish this, without threatening everything I’ve done the past year and a half!” Hap scrunched his face, and pulled away from me, offended, hurt I would accuse him of putting me in any kind of predicament. “you think I’m not careful, that I wouldn’t do anything to keep you safe, to help you see this through? I’ve been sitting on the god damn side line for over a fucking year waiting for YOU Court, YOU! I asked you to take my crow for fucks sake, this ain’t no fucking joke to me, get your shit together and fucking come home, or I’ll fucking end it, the SONS ain’t worried about no war between us and OE!” I wasn’t really that surprised by his outburst, he was right, but I WAS worried.

“fuck…Ubbe…keep fucking me just like that baby” Ubbe's fingers tangled in Kia's hair, her back was flush against his chest, fucking her from behind. Those deep, hard, long thrusts driving Kia to the edge. Ubbe had his face burried in Kia’s neck, leaving bites followed by soft wet kisses to sooth the pleasurable pain he was inflicting on her, his grunts and moans filling the air. “This pussy will always be mine baby, Ivar could never fuck you like I do, I’m done with his games, you’re mine Kia, this pussy is mine, and soon you will be swollen with my child again." Ubbe had increasingly become more and more possessive, and as toxic as it could be at times, it was enough to pull Kia over the that edge, causing Kia to scream out his name over and over, her whole body shaking, eyes rolling, a woman possessed, her orgasm squeezed his cock so fucking perfectly his knees nearly faltered, “Fuck Kia, yes fucking cum all over my cock.” Ubbe's mouth fell open, and his orgasm washed over him. His cock spraying his hot seed inside her for the third time this morning, neither of them could stand any longer, the look of bliss on their faces as they fell to the bed. Ubbe took her face in his hands, kissing her with hunger still, he would never get enough of the way Kia made him feel so fucking good.

“You ever love anything so much you’d do anything to protect it?” Hap had heard that line before, but it was just as much true in my situation as it was in Jackson's. Hap leaned into me, his face a mere two inches from mine. “Come home Court, I’m done with the cat and mouse shit, take them down, protect your people and get the fuck out so we can move on.” He had said all he was going to, without a word he kissed my lips softly, and turned to walk out the door. “I love you Hap, and I’ll prove it I promise.” Hap didn’t acknowledge my declaration, he was gone. “FUCK” my head hurt, and it wasn’t even 9 am yet, what a fucking day it was going to be. “you alright boss? Sorry if over stepped, I didn’t think you would mind a visit from an old friend.” Charlie had stuck his head in my office hearing my frustrated growl, he looked like he was worried he had made the wrong move, but I wasn’t upset with him. “Its okay Charlie, you did right. Thanks”

________________________________________

Across town..

When he finally caught his breath Ubbe opened his mouth, “I meant what I said Kia, we're done with Ivars games, I don’t care what we have to do. We can runaway, fuck, everyone else has. Bri, Hvitserk. Court almost made it out. We can go, start over.” Kia wanted the same, but she wasn’t blind by the orgasm that had taken over earlier, she knew without a doubt Ivar would hunt her down, she wasn’t going to take Isla from him, he would likely kill them in the most painful way, and she damn sure wasn’t leaving her baby girl alone with that motherfucker.

“Ubbe, we’ve been over this a million times, you know that’s what I want, but you don’t have a clue what terror awaits for us if we do.”

Some queens they all turned out to be she thought. Bri was no where to be found, ran away from her problems, leaving her to take the brunt of Ivars madness. Court leaving the only man that truly treated her as an equal, to be stuck between not one but two that treated her like property, but that’s what they were right “property of” whichever biker they had fallen for. And lastly herself, forced to be with a man that she had once loved so deeply, but despised with every fiber in her being now.

“earth to Kia.. are you listening to me?” Ubbe pulled her from her self loathing thoughts, she looked at his concerned face, those blue as ice eyes that all three of the men she loved in her life had possessed. “sorry babe I was just daydreaming about your little fantasy life” Ubbe gave her a look of disbelief “Its not a fantasy, it could be reality if you would just get your head out of Ivars ass and help me make it happen” Ubbe was frustrated now, his post orgasmic bliss gone. She clearly hadn't heard a word he said, “but you know as well as I do” Kia jumped up from the bed cutting him off as she landed on her feet “you know damn well what would happen, I’m fucking sick of talking about it, this is just how are fucking lives are for now Ubbe, I’m not putting my babies in an even more fucked up situation for you” Ubbe tried to cut in, get a word in, but when Kia was on roll, there was no stopping her. Kia paced the room ranting, picking up her clothes. Ubbe stood to stop her, try and calm her, but she was out the door before he could reach for her. Ubbe sighed, “great talk Kia.” he blinked a few times, did that really just happen?

