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unmotivatedwrit3r · 4 months

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One in Eleven Million (ch. 8)

damian wayne x reader x jon kent

(A/N): So about that getting chapter out quicker thing...I blame tech week

Series masterlist can be found here.

warnings: a little bit of cursing, mild anxiety, airports

wc: ~1500

Soon apparently meant thirty minutes. The plane’s landing gear hit the tarmac hard. The few shrieks were outweighed by the many sighs of relief, you own included. Jon yanked the window open, squinting. The view of the tarmac went from blurred to clear in the morning sunlight as the plane slowed.

“Tt, finally. Though Philadelphia would not have been my first choice as a welcome back to the East Coast.” Damian pulled his gaze from the window, bending down to resecure the closures on his backpack. Jon’s eyes stayed glued to the window.

“Are all plane landings this rough?”

“Yeah, usually,” you replied. “But it means we’re on the ground, so I don’t mind.”

“Welcome to Philadelphia, ladies and gentlemen. The local time is 9:32 am and the temperature is 47 degrees Fahrenheit. Apologizes for the early landing but glad we all made it safe and sound. Remember to stop at the help desk if you do need to get your luggage routed to baggage claim or if you would like to take a voucher and find another method of transportation to Gotham. Thank you all for your patience and cooperation and thank you for flying with us.”

“If I ever see the inside of a plane again, it will be too soon,” Jon whined. You turned to see him drop his head on Damian’s shoulder.

“Flying commercial is both unpleasant and inefficient, I concur.” Damian squinted at the standstill line forming at the front of the plane. You stayed carefully silent. The two future trips you had in your calendar burned in the back of your mind.

“But hey,” Jon sat up. “At least we met you!”

You chuckled, maneuvering up and out of your seat into the line of departing passengers before swinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” A bittersweet wave of emotion gripped your heart. “It would have sucked so much more without you guys.”

The deplaning of the flight was the worst you’d ever been a part of. Between panic and desire to leave, everyone was sloppy and on a short fuse. You nearly got whacked in the head with a carry-on bag trying to stand up. You did get elbowed trying to move forwards in the line.

There was no Damian and Jon right behind you this time when you turned around after finally making your way into the airport. The spike of disappointment that drove through your chest caught you off guard. I knew this was going to happen, you reminded yourself. It didn’t make the ache in your chest go away.

“Hi,” you greeted the help desk employee. “I’d like to get my bag routed to baggage claim.” The required materials—your boarding pass, baggage tag receipt, and driver’s license—weren’t hard to produce. In just a few minutes, you were given a new receipt and an instruction to check screens for the baggage claim. The guaranteed “voucher” was to be later emailed, added to your airline account. You stepped off to the side, shoving the new receipt in your pocket. They’re tall, you figured. You’d see them if they were still there. Multiple scans of the crowd later, you didn’t see Damian’s waves nor Jon’s signature glasses. The spike of disappointment morphed into a vice around your chest even as you shoved it down. Your phone, now off airplane mode, buzzed in your pocket. You spun on your heel and headed towards baggage claim. The train you needed to take back home wasn’t going to book itself.

Despite your unfamiliarity with the airport, it was simple enough to follow the signs towards the baggage claim area. You stopped at a restroom on your way there to avoid having to maneuver through one with a full suitcase in tow. The screen was empty of flights from your airline when you arrived, and your phone was blank of any email updates. Instead, you rerouted to the Amtrak app. The train with the lowest fare that also gave you enough buffer time to get your bags and catch the local train from the airport to the station was 2 hours away. The number of your bank balance flashed in your mind.

“Thirty-eight for the train and eight to get to the airport,” you muttered aloud. “Yes I am so willing to spend fifty bucks to finally just be home.” The inevitable expense of a taxi or rideshare back to your home poked at the back of your mind. You ignored it. The voucher would cover the difference later on and that would have to be enough.

A notification banner popped up on the top of your phone screen. The text notification was from the airline, declaring baggage claim three. Sure enough, the screen on the wall said the same thing. Baggage claim number three was farther down. You moved quickly, shoving through other passengers to stand in closer to it. Standing nearby was someone you had a murky recollection of from the boarding line.

All that was left now was to wait.

Damian bit back a growl as a large man shoved him back into Jon and forced his way farther up the line.

“That’s not getting him anywhere,” Jon muttered. He was half-hoping his powers would spontaneously come back and help them out. “What’s the point?” Damian shook his head.

“If people made sense, Jon, we’d be out of work.” Jon rolled his eyes.

“You’re hilarious.”

Damian chuckled lowly, pulling his carry-on bag from the overhead storage, then Jon’s.

“Damn it.”

A jolt of panic sliced through Jon. His head snapped towards Damian, eyes wide. Jon winced, massaging the back of his neck. That hurt.

“What?”

“We lost them.” He nodded towards the front of the plane. You were gone.

“Shit.”

As much as he wanted to get off the plane, Jon wouldn’t have pushed through the other passengers even with powers at full strength. Especially with powers at full strength. He followed the movement of the crowd as they exited the gate, coming to a stop just beside a stand selling Philadelphia hoodies and t-shirts. Jon eyed them with a not small amount of disdain. He’d pass.

“So we’re not taking another plane-” Damian began.

“Oh fuck no,” Jon interrupted.

“Why do you think I started with ‘we’re not’?”

“Right,” Jon could feel his cheeks heating. “I knew that.”

“Hnn. So could it be worthwhile to call someone now? It’s past 9:30, your family should be up. Of mine, Alfred at the very least will be awake at this hour.”

“What’s the other option?”

“We take another method of public transport to Gotham and have Alfred pick us up there.”

Jon thought about it for a moment. Then he thought of you. His hearing was past the point of awful fluctuation, but not good enough to hear across a crowded airport. And he didn’t know your heartbeat. It was a weird thought. Jon thought about it again. That was a weird thought too. But it had been a long time since he’d gotten to know someone without being able to hear their heartbeat.

“Do we know what they’re doing? I don’t think we even talked about it. But I don’t want to leave them alone after all this.” He paused. “That’s not weird, right?”

Damian shook his head.

“No, I agree. Which means your family is out. And waiting for Alfred to drive all the way here and then asking them to get into a car with a complete stranger for two hours is also less than ideal.”

“So public transport it is.” Jon concluded. “Wait, how do we even know they aren’t taking another plane?” Damian smirked.

“They don’t call us the world's greatest detectives for nothing.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Damian. “You guessed.”

“I formed a hunch based on multiple deductions,” Damian retorted, arms crossed.

“So you guessed.”

“Deduction and guesswork are two different things.”

“Uh huh,” Jon smiled and started heading to the help desk. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The help desk employee guaranteed Damian that the vouchers would be emailed and attached to his airline account. Based on the look on his face, Damian couldn’t care less about them. Jon wanted to hurry up and find you too. But he also didn’t want to be booked into the nearest flight to Gotham. Until he got his powers back in full, Jon wasn’t doing any flying whatsoever, much less flying that involved any sort of metal contraptions.

“Which baggage claim is for this flight?” Damian asked before he stepped away. The airline employee checked her screen.

“Three, but I don’t believe bags have started arriving yet.”

Damian nodded and headed quickly towards the signs leading towards the baggage claim area.

“Thanks!” Jon threw out as he followed, sneakers squealing against the linoleum floor as he hurried to catch up.

#damian wayne x reader x jonathan kent #damian wayne x reader x jon kent #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne #damian wayne x gender neutral reader #damian wayne x reader #jon kent x reader #jonathan kent #jonathan kent imagine #emerson writes sometimes #one in eleven million

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sunwarmed-ash · 1 month

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🔥Sinful Sunday🔥

The Eden Club-Finished!

holy fuck, can it be? can we be here???? the last chapter?!?!

Chapter 16: Take this to your grave, and I'll take it to mine

Fandom: Detroit Become Human

Ships: Hankconvin, Hankvin, Convin, HankCon Connor/OCs

Tags: Post-Revolution; Negative public opinion, polyamory, slow burn, Sex Worker Connor, Consensual sex work, Hankvin-friends to lovers to enemies to lovers, Convin-enemies to lovers, porn with alot of plot, drama, lying/deception, Evil Elijah Kamski, smut,

TW: Mention/implied SA (Ch 16 only)

Preview:

The work-in-progress polycule has cleaned up, left the club, and resumed their naked, lying in bed activities at Hank’s. Sumo is laying comfortably across all of their feet, more than a little ecstatic to have Connor and Gavin back home again. Connor’s laying on his back sandwiched between his humans, his left hand intertwined with Gavin’s. Gavin’s free hand is holding a half-smoked cigarette, but it’s been over 3 minutes since he’s last taken a puff. Hank’s got Connor’s other hand raised against his warm, if not a little prickly lips. Hank’s smiling, for the first time in a long time, happy, because he’s got his whole family under one roof again. It’s quiet, but it's also comfortable. Natural, and everything the three of them hoped this could be when this all started. For the last fifteen minutes, the trio has been content to just bask in the peaceful moments together. “Hey Connor?” Gavin’s question are the first words spoken in minutes. “Yes?” he chirps, turning his face to give Gavin his full attention. Gavin’s eyes stay on the ceiling, but his spike in heart rate signals Gavin knows Connor’s looking at him. “Can I ask you a question? Like… a personal one?” Hank has tuned in too. Connor can feel his body shifting beside him. “Of course Gavin.” Now Gavin is quiet. His blood pressure has risen a bit more, indicating the likelihood of a thorny question. “Do you…” Gavin swallows, “you know, like it?” Connor’s own anxiety simulated systems react suspiciously to the question. More due to the rawness of the last 48 hours than an impression Gavin was trying to trap him. “Do I like what?” Connor deflects, hoping to buy another few seconds. “You know what I’m asking...” Gavin says, but his tone doesn’t indicate judgement, jealousy, or resentment. Just genuine curiosity. Which is the main reason why Connor answers the question. “...It's complicated.”

Hey, thank you for all the love and support y'all have given this fic. It's been so fun to write and experience dbh all over again with you 💙

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theheightofdishonor · 4 months

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That page of hinata looking back at a Kageyama that gave him the first toss ever before falling out of fever and exhaustion. Your tags were interesting could u pls break it down?? Is it a full circle of view from the top narrative or Kageyama being the first setter to give him a toss so a silent thank you?

Ngl I write so much about haikyuu and tumblr's search is so bad that I wasn't able to pinpoint the post you're talking about but i'm pretty sure it's about these panel from ch 364 during the kamomedai match. (if it's not, feel free to send another ask and i'll do my best to reply)

In a way it is a full circle moment, both for their partnership but also for Karasuno and where the two of them stand within the team? Hmm, i'l try to explain this.

So the panel on the left is the first time Kageyama's ever set for Hinata, back in ch 4 when they're practicing for the 3 on 3 match. And at the time, Kageyama was refusing to set for Hinata because well, Hinata sucks and Kageyama won't set for people who are unnecessary to win. But they're still together, practicing recieves at like 5:30 in the morning because they don't really have a choice but to work together and then this happens

And Kageyama- who has been frustrated this entire time because no one else around him understand, who struggles with being the only one who is always going for every ball with the same desperate desire- is inexplicably moved by this, by Hinata putting in this much effort and hurting himself for a ball that ultimately doesn't matter much at the end of a long practice when he's getting tossed to by a guy who doesn't even respect him. So finally, after like 3 chapters of refusing to set for Hinata, Kageyama finally does. And it's significant that he's doing it here when when Hinata's exhausted and just completed a decent receive and for once, not actually asking for or expecting a set (it's a bit of a challenge too: i'm finally giving you this but when you're in a terrible condition, do you still want it?; it's a bit of a plea: won't you show me again? that you'll try for volleyball, that you won't give up no matter how tired, no matter how hard?)

