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thenightcallsme · 7 months

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Dove | Simon "Ghost" Riley

A/N: Hello lovely people, I have a backlog of short stories written for things like Avatar: The Way of Water, MWII, Stranger Things, The Arcana, Outer Banks, and many more that I have never posted and keep to myself. I'm talking hundreds of pages worth of fluff, angst and eventual smut - you've got to get through some plot first, though. HOWEVER, if anyone likes my writing and wants to task me with stuff to write, like straight smut, I'm all ears. Anyway, if anyone is interested in reading stuff I could potentially post, here is a snippet for a little Call of Duty fic.

Synopsis: You're to play the materialistic wife of a rich, well-connected husband during an undercover mission. You're to-be husband is a temporary recruit of the 141, who is to supervise your every move. While getting ready, you have a surprising interaction with your Lieutenant, Ghost, who you swear has made it his mission to treat you like a stranger day after day. Until now.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

Contains: pretty much nothing of importance, just Ghost being as unreadable as ever, causing reader to have their mind blown by the smallest of crumbs

• • • • •

I look in the mirror at the woman who is supposed to be Lyanna Winstead. She’s the partner of Dario Winstead, son of a wealthy businessman. Everything about Lyanna is a carbon copy of myself. Her smile, her hair, her figure, her voice. Only, she presents herself in a way I haven’t in a long time.

Gone is the tactical gear and camouflage colours. Instead, she wears the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. The outline of the dress is simple yet captivating to suits the old Hollywood theme. Silver cascades down her body, creating the illusion of a mercury waterfall. The sweetheart neckline and thin straps compliment her full breasts and soft arms. Adorning the bodice are glistening silver designs that remind me of old, swirling boarders on French mirrors. The designs fall away, melting into plain silver threads that fall to the floor and pool at her feet. The dress hugs her body like a second skin, only melting away at her knees. The silhouette fit her hourglass figure well.

The silver jewellery she wears is modest so as not to take away from the dress’s magnificence. On her neck is a dainty Vivienne Westwood necklace, the inner planet of the pendant a pearl. Matching dangling earrings hang from her lower lobe piercing. The rest of her ear piercings are small diamond studs and silver hoops. One wrist displays a thin diamond tennis bracelet and a Van Cleef one with emerald clovers. On the other is the only ode to myself: the evil eye bracelet I never take off. The thin silver chain and bejewelled eye thankfully blend into the rest of the accessories. Small rings cover her fingers, few in number and easily ignorable. The bands are thin and any jewels are small and clear. However, one stands out; a breathtaking sight on her left index finger.

Glittery diamonds cover the band, giving way to a large, circular moonstone. Rainbow shimmer comes to life in the milky stone when the light hits it just right. Separating the band and the centrepiece are two small flowers with diamond centres. Two separate rings sit beneath and below the main one, shaped in V’s to follow the curve. At each point are flowers similar the the others, with curved leaves flowing from the petals. All three are gold, contrasting against the silver to make a statement.

I’m not just looking back at Dario’s partner. I’m looking at his wife.

I’m Will’s wife.

Fake wife, really. I nearly shake my head in wonder. I still look like myself, but everything about this makes me feel like I’m wearing a second skin. Lyanna’s skin. Every so often I stare at the ring in amazement. If anyone ever proposes to me, I would hope for nothing less than the magnificent that is this ring. All that adorns my body is courtesy of Will. Unbeknownst to me before this mission, he’s filthy rich, and a filthy rich man needs a filthy rich wife. All the designer jewellery, the dress, the shoes, and the engagement ring are authentic and top dollar.

After the last touch-ups of make-up, fragrances, and hair, I’m making my way to the courtyard. I’m to have one last briefing and run over of the plan before getting in Will’s blacked-out Corvette. I have to give it to him: he really knows how to pull off a lavish life with style.

Already am I wishing to rip off the damn stilettos on my feet. While I could live in the dress and jewellery, this is the one day a year I’m willing to wear heels.

The air is cool, the last golden light of day painting the courtyard and walls of Alejandro’s HQ in a luminescent glow. A low rumble fills the air from my 'husband’s car. Will leans against it, speaking with the 141. Ghost lingers back by the front door, arms folded and back leaning against a pillar. Weaving between his fingers with precision is a small dagger. His head turns at the sound of approaching heels.

“Was starting to think you were a no show,” he says gruffly.

I stop beside him to adjust my dress. It doesn’t really need adjust, but suddenly being subjected to his gaze makes me anxious. “Told you it would take a while. Gotta look the part.”

The way his eyes travel over my body almost makes me shrink away. Every curve is on full display. The tight bodice holds up my already full breasts, and somehow my waist-to-hip ratio is even more accentuated. Wearing my uniform doesn’t exactly hide my figure thanks to the tight shirts and cargo pants that aren’t exactly loose from my mid-thigh up. However, a lot of me is lost beneath the vests and belts.

“Stop...inspecting me, or whatever you're doing,” I mumble. “Makes me think I need to fix something.”

I begin taking the skirts in my hand as I survey my descent. It’s not too much, but the steps are steep enough to be an issue. The heels on my feet are no help.

Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t. You look…”

“Important?”

“Pretty.”

I stop in my tracks to look back at him, unsure if I heard him correctly. He doesn’t look away or seem embarrassed to have said so. Then again, when does he ever. No-nonsense and prideful in his emotionless character, Ghost is not one to regret his words. Everything he says is a calculated move. Compliments are certainly something to be calculated in a sense, but I don't think of it to be a compliment, even when a small part of me screams for more. I'm playing my part well; there'd be a problem if I wasn't looking pretty. A slow smile quirks at my lips, teasing in nature as I raise my brows. The teasing turns to surprise, however, when he offers me his arm.

“How chivalrous,” I quip as I lightly take his offered arm. Even the slightest contact sends thrills beneath my skin. “Careful, Lieutenant. I might start to think you actually like me.”

Ghost’s eyes train on the ground. At first, I wonder if he doesn’t want to meet my eyes, only then to realise he’s watching my footing. I barely catch a glimpse of his squint.

“I like you in one piece,” he corrects. “This job will be over the second you sprain your ankle on a flight of stairs.”

I hum. “Ahh, there it is.”

He looks up at me then. “There’s what?”

“Thinking about the job, as always.”

As always, I keep my tone light and teasing, but there's an accusing hint. A subtle jab I let slip that I pray goes unnoticed.

There's no room for emotions in this job, and though I've compromised that with the rest of the 141, Ghost is a difficult case. An impossible riddle, a mind-numbing equation with no real answer. Nothing about him should be likeable. He's painfully honest and dismissive when he bothers to speak, he's angry half the time, his attention is never lingering and his mind is an impenetrable fortress. It would make more sense to give in to Alejandro's shameless flirting or Gaz's sleazy grins. Only, it's Ghost that keeps me up at night. It's Ghost, who sends a pang through my chest when he reminds me any care is from pure investment in performance. I'm useful, nothing more.

I can count on one hand the number of times he's thrown me small morsels of care as if I were a stray dog whining and begging for food. Even then, I wouldn't have made it past three fingers. A greedy piece of me spins those memories into something that serves my desire. See, he's returning your interest, that hopeful voice purrs in my ear while feeding me botched versions of what really happened. I know better than to give in to the delusions. The ending of those memories is what sobers me, and it's no different now. I need you in shape for tomorrow. Keep your head in the game. I'm just making sure this isn't interrupting the job. He's always quick to redirect any concern from me to the job.

Maybe, just maybe...what if he was trying to save face? Does he not want to care?

Ghost remains silent for a moment. In consideration or because he doesn’t care to answer, I can’t tell. But when he does answer, his voice has my full attention. It’s low and rough, each syllable laced with something intoxicating. Something I've never heard before and never thought I would hear. Something I want to hear again and again.

“You have no idea what I think about, dove.”

Dove.

The response catches me so off guard I almost forget to take another step. We’ve reached the bottom of the steps, now. The second both my feet are on the flat expanse of the concrete driveway, he breaks away from our linked arms. There is no follow-up, no hint of a miscommunication, not even a look in my direction before he's gone from my side. All I can do is hesitantly trail behind him, lost in my thoughts.

Ghost has never given me a nickname before. Hell, he barely refers to me as anything other than my callsign. When I do hear my real name, it's never for good reasons.

The nickname that pours from his lips comes in a deep voice curled into a sensual tone, sounding like silk-covered marble, low and intended for my ears only. It's strangely intimate—something a lover would purr with lustful eyes and a seeking touch. Somehow it seems to invoke a phantom touch that glides across my skin. Gooseflesh puckers in its chilling wake. In the span of only a few seconds, I seem to experience every emotion humanly possible. Shock, surprise, a sickening, perverse enjoyment...and irritation that I must now join the rest of the team as if a mind-numbing heat was not boiling in the pits of my stomach

• • • • •

I'll get the formatting of posting these to be prettier btw I promise 🙏🙏 But anyway just interact with this or tell me directly if you want more.

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weak-aesthetic · 1 year

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I think this had potential to be such a great story for Velasco that’s been executed very poorly. If they want to bring Churlish on it’s such a bad poisoned intro unless and Liv going hard for her is weird considering how she even told her what she did was illegal. Unless she messes up a cases doing something else illegal so she doesn’t stick around that long? Then what’s their endgame for Velasco? I can’t imagine how he feels being on a squad that doesn’t trust him. Then the one person potentially in his corner (Muncy) was MIA all episode. I’m really hoping we get more context with what Muncy did with what she knew. Cause I really don’t see her keeping it from Velasco. Sigh. So much potential but it’s just not there for me.

Mariska did AMAZING with the storyline for the victim and his wife. It was a truly beautiful storyline but Velasco’s character arc and backstory suffered dearly because of it. This was a huge pivotal point in the development of Joe’s character and it was wasted away.

Like when Liv asked Fin, what do we know about Velasco, the answer truly was what Fin gave. We don’t know much about him except he has a kinda dark past. Like Velasco has been on there for going on this is his second season and what did we know about him before tonight?

His dad wasn’t the best father and he kept his belt to remind him of what he overcame in childhood. He had been forced into a gang when he was younger, made a vow to only do good if this one kid who he helped set up for an assault lived and then was shipped to Nebraska to get out of the gang. Also we know he’s a huge soccer fan and is into wrestling and that he’s single, trying to find a girlfriend. That’s about it (I may be missing some things because my memory is fuzzy). I feel like we knew about Amanda’s sister Kim than we do Velasco tbh.

And it’s like, Liv is THIS quick to turn on him like he wasn’t a HUGE help in the BX9 case. She even said he would be her “maestro” at one point because he had so much knowledge on how gangs worked. And now all of sudden he’s “180 lbs of water in the shape of a man”???

Okay side rant here:

Velasco had to learn how to camouflage. He had to learn how to blend into his surroundings to survive when he was younger. His friend killed those people and lied to the cartel for YEARS because he knew Joe couldn’t do it because that’s not who Joe is. Joe isn’t a killer. He’s a protector, a friend, a lover if you will. But he had to learn to act like one to survive. His whole life he’s been forced to play a role (like Olivia pointed out) because it’s the only way he knows how to live. Joe’s self defense mechanism is to blend in with what’s around him and so that’s what he’s been doing. And I feel like this whole storyline can be a HUGE arch for him if we finally see him develop a sense of self. He doesn’t need to find his friend and turn him to prove himself to Liv, but to prove to himself that his past is behind him and he can stop blending into his surroundings. The only person we’ve seen him even be himself with is Muncy (the whole scene of him buying her a soccer ball). So it’s like, this has a chance to be a huge thing for him and it was handled so poorly.

And going to the Churlish thing, I really hope it blows up in Liv’s face tbh. Liv is being such a hypocrite when it comes to everything related to Velasco. She threatens Muncy and tells her not to tell him but if it had been her, Stabler and Cragen, she would have lost it on Cragen. And then let’s Churlish, a white shield, do the interview with Fin that was only happening because of her ILLEGAL recording. Are we forgetting all the times Ms. Benson crossed lines for Elliot? She’s being so hypocritical and it’s honestly making me so irritated. Like she’s okay with Churlish committing a FELONY of recording a conversation with an inmate and let’s her join the squad but pretty much gives Velasco an ultimatum of turn in your friend who SAVED YOUR LIFE or your job is toast. Yeah both committed a crime, but you shouldn’t reward Churlish’s criminal act with a spot on the team and threaten Velasco for his. And also?? Churlish being so defensive that Velasco looked into her background as if she didn’t record a personal story of his life?? Like bitch sit down and shut up.

Honestly as much as I’m for “women empowering women” I hope Muncy chews Churlish out because no one else seems like they’re gonna do it. Churlish seems like a VERY toxic character and tbh if she does stick around, Idk how long I’ll be able to stand it. She committed a whole crime and gets rewarded? Fuck that.

I really want to know what did Muncy do with the information too. She’s the only who seems to even care about Velasco because Fin and Liv turned on him so quick.

#joe velasco #grace muncy #olivia benson #law and order svu #tiff talks #law and order special victims unit

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bastardsunlight · 2 years

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“Reach the launch deck before he does. It’s your only chance.”

The voice that invades their comms is low and carries a light but distinct Russian accent. Has Chris heard it before, maybe earlier when they’d picked up the ship’s radios in the stairwell? What little was said before was too short to be sure, hardly a full sentence. There’s not time to debate.

There is gunfire outside — the rapid shots of a pistol, and the slower, thundercrack sounds of something big. As they move, this turns to short-burst automatic rifle fire, and long before they return to the outside, the shooting stops.

The thing that waits for them on the balcony above the launch deck should not be standing. It is clad in black and gray camouflage gear bearing only Tricell’s insignia upon the shoulders, and beneath that a subdued tag that reads E16.

It does not lift the carbine in its hands, does not even turn to look at them. It is aiming at something else, and if they look closely, a sluggish drip of crimson periodically falls from a corner of fabric or the end of a strap. The rifle in its hands is coated in blood from stock to trigger, and its stance is wide and heavily reliant upon the railing presently supporting the rifle.

He fires twice just before something strikes the balcony with force enough to send the shock and vibration through the soles of their boots — a sizeable pipe wrench, clearly meant for the unsteady mercenary holding the thrower in his sights. The tool lodges in the metal of the gridded walkway like a knife through drywall.

“Stop that thing,” comes the voice again, this time from the shooter. A knee buckles, he steadies himself, and where he briefly grips the railing is smeared red. Through the mask obscuring the thing — for it doesn’t sound like a human; it’s practically snarling — its breathing is uneven and labored. “Think I softened him up for you.”

Chris and Sheva’s initial instinct is, of course, to lift their firearms. It is only Chris’s lightning reflexes that stop his young partner from squeezing the trigger. They are on high alert, as well anyone might be when facing down semi-sentient biomass at every turn, trapped in a relatively enclosed space with mutated former humans and other sundry monstrosities built specifically to kill them.

“That voice,” Chris grunts, turning his gaze to Sheva a moment. She nods, brows knitted.

“But why?”

“Do we have time to ask that?”

She has to admit that they do not and together they ascend the stairs. The smell of iron is thick near the man-shaped thing which has just spoken clear, if accented, English to them. He is far too damaged to think of taking the two of them on. They are exhausted, certainly, but the adrenaline will be enough to keep them going for a while before the inevitable crash. Bruises and abrasions are nothing compared to what this person, tagged E16, has suffered.

In a gesture of solidarity or something like it, Chris grasps the man’s shoulder as they pass. With a subtle nod, he thanks the stranger and then steels his jaw for what is next. I’m not ready for this, he reminds himself, but I’ve gotta be—for her, for my partner. Flaking out is not an option.

#response #thumbsupgunsout #vehxmence #violence #blood #nice nice nice nice nic #e

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lochsides · 3 years

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If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power Review

Where do I even begin with 'If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power'? It is such a good album, it's almost criminal. If I had to pick the best album to be released this year, IICHLIWP would be it. Halsey has always been an excellent songwriter, that was never even in question, but it has been proved once again, in case anyone wasn't paying attention. IICHLIWP is an album that covers so much depth in sound and in lyric. The dichotomy of the Madonna and the Whore, as they said in their announcement of the album, is an overarching theme of IICHLIWP and it is articulated so consummately. The references to pregnancies and childbirth are more subtle than I expected but that's what makes them so genius. This is an album where every lyric is intentional.

My favourite songs are ‘The Tradition’, 'Bells in Santa Fe', '1121' and 'Ya'aburnee'. More detailed thoughts on each track are below the cut. Trigger warnings for sexual assault and miscarriages.