Kia wasn’t ready for those conversations, and she wouldn’t be until Ivar could be half way rational, she wasn’t sure that would ever happen though. They had been miserable for over a year now. The sex was still fucking amazing, especially when the hate they had for one another boiled over into sexual tension, but they both thought of someone else when they came, and the after glow of that orgasm only lasted so long.

Kia pulled into the parking lot noticing Courts Tahoe pulling behind her, once her car was parked in front of her shop she took a peek at the clubhouse, eyes scanning to see any signs of Ivar, she wasn’t looking for another fight, she just wanted to meet with her client and do what she loved doing best. “What the actual fuck” Kia had to do a double take, her heart slammed in her chest, those last words she spoke to her sister, her best friend and fellow queen running though her head. “freak” how she ever said those words she wasn't sure, but she remembered that feeling of betrayly, though all the time that had past, that feeling had dissipated. She was still pissed though, the bitch never bothered to come back, try to make amends, that's not what family was about. Kia's eyes narrowed as she flung her door open, stepping out of the car, but before she could make her way over she spotted Bri holding on to the hands of two little boys no older than 5, they were a perfect mix of ocean blue eyes, and lovely bronzed skin, they were identical, they were twins, but Bri had only been gone for no more than a year and a half… how could this be, were they actually the product of Ivar and Bri's love? Before she could fully approach Bri, Court was beside her, the same look of bewilderment on her face. “Are they….?” Before she could finish, “it would appear that way” Kia let out, fuck how powerful had Bri become while she was hiding away, and is that why she didn’t come back sooner?

Honestly I don't have the tag list anymore, I'm so sorry! I hope to have part two in the works and finished before this upcoming week comes to an end. Love you guys!

@whenimaunicorn @pokeasleepingsmaug @bloodyivar @ivarsshieldmadien @ivars-heathen-army @therealcalicali @sparklemichele @ivarsrideordie @vikingsbifrost @starrynite7114

#fanfiction #queensofodinseye #soaau #vikingsau

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simscustomshopguitars · 4 years

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Checkout this custom Flying V we just finished building for a customer. Mahogany back, 5A quilted maple top, Mahogany neck & Ebony fingerboard. Stained in a transparent emerald green, natural back with a Satin clear coated neck. Loaded with @seymourduncanpickups Hot Rodded pickups, Tone Pros bridge, Tone Pros tailpiece & @hipshotproducts locking tuners! On its way now to Brainerd, MN. https://www.instagram.com/p/CB1jmqVnytv/?igshid=hrzc4hp1t6xm

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solynaceawrites · 4 years

Text

Wires [1] A Fresh Start

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“Everybody has a geography that can be used for change; that is why we travel to far off places. Whether we know it or not, we need to renew ourselves in territories that are fresh and wild. We need to come home through the body of alien lands.” — Joan Halifax

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Holding an aspirin tablet between her teeth, craving a drink, Lir listens to the clacking of the keyboard and blinks against the watery light streaming between the blinds. The office of Red Grave’s chief of police is smaller than the one in Fortuna, but neater: gone are the numerous potted plants, the maps and spreadsheets tacked to every available surface, the bookcases littered with little knick-knacks and family photographs. Those personal touches have been ignored in favor of something that is neat, organized, the little bit of warmth the room has coming from the soft bulb of the desk lamp and the mahogany of the furniture. It’s a bit of a relief, really. Sanctus had been old—too old, in the opinion of many—and took on a fatherly role that often left Lir feeling chafed and angry. At least here, going from first impressions, there will be no blurring of the line between duty and her personal life.

Seated with his back rod-straight is her new superior. A gold nameplate on the desk reads J.D. Morrison, and as he reads whatever file he’s pulled up on his monitor, Lir wonders what the initials stand for. James Dean is her first thought, and she finally crunches the aspirin, using the bitter flavor to smother her budding laughter. Sure, yeah, why not? Red Grave is a big city, and maybe Morrison’s parents had been so attached to the ill-fated actor that they’d saddled their son with his name. Certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing she’s heard of.