Back to the present moment, it's in some ways the same thing but upgraded, a measure of how far they've come that Hinata can make an excellent receive and Kageyama looks at him and says, nope not enough come here now and finish it, won't you? and Hinata does!! Because he will always rise to the occasion, always drag himself back up if it means he can spike and all of these are facts that are firmly entrenched in both of them now

Back then Kageyama could barely dare to hope that someone would ever be able to match him and now he knows Hinata will and look at the way he fucking revels in the knowledge of all that.

But there is something else that's changed too. Namely that it's not just the two of them anymore.

It's not just Hinata now that can rise to Kageyama's expectations, it's all of Karasuno. It would be soo easy for any of them to not jump at the end of the 6th set of the day after back to back matches but they do. All of them jump, all of them are here now, caring just as much about volleyball and putting in just as much effort and the team as a whole is in sync, they're all united in this desire and it's a measure of how far they've all come together too.

And with the look at the end,

I think it's one part that they just completed something really cool and with each other so they're like reveling in the moment together but also one part that Kageyama sees Hinata fall and he realizes what's happening before everyone else does because he already suspected Hinata's sick and because he's got this uncanny knack for reading Hinata.

I think that covered everything about my thoughts on that panel. I hope this was what you were looking for, if it's not , feel free to send another ask clarifying like I said before. Also this ask gave me a much appreciated excuse to reread the Komamedai ask so thanks for that, anon.

#kamomedai #brotp: someone even better #haikyu #haikyuu!!#meta #asks #kageyama tobio #hinata shoyo #haikyuu!! meta

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unboundpower · 1 year

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You and Me - CH 1

Here's the start of that (hopefully short) Amito fic I talked about a while ago. This isn't required reading or anything; just the backstory of their relationship that folks are welcome to check out if they're curious. You can consider everything that happens in this to be canon to them, though by default nothing will effect rp interactions they could have with the same canon characters who may appear for story content.

If you don't want to see this pop up on your dash, blacklist this tag: amito fic // ♡ you and me ♡

If Amita had to say one positive thing about Satan City, it holding an actual farmers’ market open to the public was an easy pick. There was nothing wrong with going to a grocery store, but fresh products sold directly by those responsible for their creation with no strings attached was an almost completely different experience. What’s more, is that farmers had a greater chance of gaining profits they rightfully deserved with no middlemen potentially getting in the way. It was a win-win situation all around, in most areas.

Currently she walked down a dirt path cutting in-between multiple booths, toting her purse on one of her shoulders and a large woven basket in her hands. What she was looking for in particular was a specific vegetable booth, maintained by a man she’s grown to favor. He was a very friendly person, with produce of fair prices that had high quality she often didn’t even find in stores. When she didn’t find him right away, she did start to wonder if he just didn’t set up shop this time around…

Those doubts were dashed when in the distance, she did spot that familiar white cloth of a tent marked by a rough sketch of a carrot and other veggies. Upon moving closer though, Amita moved some thick coils of her hair away from her squinting eyes.

Whoever was behind the stand definitely wasn’t who she was expecting. It was another fair-skinned man, one who she’s sure she has never met before. His dark hair stood up in wild spikes, while bangs curved over his forehead. He was clothed in an orange shirt and dark blue overalls, with white gloves covering his hands. Judging on his leaning position, elbow on the wooden counter and he resting his head in his hand with an utterly bored expression, she couldn’t say he looked happy to be here at the moment.

A brow of hers quirked, but she saw no reason why she should change her shopping plan. She advanced towards the booth, and observed the man continue to stare off into space. It wasn’t until she was virtually right in front of him that he seemed to snap out of his trance with a double take, staring blankly at her before blinking rapidly.

“…Hi. This is Goku’s booth, right?” She adjusted her hold on her basket, smoothed out her long denim skirt, and looked over things carefully. At their close proximity, underneath the shade provided by the booth’s tent, she could now see that the stranger was…awfully muscular. His exposed arms alone were incredibly stocky, but she could tell his overall build was the same. That wasn’t an unusual thing per se, but most – if not all – of the farmers around weren’t cut like bodybuilders or the like.

The only other one who was is…well, Goku. Interestingly enough.

“It is. I’m covering for him.” He responded, standing up straighter.

“Has he gone away somewhere?”

His eyes briefly averted, and she saw a slight change to his frowning expression. It turned solemn and…uncomfortable in a sense, but she couldn’t make a guess as to why. The vibe faded in the next second.

“…Yes. He won’t be back anytime soon.”

“I see.” Her curiosity and confusion grew, but she saw little point in questioning him further. While a part of her was disappointed Goku was gone, her interest in whoever he assumedly picked to take his place only increased.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Vegito.”

“Well, I’m Amita. A regular of Goku’s, you could say.”

“I know.” He responded automatically, but seemed to lose some of his composure when she gave him a puzzled look. He cleared his throat and tapped some of his fingers against the wood. “He’s…told me about you.”

“That so? I hope he’s said good things. ” Goku apparently having spoken about her to him and probably other people was something she didn’t think she’d learn today, but despite them being mere acquaintances at best, she supposed it wasn’t that odd. Amita left her rhetorical statement there, and began scanning the assortment of vegetables that were displayed along the booth’s perimeter. Vegito also seemed to leave that topic and move on, as he addressed her browsing.

“What’d you want to buy?”

She spent the next 5 or so minutes picking out produce and placing them into her basket. She gave it to Vegito and after he telling her the total price, fished her wallet out of her purse to give him the zeni.

“Thanks for the purchase.” He smoothly stated, though in a monotone fashion like it’s been rehearsed. She didn’t pay it much attention.

“It’s no problem.” Amita hummed, taking steady hold of the now-heavier container. She faced Vegito again, and a period of silence fell over them. She realized with a start that she was staring and taking in his facial features when too many seconds had already passed. He looked at her in bemusement, though she could detect faint amusement present as well if his small half-smirk was anything to go by.

“Uh, I’ll see you around.”

That quickly said, she turned on her heel and promptly walked away in the attempt to not make the atmosphere even more awkward. Gripping her basket’s handle tightly, she fought the heat that started to build up behind the ebony skin of her cheeks with a shake of her head and an embarrassed scowl. One intrusive thought managed to slip through the cracks.

Vegito was…honestly quite handsome. She surely wouldn’t mind seeing him again.

#amito fic // ♡ you and me ♡

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felixsfishnets · 7 days

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Object of Affection - Ch. 2 (18+)

Spander fic (Spike x Xander)

Summary:

Spike finds an odd looking relic after he helps the scoobies deal with some vampires. They agree to let him keep it despite not knowing what it is, what it's used for or how dangerous it might be. Xander finds out.

AO3 link for the fic. Please check tags/warnings

Xander awoke the next morning groggy. His limbs felt like lead when he rolled over to check the time. 11:37 AM. Mercifully, he had nowhere to be today. Deciding to roll over to get some more sleep, he felt an unpleasant pinch between his thighs.

When he ran his fingers over the area, they felt tacky. His skin was stuck together and separating them was pulling the hairs around his thighs and ass painfully.

Once he had his legs apart, he realized what this meant. The events of last night jolting through him like a bolt of electricity. He had been fucked by a ghost dick. And judging by the amount of dried cum in his boxers, he had very much enjoyed it. Trying not to panic, he ran a finger through his crack and over his hole just to confirm he had not been dreaming. The flesh was tender, and the slight bit of contact made his dick jump.

Now he could panic. A million questions raced through his mind, the biggest one being “What the hell?” and “Who the hell?” He paced around his room, checking and rechecking his doors, windows and protective charms. Willow had said if anything spooky got into the basement the charms would shatter as a warning. Yet the wrapped bundles of feather and bone remained intact.

Willow, he thought. She would have to know something, be able to help him. A curse breaking ritual or a protection spell. Something to make sure this doesn’t happen again. She would be in class for the next couple of hours, he had her class scheduled basically memorized. But they had agreed to meet up at the Magic Box at 4 o’clock so Buffy could train while Willow helped Dawn with her homework.

With a few hours to kill, he decided that showering would be his first priority. Sticky and dry, he stepped into the shower. Hot water hit his scalp, trickling down his hair onto his shoulders. The steaming water soothing his tense form. This would allow him some time to think about what had happened from a more rational perspective. He squeezed some shampoo into his palm and lathered it through his hair, taking time to massage his scalp. He scrubbed his torso clean, swirling soap over his chest and down his stomach. Then he decided to tackle the back. Taking a large glob of the liquid soap, he lathered his hands and ran a careful swipe over his ass. It felt sensitive but there was no real pain. He began rubbing a finger over the tender skin absentmindedly, head a bit foggy from the heat and steam filling the room. It wasn’t until he moaned in pleasure that he realized he had been gently fingering himself.

Part of him was frustrated and a bit disgusted, he knew he shouldn’t be doing this. It could make what ever had been happening to him worse. But another, larger part of him did not care. He massaged two fingers in and out, in and out, bending over to better reach. Cock hanging between his legs growing harder with each motion. With one hand working his hole, he used the other to stroke his cock. Knees braced, he groaned as he ran his hand from the base of his cock, up to the pink tip and back down again. It didn’t take long before he shot his load splattering against the tiled wall. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he realized what had just happened. That was no ghost, no phantom fingers were penetrating him. Xander had done that all by himself for the first time in his life. Confused, disturbed and spent, he quickly finished up his shower. The water was just begging to turn cold as he finished rinsing himself off. Hopefully nobody else in his house needed to take a shower for a couple of hours or else he would be getting an earful.

He dried himself off and dressed quickly, not taking much care into what he was wearing. The face that met his gaze in the mirror surprised him, he looked tired, exhausted in fact.

“Okay, I need to talk to you guys about a dream I had.” Xander began, entering the magic shop and looking around at his fellow scoobies.

“Oh no, weird dreams are never a good sign.” Buffy said, worried.

“Well yes, they can be for you Buffy as you are the slayer, prophetic dreams are amongst your abilities but Xander is a regular human. I’m sure his dream means nothing.” Giles was trying to reassure her.

“I know but I mean, Xander is kinda slayer adjacent at this point. Maybe he’s picking up on some mojo or something.” Everyone looked at her doubtfully. “Plus, there was that time we had all those whacky dreams where the first slayer hunted and killed us.” Buffy sat up straighter, feeling triumphant.

“I suppose it could be possible.” The older concluded. “Go on then Xander.”

“Well, it was a bit intimate. I was at home, alone in bed and-“

“Xander,” Willow interrupted. “Please tell me you are not about to describe one of your happy dreams in front of my Dawn.”

Being so eager to explain what had happened, he had forgotten about Dawn’s presence at the table.

“Dawnie, do you mind hanging out in the back room for a few minutes? This is an NC-17 conversation and you’re still strictly PG.” Xander asked.

“No way, I want to know what happened.” She responded belligerently.