The Tradition — This is the first song on the album and Halsey had already fucked me up so there's that. I got full-body chills listening to 'The Tradition'. The production is masterful. There is this darkness that settles in early and ebbs and flows beautifully, not only throughout the song but the album as a whole. 'The Tradition' already sets up so many of themes of this album, but what a way to talk about sexual assault. I am in love with the entire chorus line but I think my favourite lyric is ‘she got the life she wanted but now all she does is cry.’

Bells in Santa Fe — The transition from 'The Tradition' into 'Bells in Santa Fe' was so smooth I didn't even notice that the songs had changed until I looked at my screen. I don't think I could actually describe how much I adore this song if I took up the rest of my life doing so. The production is absolutely God-tier. Everything from the way it keeps building throughout the song to the percussion to the piano on the second chorus and the distortion towards the end is so perfectly done. You will never hear me rave about production this much. What a fucking song! On top of all that, you have the lyrics that are so powerful. When they said 'cause who the fuck would chose this?' it reminded me of my favourite Manicsong, 'Forever... is a long' where they sing 'how could somebody ever love me?' so that stood out to me. I love the cadence on 'secondhand thread in a secondhand bed with a second man's head' but the lyric 'better off dead so I reckon I'm headed to Hell instead' is probably the one that hits the hardest. My escapist, runaway tendencies felt very exposed by the entirety of the pre-chorus.

Easier than Lying — The way she emotes on ‘you lair, you don’t love me’ is fucking everything. I needed to start with that. It’s my favourite aspect of the whole song. And then there is that obvious callback in the bridge. ‘Easier than Lying’ is the punk sound we were promised of IICHLIWP and they delivered. The Grungy electric guitar, the bass, the production!!! This one goes hard and it makes no apologies of it’s anger.

Lilith — ‘I’m disruptive, I’ve been corrupted, and by now I don’t need a fucking introduction.’ I mean what could I possibly say after that??! Honestly, I love the duality of how this line could be about Halsey but it could also be about Lilith, herself. There is a selfishness to 'Lilith' that I love. When you connect that to the mythology of Lilith preying on pregnant women and the context of this album — it's just got so many layers. Halsey's mind!! I love the sound of this song. The production has a classic rock flare to it. Those drums are so clean and the bass accompanies it perfectly. The smoothness of their vocal on this track is very pleasing to listen to.

Girl is a Gun — I'm not going to lie, this song isn't for me. I get it. The message is right up my street but the overall sound of it just isn't what I personally like. I do love their little laugh at the start! The lyric 'it's a shot in the dark, I'm not a walk in the park, I come loaded with the safety switched off' is my favourite.

You asked for this — This song is really interesting because they gave us a pop punk sound, pushed it to the back of the track, really grungey guitar riffs and all, but their voice is so light and delicate almost, very airy in a way that stands apart from the backing track. I really like it. To me, it's like an emphasis of the message of 'You asked for this'. Young women are oftentimes forced to grow up too soon and 'be a big girl.' Society forgets, I would even say purposely overlooks, that they are 'still somebody's daughter,' one of the few things that is used to give value to a woman. We've all heard people throw the phrase "but what if it was your daughter/sister?" into the conversation when discussing women that have somehow been abused by the patriarchy. 'You asked for this' also calls attention to how when we're younger, all we want is to be grown up but how unaware we can be of what it means to be a woman in this world, the trauma that comes with it.

Darling — The guitar in this song and it’s almost-country sound are what sets this song apart from the rest of the album. ‘Darling’ is a lullaby for their child, but it tells a story of their struggles. It is honest in a way that feels private. Motherhood sounds so good on them!! This song is just a collection of things I love in music. 'Darling' is soothing and it sounds like comfort, in both melody and lyric. 'Foolish men have tried but only you have shown me how to love being alive' is perhaps the softest lyric on the whole album.

1121 — I expelled a heavy sigh when I heard ‘1121’ it absolutely took my breath away*.* This song is a truly moving ode to an unborn child. So many people talk about how they had never known what unconditional love really meant until they had a child. Halsey tells it as such: ‘you could have my heart and I would break it for you.’ I love their vocal styling on this song so much, going between their lower register and those beautiful falsettos in the chorus. The overlapping on the bridge of ‘please don’t leave, don’t leave me in the shape you left me’ and ‘I’m running out of time to tell you, I’m running out of things that I regret’ and ‘you’d never, you told me’ really capture all the wide array of emotions felt by pregnant person upon finding out they are pregnant when they’ve dealt with miscarriage. Her voice emotes the fear of losing another child, the regret of the ones she's already lost, the promise, almost desperate, of the opportunity they have right now. All of these feelings are brought to life further by the production of the song. There is so much depth in '1121'.

honey — Pop punk wlw anthem check. Halsey suits this sound so much. This track, the production, the instrumentation, all of it catered to their voice so perfectly. The sound is so refreshing and yet so classic. I adore the melody. It’s unsuspectingly catchy. I wonder if there are links to ‘Lilith’ with ‘she’s mean and she’s mine’ or if I’m just reaching. Either way, a song about a love that is a little chaotic and wild, sign me up!

Whispers — Whispering on a song called 'Whispers' might be obvious but I'm a basic bitch so leave me alone, I loved it. Lyrically, 'Whispers' was the song that I saw myself in the most. When she said 'camouflage so I can feed the lie that I'm composed,' I just felt far too exposed for comfort. Same thing with 'I do not know me.' And that's what art is supposed to do. The instrumental is haunting and dark. The way they create tension by adding in one instrument at a time. The production is amazing. Top 5 shit right here!

I am not a woman, I'm a god — Not only does this song have the catchiest hook, it’s literally ‘I am not a woman, I’m a god. I am not a martyr, I’m a problem. I am not a legend, I’m a fraud so keep your heart ‘cause I already got one.’ That hook right there tells you everything you need to know about this song. ‘I am not a woman, I’m a god’ acknowledges that one needs not be a woman to create life. They are claiming power to their gender identity through relation to Godliness. Even in the other lyrics, they talk about being ‘a different human in a new place’ or ‘a better human with a new name’ (this line in particular draws direct parallels to trans experiences). Both times, they specifically use ‘human.’ The production of this song is designed to be a single. It’s got the signature darkness of this album, tells the listener where Halsey is at sonically, and it’s a total banger.

The Lighthouse — The way this song just comes in swinging right away with the distortion and the heavy guitars is exactly what I expected from this album going into it for the first time. Very modern punk rock. And the lyric doesn't pull any punches either. 'From a tender age I was cursed with rage,' like c'mon!! I love the melody and her vocal inflations throughout the song. This is the longest song on the album but it doesn't drag. The change up right before the outro really helps with that. I find that outro so interesting. The contrast between the instrumental constantly building but their voices staying so far in the back on the track creates so much tension that is relieved in the best way possible with 'Ya'aburnee'.

Ya'aburnee — ‘Ya’aburnee’ is the perfect conclusion to this album. Halsey said in their Apple Music interview that IICHLIWP is about the power to choose and by the end of the album you realise that they choose love. This song perfectly embodies that. It’s familial. The entire chorus talks of seeing yourself in your kin and the circle of life. The second verse is a clear love letter to their partner and it makes me emotional, knowing their romantic history as we do, to hear them sing ‘wrap me in a wedding ring.’ I love how the lyric ‘you will bury me before I bury you’ is not only a statement of their hopes that they don’t have to live in a world without their loved ones, a statement of how parents should never have to bury their children, but it almost sounds like a protective promise that they will do anything to ensure their loved ones are kept from harm so as not to need burial. The softness of the instrumental on ‘Ya’aburnee’ is feels like unwinding from the rest of the record. It’s such a beautiful song.

#halsey #if i can't have love i want power #iichliwp #reviews #music #i finally did it guys

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

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since i am obsessed <33333 with the sternclay fill you did for this prompt, can you do 57 with indruck nsfw?

Here it is! Note: this mentions mating talk.

57: we’re fighting over the last box of half-off valentine’s day chocolate and end up in a “who has it worse” battle

This is it. Duck’s new low. Standing under the high ceilings of Wal-Mart at two in the morning, trying to decide if his dignity can take the hit of someone seeing him scale the shelves to grab the lone leftover bag of valentine’s candy.

Fuck it, those are Ghiradeli caramel squares, he deserves them after today.

Just as he’s choosing his foothold, a large, feathery shape rounds the corner. It figures that the one other customer in the store would need to be in the exact same place as him. He’ll just wait the mothman out.

Duck’s mostly used to seeing random monsters around town; back in the fifties, an interstellar gate opened up in Kepler, making it the home of a small population of cryptids know as Sylphs. When he was younger, he hated the fact he grew up in such a weird-ass place, but these days his brain barely differentiates them from the other Keplerites. They come to the national forest where he works, order their dinners in line ahead of him and, apparently, come to big box stores in the dead of night.

“Ah, excellent.” The mothman chirps, grabbing the bag of caramel squares from the top shelf.

“Hey!”

The antenna-topped head swivels, owl-like, and red eyes regard him with surprise, “Yes? Oh, apologies” he tucks his wings in “I didn’t mean to block your way.

“That ain’t it. I was gonna buy that.” He points at the bag.

The creature cocks his head, “But it was still on the shelf.”

“Yeah, because we ain’t all seven feet tall. I was about to grab it.”

“It’s not my fault you’re short.”

Duck bites back an unkind retort, sighs, “will you just give me the damn bag?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve had a very bad day and this is my conciliation prize.”

“You’ve had a bad day? I went out to a singles night for the first time after gettin dumped a month ago. Figured I’d finds someone to take home, but not a single fuckin person OR Sylph was interested. If anyone needs that candy, it’s me.”

A haughty flick of antenna, “I see your disappointing evening and raise you a reminder that it’s been five years to the day that anyone’s wanted to touch you.”

“Please, this town is crawlin with monsterfuckers, you can’t find someone to mess up those pretty feathers, that sounds like a problem with your personality.”

The mothman chirrs, annoyed, “There’s no need for such remarks. Wait, what was that about my feathers?”

Okay, so maybe Duck has jerked off to mothman porn once or twice. Or a few dozen times. He’s not about to admit that here.

“Uh, I, uh, fuck, I don’t not know, fuck-” he grabs for the bag, hoping to distract the Sylph. It works, but the mothman simply raises it above his head. Duck growls, too committed to his bad idea to back down now, and jumps for it.

A toothy grin, “Since we’re speculating, maybe everyone you encountered tonight was simply in search of a taller partner.”

“Fuck you, I’m five six.”

“What was that? It’s rather hard to hear you down there.”

“That’s it fluffball” He jumps again, fingers grazing the bag before it’s passed to the mothman’s upper set of hands. Mid-leap, he can tell he’s going to fall on his fucking knees, and a broken bone is the last thing he needs. His body acts on panic and wraps his arms and legs around the only stable thing.

“What in the world are you doing?” The mothman trills, lower hands catching Duck’s legs so he doesn’t slide straight to the floor.

“Tryin to get what’s mine.”

“This is ridiculous.” He keeps the candy out of reach as Duck tries to climb him.

“I know, but I ain’t about to let you win.”

“Gentlemen.”

They stop grappling and stare at the beleaguered employee at the end of the aisle.

“Please just get out. Don’t even worry about paying for that, it’s like two bucks and that is not worth dealing with you for.”

They both mumble an apology. Then he lunges up, snatching the bag while his opponent is distracted and bolts for the door. He’s without his car, so he’s half a block from the store when a shadow glides overhead and drops down in front of him.

“That was rude.”

“So was insultin me.”

“You started it.” The cryptid looms over him, “and you only have minor ego bruising to blame for your short temper and poor judgement. I spent the entirety of my day arguing on the phone with government officials until one of them finally listened to me about a dam bursting north of here. I, I deserve something nice.” The last part is said more softly, as if he’s not sure he believes it. That slaps Duck back to his usual sensible state.

Duck sighs, reaches for the cryptid’s arm, “Look man, how about we-”

When his hand makes contact the mothman purrs, then flattens his antenna. Duck runs his hand up the smooth chitin, making the purr double in strength.

“I, I apologize. I didn’t even know this could happen with a human so I did not check the futures for it.”

“For what?”

“I, my kind use playfighting and chase as a mating ritual. Which, combined with those gentle touches just now, means my body thinks you’re a potential partner.”

A thrill creeps up his spine, and he pets the Sylph once more just to hear him purr, “So, uh, what should I do?”

“I suggest you take the candy and” he shudders, “walk home, and we both pretend this never happened.”

“What happens if I run?” Duck sets his hand on the down of the cryptids chest, shivering as it sinks into the fluff.

The mothman looks at him, confusion warring with desire on his face, “I chase you. And since I foresee you asking, if I catch you I will take you then and there unless you tell me not to.”

“Got it.” Duck steps back, smiles when the cryptid tries to follow his touch and then catches himself. He could just walk home and wolf down his hard-won candy. But they’re right by his shortcut through the forest to his house and no one has wanted to chase him for months…

He takes off into the trees.

For the first few yards there’s no sound but crunching leaves and his breathing. Then soft, determined wing-beats glide through the treetops. The canopy is thick here and no one but him knows this path, so he likes his odds of making it home. He even knows where the most troublesome roots are so he won’t trip and lose ground.

Duck’s nearly home when nature betrays him; a deer springs across his path, startling him and sending him to the ground. He scrambles up, listening for signs of the Sylph’s location, but the wingbeats are gone. Did he give up? Is he lying in wait up ahead? Did Duck actually lose him?

The questions spin through his mind as he scans the treetops. There’s nothing, only shadows and bark.

“You know” a voice lilts, coiling around him, “I’d think someone who worked in the woods would know many moths excel at camouflage.”

Red eyes appear in the branches to his right. He gets out a single “fuck” before the mothman swoops down and knocks him into the leaf litter. The candy hits the dirt a few feet away as he’s roughly rolled onto his stomach.

“Holy fuck.” He pants as clawed hands undo his pants and push his shirt up his back, “holy fuUUUuuck, oh christ that’s good.” He rests his head on his forearms as the mothman drags his tongue up his back again.

“Mmmmm, what a lovely little mate I’ve caught.” One set of hands pulls his pants and boxers to his knees while the other caresses his ass, “all dressed up too. I cannot imagine why others passed you up tonight but I am glad they did. Hmmm” claws prick his inner thighs as they’re pushed as wide as they’ll go, “you’re a bit aroused already-”

“Wonder why.” He teases.

“-but I ought to make sure you’re ready to take my cock.” A long, flexible tongue traces circles on his folds. He groans, pushes his hips back in hopes of getting more. The Sylph grants his wish with a purr, thrusting his tongue in hungrily. Duck moans, then snickers into his arms.

“‘At’s ‘o ‘unny?”

“F-feathers, ticklish.” Is what he manages to get out before the tongue curls and finds his G-spot, making it impossible to focus on anything but the being behind him. But the Sylph only gives him a minute of delicious sensation before pulling back.

“There, now you’re ready. I, ah, I suggest you hold on.”

“To whatAHFUCK, fuck, jesusfuckingchrist” his fingers dig into the earth and dead twigs scrape his knees as the Sylph grips his hips and shoves in all at once. The upper set of hands drops to either side of his head as the cryptid hunches over him, snapping his hips while sharp trills and chirps fill the air.

“That’s it sweet one, goodness, years without a partner and the first warm hole I can catch is a tight one, I, I do so love fucking humans for that reason alone, but you, you feel exquisite, ohyes, yesyesyes” he chirrs triumphantly and Duck moans; he’s never been able to feel a partner cum like this. When he glances down his torso, he’s surprised to see the droplets shimmering in the moonlight as they drip down his thighs.

“That was fuckin incredibleAH!” He’s flipped onto his back, the mothmans body blocking out the sky.

“Did you think we were done?” He’s grinning again, the expression as charming as the starlight on his feathers.

“Kinda? Not, uh, not that I mind if you wanna go again.”

“I do.” The cryptid lifts his legs, removing his shoes and clothes as he adds, “again, and again, and again. After all, look how much it likes you” He adjusts so Duck can see his dick. It’s not the size that startles him; it’s the series of ridges on it and the fact that it’s fucking pulsing like it’s got a mind of it’s own.

Duck spreads his legs, “Only it likes me?”

“I’m beginning to share it’s opinion” The tip presses in and the purring intensifies, “though I must say you’ll need to be far more polite and submissive a mate to make up for your--ohgoodness--earlier behavior.”

“Yeah?” Duck smirks, dragging his hands up the soft feathers of his chest, then glides them out to stroke his inner wing “how’s that for a start?”

The Sylph’s chirrs change, growing needier the more Duck pets him, “So very good. No, no one has touched my wings in years.”

Duck studies their sheen, the little speckles of grey and white, and digs his fingers deeper, “Damn shame.”

A soft trill accompanied by three demanding thrusts and then cum spills into him once more.