“Detective Thorne,” Morrison says. He opens a drawer and pulls out a cigar, which he lights in clear disregard of the signs posted on the doors to the building. “Says here you transferred out for personal reasons.”

“Yessir.” The dull throbbing behind her temples grows at the scent of smoke. “Wanted a change of scenery.”

He coughs, clears his throat. “That so? Well, we’ve had people do it for less. Though your track record . . . You seem to have been on a fast path to promotion. ” Lir says nothing. The expectant silence stretches between them until it turns uncomfortable, but she’s not in any particular mood for niceties. She has an apartment to unpack and a bitch of a headache brewing and she wants to get this introduction over with as quickly as she can. Finally, Morrison sighs, silver plumes curling through the air. “Normally, you’d get a tour and time to sort out your desk, but we got a call this morning and it’s all hands on deck. You up to fieldwork?”

His shrewd gaze rephrases that question nicely. You willing to actually work? “Sure.”

Morrison studies her for a few seconds longer, then nods and stands up, raising his voice to a shout that makes her wince. “Officer Simmons!”

A young man with untidy white hair tucked messily under his cap stumbles in. “Yes, Chief?”

“Take Detective Thorne here to the alley.” Simmons’ face pales, and Morrison barks, “Now!”

“Yes, Chief!” Simmons snaps into a hasty salute before scurrying out of the office.

Lir gives one of her own to Morrison and follows, feeling a sort of bemused pity for the officer. She’d been there once, bright-eyed and eager to please, thinking that the law enforcement they showed on television, with its friendly camaraderie and kind-yet-stern chiefs, was the truth of it. Simmons must still be clinging to that, and she pops another aspirin into her mouth and chews it as they weave through the bullpen to the doors that lead outside.

Simmons doesn’t say much, though he opens her door when they reach the cruiser, flushing under her raised brow, and his uneasy quiet persists well into the ride. Definitely fresh, Lir thinks. Probably still spit shines his shoes in the morning and tells people he’s a cop with pride.The thought is bitter, and angry, and distasteful. Not that it really bothers her anymore; her mind has been particularly not tasty as of late.

They drive through cramped, winding streets that turn unexpectedly into one-ways and cross over themselves into a maze, closed in by the dingy buildings until it all feels more than a little claustrophobic. Red Grave City is coastal, just like Fortuna, but it’s much larger, with more crime, and rumors of rampant corruption and greased pockets give it an unsavory reputation with other law enforcement agencies. Yet in stark contrast, it’s as much of a tourist hotspot as Fortuna, its historic district and scenic parks and ritzy downtown drawing numerous crowds every year, regardless of the season. Lir takes all of it in, the cafès and hotels and convenience stores fighting for space, their colorful signs and banners almost garish against the dull brick, and it’s not until they pass into a more modern area with skyscrapers of steel and glass that she decides to ask where the hell Simmons is taking her to.

“What’s in this alley?”

Simmons jumps, the wheel jerking under his hands and sending them partially over the white lines. A minivan behind them lays on the horn, and Lir watches the driver raise his middle finger as he speeds by once Simmons has corrected. “Sorry, ma’am. Uh, Detective. I thought the Chief filled you in.”

“No.” She straightens. “Just that it’s serious.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he mumbles. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.” The sight of his momentary pout sends irritation flaring hot and thick along her spine. Lir swallows it and rubs her temples. “Just crack the damn window.”

“Sure thing.” He does, and then reaches for a pack on the dash and. Drawing a cigarette from it, he says, “Call came in maybe twenty minutes before you showed up. Jane Doe found in an alley. She, uh . . . Well, it might be better for you to see for yourself, but it’s . . .” His fingers tremble as he tries to flick his lighter. Lir takes pity on him and pulls her own from her coat, and he smiles gratefully as she holds it to his cigarette, though his face is pallid and shiny with sweat. “First body?” At his nod, she sighs. “You’ve probably heard it gets easier.”

“Does it?” Simmons looks at her hopefully.

Lir snorts. “No. Eyes on the road.”

He retreats into a silence that’s not quite sullen, leaving her to her thoughts. Which mostly center around whether or not she’ll have time to find a new bar, one of the nice and private ones where no one wants to get friendly or gives a shit that she’s a cop, only that she pays her tab. When they arrive at the crime scene, Simmons stays in the car, looking ready to puke. Lir raps on the door once it’s closed and jerks her chin, signalling for him to head out, and she waits until he gives a shaky thumbs up and pulls away from the curb to head towards the yellow tape strung between a nightclub on one side and a sports bar on the other. An officer at the corner stops her until she shows her badge, then lifts the tape for her to step beneath. Immediately, she’s assaulted by the wet, mossy stench of death and viscera, and she takes the gloves and shoe covers and slides them on to buy herself time to adjust to it.