“Please,” Xander pleaded, putting on an extra sad face for the girl. Abusing the soft spot, he knew she had for him. It always worked.

“Fine,” Dawn sighed, rolling her eyes and slamming her text book closed before stomping off to the back room.

“Don’t touch the weapons,” Buffy called after her.

“Okay,” Xander began again once he heard the door close. “I’ll spare you all the sexy details and cut to the chase. In short, the dream gave me a happy. When I woke up there was evidence of that happy. Not unusual. Except that there was evidence of someone else’s happy too. Understand?” He looked around the table hopefully.

“And you’re sure it wasn’t just… More of your… Ya know?” Willow asked awkwardly.

“Positive.”

“Xander.” Giles sighed, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked at Buffy who avoided his gaze. Xander could tell she was regretting her earlier vote in his favour.

“C’mon guys, what do you think I’m trying to do here? If this were a prank it would be a lot funnier for everyone… Well, for me at least… Buffy don’t you remember Cathy and those crazy dreams with the scorpions and the blood drinking? But it was really happening?” Buffy finally met his gaze, her expression softened when she saw the desperation in his face.

“Did you get a sample of what ever it was?” Willow asked, hoping to help her friend in proving his story.

“No,” He deflated. “Was too busy washing it off me to think of the smart thing Will.”

The two girls looked at Giles. He initially rolled his eyes at their concerned expressions. But, then he looked at Xander, seeing that a tiny raincloud wouldn’t look out of place sitting over his head.

“Alright,” He exhaled. “I’ll look into this matter, seeing as you don’t seem to be at great physical risk and there hasn’t been any other strange activity that coincides with this dream that would cause concern.”

Xander instantly perked up, relieved that he was being offered some help. Even if it was begrudging.

“I want you to record as much detail as possible about this incident, if it is to occur again. As Buffy and Willow have more important things to concern themselves with, I will be assisting you with this matter.” Xander looked at his two friends, partially relieved that he would be spared the humiliation yet also worried about the lack of brain power being put towards finding a solution.

“In the mean time I will begin researching, I’m sure something will turn up in my, erm, personal collection.” Giles coughed, awkwardly. Buffy and Willow grinned at each other.

“Right Buffy, shall we.” The older man said, gesturing towards the training room.

“We shall!” She bounced up from the table and the pair set off to begin their training.

Willow gave Xander a reassuring pat on the shoulder, which he appreciated.

“Don’t worry Xander, Giles is the best man for the job.” She grinned.

#spander #spike x xander #buffy the vampire slayer #btvs

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90stvshowgoth · 3 years

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—THE BET

summary: you thought that as a member of the phantom troupe you were supposed to be smarter than this, yet here you were betting against hisoka. everyone knew that hisoka was a master at poker, cards were his weapon after all, but you couldn’t resist wagering one more bet on a drinking game.

w/c: 4587

tags: dubcon, drunk sex, creampie, blood kink, hate sex, begging, brat taming

a/n: this originally started as a chrollo oneshot, you can kinda tell from how the opening paragraph is about him, but once i started writing the poker game i was like “okay no i gotta make this its own thing,” and because of that decision we now have loose ends getting ch.3 rn :) also no, i couldn’t help but kinda reference phantom of the opera cause it slaps and nobody can tell me otherwise. also, no, before anyone asks, this is a oneshot. it aint getting a sequel.

big thanks to the lovely miss @sealedrosewater for beta reading this clownfucking nightmare.

The heist had gone off without a hitch, Chrollo’s plan worked like a charm and before the night was out you had all flawlessly extracted each and every one of the gilded texts being held in the museum. You still remembered the childlike gleam in your boss’ eyes as he ran his fingers over the aged leather, its binding parchment laced with gold. The faintest ghost of a smile fled from his pallid lips as he admired his new conquest. It made your chest swell with pride, happy to help the man you respected so much. Besides, your cut was nothing to sneeze at.

Your rendezvous was inside a long-abandoned opera theatre where dust clung to the red velvet of the seats and the chandelier was seemingly hanging by a thread; your boss always had a flair for the dramatics. Once all members of the spider had finished reconvening at the empty theatre to gather their spoils it wasn’t long before someone, probably Uvogin, brought out the drinks. Nobunaga had already begun nursing a rum and coke, all while Feitan kept turning down Shal’s insistence to “Just try some, Fei,” Even Shizuku cracked open one of the ice-cold bottles, knocking back an impressive swig. As soon as you saw Machi pulling out a deck of cards you knew you had to stay for the after party.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of your leader. He’d gone to his room with the book you recovered tucked under his arm. A few other members who couldn’t be bothered took after your leader and went off to whichever side room they’d stashed a futon in the week prior; the Phantom Troupe’s equivalent of picking out a bedroom. A shame, really. You’d seen Feitan drunk once before and it was truly a sight to behold.

You sat crosslegged on the wooden floor, watching your comrades slowly get comfortable for a night of fun. Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat above you, looking up to see Pakunoda with a soft smile on her face and an opened beer in her outstretched hand.

“Paku, have I ever told you how much I love you?” You couldn’t help but shower the woman with praise. She had been the one who recommended you to Chrollo after all, and she served as your mentor for your first few months until you found your feet.

She scoffed at the compliment, “Far too much,”

Sticking your tongue out playfully at the mindreader, you took a deep sip of beer, enjoying the familiar taste. Paku sat down beside you and it wasn’t long before the two of you were drinking shoulder to shoulder.

“Machi! Deal us in,” You raised your drink to the transmuter and she flicked two cards towards you both.

Scooting away from Paku, you quickly scanned the cards you’d received before pressing them face down. A queen and an ace. Not great, but not awful either.

The others had formed a haphazard circle, each glancing at their cards with an unreadable poker face. Well, all except Hisoka, who seemed pleased as punch with whatever hand he’d been dealt. Silently, Nobunaga took out two coins and threw them into the center— the Troupe’s house rules counting it to be equivalent to 2 billion jenny.

“Call,” you answered, matching the swordsman’s bet with an unreadable expression on your face.

“Oh? Well then, I’ll raise you,” Hisoka purred, pushing five extra chips into the pot without breaking his gaze from yours.

‘What was he planning?’ That smug look of his just made you want to win that much more. The same seemed to be true of everyone else, each calling the clown’s bet in a row. After all, to a member of the Phantom Troupe, five billion jenny wasn’t that much of a loss.

When Machi turned up the first three cards your heart skipped a beat. Two queens and a seven. Winning a round of poker against some of the smartest criminals the world had ever known was an uphill battle, seeing as how you’d been a member for years without winning a single game.

‘Three of a kind already... what should I do?’ Your face was as stone-cold as before, even with the excitement bubbling in your gut. As nonchalantly as you could, you raised another two billion. At that, Uvo and Shizuku both folded, the enhancer grumbling with a disappointed frown.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I haven’t got enough coins~” Hisoka slapped down a twenty, and a chorus of annoyed groans broke out like a choir, the abandoned theatre’s acoustics amusingly echoed the loud noises of displeasure.

After that little stunt only three others remained: Pakunoda, who’s facade hadn’t cracked all game, Nobunaga, who was glaring daggers at Hisoka, and the aforementioned magician holding up his cards in front of him like a child playing for the first time.

All three of you matched his bet, but none were happy about it. As Machi flipped over the fourth card you found yourself holding your breath. Not because you particularly cared about the money at stake, but because you felt closer to a victory than you had in months. The caricature of a medieval jester being illuminated under the light made you dig your nails into the palm of your hand.

Joker. That meant you had four queens.

It never felt harder to fight a smile off your face than in that moment. Without betraying your excitement, you called, and to your surprise so did Hisoka. Was he bluffing? Or did he have something else in mind? Nobunaga took a deep breath, knocking back the rest of his drink before calling alongside Pakunoda.

All eyes were on the card beneath Machi’s fingertips, the seconds it took to turn the paper on its head filled the theatre with a suspense liable to bring its fragile walls to the ground.

An eight of hearts. Oh well, no big deal.

Nobunaga muttered a curse under his breath, revealing a simple jack and ten of the same suit. Pakunoda was unreadable when she showed the pair of kings she held in her hands. She must’ve thought that the three of a kind would’ve won her the game. The smile on your face felt sweeter after holding it in the whole round, and Nobunaga rolled his eyes when he saw your hand, pushing the pot towards you.

“Well, look at that~” Your victory was interrupted by Hisoka’s insufferable tone, the cards he held up making your jaw drop.

A nine and a jack of hearts. A straight flush.

“That’s bullshit!” You cried, enraged over the loss. It wasn’t even that you cared so much about losing, It only mattered because you lost to him. In an instant you had summoned your nen into the palms of your hands, ready to lunge at the clown when Pakunoda grasped your shoulders, holding you back. Sometimes you forgot how much brute strength was hidden under that pantsuit.

“Just flip a coin, don’t give him what he wants.” Your first reaction was to ignore her, squirming against her iron grip to try and get to Hisoka, who was dramatically scooping all your winnings into his arms.

Uvogin tossed yet another empty beer can over his head, “C’mon Paku, I say let ‘em fight,”

“I concur~” The magician chirped, dramatically stacking each and every coin he’d won while boring his yellow eyes right into yours. His tongue parted his lips, a manic excitement hiding behind the coy expression.

Although every muscle in your body screamed at you to rip into him, you knew you wouldn’t win. He knew your abilities and you couldn’t say for certain you knew all of his.

“Never-mind,” You spat the words out at him like they tasted sour, “You’d probably get off on it anyways.”

A few laughs from the peanut gallery followed your words and Hisoka shrugged, the intense bloodlust from a few seconds ago vanishing as if he’d changed his mind about fighting you on a whim. “You may be right, darling,” your face scrunched up at the nickname you knew he only used to get on your nerves, which it did. “but what if we played a different game?”

Despite how badly you just wanted to ignore him and laugh the night away with all but one of your comrades, you couldn’t turn down the idea of a rematch. Your pride wasn’t nothing to you. “What kind of game?” You asked hesitantly.

He hummed, standing up from the towers of coin he’d made, sauntering over to the cooler of drinks Franklin had provided. After digging around the cold box he pulled out a bottle of fruity tequila and two empty shot glasses.

Your eyes narrowed at the “innocent” smile on his face, looking over to Pakunoda for reassurance.

“You’ll kill him if he spikes my drink, right?” You asked your mentor, who nodded resolutely.

Paku was staring at Hisoka like she was already thinking of ten different ways how to kill him. After sizing him up she flashed you a reassuring nod, “Without question.”

Resolute in your decision, you marched forward, snatching one of the shot glasses from his hand. The stage lights shone above him, making his eyes gleam like the plastic gloss of a doll.

“Shall we begin, then?”

You raised an eyebrow, “What are the rules first?”

He waved his hand in the air, brushing it off, “Nothing too complex, I assure you. The first one who taps out will lose. The loser will do something for the winner. That’s all.”

You still weren’t convinced it could be that simple. “What’s the catch?”

That smirk from before returned to his painted face and he suddenly leaned forward, feeling far too close for comfort. Still, you didn’t step away, your face expressionless as he whispered into your ear. If you did you felt like he’d somehow win whatever stand-still the two of you had on.

“If I lose, I’ll leave the Phantom Troupe,” You reeled away, stunned at his declaration.