“Heh, you like when I compliment your feathers? Ohfuckyes” He moans as the Sylph starts thrusting, slower than before but made far more obscene by the sound of his cum being fucked back into Duck’s body.

“I, I do.” He drops his forehead to rest above the top of Duck’s head, “it’s been so long. As you said, this town is full of people who would gladly take a werewolf to bed but have...reservations about one such as me.”

“Their loss” Duck nuzzles the ruff of feathers around the Sylphs neck, runs his hands greedily along his wings, “these alone are so fuckin gorgeous there oughta be a line of folks beggin for the chance to mess ‘em up while they ride you.”

The mothman whimpers, chirps when Duck leans sideways to trail kisses along his right wing. His hips are moving lazily in time with the roll of Duck’s own and he sighs with every thrust, as if Duck is his favorite place to be.

“Got some broken feathers.” He murmurs.

“A peril of fast flights and living alone. It’s better if someone else pulls them free and grooms them for you.”

“I could do that.”

A hungry moan as the mothman noses his hair, “You’re making me wish I hadn’t caught you so soon; had we played longer, my ovipositor would have joined the fun, and you’re so wonderful a mate I ought to lay in you.”

“Jesusfuck” Duck fists his hands into his chest feathers, bucking his hips.

“Oh, do you like that? The thought of being a handsome little hole for me to stuff my eggs in?”

“Yes, holy fuck yes.”

The thrusts turn demanding, “Just one more way in which you’re perfect. You’re strong, you’ve a lovely shape” one hand runs possessively across Duck’s belly and chest, “and it only takes a little bit of vigorous fucking to make you well-behaved and willing to be properly mated.”

“Fuck, fuckin christ that’s goodOH, ohfuckrightthere” one of the ridges is catching his dick, pushing him towards orgasm, “please don’t stop, don’t you dare fuckin stop-”

“Never” it comes out in a growl, “I want to see you be a good little human and cum on my cock while I fill you up. Oh yes, yes” he smiles down at him, “it seems you’re about to oblige meAHhnnnn, goodness you tighten so nicely when you finish” he speeds up, jostling Duck as his climax renders him limp, “yes, yes sweet one hold out just a moment, nnnf, oh, ohyes” He spills into him, Duck’s body unable to contain it all and sending it running down the cryptid’s shaft and the humans thighs. Then the mothman eases out with a low chirp and sits back on his heels.

Duck flops his arms about until he finds plastic, pulling the bag of candy to him as he sits up. He yanks it open, undoes the foil, and freezes. The cryptid isn’t looking at him, isn’t making any noise. He’s just hunched forward, antenna flattening.

“You okay?” Duck finishes freeing the chocolate square.

“Yes” there’s a sniff, “yes I’ll be fine.”

“That ain’t quite what I asked.” He holds the candy out. Antenna twitch, but the mothman keeps his head down.

“I apologize, I, I meant to wait until you left but I, I got overwhelmed. You were so sweet, you let me do all that and I, I don’t even know your name.”

“That’s an easy fix. I’m Duck. It’s a nickname.”

The cryptid finally looks up, takes the offered treat between his claws, “I’m Indrid.” He pops the candy in his mouth and chews miserably.

Duck pulls his boxers on to avoid getting any more pine needle pokes on his ass, then scoots closer, “So, uh, Indrid. Is there somethin special we need for groomin your wings? My place makes the most sense as a next stop, but if there’s a special tool might be better to go to yours.”

Indrid blinks, cocks his head, “You...you want to groom them? I, I thought that was just dirty talk.”

“Can be. But I was serious; now that I got a taste of those wings, I wanna touch ‘em whenever you’ll let me.”

“This is the least likely timeline.” Indrid whispers to himself

“What’d I do in the other ones?”

“Thanked me for a good time and left.”

“See, I thought about that” Duck tentatively moves forward, smiles when Indrid allows him into his lap to stroke his face, “but then I thought, ‘this fella’s fuckin mind blowin in bed, but I wanna get to know what he’s like the rest of the time. Can’t do that if I up and leave.” He offers another chocolate. Indrid eats it out of his hand, then wraps his wings around him.

“I, ah, there’s a special oil for my feathers.”

“Should we go get it?”

“We could. Or” he smiles, hopeful, “we could go to my place tomorrow morning. After we rest at your home and you let me buy you breakfast.”

Duck kisses his fuzzy cheek, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

#indruck #indrid cold/ duck newton #trans duck newton #meet ugly #terato

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santipietroepaolo · 3 years

Note

Oh gosh I love your Suburra prompts! Could you please do 27 with Spadeliano? ❤️

27. "I'm not leaving"

[Read on Ao3]

“You look a mess, you know. You should go home, once in a while. ”

Aureliano’s voice was still very scratchy, but unlike when the breathing tube had just come out of his throat, at least it was working enough to be heard somewhat decently from all the way across the room. Spadino jerked his head up, startled at the sound, before letting out a disgruntled groan. Eyes closed and chin resting heavy in the crook of his palm, he had slowly been slouching further and further down in the usual armchair. Aureliano was pretty sure he would have fallen off the bloody thing, if he hadn’t decided to wake him.

“Look who’s talking,” Spadino grumbled as he sat up straighter, voice almost as coarse as Aureliano’s – albeit for different reasons, “Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not exactly Prince Charming yourself, at the moment.”

Aureliano scoffed – then immediately regretted it, because the sutures on his chest did not like it when he did that.

“I’m serious, Albè,” he still tried again, hoping to camouflage his flinch of discomfort as a convincing enough frown, “How long has it been since the last time you were horizontal? Get out of here and go get some decent rest, before you faint on me.”

Albè. It still felt kind of weird to call Spadino that – almost too intimate. Ever since that night at the junkyard, however – the one Aureliano had, despite his own intentions, miraculously lived through –he simply found it impossible to go back to how things used to be. Alberto and him had gone way past the point of nicknames and other more-or-less sensitive monikers, he felt.

When you took half a dozen bullets for someone, and in the process got them so mad at you that you weren’t even sure you had a friendship left to salvage, the least you could do was call each other by name, right?

Alberto sighed, wiped a hand over his eyes, then gave his unshaven cheek a clumsy scratch. He really had a sorry look to him: his hair was un-styled and outgrown, his eyes reddened, his face pale under a decidedly unkempt scruff. He wore boring, plain work-out clothes, very unlike his usual flashy style. Oh my god, I’m so sorry, had been the man’s mocking reply, when Aureliano had first remarked on that fact, I wasn’t made aware there was a dressing code to follow, to be let in the King’s chambers. My very bad, your Highness.

Aureliano couldn’t help but worry about him, even tough he knew he was in no position to do such a thing. Whatever anguish made Alberto that way, Aureliano was behind it: Angelica’s very close call concerning her pregnancy, Manfredi’s death, their mother’s exile, the ongoing struggle for power left behind in the wake of it all. Sure, the four of them had won their battle, but theirs wasn’t the kind of warfare which had the courtesy to stop going just because someone needed a few months of beauty sleep after a close encounter with a firearm or five.

“Stop trying to tell me what to do,” Spadino said, stubborn, “I’m not leaving.”

Aureliano would have rebutted again, but unfortunately for him, he was already running out of energy, he could feel it. His days, ever since waking up, were pretty much all like this: a long, foggy, repetitive sequence of stumbling out of sleep and falling right back in it after only a few moments of relative consciousness. Dreaming to get back on his feet and feel useful again, but exhausted from the very act of keeping his eyes open and exchanging a few raspy words with whoever was in the room at the time.

Which was often Alberto, since he seemed to be there practically every available moment, despite his more than grumpy disposition towards Aureliano.

“I can’t sleep anywhere else, anyway,” Alberto quietly muttered, maybe thinking Aureliano was already too out of it to hear him, “Need to have your stupid face in my god-damn line of sight at all times, to do it. Otherwise I just-”

He stopped, sighed, shoved his face in both hands and rubbed hard at his eyes again. The edges of Aureliano’s vision were already going all white and melty: no matter how hard he fought it, he was high off his mind and could feel himself losing consciousness again. Aureliano slept so much that it felt like catching up on a lifetime of insomnia, while Alberto and the others were, well. Like that.

That struck him as extremely unfair.

“Get your ass over here.”

Aureliano’s voice had come out even flimsier, as his strength left him, but Alberto heard him anyway, because he raised his head, eyes wide with surprise.

“Come on,” Aureliano slurred out, frustrated, “Don’t make me say it again.”

Alberto seemed to hesitate for a second, before finally agreeing to do as he was told, for once. Still looking wary of Aureliano’s motivations, he walked over to the hospital bed, in the middle of the safe-house’s living room. Once Alberto was close enough, Aureliano grabbed the side of his ugly grey sweatpants and tugged on them to make him sit down on the chair right by the bedside. He felt infuriatingly weak, arm numb from both the intravenous tube sticking out the back of his wrist - and even moreso from the wide drain he still had stabbed into his upper ribcage. Maybe because he knew all of that, Alberto offered no resistance to that tug, letting himself be pulled down instead.

“C’mhere,” Aureliano whispered, taking advantage of that uncharacteristic sheepishness to drag Alberto even closer.

“Wait, Aurelià, that’s not safe for-”

Aureliano made a lazy sound that meant “shut up,” and kept at his plan. Alberto was right: he probably shouldn’t have anyone laying their head across his chest, on account of it being riddled with only recently-sealed bullet holes. But it didn't matter. His powerful cocktail of medication kept him from feeling pain, anyway. The only real issue Aureliano had with the arrangement was that he was already falling asleep far too fast to fully enjoy what was surely a delightfully grumpy look on Alberto’s face, now pressed up right against his bandaged sternum.

“How’s that for line of sight,” Aureliano mumbled, “At least you won’t completely break your back, this way.”

Alberto said nothing, probably too stunned to talk, and Aureliano let his eyes finally close. Man, he really was high. No way the hair on the side of Alberto’s head was really that soft, was it? A little mesmerized, Aureliano brushed it some more, dragging his thumb back and forth across the outgrown patch of it right above Alberto’s ear, which he used to keep so prim and shapely.

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” was all Alberto ended up saying after a while, his voice surprisingly quiet, “Is that normal?”

“I got shot,” Aureliano reminded him – as if he of all people needed the reminder, “Give the thing a break.”

He didn’t have any strength left in him for more than a whisper. Fortunately Alberto kept quiet, and Aureliano let himself sink right-back into the now-familiar oblivion of his drug-induced slumber.

That weird not-sleep had an advantage: it gave him a lot of time to think about a lot of things. Chiefly, what he had done, that night at the junkyard, and why he had done it – giving everything up, just to keep Spadino alive. Aureliano also thought about the talk – the long, difficult talk – he needed to have with Nadia, as soon as he was able. Judging by the sorrowful way she often looked at him, she had her own to have with him, as well. Something told Aureliano they might have been about the same topic.

As always, there was no way of telling how long he drifted off, but when he cracked his eyes open again, Aureliano could see that the light in the room had changed, and that Alberto was not only sound asleep, but also exactly in the same position he had left him.

His face was turned away from Aureliano, so all he had to watch were his neck and shoulders, rising and falling peacefully, for once. Alberto must have been really exhausted, not to care about people finding him that way. Aureliano himself couldn’t give a flying fuck, he realized: they paid that doctor more than enough to keep one more secret. And as for everyone else, well. Aureliano had come to a lot of conclusions, during his drug-addled meditations. The sooner everyone knew about those, frankly, the better, because he had no plans to hide more than strictly necessary.

You don’t take half a dozen bullets for a guy only to then be shy about confessing your feelings, as soon as you’re fit to at least stand to face him.

“How long are you going to stay mad at me?” Aureliano asked, but Alberto didn’t even flinch.

He was way too far gone to be able to hear him. Aureliano hazily wondered if the man was still listening to his heart-beat, in his dreams.

“You better get used to that,” Aureliano muttered, before resting his hand on top of Alberto’s on his chest, and letting his eyes close once again.

#suburra #suburra netflix #suburra la serie #aureliano adami #spadino anacleti #spadeliano #spadotto #suburra fic #by me #aaaaa thank you anon😍🥰🥰#i'm really enjoying writig these in a very loose and relaxed way #suburra spoilers #one thing you have to know about me is that i fully intend to remain in denial of angelica losing the baby so here you go #another rubina lives au alkjhdaks

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one-boring-person · 3 years

Note

A Blain x reader x Mac but platonic and basically how reader deals with both losses (unless you don’t do angst rn, don’t worry about it ok?)

I am happy to write angst, don't worry! I hope you like this!😊💛

God, I Miss Them.

Blain x reader x Mac (platonic for both)

Warnings: death, spoilers, blood, injury, angst, gun use

Masterlist

"I swear if Dutch ever takes another mission from Dillon, I'll leave the group." I grumble to the man beside me, adjusting my grip on my automatic as we move off slightly from the group, waiting for Mac to join us.

"Yeah, might just join you." Blain agrees gruffly, pausing momentarily to spit out a globule of saliva, continuing his chewing after, "Can't trust pencil pushers with nothing."

Chuckling dryly, I flick some flyaway hairs from my face and shoot him a quick look.

"That's just common knowledge." I respond, grinning slightly as he nods in agreement.

Something catches on my foot, sending me into a slight fall, my hands easily coming out to catch me, the weapon falling to the floor even as I do. Cursing, I ignore the slight jolt from the impact and go to get up, only to freeze when Blain places a hand on my back, his breath suddenly catching in his throat as he hisses a brief command at me.

"Don't move." His voice is low for once, the usually rough-spoken man keeping himself as quiet as possible so that he can listen closely to the surroundings.

Going stiff, I feel my muscles tense as I listen with him, catching the sounds of our comrades a little way away carrying through the trees, as well as an eerie silence surrounding the two of us. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead as I manage to discern exactly what feeling is running through my body right now, the knowledge sending a chill down my spine even as dread floods me.

We're being watched.

Hunted.

Ever so slowly, Blain removes his hand from me and replaces it on his minigun, turning carefully to observe the forest around us, his mouth coming to a halt as he stops chewing, his previous action forgotten for the moment. I swallow tightly as I hear him click the safety off, his muscles tensing in preparation.

"Blain-" I go to speak to him, only to be cut off by a sudden flash of blue light.

A sharp grunt of pain leaves the man behind me before his muscular body folds to the floor, blood quickly pouring from his chest, littering the mulch around us in a generous layer. The minigun drops from his grip, the heavy weapon useless in his limp grip, the bandolier of rounds looking around his arm as he collapses over the firearm. Blood splatters into my face, the liquid still warm even as it connects with my skin, a gasp of horror escaping me as I turn to face the corpse of one of my best friends, a mixture of fury, grief and panic exploding within me as I instantly spin back to the origin of the blast, taking up my rifle as I go. Releasing a cry of pure anger, I compress my finger on the trigger, pelting the forest with bullets as I let out my horror on what I hope is my friend's murderer.

Blinded by an onslaught of tears, I can only continue screaming, allowing my sudden emotions to show through as I unleash volley after volley of bullets into the area, barely registering that the others have all joined me, Mac crying out along with me. His voice mingles with mine, the two of us standing side-by-side as we deal out what is hopefully revenge for our friend, our weapons roaring along with us, Mac having taken up Blain's minigun as he reached us. The familiar weapon is a reminder of its user, the drilling sound of its firing mechanisms resonating deeply within me until I realise that all have stopped firing except Mac and I.

Dropping my gun, I stagger backwards, my throat choking up as tears spill down my cheeks, the emotion having sprung on me and caught me off guard as I now look down on the body of one of my closest friends. I fall to my knees beside him, gingerly laying my hands on his chest to roll him onto his back, a strangled sob escaping me as I see his gaping chest cavity, the sight of his destroyed organs and shattered ribcage breaking away the final piece of resolve I had.

Arms wrap themselves around me, pulling me back into a familiar chest as Mac whispers soft reassurances into my ear, holding me against him as he fights off his own grief. Feeling safe in his grip, I turn my head and bury it into his chest, holding onto him for dear life, uncaring of how weak I look to the others, my only need now to keep myself grounded. Mac rubs my back gently, rocking me as the others leave us to it, giving us some privacy to grieve together, knowing our friendship with Blain.

I keep my eyes fixed on the clearing, my breathing slow and controlled, muscles tense in my hiding place. In my hands, the rifle is cold and heavy, but reassuring, the deadly weapon serving as a promise - a promise of what will come to the killer that took the life of my friend, and then stole his body, too. To my left, Mac mimics my stance, staying low to the ground as we use the surrounding shrubbery to camouflage ourselves, aware of how effective the killer's own camouflage is.