Cops swarm outside of the alley, keeping the rabid press contained. Inside, there’s only four others, three men and a woman, but Lir ignores them in favor of taking in all that she can before she’s forced to talk. Four dumpsters are present, two on each wall with the city’s waste disposal logo printed on the side; bits of trash and litter surround them: used condoms, soda cans, scraps of newspaper, all of the usual findings. There’s no spray paint graffiti, and a security camera faces out into the busy street. Maybe they’ll get something useful from it, though she doubts it. In her experience, they’re usually for show, just a weak-hearted attempt to prevent crime or a way to deter violence on the premises of businesses who host rowdy crowds.

The scenery accounted for, Lir turns her attention to the misshapen body in the center. Nude and pale, the woman is covered from chest to knee in red that’s gone black with time, her unseeing eyes staring at the sky with a terror that won’t disappear until the medical examiner closes them on the slab. She walks towards her, offal and iron making her throat constrict against nausea, and the woman kneeling next to the corpse looks up at her approach with a friendly nod. Dressed in a black jumpsuit, she’s no doubt the M.E., or someone affiliated with them, and she stays quiet as Lir kneels to fully take in the mutilation inflicted on the victim.

While the rest of her is untouched, her throat is slashed, and she’s been split open from rib to hip, the skin and muscle peeled away to reveal her organs beneath. As far as Lir can tell, nothing has been removed, but something has certainly been added: a pendant rests on top of her stomach, glistening wetly in the daylight. “I pulled it out,” the maybe-M.E. says. “Dante wanted to see it.”

“Dante?” The woman tilts her head, and Lir turns to see a man speaking quietly but furiously to two uniforms. “Uh-huh.”

“You must be the new detective. My name’s Trish.” Lir looks blankly at the hand she holds out before taking it, and Trish’s handshake is firm and cordial. “I’m the medical examiner, coroner, whatever you’d like to call me. Your stiffs go onto my slab, anyway.”

Her dry humor draws an unwilling smile from Lir. “Okay. Trish. I’m Lir, Detective Thorne, take your pick as long as it’s not Lily. What can you tell me about our Jane Doe?”

“Not much, other than the obvious.” Trish points to the wound. “This was more than likely done pre-mortem, going by the amount of blood—there wouldn’t be so much of it if she was already dead—and there are a couple of hesitation marks at her throat. But as to which of those killed her, and how long ago, why she didn’t fight back, I won’t know all of that until I take her out of here.”

Lir considers all of that. “Why do you think she didn’t resist?”

“No self-defense wounds on the hands or arms. At least, not that I can see.”

“Mm. Your guys get pictures?”

“Not yet.” Trish smiles wryly. “Chief wanted you to see it first. It’s why Dante’s giving those two a lashing, though he’s just shooting the messengers at this point.”

“Right.” Standing, Lir peels off her gloves and drops them into the bag Trish holds out to her. “Guess I should go save ‘em.”

“Good luck.”

Lir snorts as she turns. On first sight, she’s already unimpressed with the so-called Dante. He’s handsome, sure, model or film star handsome even, with his straight nose and strong jaw dusted with a five o’clock shadow, but he’s dressed like a detective from a noir novel: pinstripe trousers and a matching vest, a red tie, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, brown Oxfords polished to a dull shine. The only things that break the illusion that he’s stepped off the silver screen are the watch at his wrist, the gleaming handcuffs clipped to the back of his belt, the radio at his hip, and the Beretta in its holster next to the radio. She more than half expects him to pull out a flask from somewhere and take a swig mid-tirade, but the only time he pauses is to draw in a breath.

“—how the hell he expects us to carry out an investigation when he’s waiting on some country bumpkin—” “Howdy,” Lir drawls.

He whirls on her so fiercely that she instinctively rests her hand on the butt of her own gun, her pulse roaring into her ears. Dante seems to catch himself, straightening to his full height to scowl down to her, and she’s startled by the pale, frozen blue of his eyes. “You Detective Thorne?”

She shrugs. “Country bumpkin works, too.”

Dante doesn’t have the grace to look embarrassed that she overheard him. “I’m Detective Redgrave. Yes, like the city, no, I don’t give a shit. You done lookin’ at the body?”