Being accepted into the Troupe was the best moment of your life, it always would be. When you looked into the mirror at the tattoo that curled under your ribcage you felt such a warm swell of pride. You couldn’t imagine throwing it all away over some drinking game.

“And...” You blinked rapidly, trying to collect yourself, “If I lose?”

The laugh that echoed from his chest was far from reassuring.

The evening slowly ran into the early morning, each of the other Troupe members wandering off eventually in varying stages of drunkenness. Even Pakunoda headed off to bed after confirming that Hisoka hadn’t spiked your drinks with anything other than a strawberry vodka base. It was unnerving at first, to be completely alone with Omokage’s replacement. Luckily his tastes ran strong, and your vision was spinning before your knew it.

“Match.” Another shot went down your throats, the taste disgustingly sweet, and you watched as his Adam’s apple tensed from the burn.

You’d long since stopped counting how many drinks you’d had, losing track once you got to the double digits. You were both using nen to reinforce yourselves, obviously, but it wasn’t infallible.

‘How is he so good at this?’ You wondered, because as the bottle ran low you started to question just what had made you so confident as to enter a bet with Hisoka in the first place.

“My dear, why not rest for a minute? At least try to enjoy each others company?” His legs were crossed, resting his hand on his palm as he not-so-subtly checked you out. It wasn’t uncommon, and certainly not unexpected from someone like him, but what you hated wasn’t just the nerve of him, but how it made you feel. His scrutiny sent chills down your spine, the unnerving edge to his tone only making you shift your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure.

“You’re the worst, Hisoka,” you knocked back two consecutive shots, unable to hide the wince it caused on your face. Good, you wanted it to sting. Anything to take your mind off the magician in front of you.

He pouted as he poured another row of drinks, “Aw, now why’s that?”

You answered his question with another, pointing towards the half-empty bottle of liquor, “Whats in this, really?”

The magician rolled his eyes, “I did pick an unopened bottle for a reason, dear, I do so want you to trust me.”

Without much fanfare he threw back four shots, over your stunned reaction.

“Just give up already, Darling~ I promise to make it worth your while,” You were reaching your limit for sure, but you were far to stubborn to give up without a fight.

“Fuck you,” you took the first of your next four shots slowly, not managing his fast pace.

He grinned a cheshire smile, “Oh, say that again, will you?”

If he were to call you out on the blush slowly spreading across your nose you’d just blame the alcohol, but the truth was that his words just egged you on even more to the point where you were almost—barely even considering...

“What do you mean, make it worth my while?”

He leaned forward like a cat, agile and silent, whispering his words against your temple, “I’ll tell you how I won that hand,” He got you, hook, line, and sinker.

“You’ll tell me how you cheated?”

Hisoka nodded, a clawed hand coming to stroke a stray piece of hair behind your ear, the action far too intimate for someone like him.

There was no way you’d win against him in this match, that much was clear from the very sober way Hisoka held himself against you, inhumanly still, so what did you have to lose?

‘Your dignity,’ A part of you answered back, but it wasn’t all that convincing. You’d left your dignity behind four shots ago.

“If I lose...”

“If you lose,” He mouthed the words into your cheek, his eyes closed in thought, “You do know what I’ve decided my prize shall be, right?” Of course you knew what he wanted. You weren’t stupid, and the way he nuzzled himself into your neck was far from subtle.

Were you actually so desperate to learn how you lost that you’d sleep with him?

No, you weren’t. But the ache between your legs was getting harder to ignore, and the idea that you could write off what you were about to do behind the excuse of gathering intel sounded like a win-win.

You dug your hands into his hair, not trying to be anything but rough, basking in the moan that spilled from his lips, breath hot against your neck before you yanked him back to meet your gaze.

“Fine. You win, Hisoka,” He smirked, and although he was on his knees he still towered over you, “so how did you cheat?”

Before you could blink his hand had wrapped around your throat, the magician slamming your head into the wood of the stage. You’d had plenty of time to block the damage with your hatsu but the action left your brain rattling inside your skull.

“I’ll tell you later,” He promised, the disorienting blur was slow to fade from the alcohol, and distantly you could feel his other hand stroke your face, his nails like filed daggers trailing over your cheekbones.

“What to do with my prize, then, hm?” He mused, tilting your head from left to right as if examining a block of wood he was about to carve. You coughed on impulse when he let go of your neck, guiding it up instead and taking both your small hands into his palm with an iron grip.

With a flick of his wrist he drew a card, the eight of hearts, seemingly out of nowhere, his nen sharpening it into a thin blade, “Don’t move,”

“Wait... Hisoka, don’t—!” You were far too late to stop him, the frigid air of the ghostly theatre rushing to meet the bare skin of your chest.

Your shirt fell to ribbons along with your bra and you thrashed desperately in his grasp, angry over the loss of your favorite top. He paid your escape attempt no mind, enraptured with the way your tits rose and fell with the timing of your breath and the way you tried to wriggle yourself free.

Still holding your hands to the floor above you, his head bent to wrap a skilled tongue around your tits, a soft sigh involuntarily falling away from you.

“I fuckin’ ha-ate you, Hisoka—ah,” His teeth bit down on your peak at the comment, peering up at you from under his fiery hair.

“Oh? Then why is it you’re moaning like a little whore?” He shifted his weight above you and you saw an opportunity.

You kicked with all your strength between his legs, pulling your knee back and shoving him off with a dig of your shoe into his stomach, “I’m not, don’t call me that shit!”

He actually loosened his grip on you clearly not intending for you to get free from his grasp, a choked sound of what you thought was pain devolving to something much more heated as he stared into you.

“You... are well worth the wait, my dear,” His bloodlust seeped out from every pore, grounding you to the spot. You could usually hold your own against someone like him but it wasn’t hard to see the disadvantage you were at.

Within a fraction of a second he was on you, twisting your waist in his clawed grasp until your ass was hiked into the air, a sharpened playing card slicing through the denim until he could rip it from your legs, yelp echoing like music in the long-silent theatre.

“I knew you’d have some fight left in you,” He crawled forward and you started to realize why he wore exclusively baggy pants, his length hot against you through the fabric as his hips caged you in. As he began to remove that street-performer getup he always wore he’d occasionally curl his hand around your waist to mercifully tug on your ignored clit, your groans muffled and cursed, “I love it. That resilience? It just turns me on.”

You could feel your confidence fade as he tugged those sweatpants down, the weight of him grinding into your ass made all your bravado vanish.

“It will make it so much more satisfying...” He pointed his finger upwards, and suddenly your hands became magnetized to each other, no amount of struggle even budging the rubbery nen substance. “...when I break you.”

Without warning he slid himself inside you, hands holding your hips still as he forced your back into an arch. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, the flailing of your bound arms useless as he shallowly began pumping his cock deeper inside you.

Your muffled curses whispered into the floor made him laugh, pulling his hand back and cruelly slapping the vulnerable flesh of your ass without a warning.

“Wh.. Why?”

“Because, darling, I want to hear you beg for me.” He pouted, teasing your clenched walls with only the tip of his slick head.

Despite the desire coursing through your veins you still had your pride in tact, “Never gonna happen, asshole.”

Gripping your hips, he dug himself into your dripping cunt as far as he could, both of you unrestrained with a moan at the feeling of his cock brushing near your cervix, your hips traitorously snapping back to meet his eager thrusts, movement near impossible as Hisoka forced you into the ground.

You cried out softly with each quick pull and stretch, only able to say his name one syllable at a time,

“Hi-so—kah...” It was hard to turn your head to the side from his brutal pace but somehow you manage, craning yourself in order to see him; His head was thrown back with a sheer bliss softening his glistening skin, his eyes closed and lips parted. The sight made your keening grow louder, the simple image of him losing himself in your twitching pussy sending a wave of slick dripping around his length.

He must’ve felt your gaze on him because soon enough his was staring at you, his pupils blown wide with desire in a way that made them look like a sun eclipsed, black outlined with a ring of fiery gold.

All at once his hips froze, digging his cock so far as to leave an indent in your pelvis. For a confused second you thought he’d finished, but his gaze was cruel and focused, his lips in a smirk, and you felt no more full than you had a moment ago. He was doing this on purpose.

“Wait, no-nono, wh..y?” You hiccuped, taking his break as a moment to wipe unshed tears from your glossy eyes.

He sighed, “I don’t like repeating myself, darling,” He accentuated the infuriating nickname with a slap to your thigh, face unchanged as he trailed his sharpened fingertips along the reddening skin.

“His..oh.. fuck, Hisoka—“ The banished tears returned, falling silently down your pink face as you whispered, “please,”

“Hmm? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you, my dear, mind saying that again?

Your voice hiccuped as you spoke, “Please, alright? Please,” You thought it’d be enough, that he might finally go back to toying with your clit while he fucked you into the old floorboards, but you’d underestimated the magician’s self-control.

Innocently, he tilted his head, “Please what, dear? Please hit you again?” Hisoka didn’t blink as he slowly brought up his palm, giving you plenty of time to try and wiggle free from your punishment just to show off how futile escape really was, lashing his hand down on the same patch of skin as before, grinning at the shriek he yanked from your lungs.

“No! No, fu-uck.. just—“ You whimpered, brain seemingly disconnected from your mouth as you struggled to form the words, “just fuck me, Hisoka, please.”

“Look at you, huh? You were a slut after all,” He purred, letting the weight of your words hang lifeless in the air along with your stubborn pride. Before you could argue again his hand had returned to your clit, pace unforgiving as he pulled your nerves ever closer to snapping only to halt the second he grew bored, “Say it,”

Mindlessly, you nodded your head, “I’m yours, I’m your slut, Hisoka,” you intentionally clenched yourself around him, mumbling lucid pleas for more as his hard cock twitched, pre cum dripping from your heat onto the floor as your conscience trying to deny what your body so willingly accepted, “want you to fuck me, Hisoka, fu-ck,” you whined, the still presence inside your sensitive walls drove you insane.

With each word a truly unhinged aura began to surround him, and by extension, you, the intoxicating menace dripping over you like a drug as you faced forward once again, wiggling your ass as best you could in his grip.

That was his breaking point, ripping you away from his cock only to drive himself back in, digging the full blade of his nails into your hips, blood pooling around the crescent cuts.

“Fuck, ah.. Darling, ‘doing so good, so good’fr me-ah,” He slurred his words together, more drunk on you than the vodka as he leaned back, forcing you to meet him as his thrusts became so quick that it was getting hard to breathe, your ribcage creaking with discomfort as you were nailed into the stage.

“M..o-re, more...” You begged, and he was happy to oblige. the smearing crimson of blood running hot down your thighs, the pain only making you more pliant in his sculptor’s hands as he folded your body however he liked, ignoring your pained weep from the stretch as he slung one of your bleeding legs over his shoulder.

It was almost weird to hear him say your actual name, so often he used a pet name to mock or flirt with you, sometimes both, “So good for me like this, taking me so goo-uh,” He choked on his words as your cunt tightened around him, your hands clinging for balance in his hair, and Hisoka clearly didn’t mind if the slew of moans from his lips was any indication.

The angle his hips cut into had the edges of your vision turning into a vignette, “I’m close, so close, gonna cum inside you, yeah? Right here,” The hand that had been toying with your clit changed angles, his fingertips spinning spirals onto your aching bud while the flat of his hand pushed against your stomach, your shout swallowed by his pretty lips, tongue toying with yours.