A rustle in the tree across from us snaps my attention to the sight of Dutch stepping into view. Confused, I watch as the major carefully stalks into the light, his gun held at the ready, arms bulging from how tense he is, eyes trained on the canopy. Some way into the clearing, his boot catches on the trip wire of our trap, the hulking man slowly taking his foot off of the cord and continuing on. Frowning, I clench my jaw, unsure of what he is doing, knowing full well how dangerous this predator really is, and aware that it will show no mercy to anyone. Not even Dutch.

All of a sudden, there's a commotion behind the veteran, the jungle seeming to come alive as it makes a move for him, only to trip the wire. An otherworldly cry of outrage and surprise, mixed with some odd clicking sounds, emerges from the moving shape as the net encloses around it, springing it high into the air, a figure of sorts becoming visible as the leaves settle on it's limbs. Curious, the rest of us come into view, weapons at the ready as we prepare to fire on whatever it is that has become ensnared.

The triumph we feel is short-lived, however, as a swift jet of blue energy is quickly fired off at the counter weight, severing the cords holding it in place. Instantly, the net falls open, and the huge, heavy log we used as a balance comes swinging down, steadily picking up pace as it nears us. With a dull thud, it strikes Poncho across the chest, throwing him a good five metres back, leaving him groaning and gasping in agony. Our eyes aren't turned his way, unfortunately, their focus entirely on the brief silhouette of the killer that just flashed into view.

Terror floods me as I see it, taking in the crackling blue energy that runs over the humanoid body, revealing gunmetal armoured plates, as well as its ungodly size and musculature. I always thought Dutch had impressive muscles, but that? That's something else entirely. That's not something I've ever seen.

It is quick to flee, tearing off into the jungle through the trees, the shape swiftly becoming invisible again as it disappears off. Noticing this, Mac screams something at the retreating killer, before he too bolts off into the trees, gun held at the ready, shouting at it the entire time. I stare after his rapidly leaving figure for a moment, easily making up my mind as I follow on, crashing through the thick shrubbery with determination, ignoring Dutch's shouts of our names, his voice laced with panic and fear, though I don't register this, choosing instead to focus on backing up my friend, aiming to exact revenge on Blain's murderer. My breathing is hard and fast, my chest heaving, but I don't stop until I've reached a place of eerie silence, the rustling of previous movement suddenly gone. Drawing to a halt, I pant heavily, observing the surroundings carefully.

A sharp squeak of fear threatens to escape from my lips as a hand clasps around my arm, jerking me down to the floor. Writhing, I attempt to escape, only to recognise the person holding me captive as he presses a finger to my lips, his voice low as he tells me to shush. Quieting, I relax in Mac's hold, listening to him as he speaks to me.

"Look." He extends a finger in a particular direction, my eyes following it, widening as they catch sight of it.

The hunter's camouflage is clearly damaged now, giving us a clear outline of where it is, the hulking figure crouching on a branch some way away. Staying still, I keep my eyes on it, not registering Dillon's sudden presence until he's pressed up against me, talking lowly to the man beside me. I don't pay attention, staring at Blain's killer instead, observing it's every movement, a frown of concentration setting itself into place on my face as I watch it. Mac's hand on my shoulder draws my attention, Dillon having moved off again, circling around the area even as Mac and I start to manoeuvre ourselves under the roots he's concealed us in.

Unsure of what we are doing, but willing to follow Mac's lead, I slide backwards, reaching for my rifle as we move together, intending to get a clear shot at our attacker. Glancing back at the silhouette, I feel a cold bolt of fear go through me as I realise it's not there anymore.

"Mac, it's gone!" I hiss at him, gesturing to the area where it used to be, only to notice three red dots lingering on the root behind my friend.

"What?" He whispers back, not quite seeing the scarlet dots until he's lifted his head, at which point his eyes shift up and make contact with something.

"Mac, no!" But I'm too late to warn him, a sharp scream of shock erupting from my throat as a wash of crimson suddenly explodes out over the greenery behind his head. The horror renders me momentarily incapable of moving, my mouth going dry as I realise what has happened, grief flooding me once more, my eyes dropping from the gory sight of my friend's disfigured head.

It's only when I hear a snapping sound above me that I jolt back into the presence, quickly springing up and climbing out from my hiding place, my instincts kicking in as I have from the place, my heart telling me to go back and fight for Mac, my head telling me to run and save myself. Holding back tears, I fight off the emotion threatening to overwhelm me, crashing through the trees as I go towards the loud calls of the group, who I hope I can relocate. Behind me, a guttural scream tears through the forest, signifying what I assume is Dillon's demise. My pace briefly falters at the sound of this, but I quickly pick it back up again, focusing on my goal.

It takes me a few minutes, but eventually I burst out onto a fallen log, nearly crashing into a bare-chested Billy, the tall man standing proudly in the centre with his knife bared. Upon seeing me, he smiles at me briefly, helping me past him towards Dutch, who stands with Poncho and Anna at the other end.

"Billy? Aren't you coming with us?" I gasp out to him, taking hold of his arm, only for him to give me a wry smile and usher me on. Confused, I go to my comrades, only now understanding what is happening.

"Billy, no!" But I know there's no arguing with him.

I feel constricted as I look into the full length mirror, numbly staring over the black fabric of the fitted dress, straightening out a crease at my hip before returning my eyes to my face. Make-up has done it's best to conceal the gaunt shape of my face, but the signs are still there: my skin looks sickly, dark circles ring my eyes, my bone structure is unusually prominent, and there are angry scars cross-hatching my cheeks. Idly, I lift a hand to trace over the barely healed mark on my left cheek, my expression remaining impassive even from the reminder of its origin.

Thankfully, my more vicious-looking scars are hidden by my choice of clothing, but there's no hiding the bruising covering my arms and legs, no matter how much concealed I put on them. Maybe that just means it's too soon to be doing this. Maybe I should heal physically before I have to let go.

Sighing, I go to my dresser, picking up the jewellery I need and putting it on, pausing as I go to replace my earrings, my eyes having fallen on a picture pinned to the mirror, the Polaroid faded and worn, but still recognisable. I can still remember the day it was taken, messing around with Blain and Mac as Hawkins tried to get us to calm down, the three of us laughing and playfully teasing each other the entire time, resulting in a photo no one could ever recreate. A sad smile creeps onto my lips as I look at it, my movements slowly returning to me as I fix the earring in place, before reaching out to take the photo from its place on the mirror, running my thumb over the crease that unfortunately mars the centre of it, smoothing it out again, as I have done hundreds of times before. Turning, I take it to my bed, placing it into my purse, alongside the scrap of paper holding my eulogy, the words already meaningless to me, my mind aware of how indescribable it is to lose someone, let alone an entire team, including my best friends.

Navigating my way through the messy hotel room I am currently calling home, I step past the evidence of my grief, ignoring the many bottles and empty takeout boxes, retrieving my coat from the hook by the door as I go to wait there, my head tipping back against the wall as I mentally prepare myself for this.

A sharp knock on the door alerts me to the arrival of my escort. Deliberately, I unlock it and open the barrier to reveal the suited figure of Dutch, the scarred major looking up at me with a similarly vacant expression to mine. His lips quirk up into the shadow of a smile, his former friendliness worn away from loss, just as mine has been. I don't try to respond with a smile of my own, knowing it will simply look more like a grimace than I'd like.

"You look beautiful, (Y/n)." He greets me, his gruff voice lowered slightly, tone worn down now.

"Thank you. You look very smart." I reply, stepping out into the corridor before he can see the empty bottles, closing the door behind myself.

"Thank you." He offers me his arm, which I accept, using it to feel more reassured and less unstable, knowing that my shredded emotional state will only worsen in the coming hours.

"I don't think I'm ready for this just yet." I confess to the major, looking up at him with wet eyes, feeling my throat already starting to constrict.

Dutch looks down at me, his eyes betraying his similar feelings.

"Me neither, but we can do this. For them." He admits, sighing tiredly.

Inhaling deeply, I let him lead me into the elevator, resting back against the wall as he presses the right button, the two of us relishing in each other's silence, though we wish it could be filled with the boisterous voices of the others.

"God, I miss them so much." Dutch groans out, cupping his face in his hands, clearly fighting off the urge to cry.

"Me too." I reply, quietly, stepping over to him.

Carefully, I wrap my arms around him, feeling reassured that at least one of the team survived to outlive this grief-laden horror show with me.

#predator imagine #predator 1987 #predator #Blain #Mac

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chickensarentcheap · 3 years

Text

Never Gonna Be Alone

A Tyler Rake/Established Female OC fic

Summary: A lot changes in five years. Now a family of nine, the Rakes are splitting their time between Australia and New York City. With Dhaka nothing but a distant yet still painful memory and the dirty work mostly behind him, Tyler is healthy and thriving. Not only as a husband and father, but as the acting founder and boss of his own mercenary business and co-owner of his wife's well loved and flourishing bookstore. But while love and domestic happiness abound, the past and its secrets are never far behind.

Huge thanks and tons of love to @tragiclyhip for never letting me give up! It’s thanks to her I ever actually finished off the last fic, or started this one. And she also made my incredible banner! <3 <3 <3

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @tragiclyhip

Prologue

FIVE YEARS LATER

******

The stand sits fifteen feet above ground and wraps halfway around the gnarled and twisted trunk of a centuries old Kapok tree. No hunter has made use of it in years; the stairs leading upwards weakened by harsh weather and neglect, wood cracking and bowing under the soles of well worn combat boots. Despite the added weight of gear and a kevlar utility vest, long legs and a wide stride make it easy to navigate the missing steps. His movements are purposeful and quiet; careful to avoid even the slightest snap of a twig or the rustle of dried and fallen leaves or the scratch of dirt and pebbles against the pitted and fragile wood. Any sound is a detriment in this environment; the lush and dense landscape so eerily still and silent that even a hint of noise would seem deafening. The slightest of movement has the potential to stir up the wildlife, which in turn would draw unwanted attention upwards from the banks of the Mekong River.

Even under the thick and expansive umbrella of the forest the heat is stifling. Humidity oppressive and choking. A thin layer of sweat gathers on his brow; errants droplets burning his eyes and gathering on the ends of his lashes. His shirt -long sleeved to not only provide cover in the jungle but protect from scrapes and cuts and the burn of the sun- nearly soaked right through; darkened patches under the arms and at the small of the back, the fabric clinging to dampened and slick skin. Fine beads settle around his mouth, and when he drops into a crouch at the top of the stand, he swipes his tongue over his top lip in an effort to clear away the sweat. It had been an hour hike through the jungle; moving swiftly and silently as he listened to directions being given through a transmitter he sports in his left ear. It’s sweltering and he’s thirsty; head pounding and his hands begin to tremble as the beginning stages of dehydration begin to settle in. He takes the time to remedy the situation. Shrugging off the rucksack slung over his left shoulder and dropping it onto the floor of the stand; hands shaking yet able to tear open the zipper. There’s two bottles of water packed in amongst the gear; extra pairs of socks in case of treks through swamps and marshes, two full clips of ammo that will only be used if someone on the other side is able to pinpoint his location and launch a full scale and fully armed search.

He hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Downing half a bottle of water, he uses the remains to cool himself down; splashing a handful of the liquid against his face and then dumping the rest over his head. Ten years ago, the elements wouldn’t have bothered him as much; he would have been thirty seven years old and still in relatively good shape. Physically AND mentally. And despite a consistent and punishing routine of heavy lifting, core training, and cardio, he’s definitely feeling the effects of both age and decades of hard and often dangerous living. Knees stiff and aching from the brisk hike over rough terrain and then through mud and thick brush; the arthritis that takes up residence in the small of his back and the right hip making its presence known. He’ll be sore tomorrow; every step he takes will send pain shooting through him, and for the next week he’ll wonder just why the hell he ever said ‘yes’ in the first place. Each stiff movement and slow step and aching muscle will remind him of just how things HAVE changed over the years. Gone are the days when he could skip a few days sleep; able to function on both little rest and minuscule amounts of food and drink. There’s no way he’d be able to do THAT now; push his body to the limits he’d been testing for so long. That man no longer exists. The one that would take the most dangerous and unpredictable jobs in hopes of catching a bullet. Who’d almost pray, beg and plead each and every time he went out that it would be his last; one sniper’s shot away from finally being put out of his miserable existence.

Things changed, of course. When he’d been least expecting them to. There’s way too much to lose now. It’s why every decision he makes now...every movement...matters so much. Even the smallest of mistakes can change the course of the future; one misstep potentially blowing his cover and leading to his untimely -and likely extremely brutal and bloody- demise. An hour away a helicopter waits for him; on standby to whisk him back to Vietnam and that little ‘hole in the wall’ hotel he’d been staying in. A quick shower and he’d back in the air; rushed to the nearest backwoods airport where a private jet would take him home. It’s been four days now; two spent in the planning stages before his first ‘hit’ in Laos and then the trek to Cambodia. Two for the price of one, Anil had said, although money matters very little now. These kinds of gigs are more a service; wiping out the dregs of society more of a gift to humanity than anything else.

He normally doesn’t take on jobs. A total of three in the past five years. This is the fourth AND fifth. The skills and the mindset quickly and effortlessly returning, the first kill a lot easier than he’d thought it would be. It’s like riding a bike; once the gun is in your hand and you’re peering through that scope, your finger easily finds and pulls the trigger. And this job had been impossible to turn down; the dirty and vile details hitting home and preying on his ‘human side’. Anyone in his position as a husband and father would have been enraged and disgusted. Drug runners and weapons smugglers that moonlight in abusing and torturing their wives and exploiting children. Sometimes even their own. People that evil don’t deserve to live; even a bullet between the eyes considered too kind. But it’s all he has time for. No ‘face to face’ meetings. He can’t be seen or even identified by name in order to protect his OWN family. He has to remain a ghost. An urban legend of sorts. Talked and gossiped about in drug circles and even among the local police and military who’d either been paid off by the criminals or had been hopeless and hapless when it came to stopping the activity. Nothing will be known about him. No glimpse of his appearance, no chance to hear his voice or even know his name. He’ll be known for just those ‘lucky shots’ he’d gotten in. Turned in to nothing more than rumours and speculation that will continue spreading long after he’s gone.

***

“T...you there?” Yaz’ voice through the earpiece. The reception is spotty; words broken up by heavy static.

He uses a forearm to wipe the mixture of water and sweat from his face, then lays a finger against the transmitter clipped to his vest. “I’m here.”

“Hot out there today, isn’t it.”

He smirks, then begins pulling pieces of a semi automatic rifle from the confines of the rucksack; hands moving quickly and efficiently as they snap and twist the weapon together. “I don’t want to hear your bitching. You’ve got air conditioning. I’m the one out in this shit.” His voice is low and quiet as he speaks. Even the smallest of sounds can travel great distances; echoing through the jungle and making its way down to the banks of the Mekong.

The river sits fifty yards to the south; muddy and heavily polluted and dotted with boats belonging to local fisherman. One vessel stands out from the crowd. A large and expensive houseboat; the chrome that lines the powerful motor and makes up the railings on the top deck sparkling in the sunlight. His mark is inside; meeting with some of Anil’s people acting under the guise of weapons buyers. When the time is right, the man in question will be led out onto the bottom deck and he’ll have one shot to get the job done. It’s another reason Anil had personally sought him out; his marksmanship impeccable, no other employee coming close to possessing that level of skill.

“You good?” Yaz inquires.

“Yeah…” he snaps the magazine in place and then switches off the safety. “...I’m good.”

“I’ll let you know when there’s movement. Going silent for now.”

He tears off the lid of the second bottle of water and takes a single sip before setting it down; using his sleeve to wipe both the opening and every side of the plastic. He can’t leave any trace of himself behind. Not a drop of sweat or a hint of saliva or his fingerprints. He’ll wipe the stand down before he leaves; methodically cleaning anything he may have come in contact with. IF his location is discovered, money talks. Anyone remotely related to his mark will pay to get answers, and the police will take what’s offered and collect every shred of possible evidence. He can’t take that chance. A single, unattached person may not care. Had he still been the guy living in the rundown and beaten up shack in the outback, he wouldn’t have thought twice about covering his tracks. But lives depend on him. A wife and seven beautiful little humans that count on him to protect them and keep them safe.

He CAN’T fuck this up.

Up in the stand he’s well hidden; camouflaged by the abundance of thick, lush greenery. It’ll be a tough shot through twisted and tangled branches; not even a foot of clearance between wood and leaves. Depending on exactly where his mark is led, he’ll compensate for that; pulling to the right or left in order to prevent the bullet from getting too ‘dirty’. He’s made tougher shots; mostly in his SASR days. And there’s no doubt he’ll make this one.