“Sure.”

“You hear that, Trish?” Dante hollers. “Take her out.”

Behind her, she hears the telltale metallic clatter of a gurney being placed on the ground, followed by a bit of huffing, the rasp of a zipper, and more heavy breathing and the rustling of fabric. “Are you going to give me the details or am I going to guess?”

He barks a laugh. “Morrison sent you out here blind? Doesn’t surprise me. Sure, I’ll humor you.” With a grin that’s more mocking than genuine, he says, “Call came in at 7:45. Some poor schmuck takin’ out the trash found our body and had the decency to lose his breakfast outside of the crime scene before he called. No witnesses so far, no clothing, no I.D., just—” “What about the camera?” Lir points over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Can’t get to it until the owner shows up, which, according to his staff could be anytime between noon and midnight.”

“Alright. What do you need me to do?”

Dante considers her, that cruel smile still playing at his lips. “You want to help?” She nods. “Go keep those fuckers away.”

“The press?” His expression doesn’t slip, and she shakes her head. “That’s uniform work. Send them to—”

“Either deal with them or go home. I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

Just like that, he turns away in a clear dismissal. Lir stares at his broad back, her head throbbing from the night before and the rage that’s been building since she stepped into Morrison’s office: rage at the incompetence of her former chief, at the glares that had followed her once she entered the precinct, at Simmons’ earnest naivety, at whoever butchered a woman and left her in an alley like she was no better than the trash already there, at Dante himself. It’s familiar, and choking, the same burning that’s festered within her all her life with every snide, “Are you sure you can handle that? Wouldn’t you rather answer phones and let the men handle the rest?”

Instead of giving into her urge to punch him in his smug mouth, she inhales deeply and holds it until spots dance in her vision. Then she exhales and heads towards the bright yellow tape and, beyond it, the reporters and photographers craning their necks to get a look at the violence that’s visited their city. Two steps, and cold fingers curl around her wrist, sending numbness crawling along her skin from where they touch. Lir closes her eyes, counting to ten, and then she pulls free. Only on the other side of the tape does she look back, and the sight of a woman in a red dress with pale hair staring back at her sadly, her lips moving soundlessly, is exactly what she expected. Definitely getting a drink, she muses.

The reporters are no different from the ones Lir dealt with in Fortuna, just more persistent. She repeats the phrase, “No comment,” so many times that it begins to lose meaning to her, until a uniform comes to relieve her and she’s able to hail a taxi. But she doesn’t go back to work straight away. The cabbie drops her at a liquor store, waiting at the curb while she hurries in to buy a mini bottle of vodka and hurries back out, and she cracks it open and takes it like a shot, stowing the empty bottle in her pocket as they reach the precinct. Lir tips him double, then heads inside, and the bustling and noise is so at odds with the sullen silence of only hours ago that she nearly stops in her tracks. It’s only force of will that keeps her moving to the stairs in the back and up them, to where her desk sits just outside of Morrison’s office.

Dante is seated at the desk across from hers, a phone clamped between his face and shoulder while he writes on a notepad. Lir waits until he hangs up to say, “You’re an ass.”

“Been called worse,” he replies distractedly. “Trish’s report get in yet?”

“Not in my inbox. You got a problem with me?”

“No offense, sweetheart, but city crime is different from country crime.”

“I’m from Fortuna. Not the mountains.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you dealt with a lot of purse snatching.”

Lir bristles. “Listen, jackass—”

“Go see Trish. See if she’s got a report yet or not.”

Her mouth hangs open. Then she stands, slamming her chair back into her desk loudly enough that Morrison looks out from his office with a frown, and stalks back the way she’d come, heading for the elevators. On one hand, she understands Dante’s shit attitude; she’s new to Red Grave, new to their force. On the other, she transferred from Homicide to Homicide, and there were enough of them in Fortuna that the sight of another isn’t going to send her running, and he’s a sour bastard with a chip on his shoulder who probably thinks he can do nothing wrong and his word is law. Which she’s only proving, she realizes, running his errands for him, and she jabs irritably at the button that will take her to the basement and the morgue. Next time he demands she do something, she’s going to tell him right where he can shove it. In the back of her mind, however, disappointment is bitter. So much, she thinks, for a fresh start.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante #dante sparda #dmc oc #lirael thorne #lir #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #wires #dmcweek #dmcweek2020 #holy shit i'm so nervous for this lol #i've been working on it for over a month

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