“Ye-es cum inn-side me,” You were too far gone to care, anything he said sounded good as long as he said it in that sultry purr, arms numb as they lay suspended above your head.

“Take it, take it, Darling,” With what little strength you had left you curved your calf beside his neck, pulling him in until his cock brushed your cervix, the pain indistinguishable from the pleasure, “Uhn, cumm-fuck, i’m cumming—“

His cum was thick, the curve of his cock jutting inside you as he filled you up, mercifully swallowing your hallowed scream as he kissed you deeply, almost all feeling in your raised leg lost until he lowered it to his waist, involuntarily snapping his hips up although they had nowhere left to go until your moan turned into a broken sob of lingering bliss.

“Shh, dear, I’ve got you,” With a whirl of his wrist your arms were free of his bungee gum, shakily pulling them to your sides again as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along your neck, whispering a slurred mess of sweet words, stopping to suck a particularly deep hickey into the vein of your flesh.

“Hisoka, quit it!” Your fight had returned along with feeling to your fingertips as you wrenched him back by the hair, his cock jumping.a bit inside you at the grip, “I’ll have to wear sweaters for weeks now, you jerk.”

The capillaries had already begun to burst as he laughed, reaching up behind your head to pull his discarded top forward, digging out what looked like a piece of smooth cleaning cloth from its pocket and lying it over your neck with a simple point of his finger, gyo revealing the pink gum of his aura that controlled it before he smoothed the fabric over your skin, the texture so light you could barely feel it.

“A deal’s a deal, love, I’ll tell you how I cheated,” He smiled as satisfied and smug as he could ever be, a tingling sensation overtaking the patch of covered skin.

As he pulled your hand away you ran your fingers over the cloth, not finding a seam among the normal tone of your chest. Eyes wide as you looked at him for answers he was already happy to provide, “It’s called texture surprise. I can apply it to any flat surface and change its appearance. It’s quite handy,”

“It works on skin, paper, even playing cards,” You felt like an idiot. During the match you kept analyzing him for a sleight of hand trick all while he was using a second nen technique to win. It was so simple but genius, and you felt a little bit better knowing you weren’t outwitted by something obvious.

“You’re the worst, Hisoka,”

He chuckled, kissing along the new unblemished canvas of your neck, “I know~”

#hisoka x reader #hisoka x reader smut #hisoka morrow #hisoka morrow x reader #hisoka morrow x reader smut #phantom troupe #hxh fanfic #hxh #hunter x hunter

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killian-spey · 3 years

Text

Death Would be Kinder [ch.1]

[Drusilla/Spike/Calendar!Reader]

Words: 2626

Fic Concept: Jenny Calendar’s sister spends some “quality time” with the Season 2 Vampire Squad. [Ch.1 takes place in BtVS S2 Ep14]

TW/CW: Kidnapping, Violence, Nightmares.

AN: Check out the [Prologue] first if you haven’t already! :D

Tags: @prose-for-hire , (Comment below or send an ask to be added!)

You had run through the sewers for hours before you pulled yourself out of a manhole halfway across town. Escaping from the factory had worn you out completely, and you made your way home, hoping that Angel and Buffy had done the same.

When you got home, Jenny was asleep on the couch. It looked as though she'd been waiting up all night for you. You tucked a blanket over her and took her empty tea mug to the kitchen before going upstairs, where you flopped into bed and immediately found sleep.

You opened your eyes in the dark and two stormy grey eyes were staring into yours. You sat up confused as your eyes adjusted to the dark. A moment passed, then a new pair blinked into existence; they were blue, cold and unmoving. Their faces grew recognizable and a pit of anxiety grew in your stomach. Spike was leaning against your window sill. Drusilla was laying on your bed, reaching for you with one hand. You stumbled backwards with a yelp, falling onto your floor. Yellow eyes flashed once in your peripheral and then everyone was gone, just as quickly as they'd all appeared.

As you stood up, you found yourself in the factory. It was brighter here, but cold and empty. You spun, looking for an exit. Flashes of images knocked you off balance like punches. A red dress, flowing ribbon, blonde hair, black hair, crooked smiles, pointed teeth. Bells rang in your head, you saw a wheelchair, then painted red nails, then a ridged face. Your head was spinning. You were spinning. Faster and faster until you felt nauseous.

It stopped suddenly. A single thought pierced your adrenaline-rushing head. Soon-

You opened your eyes with a gasp, staring at the ceiling of your bedroom. It was morning and your alarm was going off. You stayed there a few minutes, snoozing the alarm so you could let your heart catch up with reality -or rather slow down to reality- before you got ready for the day and hopped in the car with your sister. Seems Buffy wasn’t the only one having bad dreams about vampires that should've been dead. Lucky you...

As it turns out, Buffy and Angel didn’t check in after last night’s screw up at the factory; thankfully Buffy came into school a couple minutes later to confirm she was still alive. The same couldn’t be said for Angel though, so tensions were high among the Scoobies while researching the Judge.

You were asked to use your artistic skills to draw the Judge to the best of your memory while the others looked into tomes with written references. The world tended to pass you by when you were drawing, so you almost didn’t notice when your sister left the library. She had been summoned by your Uncle, but for what you didn’t know. Not long after, the lights went out.

You stalked out of the library, seeing Xander, Willow, and Angel in the lobby of the school just down the hall. Willow was making her way towards Angel when-

“Willow, get away from him.” Jenny came from the left, holding up a cross as she stepped towards Angel. Oh. Oh no. You pulled a stake from your belt and called out to Willow as calmly as you could muster.

“Willow, walk back towards me.”

“What are you two talking about? It’s just A-”

Angel lunged forward and grabbed Willow by the neck. Familiar yellow eyes peered out of the darkness of the hallway as Willow yelped, struggling against the choke hold.

“You’re not Angel anymore, are you?” Jenny walked closer to Angel.

“Wrong. I am Angel, at last.” He pulled Willow back away from Jenny, “I’ve got a message for Buffy.”

“Why don’t you give it to me yourself?”

The two of them exchanged words and fought, allowing Willow the opportunity to escape Angel’s clutches and join your huddled group on the outskirts of the fight. Buffy got shoved into the water fountain, dumbfounded as Angel walked out the door laughing. The fight was over as quickly as it started, and a blanket of stunned silence covered the whole group. After what felt like an eternity of numb, unmoving shock, you and Jenny gave each other a knowing look. You’d failed. Angel was gone.

You don’t remember how long you’d been sitting in the library, vaguely listening to the group tell Giles about the confrontation with Angelus. Jenny was trying to keep Giles from panicking, and you sat numbly with your guilt. You only looked up when Buffy fled the room, Giles calling after her. You wanted so badly to apologize, but if Buffy ever found out what you’d known, she might kill you herself. You excused yourself from the library, mumbling to Jenny that you’d be in the studio back home.

-----

The garage door creaked as you lifted it. Jenny had given you one of the car bays to use as an art studio while you lived in Sunnydale. Your studio was one of the only places you knew where you could truly be alone with yourself. Jenny had never judged you or your art. Ever since your parents died, she’d stepped up and been supportive of you. You brushed your hand along the top of your canvas stash, picking a large, almost square canvas and setting it on your easel.

Painting had been a way for you to cope with strong emotions for as long as you could remember, but with the events of today you felt lost. You sat on your stool in front of that blank white canvas for what must have been hours. You eventually decided that nothing could convey what you were feeling in the moment, so you decided to paint something the opposite.

You used cream-white, gold and rust to block out a background; it was light, idyllic, and serene. It would be a white-stone conservatory, full of hanging candles and lanterns with a mezzanine balcony covered in ivy. Over that you dropped bright, vibrant tones of yellows and reds and greens. You blocked them into the spaces you would put dancers in flowing gowns and painted blues where you would place their partners. It would be full of life. You stood back a moment, studying. The scene was missing something; joy and innocence, maybe. You place a few, short splotches of pinks and light yellows for younger girls. They were running in a small stampede, weaving through the forest of colorful silks on the dance floor- chasing after fairies or some magic that existed only in their imaginations. There it was. You had vague shapes and a vision, and you were intent on chasing it.

You painted all through the night, and well into the morning. Jenny had left for the school hours ago, but hadn’t said anything. The painting was finally done. You sat in your stool and wiped your hands on your jeans. It was done, you had worked for hours, you had cried for Angel, you had smiled for the imaginary children, and for a moment you were satisfied... Then you noticed it.

In the center of your painting was a lone dancer. She wore a red gown with dark lace over the bodice and had equally dark hair. Your painting was somewhat post-impressionist, preferring interesting shapes over pinpoint detail, but it was unmistakable. In a ballroom of strangers, you’d painted her. Drusilla. You didn’t know what to think about that.

You stared at Drusilla in the painting, stuck in an introspective daze until a creaking sound pulled you back to reality. Your uncle had opened the garage door and stepped into the studio bay with two cups of coffee. You pulled up a stool for him and he handed you one, sitting beside you in front of the painting.

“Janna called,” he began cautiously. “She is on her way home with your friend, Buffy. I don’t know how, but she knows.”

“She’s going to hate me for this,” You scanned the sweeping lines of a yellow skirt somewhere else on your painting, trying not to let the tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.

The door to the garage opened behind you both and you looked down into your mug, anxiously tapping your nail against the ceramic. You couldn’t bear to look Buffy in the eyes, your guilt returning in full force.

Your uncle lit a pipe and stood up as he spoke,

“She told me you would be coming. I suppose you want answers,”

“Not really.” The voice wasn’t Buffy’s.

You snapped your head towards the door to find Angelus leaning against the door frame, blocking your exit. You scrambled, picking up a fistful of wooden paint brushes off your work table in a desperate search for weapons. You spun back towards Angelus just in time to watch him snap your uncle’s neck. An arm smacked against your leg as he dropped onto the concrete floor- a sensation you would no doubt remember the rest of your life. You snapped a large paintbrush in half to give it a pointier edge, but Angelus grabbed your wrist before you could even make a move on him. This was the sickening moment you realized just exactly how tall Angelus was. Exactly how far above he loomed over you.

“Ah, ah.” He tutted at you with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to go angering the guy who holds your life in his hands, now would you?” He twisted your wrist until you let go of the brush, then wrapped his other hand around your throat and pushed you onto the worktable.

“You know, it really is embarrassing that you’re so darn fragile!”

He was laughing, but he was right. In comparison you were a mouse fighting a lion, you had no chance against him. You clawed fruitlessly at his hand, but he just squeezed harder. Your vision was already fuzzing out, and it was getting difficult to even see Angelus’ face clearly as he taunted you.

“Oh, stop squirming, you’ll be unconscious in a minute, kid. Lucky for you, I need some bait. So you get to live for a while, isn’t that exciting?!” His voice was giving you something tangible to focus on, but it was no use. Another moment and you were unconscious.

-----

Your head pounded like a drum when you woke up. You opened your eyes, but it took a while for them to adjust to the dim light. You tried to rub your eyes, but your hands were tied down to the armrests of the chair you were sat in. Your eyes darted around for any sign of Angelus, but found none. Everything was empty. Silent. Against your better judgement, you called out into the empty factory.

“Hello?”

You waited. No one responded, but you felt you were being watched.