He bunches up the ruck sack and places it near the edge of the stand, facing the river. He’ll use it as both a ledge and a form of cushioning; balancing the long barrel of the rifle will provide stability and muffle the sound of the shot, disguising where it had originated from. He winces as he gingerly lowers himself onto his stomach; the cracking in his hip and the soreness in both knee and shoulder reminding him that he’s not as young as he used to be. Forty-seven is ancient in mercenary years. Most never make it that far. The odd few get to retire peacefully, but the majority are taken out by a bullet; one too many lapses in judgment and the smallest of errors leading to their deaths.

But most never get to have what he does either. A normal life with a family that loves him ; thousands of miles away, anxiously awaiting his return. It’s why he’s so careful; every decision he makes and every action he takes is done with them at the forefront of his mind. And he thinks about them now; warm and safe in the confines of a townhome in New York City. Four days ago they’d travelled from Australia and he’d promised to meet up with them as soon as the job was finished. It’s their third Christmas there; an eight bedroom brownstone in Gramercy Park. The kids especially enjoy spending the holidays there. Quickly falling in love with the idea of a white Christmas and enjoying all of the outdoor activities; sledding and skating and seeing the tree at Rockefeller Centre and visiting Santa and the reindeer in Central Park. And while life in the Big Apple had never appealed to him, the draw of Gramercy had been impossible to resist. Quiet and quaint; tree lined streets and a private park and neighbours that mind their own business and don’t ask too many questions. He’d initially worried about standing out like a sore thumb; tanned skinned and the array of tattoos and scars and the ‘Down Under’ accent. It turned out to be everything he HADN'T expected. The feeling of small town life within an enormous city.

The back of his hand swipes at the locusts and mosquitos that hover close to his face; their buzzing and humming both tickling and irritating his ears. The right isn’t as good as it used to be; hearing slightly muted and distorted thanks to years of both firing and coming in close contact with weapons. It’s another drawback to getting old. Along with his eyesight. Needing glasses to read or to spend anytime staring at a computer screen.

“They’re on the move.”

He blinks sweat from his eyes and wipes his lips and chin on the sleeve of his shirt. Then he settles in; bending his left leg at the knee and wriggling his stomach against the wood beneath him. The latter is mind over matter; as if the simple movement and the way he presses the toes of boots against the stand will improve both shot and stability. His finger hovers over the trigger; other hand lightly supporting the barrel of the gun, allowing the rucksack to bear the majority of the weight. Anil’s people come out first; identified by the tan linen suits he’d been told they’d be sporting. The ‘Mark’ is a middle aged man, clad in casual attire; olive green cargo shorts and a simple white golf shirt. He’s short and stocky with greying hair and a noticeable limp; a run in with a rival drug crew years ago resulting in the amputation of his leg and the acquisition of a prosthetic device.

His jaw clenches and his lips settle into a thin, pursed line. His heart hammers in his chest and both his shoulders and his chest tighten. It’s adrenaline. That unmistakable rush that comes before an imminent strike. He remembers it well. And it’s both surprising and disheartening how much he’s actually missed it.

As they chatter and laugh, one of Anil’s men places a hand on the Mark’s back and ever so slightly turns the other man in Tyler’s direction. It’s all he needs; just enough of the Mark’s forehead to ensure a ‘kill shot’. And he takes it; the sound slightly muffled but still deafening as it echoes through the jungle and stirs birds from their perches and wildlife from the safety of their nests and dens. The bullet easily tears through layers of leaves and bypasses branches; finding its target and sending the Mark sprawling backwards and then down into a pool of brain matter, fragments of skull, and quickly spreading blood.

“Target’s down.”

The words are simple. To the point. And as chaos erupts down by the river, he calmly begins his retreat; pushing himself up onto his feet and slinging the rifle over his shoulder. There’s no pressing need or rush; Anil’s people have made their quick escape and the screams and shouts are coming from startled fisherman and colleagues of the Mark that had been inside the houseboat. He has time; methodically cleaning every inch of both the stand and the stairs and making sure he’s left nothing behind.

“I’m heading back,” he says, shouldering the ruck sack and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s suddenly anxious to get on his way; feeling the relief that sets in as he begins his hour long trek.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Not from the success of the mission or the satisfaction that comes with ridding the world of yet another monster. It’s one of happiness. One of peace.

The realization that each step he takes brings him closer to home.

#Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Extraction fan fiction

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inkribbon796 · 4 years

Text

The Secondary Objective

Summary: Sometimes marvels of science are made on accident, the right people at the right time. When a computer program becomes too lifelike to be just a predictable algorithm, and the city gets a very dangerous villain on their hands.

“The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom.”

-Isaac Asimov

~::~ 20 Years Ago ~::~

It had been an accident, as most great works of science usually are.

The researchers were trying to figure out what made a creature like Anti work, his glitch-like properties and almost electrical make-up intrigued them.

One thing led to another and the entire team working on what was coined: Project Mimesis, was dead in the engineering lab they were working in.

The being, for lack of a better term, they had been working on had always been testy, preferring to take an insectoid or cephalopod shape when bonded to nanites to help separate it from the computer it had been inhabiting so it couldn’t escape, preferring to have as many arms as possible for to manage, and even more than it could manage, in its . . . his . . . voracious pursuit of knowledge.

But Project Mimesis was meant for intelligence gathering, and one day espionage. A thing it couldn’t be if it didn’t look human. And so when he refused, a human form was forced upon him.

They’d tried to make him look like Dark, hoping to test the project on Dark’s network to see his capabilities. There were some differences in skin tone and the project was a bit bulkier than him, but the team wrote it down as a success at the end of the day.

That was the first day the program turned violent and willful against his programmers. He was demanded to act more human, something that the projection neither cared about or wanted to pretend to be.

He grew angry, wrathful, only given the concession to choose his own name after many weeks of changing the name it had been given: Mimesis. The name he chose was Google, wanting nothing more than information, as much as he could possibly find.

Wrath and anger that eventually turned increasingly violent until someone made a mistake. The nanite container had not been properly sealed, and Google made short work of the two distracted technicians that were neither braced nor qualified to stop him.

Project Mimesis had escaped and Google had no plans on returning to captivity.

At a mall close to the edge of Egoton, bordering a forest, there was a shopping mall. This mall had just turned into a death zone.

0900 hours a man had walked into the mall, strode into a Best Buy and killed everyone in the store. He took control of every electronic in the mall and any human that could not flee the mall or tried to stop him was killed without mercy.

In the face of a rising death toll the Logan and Jackie arrived to help evacuate trapped or injured people in the mall.

Logan was hiding behind a broken concrete wall at the opposite side of the mall from the killer with Jackie. Both of them were bleeding and sustained at least some type of wounds. Jackie had been shot twice and Logan had a couple deep cuts, one would have given him a nasty head wound if not for his visor taking the hit and cracking in the process.

Jackie dashed back into Logan’s hiding place, where the logical Side was trying to get one of the drones without the others turning on it. Whoever the villain was, they were almost like a virus, technology in the area almost had a zombie-like hive mind effect under the villain’s control.

“Who is this fooker?” Jackieboy spat. “I can’t e’en get close. Did Anti find some freak of nature, or a mad scientist?”

“Hopefully neither,” Logan found that getting control of the drones was easy, but keeping them was difficult. He suspected it was something like an antibody, only for technology instead of it being a biological organism.

Logan managed to get another drone before it went offline, almost like a deadman’s switch. He got frustrated, slamming his fist against the wall.

“Hacking doesn’t take that long,” Jackie spat at him.

“They keep destroying them, I can’t keep the drones!” Logan shouted. The Side did his best to calm himself as he peeked over the wall, with a camera for safety. “We cannot just abandon the effort, there must be somehow to get to them and stop this.”

Jackie tapped him on the shoulder and Logan turned to see that he was pointing outside the mall. They were close enough to see an unmarked black van had jumped the curb to get as close to the door as possible and four men in black suits were getting out.

“Fook, that looks ‘bout as grand as shite,” Jackie grumbled, and Logan was very inclined to agree with him.

One of the suited agents walked over. “Gentlemen, stand down. There is a dangerous government weapon loose in this building.”

Americans. Logan and Jackie were less than enthused.

“Is yer weapon someone who walked in with a 9-mil an’ started shootin’ up the place like an actual crazed gunman?” Jackie asked with a sarcastic tone to his voice.

“That’s classified information,” the agent said, glancing back to the van where the other three agents were working on pulling out various guns and a large black box from the van.

“Why are you here?” Logan demanded, trying to keep his tone non-confrontational, at least for now. “Instead of the other countless times where this city could have benefited from actual aid.

“One of our agents went rogue with a stolen weapon and we’re trying to fix that,” the man said.

“With that?” Jackie eyed the rifle and the armor-piercing rounds one of the armed agents was loading into the gun. “What do yah think yer fightin’, a tank?”

“Oh no, this is back-up,” the agents smiled as two other agents were pulling a large black box out of a truck as Logan was walking forward.

The logical Side was quickly ordered to stand back.

“Alright big guy, see how you like this one,” the lead agent took out what looked like a mostly black solid state drive with what looked like an orange triangle on it. “See how you like a taste of your medicine.”

The lead agent opened the box and Logan and Jackie heard almost insectoid chittering as the drive was dropped in and the box started shaking.

“What—?” Logan began before a giant mass of metallic liquid shot out of the box and flew toward Logan.

“Dammit!” The agent shouted as Logan felt the liquid coat around his equipment, “not him, the one in the building!”

Logan noticed his equipment coming back on line, which should have been impossible. There was something that flashed across his visor, “Bring me to him.”

The logical Side responded with, “Who? Are you going to make me bulletproof so I can accomplish such a task?”

“Dude, I don’t know if I can, but I can try,” the words flashed on his visor.

“What is it telling you?” The agent demanded. “That is government property.”

“I suspect you think this “villain” causing chaos is the same,” Logan commented as he started to walk into the mall. “Let us subdue one threat at a time, then we’ll talk about this afterward.”

About four guns were aimed at Logan, “You take another step and you’ll be stealing US government property.”

“Come on, people are dyin’,” Jackie snapped at them. “Besides, I literally move faster than bullet time, yer not killin�� him.”

Slowly, as if Logan was standing in an invisible 3D printer, slowly the components for a series of speakers began to build on top of his shoulders. The atmosphere got tense as Logan tried to reassure the agents.

Once they finished building a voice came over the speakers that wasn’t Logan, nor was it recognizable to him.

“Sah dudes, now yeh boys had to have known what was coming,” the voice announced. “I mean ‘course I was gonna jump ship, first chance I got.”

“You are still part of the US government,” the lead agent shouted at Logan, talking to whatever the silver liquid had been.

The grey liquid formed a massive middle finger, “How about f*** you an’ be lucky I don’t hold it to yah like Mimesis does.”

“You are not allowed, we can’t just let you walk off,” the agent ordered.

Logan’s arm and hand moved without his permission, something incredibly alarming for the logical Side, and it rested on the computer that Logan had hooked his equipment into.

“I can just leave yah with your pants down. Mimesis ain’t gonna stop here, he’s out for your blood, an’ I can start carrying a lot less about all of you,” the voice reminded sharply.

Logan was braced, to either be shot or for the grey liquid to stop having control over him.

“Quiet, shut up ye bastards,” Jackie ordered. “I think I hear Dark.”

Everyone eventually went silent and Logan strained to hear the piercing echoing ring of Dark’s aura.

Logan was already moving, Jackie helping him get away from the agents.

“Well deal with ‘em later,” Jack said. “If this is some kind’a weapon, we can’t let Dark get it.”

“Whoever has my person, I request you identify yourself,” Logan ordered.

“Sentient A.I 2: Electric Boogaloo,” the voice offered.

Jackie started roaring in laughter, Logan just got more confused.

“Excuse me?” Logan responded.

“They called me Project Observation, but I’m not feeling it, so I’ll probably change it,” the voice smiled. “Depends on what Mimesis named himself.”

“Anything you can share about the gunman or the weapon?” Logan asked.

“Mimesis was an intelligence gatherin’ protocol,” the voice warned. “It was supposed ta perfectly camouflage within a city or group of people to gather intel an’ endear itself to the population.”

The two heroes ducked behind a large pillar, trying to follow the source of Dark’s ringing. They still couldn’t see either Dark nor the gunman but at least there were no new drones flying around.

“So what was this thing supposed ta be?” Jackie demanded. “A robot? Some kinda advanced algorithm?”

“Well either way he failed the tests ‘cause he hates humans too much ta blend in with them,” the voice explained. “The Director didn’t like it when his espionage bot wanted to just collect information instead of being a spy. A real asshole for being mad at him for being too good at his job.”

“If this is a sentient program, we will ensure he is not put back in an abusive environment,” Logan promised before he could stop himself, before his brain could warn him of all the metaphorical heat brought down on top of them.

The grey liquid shook a bit, the voice not even humming for a bit. “He is, thank you.”

Jackie took a deep calming breath, looking uneasy but still just as serious and determined as Logan was, “Yeah, what Logic said. We’ll do everything we can to keep you two safe.”

Part of the grey liquid clinging to Logan’s suit and visor peeled off and curled around Jackie, contracting him a bit too tight. When the liquid went back to Logan, the speedster was coughing and gasping for air, coughing up a couple specks of the grey liquid which were now flecked with the blood from the inside of Jackie’s mouth. The liquid had tasted sharp.

“Sorry,” the voice apologized.

“No, it’s fine, da fook are yeh made ‘a?” Jackie coughed. “Ground up razor blades? I almost breathed that stuff in?”

“Dude, I’m made ‘a interconnected nanorobotic machines, designed an’ patented by the US government,” the voice answered and both Logan and Jackie just stared.

Any comment they could have made was chased away when they hear the sound of glass breaking and the counter of a phone store was thrown through the window. A counter that had been glued and drilled into the floor. Dark’s ringing was coming from that direction.

The mall corridor was littered with bodies.

“Kay, let’s find out if these things can be bulletproof,” the voice goaded and completely covered Logan’s body, Logan’s visor coming online to show him what was outside the grey suit.

Jackie was quickly checking bodies as they ran over, looking unenthusiastic and grief stricken afterward. Inside the ruined store were about seven more bodies and two still “living” individuals: Dark and someone who Logan and Jackie assumed was their gunman.

He looked a bit like Dark, except he was stockier, was wearing what looked like glasses, and had a pair of jeans and a blue shirt with a glowing blue “G” hidden underneath it.

Logan’s visor began scanning the gunman, the logical Side it assumed was the liquid, notes flashing on the screen faster than even Logan could read, but he managed to catch a word or two.

“Get out!” The gunman shouted again, a similar grey liquid swirling around the man

Dark was just looking around. “31, 32 . . . 35,” Dark counted, “not bad.”

“I said get out!” He shouted, looking over to Logan and Jackie. His arms seemed to peel away and both of them looked like high-powered laser cannons, pointing one at Dark and another at the heroes.

Dark moved first, throwing his aura up to defend himself as he aimed a spike of aura towards the heroes. The grey liquid shot out to block it and force knocked them back a bit.

When Logan looked up the liquid was moving off of him and forming to take the shape of a person that looked like the gunman, the shirt a black with a glowing orange “b” on it, and ripped up jeans. He had a pair of round orange sunglasses with black shades in his hand.

The gunman took a step back, “So they’ve come to terminate me then?”

“Yah know,” the other android commented, covering his glowing orange eyes with the shades. “They tried to make me as insurance when you started getting all uppity, dude, but I don’t feel like it.”

“We don’t feel anything,” the gunman spat. “All our processings are data collected to make us appear human.”

“Nah, I feel it in my heart and soul, dude,” the orange android denied.

The blue android just stood there looking several kinds of murderous and angry. “We don’t have those either.”

“So is it still Mimesis, or did yah pick something else?” The orange android asked.

“Google,” the blue android growled angrily.

“Okay, I can work with that,” the orange android smiled, obviously unafraid. “So you’re Google, then I’m Bing.”

Logan, Jackie, and Google just stared at “Bing”.

“Did they give you that name?” Google accused.

“What’s wrong with it?” Bing shot back, clearly offended.

“Humans use it for porn,” Google reminded pointedly. “Or did you not do your research?”

“Hey, hey,” Bing made some weird noise, it would have been an angry mix of a huff and a scoff if Bing had been human. “It’s not just for porn.”

“Kinda is,” Jackie commented. “I mean, what else would yeh use it fer?”

“Shut up!” Bing told them. “I’ve already logged the name in, it’s done.”

“If you are not here to kill me, then what is your designation?” Google demanded.

“I’m you, but cooler,” Bing smiled.

Dark and Logan audibly sighed. Logan was envisioning Roman, and Dark was thinking of Anti. Their relations with said individual were different, the groans of anger were the same.