You didn’t know how much time had passed before you heard a small, soft melody coming from behind you. Humming. Your heartbeat kicked up a notch as you scanned the room.

“I can hear you going pitter-patter from here,” Drusilla had spoken from a place you couldn’t see. You heard each of her footsteps click closer and closer behind you until you could feel her standing just inches away. You let out a shaky breath and she shushed you quietly.

She ran her hands through your hair, dragging long red fingernails across your scalp. She began detangling your hair with her fingers, idly humming once again. You let your head tip back as she picked lightly at a particularly bad snag, dismantling it and continuing her exploration of your hair. By now you’d noticed you were crying, silently terrified and unnerved by the ministrations of the vampire behind you. She yanked a new snag in your hair and you couldn’t help the small yelp that escaped you.

“Is the doll hurting?” She pulled her hands away when she realized you weren’t going to answer her. She walked agonizingly slowly around your chair, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s rude to ignore people.” You stared at the floor, avoiding her gaze. You did notice, however horrified, that she was wearing a new, yet familiar, red dress with black lace.

You could feel her staring down at you, almost willing you to look at her. When you didn’t, she dropped to her knees to meet your eye line, resting her cheek on your knee. You studied her face as she ghosted her hand up and down your left thigh, occasionally picking at the smatterings of paint that were still all over your jeans.

“You’re an artist. I like artists,” She picked up her head and you chuckled nervously as she looked at you. In a morbid way, you were glad she liked you, whatever that meant. It might mean I live a little longer.

You looked up at the ceiling uncomfortably, then scanned the room for an escape, for something, anything you could do. She dragged her finger from your thigh up to your neck as she looked up at you. For a moment, you were scared she’d slice your throat, but she wrapped her hand around your jaw and pulled your face down gently to look at her.

“You’ll be my little pet Artist. We’ll have lots of fun together,” She stared into your eyes with a dangerous smile. She rubbed her thumb against your jawline -her hand still holding your face as she stood up- until she burst into a fit of giggles. She dropped your face and pulled her hands together, close to her chest, as she walked backwards a few paces.

As if she’d sensed him coming, Spike rolled into the room and stopped his chair just next to you. Drusilla gracefully perched herself on Spike’s lap and after a few minutes of flirting, Angelus came down the spiral staircase with the Judge, who voiced that he was ready to leave.

“About time.” Spike gave Drusilla a kiss and told her to have fun.

“Too bad you can’t come with, huh?” Angelus was taunting Spike and -despite your fear- you were studying the interactions for a better understanding of the relationships at play. Spike was staying behind under the pretense of watching you, but it was a thinly veiled jab at his current handicap. You watched silently as Angelus practically stole Drusilla off Spike’s lap before they left the factory. Spike stared at the doorway they'd left from for a while before he glanced back at you, staring at him. You dropped your eyes immediately, but it was too late.

“What are you lookin’ at?” He wheeled himself to the other side of the table.

“I won’t be in this chair forever. I’ll get back at him.”

“Of course you will.”

He squinted at you, probably just as surprised as you that’d you’d actually spoken back at him. He turned his chair and got up close to you again, murder glinting behind his eyes.

“Are you being funny? ‘Cause I could kill you in half a second, you know.”

“No, no jokes,” You shook your head at him, weakly lifting your hands within your restraints in surrender. The last thing you wanted was for him to prove just how tough he still is.

“Good, cause I would,” he pointed his finger at you as he continued on, “...kill you, I mean.”

“Right.” You squinted, processing.

“You’d do well to remember that.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded awkwardly. He stared at you about 7 seconds longer than he needed to before huffing and rolling off to another room. As soon as you were alone, you sighed in relief and stared up at the ceiling; only one thought in your mind.

Oh. My. God.

#spike #btvs #tv: btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #drusilla #drusilla x reader #drusilla x Spike #Spike x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #multichapter #chapter 1 #angel #angelus #ats #jenny calendar

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avaritia-apotheosis · 3 years

Text

Phantom Children [DP x Batman Crossover] Ch. 1

Disclaimer: It's been a while since I watched DP and the only Batman/DC stuff I've interacted with are B:TAS, the JL cartoons, and what I got from fandom osmosis so don't expect any sort of canon compliance.

In Which: the author takes advantage of the passage of time in Nanda Parbat being wonky and Danny doesn't give up, per se, but is sort of resigned to being stuck with the League of Assassins until further notice.

AO3 | Prologue | [ 1 ] | 2 |

CW for descriptions of non-consensual drug use (if there's anything you guys would like me to tag, please tell me)

-----

WHEN SOMETHING WENT WRONG WITH DANNY’S LIFE, it was usually because of one or two things: Ghosts or Vlad. And considering their truce and how even Vlad wouldn’t go this far (at least, Danny hoped), Danny was kidnapped because of ghosts. Or his association with ghosts.

Though how an organization of ninja-assassins got wind of his ‘unique’ circumstance was beyond him. The shackles they slapped on his wrists were more a formality than anything after the second time he tried to escape them with intangibility. The only reason they managed to get him contained the entire trip from Amity Park to wherever the fuck Nanda Parbat lay was because of the cocktail of drugs they pumped into his system spiked with blood blossoms.

Danny had to give it to them. The League of Assassins might not have any anti-ecto weaponry, but they did their homework.

He barely remembered the trip. He catches flashes—blurry figures and words he couldn’t comprehend. A warm hand holding his, a thumb rubbing smooth circles on the back of his palm and calloused fingers running through his hair.

When he awoke, it was in a room bigger than his bedroom. His ankle was shackled to a bedpost, and the only door leading out was locked. There was a separate room for the bathroom off to the side and a shelf stacked with books decorating the otherwise bare walls, but other than that there wasn’t much else. Not even windows.

Intangibility, he learned, wasn’t an option. The blood blossoms in his bloodstream were still in circulation, rendering his transformation useless. If his nose was right, his captors were pumping blood blossoms from the vents. The sickly sweet of the flower was faint in the cool air, but the slight red haze that persisted in the room was unmistakable.

He tried, regardless. The rings barely made it half-way before his knees buckled and he started retching all over the floor. At least his stomach was empty.

-------

Danny doesn’t know how long he’s been in Nanda Parbat. Time moved differently here. Faster, he thought. He doesn’t really understand how or why, though sometimes he wondered what Clockwork thought of all of this.

(There are times, in the darkness and solitude of his cell, when Danny would call for Clockwork to rescue him. Quietly, so quietly, it was barely even a whisper. But Clockwork would hear it—Danny was sure he would. Clockwork helped him out before, so this time shouldn’t be all that different. But at the end of the night, nothingness would answer him. And Danny had to learn over and over again that even the Ghost of Time had his own rules to follow.)

It had taken a few days and Talia nearly biting the head off of the League’s physician for them to realize that blood blossoms would be an awful way to contain him. Effective at immobilizing him, yes, but the flowers left him about as helpless as Superman in a kryptonite cave.

“It all works out in the end,” Talia would say. “The blossoms were never going to become a long-term solution; you might end up developing an immunity to them given enough exposure.”

Though knowing now what Talia’s ‘long-term plan’ was for making sure Danny didn’t slip through the walls of the headquarters and fly across the ocean, Danny would rather take his chances with the blood blossoms.

Danny might not have been as smart as Vlad, but he was tricky and creative when he needed to be. He knows he’s powerful. And sure, he might forget some of his own abilities every now and then, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use them. In the time he’s been stuck in the Leage’s lair (and coherent), Danny had thought of a dozen escape plans, each one with a high chance of success. If he made an attempt, he could guarantee the League wouldn’t notice until he was a quarter-way across the globe.

Escaping wasn’t the problem. That would be the easy part.

His core burned at the thought of it. And it hurt—as if his entire being was dunked in a vat of dry ice and left to freeze. He hated how he was here and everything that he was protecting was far. Away.

Danny wanted to go home. Wanted to read comic books in his bed, play Doom with Tucker and Sam, sleep in class and make fun of the Box Ghost. He wants to eat his mom’s food, even if there’s a fifty-fifty chance that it would come alive and try to eat him instead. He wants to listen to Jazz try to psychoanalyze his problems. Wants to go fishing with his dad and eat his famous chocolate fudge. Wants to fly above the skies of Amity Park and touch what little he can of the universe before he’s called down again.

Amity Park is his haunt. His Home. The soft hum of the Ghost Portal in the basement a lullaby he’s listened to for so long that sleeping without it was next to impossible. Every fiber of his being craved to go back because how is he supposed to protect Amity if he isn’t there?

But to go back meant sacrificing everyone.

Danny doesn’t risk it.

(The—the last time was an accident. If Danny isn’t—if he isn’t careful, this time it may be an assassination. He refused to have his family’s death on his hands again.)

He has faith in Sam, Tucker, and Jazz to hold down the fort until he could find a way to escape. They’re smart. Smarter than him. They’ll work something out and—in a worst-case scenario, they’ll find a way to shut down the Ghost Portal to stop the ghosts from coming through.

Logic meant nothing to his ghost core, though. The next best thing to do was to drown out his worries with the League’s rigorous education.

Hand-to-hand and weapons combat. Geography. History. Dozens of foreign languages. Poisons and herbology and basic first-aid. His days are packed with new things to learn and to repeat until it’s drilled into his skull so deep he could recite the information in his sleep. (Hyosycamus niger, aka Henbane. Every part is highly toxic and can cause dizziness, stupor, insanity, and eventual death. It’s medicinal uses range from--)

The League demanded perfection. The Demon’s Head demanded even more than that.

Talia oversaw his education. Sometimes, there would be another, older, man by her side, observing his regimen with cold calculation. Whenever that man arrived, Danny’s instructors were always stricter.

His teachers made little effort to interact with him outside of their set schedule, and during his lessons they only ever answer pertinent questions. He supposed there would be other students of the League in Nanda Parbat, but he’s seen neither hide nor hair of them. His rooms (a bedroom + bathroom combo that led out into a large indoor space for training) are separate from everything else.

Danny slept alone, ate alone, and trained alone. And for a boy who has had his two best friends stuck to his side like glue for as long as he could remember, it’s a terribly lonely experience.

His shadow guards don’t count. They might as well be another piece of furniture. Another stone in the wall.

-------

Talia was the only one that broke his new mundane routine, as much as she was the cause of it. She was his only source of companionship in this hell hole; the only one who would really speak to him. And yeah, he knew why that was. Jazz had rambled on enough about Stockholm syndrome to know that this ‘arrangement’ was Talia’s attempts at forging a bond between them. But godit’s just so hard to be stuck inside your own mind all day when. It made him think too much. Worry. (Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif).

And then—

And then.

Danny had asked Talia a multitude of questions, but only two did she ever answer. Both asked when he was still trying to flush the drug cocktail and the blood blossoms from his system.

The first was when he asked, “Why am I here?” She answered that it was because Ra’s al Ghul, her father, wanted him. He had knowledge the Demon’s Head wanted; powers that Ra’s could only ever dream of. The man was curious—though Talia assured him over and over again that Danny wouldn’t be vivisected and studied for science.

The second answer came right after when Danny asked her “How could you be so sure?”

Talia smiled. Lacquered fingers coming up to brush away the dark strands that fell over his face. Her hands traced the curve of his jaw, cupping his cheeks to raise his eyes to hers. “Because you are my son,” she said, voice honey sweet.

He jerked from her hold.

Burned by it.

“You’re lying,” he spat. “I’m already someone else’s son. Try again.”

Talia let her hands drop to her sides. “You are my son.” She took a step closer towards him. Steady. Firm. “That is why you are here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A pitying smile. “Be that as it may, you cannot change the truth.” She approached him, slowly backing him against the wall before she reached out to tilt his chin upwards. Some traitorous part of Danny’s mind catalogued her features. Made connections that shouldn’t exist. “I have carried you in my womb, Daniel. You were a part of me for so very long and I loved you more with each passing day. You are of my body and of my blood—not matter how much you may deny it.”

“No.” He pushed her hands away and raked his hands over his hair. “You’re lying.” She must be. They don’t look alike. Not at all. Everyone always said he was his dad’s—Jack Fenton’s—exact copy. Black haired and blue eyed and sharp-jawed. Awkward but well-meaning and with a heart of gold, his mother said. It was once of the facts of life; Danny took after his dad, and Jazz took after their mom. Simple as that.

(There is a memory resurfacing from his early childhood that Danny is desperately trying to repress again. Memories of kids teasing him on the playground, innocently cruel in the way only children can be as they tried to convince him he was adopted. That his skin looked nothing like his parents’. Dusky where his parents and sister were fair. He went home crying to his parents that same day, and they soothed away his worries with hushed words and a well-timed distraction.)

He asked no more questions after that. Talia was lying to him for some reason, and no answer she could give would be trustworthy anyways. What little of him he could see in her was only a figment of his own imagination. His mind playing cruel tricks.

Then his hopes were dashed aside when Talia showed him a picture of his father a day later.

The man in the photo looked like him. Black haired and eyes the same shade of too-bright blue. There were differences, of course. The man in the photograph was fairer, unlike Danny. He was taller and broader where Danny was lean and lanky. But despite this and all the other minute differences, this man who was supposed to be Danny’s biological father looked like him.

The same slant of the brow. The same shape of the eyes. The way the man held himself with this sense of gravitas and power that Danny couldn’t yet do in his awkward teenage years but had seen before. In a monster another man.

Danny’s future self was terrifying in its inhumanity, but it didn’t take that much of an imagination to know that he looked almost exactly like the man in the picture.

#danny phantom #batman #danny phantom x batman crossover #cw; drug use #phantom children.txt

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sunwarmed-ash · 5 months

Text

🔥Sinful Sunday🔥

Triangles are the strongest shape

Ch 1: Three's a crowd...

Fandom: Ted Lasso Ships: Eventual RoyJamieKeeley TW's: Depictions of violence, Drink Spiking-No SA Tags: WIP, Angst, Sad Jamie, the rocky slowburn that is incredible polycule that is KJR , season 1-3 extended scenes, eventual happy ending, plot with porn, slow burn, accidental voyeurism, voyeurism, masterbation, funny, pre KJR relationship Preview:

Most of the speed walk to their old shared flat went by in a blacked-out blur, but when he’s greeted with the familiar scent of sandalwood and citrus Jamie knows he's home. It helps bring some of the feeling back into his trauma-numb body.

“I just need to rest a few hours, honestly,” he starts, hoping maybe she’d offer to lay next to him for a bit.

But then his eyes land on the most emotionally complicated person in the world, and now ‘home’ is the last place he wants to be. Because it's not his home anymore. It's theirs. Without him.

“Why’s he here?” Jamie asks, though he knows the answer.

“He lives here,” Roy explains, albeit nicer than Jamie's immediate, snappy tone.

The confirmation hurts worse than all of the physical attacks he’d endured tonight combined. Rejection burns hot in his gut. He’s gotta get out of here.

“We’re here to help Jamie,” Keeley attempts to reassure, but the panicky feeling only compounds, and he hates the way the spotlight is now on him. Even if they were just trying to help. It was having the opposite effect.

“I- can’t- this is too much-” he is barely able to get out.

“Maybe we should get you in bed,” Roy offers.

That statement is enough to stop the panic attack in its tracks. Jamie’s eyes are blown wide in hopeful confusion, and he’s about to agree, yeah, that actually probably would help, before Roy puts together what he unintentionally offered and quickly edits “not- like that. To sleep.”

Jamie’s mouth snaps shut and he bites into his tongue to keep back how disparagingly rejected and humiliated that made him feel. He’s such a fucking idiot. Why would he think someone like Roy Kent would even be interested…

“Yeah. Yeah, alright…” In hindsight, they were both probably right. Jamie is exhausted. His body aches in every place. There were surely bruises forming on his face and under his sweater. Yet another thing he’s going to have to explain away at training, or tonight if they have sex…

No. Jamie needs sleep. Not sex.

Right.

#sinful sunday #ted lasso #royjamiekeeley #royjamie #jamie tartt #roy kent #keeley jones #roy x jamie x keeley #roy x jamie #jamie x roy #jamie x keeley #roy x keeley #sunwarmed ash #find me on ao3 #buy me a coffee?#links in bio #reblogs are free ways to support me!#i post new stuff every sunday

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sunnydaleherald · 2 years

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The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Tuesday, December 28

Pete: Since when do you touch my girl? Oz: Hey, Pete. This is kind of a bad time. Pete: Well, I guess you didn't think about that when you put the moves on Debbie! Oz: We talked, yeah, but it was move-free. Oz: About this cage? When that sun sets... Pete: You won't be alive to see it! Oz: I'm serious. Something's gonna happen that you... probably won't believe. Pete screams as his head whips around and he transforms into his alter ego again. Oz: Or you might.

~~Buffy Episode #38: "Beauty and the Beasts"~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

off the books (Riley, Xander, T, (Yakuza xover) by madimpossibledreamer

[podfic] An Inquiry into the Source of Slayer Powers by W W Pentagon (Buffy, G, Flatland xover) by churkey

Going with Vampires (Buffy/Riley, T) by itsnotmymind

(Unintended) You Could Be (Buffy/Spike, E) by ashcrashed

Telling The Truth (Buffy/Faith, T) by SinLikeUMeanIt

You Know You Love It (Buffy/Spike, E) by MissNind

Taste The Sun (Spike/Xander, E) by supermom514

The Uses of Mistletoe (Buffy/Spike, T) by slaymesoftly

Stocking Stuffers (Buffy/Spike, E) by bewildered

[Chaptered Fiction]

Bite Your Tongue, Chapter 31 (Buffy/Spike, E) by hostile17

You're the One, Chapter 11 (Buffy/Spike, E) by BloodyThorn

Deeper than Blood, Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Blackmysteria

Hidden Treasure, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, M) by pfeifferpack

Heroes, Hexes, and Hijinks, Chapter 7 (Buffy/Spike, M) by JaneRemmington

Damage Case, Chapter 12 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Axell

Buffy's Pack Ch. 12 (Buffy/Xander, E) by redjacobson

You Can't Fight Fate - But You Can Decipher Him Ch. 23 (Dawn, T, Batman xover) by Hermionetobe

To Our Own: Apocryphal Ch. 12 (Xander, T, Stargate xover) by JBosch

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork:Scoobies by turtleswillrise

[Reviews & Recaps]

BUFFY REWATCH - S06E10 - Wrecked by girl4music

[Community Announcements]

is there a tag you guys track? or another way u find btvs post to reblog? by sunnydale-digest

[Fandom Discussions]

A lot of people were very unhappy with the way the Spike and Robin Wood fight went by confusedguytoo

The soul thing was always so amorphous by initiumseries

Gunn as a character was so weird lol by initiumseries

Director's commentary / behind the scenes on the gang modifying the house for Buffy's new needs as a vampire? by herinsectreflection

I wish people that watch the scene in ‘Restless’ where Xander says he does a spell by himself when he thinks about Willow and Tara doing spells would remember who’s dream it is. by girl4music

Spike has a soul now, that should mean something. by girl4music

I think it’s neat that Willow is a redhead by millennialslayer

Buffy - Viewership trends and analysis by vampmogs

Why do people say Spike is soft by spuffylove

Angel - Viewer Stats and Trends by vampmogs

Angel Not Fade Away quote "I don't remember what it was like being human" by BtVS fan

Monstrous fears - cannibalism continued by multiple authors

What does everyone think of Riley?? by kurtney_

Is there anything Disney doesn't ruin? God, this sounds awful. by MattLoganGreen

What episode would you show for someone who thinks "Buffy" is stupid? by jdpm1991

Do you like Spike's redemption arc in season 5? Yay or Nay? by jdpm1991

Amazing moments Season 2 by Mookiestik

[COMIC TALK] Do they get...good? by throwaway564649

glorys promise to ben by brian5mbv

The Wish by Lizcatherine

Are seasons 4-7 worth watching? by TheTurningz

Spike’s outfits by dumbosjumbo

Dead Man’s Party by CaptainM1997

Does anyone remember what episode Riley blows up that crypt of vampires? by dthurst20

Who was better? Sarah Michelle Gellar as Faith or Eliza Dushku as Buffy. by Simple-Ceasar

Angels Irish accent. by Lizcatherine

Opinions on the BVTS musical episode, "Once morez with feeling." by kurtney_

I mean I don’t know about you guys but I consider shipping different from just thinking it would be interesting/beneficial to the plot to see two characters get together by 5bi5

Seth Green left Buffy because Joss Whedon had no interest in letting Oz be a character beyond his relationship with Willow. by sincakes

ok but the way buffy slaps, SLAPS spike across the cheek in Out of My Mind… by bakasara

The idea of Spike being so absolutely bothered by his growing feelings for Buffy by spuffygifs

Are vampires more like parasites or apex predators? by No-Sprinkles5852

[Articles, Interviews, and Other News]

PUBLICATION: Buffy The Vampire Slayer: 10 Things >From Season 1 That Keep Getting Better Over Time by

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)

#show: btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #angel the series #fan fiction #fan art #meta

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liibrii · 3 years

Text

Chapter 2: Tattered

Ojiro Aran x fem!reader

Series Masterpost || Ch. 1

wc: 3.2k

warnings: swearing, internalised guilt and shame, intrusive thoughts, self doubt, depression.

a/n: I don’t really have anything to say other than I’m enjoying writing for Aran so much. if you wanna be tagged in future chapters lemme know, and as always feedback is greatly appreciated!

Aran knows people don't always mean what they say. Even he had done it before and it destroyed a few of his relationships. Knowing that doesn't make your words hurt any less.

He tries to convince himself you didn't really mean it, still a part of him wonders if that's how you really feel. How you've always felt. For all those years he was assured of your friendship and now you've pulled the rug from under his feet. None of your words align with the image in his head. Perhaps you've never been the person he remembers. The you in his mind is just that, a memory, a perfect picture he created from bits and pieces he chose. Has he truly always seen only what he wanted to see?

Thoughts of you run through his mind as he stands on the back line. One more serve before he wraps up. Bam.

To always see good in people is what he was thought growing up and what he still tries to do to this day, even if years had thought him people aren't only their good sides. He always thought of you only at your best and failed to even get to know you properly. What kind of friend does that? You're in pain and he can't help because he has no idea where the wounds are. He has no idea where to look for them because he refused to see.

Perhaps he is a terrible friend after all.

Bam. The ball gets caught in the net and falls. Aran watches it roll away before picking up another. He breathes deeply. It's all about focus, he reminds himself, even when his mind wants to slip he has to remain focused.