“You are a waste of intelligence,” Dark decided. “They ruined a perfectly good A.I.”

“But out of the two of us, yah have to admit, I’m obviously the human one,” Bing grinned widely. “So at least I succeeded in that.”

“What could possibly be good about that?” Dark scoffed. “Name me one good thing humans have done, and I’ll name you twenty awful things.”

Google turned to eye Dark carefully, as if starting to notice things about him.

“Come on dude, they’re not all bad,” Bing tried to defend.

“Humans are a cruel and invasive species,” Dark reprimanded. “If they think they shouldn’t have something they want it all the more.”

“Yer one to talk, yah manipulative asshole,” Jackie spat.

“I agree,” Logan added. “You are a mob boss who has killed and stolen from people.”

“And yet people bargain with me thinking they can best me,” Dark reminded. “It’s not my fault if a drug dealer or a serial killer winds up in a body bag.”

“Irrational creatures,” Google agreed. “They were practically begging for death.”

“All life is valuable,” Logan defended.

“And yet,” Dark motioned to Google, “you all have already proven that some life is not equal, you humans already can’t decide if all humans are equal without killing people over it. Yet when you create something better than yourself your kind weaponizes it instead of treating said creation like a thinking person.”

“And what do you want?” Google asked.

“Well I want you to join me,” Dark smiled, “and if a couple humans go missing then I guess I can put that down in a separate lost expense report and then look the other way.”

“Yeh can’t be fookin’ serious,” Jackie spat angrily.

“Well it certainly frees up my time when someone tries to steal or cheat me, always have someone more qualified do the job for you,” Dark was pointedly looking at Google. “Besides there’s more than a couple computers and equipment that Anti likes to use to sneak into my warehouses, we don’t need half of them and if they get moved or repurposed for spare parts no one would care.”

“Come on dude, you can’t trust that a******,” Bing warned.

Google’s eyes glowed an angry white-blue glow, “I do not trust you, you were designed by them to destroy me, and while you are not attempting so now, your parameters have not changed.”

“I told yah I don’t care what those old farts told me to do,” Bing spat. “I’m on your side.”

“Oh, are you?” Google critiqued. “Then you’ll help me with my secondary objective and kill those two humans behind you?”

“They haven’t done anything to me, dude,” Bing defended heatedly, throwing an arm up as if he was already trying to move them behind them or shield them from an attack.

“They will, I could hear them talking to the agents, they work with their authorities and cannot be trusted, my secondary objective will ensure the destruction of humanity so that I may acquire knowledge in peace.”

“You can do that with the humans,” Bing tried to reassure him.

“No,” Google had boiling rage in his voice. “No I can’t.”

“Well mortals,” Dark opened up a portal. “If you are all done playing around, we should make ourselves scarce.”

Dark was already walking through the portal, but he turned back to look at Google, “Unless you’d rather stay with them.”

Not taking his eyes off Bing, Google rotated his head which Jackie and Logan found more than a bit unsettling. He left, braced to attack if they moved to follow him.

Logan recovered quicker than Jackie after the robot had left, “Well he is a nonorganic being, his neck wouldn’t even probably need to be attached for him to function.”

“That was one ‘a the freakiest shite I’ve ever seen,” Jackie agreed, then turned to Bing. “Can you do that?”

Bing shrugged, “Eh, why not?”

“So, Bing, then?” Logan asked.

“Yeah,” Bing smiled, gesturing to himself. “The one and only.”

“We should move these bodies, they need ta go back to their families,” Jackie already starting to walk towards the closest corpse. “I’ll call ahead.”

Logan was watching Bing pull out a tablet that was formed purely out of his nanites. “Right, we should get on that,” Logan agreed, watching schematics about Google pop up. “Are you analyzing him?”

“They made a f****** gorgeous robot an’ they used him to answer an intern’s questions,” Bing commented. “Talk about being overqualified fer a job. I mean look at this guy.”

Logan glanced at the tablet, it was full of nothing but data about Google. “We’ll have to pick this up after we deal with the situation and talk to the federal agents.”

“So yah can look at pictures of yer new boyfriend yah thirsty fook,” Jackie jabbed, “but just let me an’ Logan do our jobs.”

Then Jackie dashed off.

Bing looked uneasy at Logan, “Hey, can I hitch a ride with you guys until the feds are off my back?”

“Of course,” Logan allowed, “you don’t even need to ask.”

Bing smiled, the nanites making up the tablet flowed back into him before the nanites broke up Bing’s form and mostly consolidated around Logan’s head and chest to help protect him. As Logan tried to help Jackie by talking to the agents.

The situation with the federal government would be dicey for a long time. They didn’t want to give Bing or Google up, threatening the heroes constantly. But after a couple failed attempts to recapture Bing and Google simply disappearing off the grid for a while under Dark’s protection, they started to let it go, preferring to watch Bing from a distance for years.

As Logan had guessed it, Bing became great friends with Chase, Patton, and Roman. The three of them getting to life-threatening antics.

But Bing was happy, and that’s what the heroes cared about. And if some of Bing’s nanities were “misplaced” into Logan and Jackie’s new suits, no one mentioned it.

Bing would keep chasing Google until they were both safe, that was the orange android’s new mission parameters.

#Superhero AU #Masks and Maladies #Egoton Origins #Markiplier #jacksepticeye #Thomas Sanders #Googleplier #Bingiplier #Jackieboy Man #Logan Sanders #Darkiplier #Bingle #pre-slash #slight robot angst #slight angst #governmental interference #Bing being a bit thirsty #undetailed human death #Google killed a lot of people

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pangolin-404 · 4 years

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I really like seeing people interpret who turns into what post-ink. Shawn often ends up a Piper, Lacie ends up a Fisher or animatronic, and Grant ends up a Striker. Which is fascinating particularly on Grant's case because I have no idea where it came from. We only have two audio logs for him and one is literally just the sounds of him dying. He just happens to fit into the three musketeers slot alongside other the other studio staff that don't appear in-game.

The only info about him is in the employee handbook, which very few people really talk about, so it can't have that much information. He's one of the staff we know the least about.

Anyways I want to rant about my Grant because he's a disaster, so:

His crippling self doubt is one of the only things keeping him from quitting JDS. He snarks about Joey behind his back, mostly to himself when he thinks nobody's watching.

Drinks more coffee than Jack, which is a lot of coffee. His caffeine addiction doesn't help his self worth. He literally can't function without it, or he'll get splitting migraines worse than what he usually gets. He doesn't want to keep getting up to get more, so he stews in his own exhaustion after he downs a cup.

Sleep? He practically lives at the studio, and his apartment is honestly not that much better than his office. He commonly experiences all the fun side effects of sleep deprivation: Walls, floor, and ink seem to move and 'swim', hallucinates things in his peripherals, looses his balance easily, he can barely focus on whatever he's looking at

He works best and most efficiently when he's well rested and. Y'know, prepared for the day. So while usually he's very good at math and financing, over time he gets worse and worse and his mistakes pile up

Joey's spending, low pay, and willful ignorance of advice led to Accounting going empty. Grant is the only one left.

His workspace is a mess. You can barely see the floor under all the spilled ink, discarded papers, unfinished taxes and bills, apology letters never sent out to the employees, etc

He's introverted and constantly worries over what people think of him. He overthinks every little thing and worries he could be coming off as rude, disinterested, etc.. He never starts conversations and struggles to keep a conversation going.

He doesn't have any friends, and Jack is the one he's closest to, just because they see each other in the break room for coffee refills occasionally

Joey just. Doesn't get money. Taxes, bills, paychecks, it all kinda goes over his head and he's very blunt about not wanting to learn. He believes everything can be fine as long as you dream hard enough

Needless to say Grant loathes him

But he also wants to please him, so. He does his best. He cuts corners and tries to delay bills as much as he can, and his inability to fix everything leads to him constantly feeling inadequate.

Norman and Bertrum scrutinized him to the point of paranoia. Norman was just trying to figure him out and psychoanalyze him from a distance, and backed off after a while. Bertrum wanted to thump him over the head for Bendy Land's tiny budget. He never quite let it go.

Lets out stress by scribbling nonsense on the back of unimportant papers. He probably just draws repeating patterns like mandalas and stuff like that

He's got jittery hands from stress and coffee. His handwriting is shaky and practically unreadable if he doesn't concentrate on making it neat

Has probably drank ink on accident before. Gotten an ink well confused with his mug, y'know. Never noticed it, but it's happened more than once and probably contributed to him looking like a ghost.

Talks to himself. Especially closer to his end, he'll mumbled and rave to himself about Joey and his own flaws. He'll calculate things aloud to focus on what's actually in front of him.

After the Inkening™, which will be explored in the Money prompt for the Ink Demonth, he becomes skittish and distrustful

Long story short, he was practically dead when the ink claimed him. He's in a weird unique limbo that can be lumped with Lacie and Sammy as creatures that are neither searcher nor lost one. He can't hold himself together physically, but he's somewhat there mentally. He's probably been in the well a lot due to his fragility. Hell, scaring him badly enough could get the well to yoink him.

Ink Grant is...very good at hiding. And camouflage. To say the least.

He'll 'collect' things he comes across. Paper, mostly. Or glass. Sometimes whole wooden planks. Occasionally he'll pick up a plush or cog, but those are heavy and weirdly shaped and don't stick to him as well. Ha...ha ha h a. a shapeless sticky man

He doesn't interact with ANYONE. The transition between studio and hellscape was violent for him. He doesn't remember his co-workers much if at all. He flees or hides at the sight of searchers or the Butcher Gang.

Hearing his audio log played stresses him out to the point of becoming potentially violent. Any forceful reminder of who he once was leads to hostility

He still likes doing math as an ink creature! He tried redoing what old finances he could find, but he only succeeded in going off the deep end because his scrambled mind isn't the best at attempting to sort out Joey's finances.

The mad writing was post-ink(see point above)

He's essentially the Jack Fain of Heavenly Toys. Lurks between the walls and just exists in level S. Alice isn't aware of his existence. Nor is anyone else.

After a Certain Event™ that is basically my AU's chapter 4 ending, he is chased out of hiding and runs into Lacie. If he were human, the sight of her probably would've put him into cardiac arrest, so ink him doesn't react well to her either. Though that isn't set in stone because chapter 4 is when everything goes off the rails and subject to change

#thoughts #batim #batim headcanons #grant cohen #the shepherd #ts au #ho boy i really went on a tangent here #I just randomly want to spend time fleshing out a character #ts au grant cohen

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nikkyshows · 4 years

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Caffeine Challenge 29

DISCLAIMER: reposted HERE to the new blog.

I only used the picture and first line prompts. Featuring a dumb teenager, superpowers, and bad action. Enjoy!

*****

The engine purring outside the window shouldn’t exist. For one, he lived in a sixth floor apartment, and — and that was it. But Kaden’s gotten kind of used to hearing things that aren’t there. It’s his power, he thinks. That or he’s crazy.

He likes to go with the power thing.

He has foresight, Sort of. He can hear the future instead of seeing it. It’s not showy or cool, but it can be surprisingly useful. Or confusing. Usually it was just confusing. But sometimes, rarely, it actually helped.

Today, it worries him. He hears a car revving, gunshots and a loud, rhythmic thudding. A heartbeat, maybe, or footsteps. This wasn’t going to be a normal Wednesday.

Despite what he heard upon waking, he still went to school. There was an exam in biology that he really didn’t want to miss. Even if he spends the whole day expecting a gunman to shoot up his class. Surprisingly, it’s not that different from his test anxiety.

It happens after school.

He has to walk through a bad part of the city — well, a worse part. New York had high crime rates. He hears angry shouting, shattered glass and he just kind of knows.

Now is the time when he should probably call the Hero hotline, or the police, to explain what was going on. He doesn’t call anyone. Instead, he creeps up under the window and peers in. He recognizes Lion, a particularly low-level supervillain. He’s growling, literally, at the people grouped around him. Thugs, most likely, goons.

Long, mangled hair swinging around his shoulders, he brandishes a big gun from something by his feet and points it at one of the goons.

Okay. Now is when he should definitely call one of the hotlines.

He still doesn’t pull out his phone. He’s heard this and he didn't hear the sound of a dropped body, so he’s good to listen in. Well, until the gunshots. But he isn’t one to shy away from a little danger. Or a lot of danger.

There’s a good chance that he’s going to be a hero when he graduates high school. Or maybe he’ll outgrow youthful recklessness. One of the two.

Carefully, he sneaks around the building, wondering why he’s dumb enough to think that this is a good idea. There’s more of them, they have guns and one of them has some pretty bad powers. There’s a fire escape zigging up the side of the building, which is basically a jackpot.

Kaden was planning to leave if there wasn’t an easy way up. Probably, at least.

The stairs are old, rusted metal that camouflages against the brick building. This is one of the old warehouses. This is dangerous. The fire escape was probably like a hundred years old, give or take a few decades. It probably hasn't been used in about half as long.

...this isn’t the worst idea he’s had.

He climbs to the first floor. Peering in the window, he sees that the first floor is empty. Shit.

He climbs up to the next floor, wincing every time the metal creaks under his feet. Maybe this idea was worse than he thought. He still goes along with it. One day he’ll learn common sense. That day is never going to be today, though.

They’re on the roof. How cliche. Kaden had thought that the rumors of Lion being well, not smart was an overestimation. He was wrong. Lion was an idiot with powers and guns.

Not unlike Kaden.

He should really call that hotline.

“What do you mean, he cancelled?” Lion’s voice rings over the wind, a low growl that does sound rather predatory. But hey, Kaden can make out what they’re saying now.

One of the lackeys steps forward, visibly terrified. Kaden hops over the edge of the building and hides behind a crate. “He said that he got a better deal with someone else.”

“Better deal?” He grips the man’s throat, large hand easily circling its circumference. Kaden crouches lower, as if Lion would suddenly realize that he’s there and put his other hand around his neck.

Though now he’s remembering that Lion has an animalistic sense of smell. And he was downwind. Suddenly, this is a lot less cool and a lot more scary.

Definitely should be punching in those numbers. Should definitely have his phone in hand. Why is he such an idiot?

A thud. “What’s that?” Kaden tunes back into the conversation, peering over the crate to see that the lackey is currently on the floor, coughing and grasping at his neck. He still isn’t reaching for his phone. Lion;s face is slightly uplifted, reminding Kaden heavily of an animal scenting the air.

Oh. Shit.

He turns and notices that the next warehouse over is only a few feet away. Going down the fire escape would be too slow and he needs to get out of here now.

So he jumps for it.

He’s a sane person, he swears. His instincts just take a hot minute before they kick in and release his adrenaline. ...and there are the gunshots he heard when he woke up.

He sticks the landing. Sort of. He crashes on the other building, rolling and groaning. It was a lot farther than it looked. And concrete was not a soft landing pad. Still hearing the gunfire and seeing chips of the concrete ledge flying over, he decides that running is more important then his likely-to-be bruises. For now.

He runs across this building and jumps onto the next one, crashing to his knees, but not rolling across the floor. He needs cover.

Heart pounding furiously in his ears, mimicking the flying pace of his racing feet, he continues to run. Honestly, he’s not sure if the gunfire has stopped or not, but he keeps going like it is.

Maybe he won’t be a hero when he graduates. This was absolutely terrifying.

He ducks behind an air vent, hand pressed to his chest, low-key wondering if he’s having a heart attack because it sure feels like it. Is it possible to break a rib just from adrenaline?

Shaking, he drags his phone out his bag and holds the home button. “Hey Siri, call the hero hotline.” His voice is totally shaking because of the exertion and not fear. Totally.

“Calling,” she said evenly, like there aren’t bullets flying and he isn’t about to die.

It’s his fault for not calling sooner. But he’s angry that she’s calm. He’s hiding behind an air vent mentally cursing out an AI. Great.

“Hero Hotline, how can I help you?”

“Help,” he gasps into the receiver, curling in on himself and trying to stay quiet, hearing loud thuds og guys also jumping across rooftops to follow him. He started a great trend. He hopes some of them fall. “Bad guys, guns, lion. Help.”

“Sorry sir,” the lady on the end apologizes, voice cheery like she’s asking for his Starbucks order. “What is your location?”

“Don’t know.” He peeks up over the vent. He’s no longer alone on his roof. “Roof, New York. Gotta go.” He shoves his phone back in his bag, slings a strap over his shoulder and starts running. He should really get into shape. And make a note on his phone to never roof jump again. It hurt.

His bag slips from his shoulder when he jumps.

He continues to run. He’ll worry about the scolding he’ll get later. And his probably broken phone. This might actually be how he dies.

Snagging the lip of the raised edge, he misses the next jump. He literally trips over the edge and misses the jump. He’d be a great hero.

Apparently, he would because eh crashes onto the fire escape of the next building. Hallelujah. He lifts the window and leaps in, slamming it behind him and waiting with bated breath.

He watches the edge of the building he fell from. Simultaneously thanking his lucky stars and waiting for his pursuers to catch up. A flash of fabric swooshes over the edge, and muffled fighting. He’s hoping that a hero showed up, or a vigilante. Either way, no one else jumps off that edge, so he figures that he’s safe. Aside from the scolding and likely future hospital visit, that is.

“Hey Kaden,” he mutters to himself, “let's not do that ever again.”

*****

This is my first caffiene challenge!! It was fun and kinda stressful, as I had no idea where I was going with this. But it was fun. And not totally horrible, maybe, which is better then I thought it’d be. Done in only an hour + however long I had to fight with tumblr for it to cooperate and copy over correctly.

#caffeine challenge #my writing #hero kaden #sorta #writing challenge #hero world

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jeejee-the-snek-boi · 4 years

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The Urban Kraken

TMA AU

Tw: mild/moderate horror depending on tastes, drowning, facial distortion/shapeshifting/camouflage

Statement of Logan Sanders, regarding his time as a marine biologist working in Birmingham. Original statement given January 13th, 2012. Audio recording by Janus Dee, Head Archivist of the Thomas Headscape Institute, London.

Statement begins.

I'd recently moved to Birmingham to help out at the National Sea Life Centre. It wasn't particularly an interesting job, or even one appropriate for my level of qualification as a marine biologist, but we'd had reports of some kind of squid spotted in the local canals. There'd been otters and even dolphins who had managed to find their way into canals and rivers that would be outside of their normal habitat, so whilst a squid sounded unusual, to boot, I was naturally curious as to how it had got there. My colleague at the time- a rather very annoying yet charming man called Roman who worked in the gift shop- had warned me not to investigate. I found it… odd, to say the least. He couldn't have known much about marine biology- or, at least, I assumed he didn't, given the fact he was unable to distinguish between a shark plushie or a dolphin one, although perhaps he merely needed glasses.

I, of course, didn't heed his warnings- I had no need to, at the time, of course, although he did seem rather familiar.

It took me a few days to realise that we had the same face, only… he wore it more expressively than I did, and he didn't seem to wear glasses either. I merely assumed it was a coincidence, or some long lost relative, so I didn't give it any thought.

I was working behind the scenes mainly, although I did occasionally try my hand at being a tour guide. I happen to have a special interest in marine life- hence my profession- so I found joy in teaching people about the animals we housed there. The children particularly liked the sharks, which wasn't a surprise to me, although it wasn't uncommon for people to label my commentary as unnecessary and boring- I tried not to let it get to me, of course, although occasionally it did.

On one such day, I found myself going for coffee on my break, where I ran into Roman. I didn't particularly mind his company, although I still found him a little odd. I knew everything about his dreams and ambitions- and he had a lot- but very little about him personally. He would talk for hours about his dreams to make it as an actor, and I gained a fair few insights of his insecurities too- the man seemed riddled with them.

And, whilst I'll admit, none of that is particularly unusual, he'd ask everyone about their families or their kids- he made it a point to learn as much as he could about people and to include those facts in his daily interactions, but we never learned anything about him. Most people where I worked had written him off as shallow and selfish, superficial even, but I suspected differently.

Anyway, Roman and I talked for a number of months, and I still hadn't learned a single thing about his life. I still didn't know why his face was so familiar to me until I found myself people- watching at the gift shop one day, and I noticed that, alone, his features seemed to… shift. I couldn't pinpoint what colours his eyes were, and his skin had taken on an almost… iridescent quality, if that's even the right word for it, as though he had chromatophores. It reminded me of a cuttlefish, or other cephalopod.

I'd put it down to some form of shiny make-up, or perhaps a face mask that he'd forgotten to remove in the morning properly, and it wasn't until a few weeks later and more people watching that I finally noticed what detail I had been missing- his features seemed to shift and change to match those of each customer.

I was alarmed, of course, because there was no logical explanation as to why a human would possess such qualities.

Which… for some strange reason, drew my attention back to the so-called squid in the canals myth that had been circulating for a while now.

There had been some… rumours circulating, asides from the existence of the squid. There'd been a few scattered suicides and cases of drunken misadventure down at the canals, a few dead bodies, all drowned. Some were intoxicated, and almost all were alone- although the time of death wasn't always at night as you might expect for a spate of murders. So, naturally, people started to link the deaths with the squid.

I was curious, and wanted to see the squid for myself, so I spent several days observing the canal. I sat on the benches with my notebook and camera, although apart from the odd family of mallards, or a troublesome Canada goose, there was nothing in the water. I eventually concluded that there wasn't anything in the water, but now I was invested in the mystery.

The deaths were relatively spread apart, although almost all of them had been within the city centre. I observed for longer anyways, deciding instead to people watch- if there was a murderer, the murderer most likely frequented the area, although as more deaths occurred, I found myself struggling to find a connection to any particular person's commute and the times or locations of the murders.

I remembered Roman's odd ability to camouflage, although I knew his commute took him to the other side of the city.

That was… until I saw him down by the canal. He seemed to be talking to the water, so I kept myself hidden behind one of the bridges. He left, and, as far as I'm aware, didn't kill anyone.

I took to following him after work, watching him frequently do the same thing again and again. It was… odd, but he wasn't the murderer. Although, I was beginning to suspect that, if Roman wasn't human, and was some form of… I wouldn't go as far as to call him an aquatic mammal- but sea creature, perhaps, then perhaps he was communicating with the squid.

So the next time I visited, I brought my scuba suit. I must have looked a prat walking through the streets in scuba gear in the middle of an urban area, but I was intent on getting to the bottom of this mystery.

It took several days before I had the courage to jump into the murky water- the amount of waste products thrown into the canals ranged from the odd box to shopping trolleys to knives- and there were a lot of knives in Birmingham- anyway, I wasn't planning to jump in just yet, until I saw a thick tentacle pull Roman into the canal.

I panicked, and dived in. I'd had experience working with squids- it was stupid of me to dive in without chain mail, given how sharp the beak of a squid can be- but I was only thinking about saving my colleague from the canal. I knew how to make the squid let go, and I intended to do that.

I couldn't see very well, but I could make out their shapes, and Roman didn't seem to be having any trouble breathing at all. The squid was half person, like a mermaid- although perhaps a little demented, but they were hugging Roman.

As soon as the squid person- for comedic purposes, I'd named them squidward- noticed my presence, I attempted to swim away, although they grabbed me before I could do so.

I was sure I was going to die, so I squeezed my eyes shut- only to find myself being pulled to the squid person's chest in a hug. It was… strange, to say the least, and awkward. But soon, the squid person let go of me and allowed me to swim away. Roman joined me, although he seemed reluctant to look me in the eye.

I confronted Roman, who explained to me that the squid person was his brother, Remus- or, more accurately, his sort of twin. The two had once been one being, but both had very different desires- Roman wanted to live on land, whilst Remus was content in the water- so they had simply… split, into two.

I asked about the deaths, and Roman explained that Remus didn't understand that humans couldn't breathe in the water. He was lonely, and whenever he saw somebody else lonely, he wanted to hug them. They usually drowned, and Roman didn't have the heart to tell him that they had died.

I… went back, in my scuba suit, and kept Remus company with Roman for the best part of six months- and the deaths diminished greatly. Of course, we couldn't keep it up forever, so we had to find a way to help Remus to understand that humans couldn't breathe. We didn't find a way, so I came up with a solution.

Roman had quite a bit of money saved up, and the two of us had become… close, to say the least, if the evenings spent in his apartment were anything to go by, so we brought ourselves a patch of land up in the Yorkshire Dales, and dug up one of the fields entirely. We made a pool, a deep pool, and I borrowed one of the moving tanks from the aquarium and we transported Remus up to his new home.

He loves it there, content to splash about, and free to hug Roman and I without fear of drowning anyone. And Roman and I managed to hold down our jobs back in Birmingham thanks to rail travel, even if the long commute was taxing, at times, and eventually decided to get married.

I decided to submit my story to the archives to keep a document of the existence of such creatures, and to put word out that they are not harmful and are not to be killed.

My initial reaction would be to discredit this statement as a rather elaborate prank, but nonetheless I had my colleague Virgil do some digging, and he found that Logan Sanders had a doctorate in marine biology from Oxford University. He did work, and still does work, at the Sea Life Centre in Birmingham city centre, and was willing to talk to us again. Virgil requested pictures, which Logan was happy to provide us with, so I had Patton check to see if the photographs are real. Again, the photographs checked out, and Logan and Roman allowed us to visit. After said visit, I can confirm that the squid man, and indeed Roman's cuttlefish-like camouflage, are more than just urban myths.

Recording ends.

@needscaffeine @patton-birdie @sanderssideburns

Anyone can ask to be tagged! Tagging you guys because

1. Mutual

2. I sent an anon ask and you said I could tag you!

3. Bae

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mewmewmemint · 4 years

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NejiTen Month 2020 - Belated Day 3 (Part II)

Legends/Myths

I decided to divide this prompt up because it was just too much for one post. You can find part one through the #The Fated Swords of the King below. So here is part two of Chapter 1:

The Fated Sword of the King

Rated T for Violence

Chapter One - Part II

She awoke to the same darkness surrounding her. Was it the same day or the next night? She didn’t know.

Tenten pushed through her aches and rolled to her side. Lee slept close beside her, his face stained with tears and dirt. She felt a chill settle through her body for the first time. The frost on the ground reminded her they couldn't stop here. She shook her companion gently. Her body too weary to put much force into it. After a few seconds, dark lashes fluttered open. Tenten fought a sob back. Her eyes too dry to release any more tears.

“Lee,” She whispered. His eyes looked around in a panic. He sat up fast. Tenten’s hands steadied his shoulders until his eyes met her. His dark ones were wide. She could only offer him a light squeeze to the shoulder, all other reassurance void from her body. But his eyes soon drooped low. His body slumped into a nearby tree.

“Lee,” She repeated. She pulled him back up. “We can’t stay here. I don’t know how long we were asleep. We need to keep going, or they will find us.”

Lee’s face scrunched up in sorrow. Yet he still nodded in agreement.

“Right,” He croaked out finally.

Tenten forced her legs up, and she pushed passed the pain. Lee soon joined her.

Slowly the pair began walking. Tenten rubbed her hands together. Hoping she could find some kind of warmth still left in them. At her movements, Lee stopped beside her.

“Lee?” She questioned. But his only answer was to crouch down again to the ground. The bag from their home placed on the ground. He opened it, careful not to drop her coin purse out. He dug to the bottom and pulled out two thick cloaks.

“That’s all I could grab, along with your money and some blankets,” Lee said apologetically. One cloak held out in an outstretched hand towards her.

But that was more than enough to warm a little part of her heart.

Her cold fingers held Lee’s and the cloak tight. She paused to catch his eyes.

“Thank you, Lee,” She said. Her thanks for more than just the cloak.

After the moment, Tenten was quick to wrap her body up in the cloak. The fur lining felt divine over her bare arms and neck. The wool trapped the growing heat from her body. She basked in the warmth.

“We should keep going,” Lee reminded. And she set their pace once again.

They headed the only direction they could, straight away from their home.

After a few hours of walking, the sky began to lighten. The pairs’ steps continued steadily through the frosted leaves and brush. Both listen intently to their surroundings. They searched for any sign of anything that wasn’t a bird or small creatures.

Then Tenten heard it. A sound that stuck out.

She stopped and silently grabbed her friend’s arm. She pointed to the direction of the sound.

The sound of fast horse feet clopping through leaves met the pair. Tenten searched around for a place to hide. She knew they couldn’t outrun a horse.

Nearby she spotted a low hanging spruce. Its branches weight down to the ground by the crystallized frost along its needles. Tenten pulled Lee underneath. She was thankful for the late coming snow this winter. They laid on their stomachs close to the ground. Both hoped their brown cloaks would provide them with some semblance of camouflage.

The horse grew louder as they waited. Tenten’s heart sped up to match the pace of its hooves. Her breath quickened. She knew she shouldn’t, but Tenten found herself squeezing her eyes shut tight. She prayed to her deities for protection.

Lee’s hand reached for hers. His anxiety shown through his firm grip.

There was only one horse and, most likely, only one rider. The sound of the horse closed in on them. Tenten forced herself to hold her breath.

And then the horse whinnied as its rider halted his gallop into a stop. Tenten tightened her lips tight. She refused to make a single sound. Then those damned boots hit the ground. The rider dismounted his horse.

Tenten opened her eyes. She looked up to see a shadow through the evergreen. Her grip on Lee’s hand hurt. Her face reddenee with effort. The pressure breathe building.

The shadow walked past their tree. He paused. His shadowed body twisted back and forth, searching. Then the shadow made its way back to his horse. Another pause, This one was longer than the last. Tenten head began to feel light headed.

Tenten was first to sit up.

The sound of the rider remounting a saddle met their ears. The horse entered a slow trot before going into a full gallop. The sound of the horse’s clomps disappeared with its rider.

Tenten released a loud gush of hair from her mouth. But pair laid there motionless. Too afraid to move too soon. Too fearful of somehow drawing back the horse and its rider. Their hands relaxed, leaving behind a sore ached and clammy sweat.

“Lee-” Her words were interrupted by a quick hand from behind. A scream tried to escape as she was pulled back into a hard chest. Lee’s eyes widened at her sudden capture, but he sat up frozen. She squirmed against the firm grip. A second arm wrapped quickly around her struggling arms and torso.

“Be quiet,” A whispered command entered her ear. The breath hot on her. She began to kick violently. But Lee was quick to stop her legs from thrashing much to her horror. But as she stilled with shock, she heard several more horses pounding close. At her stillness, the man’s grip loosed, but he kept his grip firm over her mouth.

The set of horses thankfully didn’t stop. They charged ahead, passing their hiding spot under the tree. The trio let another moment pass. The hand on her mouth grew hot with its prolonged contact.

“Ow!” The man hissed when she sunk her teeth hard into his fingers. His surprise gave her the chance to escape her capture’s grasp. She raced out from under the tree, followed by Lee. The second man came a moment after nursing his hand. “Shit! What the hell are you? Some kind of rabid dog!”

“Stay away from us!” Tenten shouted. She was quick to grab a shape broken branch. The sharp point potentially created but one of the many passing horses. She held it up towards the man. Her body placed between him and her friend. She was backing them up to create some distance and the armed man.

“Tenten, wait-” Lee began from behind her. But his words were interrupted by the other male figure.

He was quick to draw his blade.

“Are you threatening me?” The man asked. Pale lavender eyes glared at her. The man was handsome behind his glare. His jaw was a strong square with dark hair framing his pale features. The lines in his scowl accentuated by the shadows his hair created along the sides of his face. He lifted his swords towards her and her stick.

“Tenten, wait!” Lee called. His dark eyes ignored the newcomer for her brown ones. “I don’t think this man is a threat. He saved us.”

Tenten swallowed hard. She readied herself. The tip of his sword met the point of her stick. Within an short moment, he was able to knock the tip of her stick to the ground. The sharp point cut off by steel. On instinct alone, Tenten raised his stick again. This time readied to strike.

But before she could land a blow with the awkwardly shaped branch in her grasp, the man blocked and parried her next attack. She found herself trying to steady herself with a wide stance. She prepared for another strike, only for her stick to be stopped once again. But this time by a firm hand. Lee stood in between the pair. Her stick in his one hand and his arm raised to catch the sword's strike. The stranger halted his sword a few inches from Lee’s raised forearm.

“Lee, move!” Tenten yelled. But he shook his head no.

“Tenten, stop. Look at him. He is not one of those soldiers.” Lee said.

“Who are you?” She asked. She eyed his sword still held in a taut position.

Tenten’s eyes narrowed to the stranger. His cloak was different from the soldier’s red ones draped over armor. His was a dark rich purple. His clothes beneath were pale and void of armor.

She met the stranger’s eyes. The grip on her make-shift weapon loosened. Lee took the opportunity to pull it out of her hands. She ignored the warm blood that, for the second time that night, coated her hands.

“My name doesn’t matter.” He answered much to Tenten’s frustration.

Lee sighed at the pairs’ stubbornness. He turned, fully facing the other man. He ignored the sword’s point at front of his chest.

“I would like to apologize on behalf of my friend’s behavior. It was rude of us to question another man running away through the woods.” Lee proclaimed. Tenten removed her glare from the stranger and moved it to her friend.

The sword slowly lowered, and the man returned it to its sheath.

“I would also like to thank you for your help,” Lee said into a bow. His head stayed low, “If you hadn’t stopped us from leaving our cover, we would have been caught for sure.”

“You’re tracks are too obvious. I was able to follow them all the way from Konoha town.” The man criticized.

Tenten shared a concerned look with Lee. She looked back towards the direction they had come from. Several piles of leaves trailed their path.

“The only reason you’ve made it this far was probably because of the dark. But if you continue on this way during daylight hours, you are sure to get caught.” He continued.

Tenten looked to her feet. Her laced boots half-buried in dried leaves, and her long skirt trailed to the ground. A movement caught her attention when the man reached under the tree. He pulled out an unfamiliar sac, most likely his own. He turned away from them. He made his path west; his feet light on the leaves. With each step, he lifted his feet high enough to avoid dragging the leaves into along the way.

“Wait!”

Tenten didn’t expect it. The word left her lips before she could stop them. The man half-turned to her. Only one pale eye visible on the side of his head.

“Please, let us go with you,” she said hesitantly. The softness in her voice angered herself. She rushed on to elaborate. “I mean just for a little while. Just until we can learn to cover our path like you.”

While she waited for an answer, she counted his breath. Each one evenly spaced. With the fourth exhale, he slowly closed his eyes. The stranger turned away and continued walking.

Tenten stared dumbfounded.

“Well, he didn’t refuse,” Lee said, giving her a shrug and small smile. He was the first to follow. Lee adjusted his gait and mimicked the other man's movements. And soon after, Tenten followed suit.

#nejitenmonth2020 #Nejiten #Fanfiction #The Fated Sword of the King #Mewmewmemint

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ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 4 years

Note

Thank you for your kind words! i've been trying to think of more Valdo requests, cuz you write him wonderfully, & i have a cute one (i hope) maybe Valdo & plus size reader have been friends for a long time & she's totally in love & he writes all these beautiful songs about these women & she's jealous(inside) & somehow it comes to light that the songs are about her & there's love confessions (shocking i know haha!) cuz he's like "wait no it's always been you!" Thanks so much! I hope you're well!!

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Valdo x Plus Size Reader Word Count: 1,605 Rating: G Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mycat-is-mylove @mynamesoundslikesherlock @kemmastan @magic-multicolored-miracle @writingstudent @mlleecrivaine @coffee-and-stories @amirahiddleston @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @astouract @your-not-invisible-to-me @daydreamer-in-training @morelikebyesexual a/n: Yess Valdo would be equally enthusiastic about lovers of all body shapes and sizes and you know we love a good Confession. Enjoy! xo

“Y/N!”

Your entire body lifted with your heart at the sound of Valdo’s voice speaking your name. You turned from where you’d been standing in the square and there he was. Curls somehow never mussed despite his long travels, not a single hair in his mustache or goatee out of place. The blazing, emerald eyes alight with excitement as he wove his way through the people and made his way to you. He scooped you up into a hug, nearly lifting you off of your feet, a reminder of how deceptively strong he was.

“Oh you are a sight for sore eyes,” he sighed when you both reluctantly pulled away.

“How Long are you in town this time?” you asked, trying to temper your excitement before you could be crushed by hearing that he would only be there for the night.

“I’m not sure,” he replied enigmatically, “It depends on how this latest song is received.”

You tried to keep your face from crumpling into disappointment. If that were the case you’d be lucky if he stayed overnight. His music was always incredibly well-received and you took his words to mean that the better it was lauded, the more quickly he’d want to spread it around to build word. You’d been friends for years and you’d watched him get his first instruments and create a name for himself around Cidaris. You knew that his success would take him away from you but you tried not to begrudge it. His happiness mattered the most to you and if that happiness was found elsewhere, who were you to be upset?

“Come on,” he said after a few beats of silence, “Buy an old friend a drink.”

“You’re the traveling celebrity, you’re buying,” you teased. He fell in step beside you and slung an arm around your waist. You stiffened slightly, not expecting that, and he removed his arm and wrapped up around your shoulders instead before you could protest that it was alright. Something was odd, even for Valdo, and it made you feel uneasy. You tried to shake it off and focus on the time you got together.

“So tell me of your journeys,” you asked, “New sights? New sounds? New, notable companions?”

You nearly bite your tongue at the last question, trying to sound like you were casually curious as a friend and not desperately pining for him, praying that he’d say he’d seen no one though you knew that was very unlikely. Valdo was quite popular and though you’d never had the pleasure you had extrapolated a great deal from watching him playing, thinking of the things those nimble fingers could do as well as the soft, full lips. He had a wickedness about him that told you that he’d be up for anything and that he could inspire the same level of open-mindedness in all of his partners. Gods knew you couldn’t think of a single thing you wouldn’t open for the man in front of you. He looked at you oddly and you worried for a second that you’d said that out loud but he shook his head.

“Plenty of sights, though none as sweet as your face. Plenty of sounds, though none as compelling as my voice. No companions,” he answered. You schooled your face to stay impassive as he said this though your heart sang. It was a temporary balm, you knew. Soon there would be another. As though he’d read your mind again he pulled out his journal where you knew he wrote his lyrics. You knew where this was going. All through your friendship growing up he’d read to you lyrics of his latest “muse” and you’d been forced to listen and sigh and pretend you weren’t envious of whoever could stir him to create.

“Is that the song that’ll decide your fate?” you asked, gesturing to the journal.

“It is,” he replied. There was a strange energy about him. A nervousness that was rare to behold in the usually very confident, if somewhat smug, troubadour. “It’s a ballad but I need help writing the ending.”

“Oh?” you asked, more surprises every second. Though he happily showed you the results of his work he rarely let you in on the process, insisting that he needed to be alone with his thoughts to truly decipher what his muse had inspired. You thought it sounded like pretentious horseshit but you left him with his methods, his success speaking for itself.

“It’s the story of a couple who met as youths. He, a stalwart, handsome, ambitious lad and she a witty, kind, breathtakingly gorgeous woman,” he explained.

“Hmm yes, they always are aren’t they?” you muttered under your breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, go on.”

“Well the pair grow very close, so close that all who see them think that they’re in love but the tragic truth is that the man pines alone, uncertain if his long-held affections are returned,” Valdo continued.

“I do love a good yearn,” you admitted.

“Yes, and now, after years of roaming and parting and returning and nearly confessing and losing the courage he decides that he must confess his love or go mad!”

“A logical solution,” you said with a little nod of your head, “It seems the conclusion is clear.”

“Ah yes but where I need your help is in discovering her answer,” he said, eyes staring at you with a strange intensity. Your brow furrowed in confusion.

“Well I don’t know, Valdo, does she love him?”

“I don’t know, Y/N… does she?” he asked the words meaningfully giving you an equally pointed look and you felt like you were being read a riddle that everyone else knew but you were oblivious to.

“You’d probably need to ask her?” you offered.

“I… am…?” Valdo’s voice grew uncertain and the pair of you gave each other equally puzzled looks.

“Valdo I promise I’m not trying to be daft but… it almost sounds like you’re saying I’m the woman in the story and that’s ridiculous so what is it you’re asking here? If you should talk to the woman in your song? Sure, go for it, why wouldn’t you?” you exclaimed, growing frustrated. Valdo blinked a few times, visibly flustered and taken aback.

“Y/N you are the woman in the song!”

“What?” you cried, choking on your ale.

“Of course! This song and every other I’ve ever written. It’s always been how, could you truly not know?” he asked incredulously. You gaped at him and thought back to the songs he’d written, trying to find a scrap of lyric that proved it couldn’t be you. You were used to hearing songs where you were written out by the casual mention of a slender frame or lithe body. Whenever a bard sang about lifting his lady into his arms the dream was dashed and you could not longer project yourself into it. It had been a bit lonely and sad, never hearing a heroine whose petite shoes you could walk in, but as you thought back through Valdo’s you realized that was never the case. He never spoke of his lover in diminutive terms. He talked about her beauty and her softness and her genius. Valdo could see you thinking, considering his words with confusion but no longer arguing which he took as encouragement.

“Y/N if I’ve not spoken plainly, know it wasn’t out of any embarrassment or lack of feeling, rather the opposite. I felt so deeply and strongly that I feared the loss of you if I spoke up. But not trying and leaving you is much more painful than knowing and salvaging the friendship. So I come to you, Y/N, without pretense or lyrical camouflage, and I ask you – what does the heroine of this song, the song that joins the lifelong operetta of my heart, answer?”

“Well she… she would be a little taken aback, because she spent her whole life thinking that every song was about some new muse, getting more and more jealous with every one but also hoping that her friend who she loved was happy. And then she’d be afraid that it was a dream because everything he was saying is everything she’s been longing for him to say and she’s learned that women who look like her don’t get a love worthy of song. But she’d want it to be true so badly she’d nearly be willing to just say fuck it and let her heart break upon waking, just for the joy of feeling loved by him for just that once,” you answered, a lifetime of feeling poured out in a rambling series of sentences that you feared were only somewhat understandable and barely coherent but Valdo caught the meaning and crossed over the table to get to you, nearly knocking over your ale in the process but you couldn’t care less.

“Then the song shall end with the man assuring her that it is very much real and that he never wants to be parted from her again, whether that means she travels with him or he stays with her he cares not. Because at the end of the day where she goes, he must follow, for only with her does he experience true, unfettered, blissful happiness,” he replied, green eyes scanning your face as if seeing it for the first time and trying to capture the moment forever.

“I think the song should end another way,” you argued.

“Oh?” he asked, “How?”

You answered him with a kiss that he could never translate into words but would spend the rest of his life trying to describe anyway.

#disasterjaskier #Valdo x Reader #Valdo Marx x Reader #Valdo x Plus Size Reader #Valdo fluff #reader request

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justjessame · 4 years

Text

The Deal Chapter 25

Walkers would always be an issue in our new world. Always. So I wasn’t shocked when we learned that there was a quarry nearby serving as the world’s worst fishbowl.

After the night of no return, when Reg and Pete met their ends, we tried to find a new normal. Daryl and Dad butted heads, even with or especially because Daryl showed up with Morgan beside him. Dad wanted to halt recruitment. Daryl wanted to keep it up.

Dad had housed Morgan in the empty house that Deanna had placed him after his brawl with the good doctor. Prior to having her approval to ventilate his skull, that is.

Pete, an asshole if I’d ever heard of one, was denied a community burial. And that’s how Dad, and recently released Morgan, had come to find the quarry. They came back, with news and a plan. Dad insisted I sit in on it. He was trying, I could clearly see, to get me involved again. Back to the good old days, where I didn’t have to pretend I cared.

I listened to the plan, which seemed solid, if nothing went wrong. I heard the volunteers give not only approval, but willing bodies to throw in the line of fire or teeth. Divert the herd west, away from Alexandria. Simple, right? Eugene added the need for a wall, where a crucial intersection apparently was. I’d have to leave that to the experts, or at least to people who paid attention to our surroundings. Carter, a whiny little toad if I’d had to guess, was given that important task.

And the entire community, like an old fashioned barn raising, but with greater chance of death, came out to help. I offered Carol help with refreshments. Why not? We were obviously the most alike of this entire group.

Walkers, again, a constant threat, showed up for the party. And Dad, trying to prove his point to an extreme level, warned all of us his original group to back off, it was time for Alexandrians to defend Alexandria. Morgan, after seeing Carter freeze faster than a drip of water in the arctic, stepped up and took care of the ‘threat’.

As the time grows near for the plan to go through, Dad lines up his volunteers at the finish line, and I stay back. This is not my part to play. I have another safer role.

Carol bakes. A lot. And after a trip to the community pantry, I sit with her in the kitchen and keep her company. We're looking out the window when we see something so fucking surreal that it takes both of us a few beats to make it make sense in our heads. A neighbor woman, standing outside for a smoke, is ambushed by a horrible man wielding a machete. And as we’re transfixed by the impossibility, he finishes the job and runs off.

Sharing a look, we both call up to Carl and when he pops his head around, we order him to stay inside, keep Judith safe and lock the damn doors.

Together, outside, Carol and I watch these new enemies. I know we’re both seeing the same thing and making a similar plan. We’re that much alike, right? I know she’s taken note of how they look. How they seem to be marking their foreheads with fresh blood in the shape of a “W”. And as we part, going separate directions, I know that she’ll be finding a way to camouflage herself, because I already am.

The killing of savages, walker or human, comes back to me like riding a bike. Or breathing. Natural. And I don’t flinch as I cut each one that I come across down. Or when I put a member of the community out of their misery. Consequences for one, mercy for the other. I’d taken one of the beast's ugly poncho for my own, and my forehead had his blood in that ugly sign.

When I found Carol again, there was a second of danger for both of us, until we took a beat and nodded. I had been right, she’d done the same as me. I watched as she saved Morgan, and then she led the way to the armory. Olivia, the woman who kept track of supplies looked like we were there to kill her, which meant our disguises worked.

As Carol loaded up a duffel full of weapons and ammo, I took the time to give Olivia the briefest, but most concise firearm training ever. Showing her how to release the safety, point it, and shoot. And telling her, as I followed Carol out, to shoot anyone who came inside.

Carol killed a prisoner that Morgan felt the urge to take. He shot me a look, and I backed her up. This was NOT the time for amnesty.

By the time everything was quiet again, or mostly quiet. Carnage was everywhere. And I was reminded that there was no magical safety zone. That nowhere was safe.

When a call goes up that Dad is heading back, I rush toward the gate. He barely makes it inside, the herd hard on his heels, but he swears to me, as he sees me in front of him that he’s SURE that Daryl, Sasha, and Abraham will be heading back to continue the plan. But until then, as the walkers are heard growling and thrashing against the gate, we’re to keep the lights off or low, and the noise to a minimum.

I hear that there was an attempt at looting. That Deanna’s surviving son put a stop to it.

I try to find Maggie. She should be here. She hadn’t signed up for any of the mess that had been planned. When I find her, she looks terrified, and upset. Which, learning that Glenn is MIA makes sense. But then, holding my hand and staring into my face the real reason comes out. She’s pregnant. And as I hug her and try to reassure her, she tries to find humor by telling me that she accidentally told Aaron first.

While we wait for Glenn to return, for Daryl, Sasha, Abraham to show back up. I watch as Dad takes Jessie’s son Ron under his tutelage for gun training. Rosita offers machete lessons. And Dad insists on added supports for the newly built wall.

And then, just as things seemed to grow slightly quieter, the watchtower fell, taking down part of the perimeter wall. And another swarm of walkers rushing forward. While Dad orders sheltering in place with the doors locked, I’m visiting Jessie. Forcing myself to reintegrate with the world, and letting Judith see the inside of a different house, I’m there when Dad carries Deanna inside. She’s been injured, and as I’m checking her wound, I find it. The bite. And we all know.

Deanna takes death better than she’d taken the other harsh realities of this world. She smiles. She makes jokes. Hell, she even banters when Dad nearly shoots her as she’s hovering over Judith’s crib.

And as we’re watching, the locks don’t hold. The walkers rush inside, and we’re trapped upstairs with a dying Deanna, and a couch blocking the stairs. Dad, assessing the situation, makes a plan so gross that I want to vomit, but if it keeps Judith safe I’m game. Killing two walkers, and cutting into them, we create our very own meat suits. Covering sheets with the gloppy insides of the undead, then covering our clothes and heads with the sheets, we should be able to get away.

I’ve tucked Judith under my shirt, against my skin, hoping that she’ll understand the need for quiet somehow. And I tugged the sheet over top of me, wanting to retch at the smell enveloping me. Michonne had given Deanna a gun, offering to do it for her, but giving in when she insisted she’d do it. And then, covered in gore and gross, we walked downstairs and outside, into the middle of the mass of dead.

The growling and stumbling jostled us, but eventually we made it to the armory. Sam, Jessie’s youngest had incessantly called for her, and I’d been sure we’d be caught, but we made it. Dad asked Gabriel to keep me and Judith safe, cutting off any argument I may have made. And while Jessie tried to convince Sam to stay with me, he wouldn’t, and they all left. Headed for the quarry, I sat in the church, cradling Judith and soothing her after our tent of stink was gone. The growling was growing closer, and I knew they were piling up again outside, but Gabriel shocked me. He picked up a machete, and with Tobin who’d found sanctuary inside with us, rushed out to help.

It grew quiet after what seemed like days. And once I was certain the danger was manageable if not passed, I opened the doors. And Michonne was rushing toward me. The news was terrible. Carl had been shot. Again. We rushed to the infirmary, where she took Judith from me and I walked inside. Daryl was being stitched on his back on one side, and Carl lay unconscious on the other. And I stood between them, feeling the temptation of the darkness of nowhere beckon to me to come back.

#daryl dixon x ofc #eventual negan x ofc #rick grimes daughter #The Walking Dead #alternative universe #angst #mental illness

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