All of his teammates have left already. Home, to their partners, their families. What will he return home to? An empty apartment with take-out he'll eat on the couch. Alone. Maybe he should get a pet. But when will he have time to care for it?

Bam.

He should call home. Check on his friends. Maybe if he had checked on you more often then-

Bam.

What use is pondering over what could've been? With each serve his palm aches more, his muscles already sore from practice but he doesn't want to stop yet. One more.

“There's a difference between training hard and overdoing it, you know?“

Perhaps life is just memories of days long gone sipping into present.

When he turns to face you uneasiness rises in him. Any other time he'd be elated to see you. Now even words to greet you with escape him. You come closer, shoes softly squeaking on the gym's floor. “Doorman let me in. After a little bit of convincing.“

“Really?“

“No, I slipped past while his back was turned. How long are you planning on staying? I saw all of your teammates leave already.“

Aran turns the ball in his hands. It's becoming slippery from all the sweat. He can't bring himself to look you in the eyes. “My serves are gettin' sloppy. I need more practice.“

Bam.

You stay where you are, watching and fiddling with the strap of your bag, until you can't bear the silence anymore and speak up. “Aran, I actually wanted to talk to you. About you know... what I said.“

“T's okay. I know ya didn't mean it.“

“I did.“ Your voice eerily echoes in the otherwise empty gym. “As shitty as it is, it's how I felt.“ You're eyes stay fixed on the floor. “I'm sorry.“

Aran catches the ball he just threw in the air for another jump serve. When he looks over at you you're still intently focused on your shoelaces, gripping the strap of the bag so tight your knuckles turned white. Why are you beating yourself up so much? If you feel something, you feel it. What reason for it do you need to have? Knowing how you felt hurts, that much he can't deny. And yet he can't hold it against you.

He puts the ball on the top of your head, just like boys used to do back in high school to annoy you. “If ya really insist on apologisin' then I guess I have no other choice but to forgive ya.”

As his words sink in you shyly glance at him. “You sure?“

“'Course I am,“ smiles Aran, balancing the ball so it doesn't roll from the top of your head.

“You're not angry? At me?“

He takes the ball and starts throwing it from one hand to another. “Not really. Very surprised. A little hurt.“

“I'm sorry-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know,“ he cuts you off. “Set for me and we'll call it even.”

“Aran, my sets are in no way near the level you're used to.“

“So?“ he asks already walking over to fetch the ball cart. “Ya still remember where to stand, right?“ he teases, cackling softly when you roll your eyes and take off your bag and jacket, all while trying to hide a smile creeping on your lips.

It takes a few tries for you to remember how to make an overhand set. Aran's filled with giddy warmth when you manage to send the ball in the right position for him to spike it over the net. Perhaps all those lessons with Atsumu years ago didn't go to waste after all. Your little victory jump makes him burst into laughter and he rewards you with a high five.

It really is an echo of history.

Your skills are rusty, something that makes you apologise profusely every time you mess up, even after he reassures you he doesn't mind, and ruffles your hair.

With each set you relax more, till every smile and laugh seem sincere. Only now Aran realises how he missed this carefree side of you. Time always flies too fast when you're around and soon enough, out of breath and wiping the drops of sweat from your forehead, you call an end of this individual practice.

He hurries with showering and changing into fresh clothes, not wanting to leave you waiting for too long, especially since you have morning lessons tomorrow. He buys you a drink from the vending machine. It's not much, but staying hydrated is important, he tells you when you tease him about it.

“You know, that brought back a lot of memories,“ you say while walking to the train station, then poke his shoulder. “Thanks.“ The smile dancing over your lips makes his cheeks warm up. You glance over to the sky hiding behind a golden halo that city lights cast over the rooftops. “Do you ever miss Hyogo?“

“Sometimes.“

“I miss the stars.“ You kick a small stone from your path. “You've become quite a star too you know. With all the fans and attention I really wonder, do you get lonely?”

Your question catches him off guard. “I'm too busy to get lonely,“ he lies.

“I get lonely sometimes,“ your eyes still search for a glimmer of a distant star. “And tired. Some days I just want to sleep all day. Do you ever get the urge to do that? Skip practice and stay in bed?“

“No. If I skipped practice how will I become better?”

You purse your lips and nod. “That's why you're a professional athlete and I'm just trying to figure out why I have to separate blue and red laundry.“

“Those are two very different things.“

“Both are just some pieces of cloth. Why do I have to separate them? If they got problems with each other they should grow up and talk it out.”

That’s not what he meant, but your slight annoyance over technicalities of doing laundry still makes him laugh.

In the coming days Aran checks his phone every chance he gets, just to see if you already wrote back. No matter what you talk about he wants to hear it; be it about your day or the delivery man being late with your order. His teammates notice and tease him about it yet he denies you're anything more than just a friend, and they exchange knowing looks when his back is turned. Even if his entire body heats up at the sole mention of your name Aran isn't ready to admit to himself, let alone others, he wants you to be more.

Not when he isn't sure if his feelings for you are being muddled by his memories.

That Tuesday you grab a dinner together that turns into a late night walk through the streets. It's not a date, Aran keeps reminding himself. It's just two friends hanging out as you've done a thousand times before. So why is his heart threatening to thump it's way out of his chest?

After that night weekly hanging out with you becomes a regular occurrence. Sometimes you go out to eat, sometimes you drag him along when you go shopping, saying he has a good eye for colour combinations. It has nothing to do with the fact he buys you ice cream every time. Some days you come to his place to play video games or watch movies. Seeing his favourite series making you laugh warms his heart.

As you become more comfortable around him your facade slowly, bit by bit, starts to crumble. He's scared to see what lies beneath yet at the same time he wishes it would break already. He can't help you if he doesn't know, can he?

Whatever is troubling you he wishes you'd trust him enough to confide in him. In the back of his mind lingers the question he's too scared too ask.

Does Kita know what's on your mind? Do you still talk to him?

You used to be close to the team. The one they relied on. The one who so lovingly tapped their fingers before each game. Do they know your eyes are puffy? Do they know every sleepless night that goes by makes the dark circles under your eyes harder to hide? Do they know his heart breaks every time he sees the tremble of your lips when you force a smile?

No matter how bad he wants to hold you, tell you it's going to be okay, the mere thought of reaching out paralyses him.

What if you don't want his help?

If you did, you would've asked already, right? Not even practice can stop him from thinking about you. His disappointment grows a little when he sees no new messages. Perhaps you don't want to talk to him after all.

He's just leaving the gym when his phone lights up and seeing it's your name makes his heart flutter. He eagerly picks up. “Hi!“

“H-hey.“ Already in the first word the strain in your voice is apparent. “Um, am I interrupting you?“

“No, of course not. I just finished with practice. What's up?“

“I-“ He hears you take a deep breath. “Um, I don't, I don't feel so good...“ Your next words are almost a whisper. “Could I come over?“

“'Course ya can come over. I'll be home in about an hour.“

By the time he arrives you're already there, standing by the entrance nervously stepping from one leg to another. You give a shy wave when he approaches. He noticed you've been acting weirdly sheepish around him and he's not used to it. You're friends. What's making you so nervous?

You trail behind him, hands tucked deep in your pockets. You don't even pull them out when taking your shoes off.

“Tea?“ he offers when you make your way towards the sofa.

“Sure,“ you nod, sitting and tightly hugging a pillow. “Sorry about that,“ you say when he joins you with two cups of tea, “I just... bad day, you know? Didn't want to be alone.“

With a smile he assures you it's no problem. You're welcome to come by whenever you want.

You tell him about college, about work. “Boss is a shit bag,“ you complain. The working hours make you late for your lessons and even professors are getting fed up with you always being late. Not to mention your classmates aren't keen on lending you notes to copy.

It's all too much, you say, work, college, the pressure of everyone's expectations. Your fellow students give you funny looks sometimes, you tell him. It's only a few years but you're still older than them, at the age where your parents are asking when you are going to settle down. Have children. Get a stable job. Well how could you when you haven't even gotten your degree yet? It all makes you feel like a failure.

And yet something tells Aran that's not why you're here. Maybe it's the nervous fumbling with the hem of your clothes. Maybe it's because you don't look at him at all. A silence falls on you as you sip your tea. Aran considers asking out right but you gather the courage before he does.

“Shin called.“

“Ah.“ That's all he manages to say.

“He's doing good, in case you're wondering. He asked if we have any plans on visiting any time soon.“ Your eyes skim over his face. “That would be nice, don't you think?“

Aran forces a smile. “Sounds great.“ Once again your words threaten to shake the ground he stands on. All he hears is 'seeing Shin would be nice'. His grip on the cup tightens and he puts it away before he'd crack it.

“Do ya miss him?“ he asks, words coming out more choked up than he intended. He clears his throat when he leans back on the couch's backrest.

You think over his question. “I miss my best friend.“

He asks. Even if he doesn't want to know the answer, he asks. “Will you get back with him?“

“No.“ Your answer is quiet, but firm. You readjust yourself to lean on the backrest, facing him, the pillow still tightly squeezed in your grip. “Shin is a great guy just... not the right for me. Wasn't easy to accept but that's how it is.“ You fumble with the thread sticking out from the stitch. “I wasn't good for him, you know?“ you quietly continue. “He protected me since we were kids but at some point it all just... fizzled I guess. I was so used of always being by his side the thought of living without him terrified me. He was that stability I craved. For a long time I believed he would give me a goal in life, or something similar.“ You chuckle. “Try getting through seventeen-year-old-me's head that's not how relationships work. I knew we wouldn't work out. But I stayed because I was selfish and stupid... and scared. I think he knew. And it started to take a toll on him. So I left before he'd break.“ Tears start forming in your eyes. “Shin could never understand why I'm so sad without a reason... Maybe if I left sooner... well, it doesn't matter now.“

“Ya can still go back,“ hearing his own words shatters Aran's heart, “once ya feel better.“

The brief laugh you give almost sounds like a sob. “Can I?“ You forcefully wipe the tears away. “Even if I could it wouldn't be the same as I remember now. It's hard to explain but somehow, what’s in your memories is always better than reality. Know what I mean?“

He knows. Memory is the thief of future.

The lump in his throat grows larger, heavier as he watches you try to hide tears starting to run down your cheeks. He's lost, not knowing what else to do but to pull you closer, tucking your head under his chin. He hugs you and softly caresses your back. “It's alright,“ he whispers when you apologise through sobs and tears. He keeps repeating, it's alright. What else could he possibly say?

You relax in his arms and your sobs slowly turn to muffled sniffles. Aran only wishes you feel safe in his arms, your head leaning on his shoulder, your arms shyly wrapping around his middle. It's not the most comfortable position but he's to scared to readjust. He hears your hitched breathing sync with his own as he runs his hands up and down your back and, exhausted from your crying, you're soon fast asleep.

Perhaps for the first time in his life Aran's starting to really understand you. It pains him, knowing your struggles. You, who were always so full of light, you who were the pillar, tall and unyielding, one he could always lean onto. How memories managed to muddle his perception of you so much is beyond him. The only thing he can do is promise himself to never let them deceive him again. After all, who needs memories?

He messages you more frequently. Not too frequently, he doesn't want to appear nosy or pushy. Just often enough to let you know he's there for you if you need him.

You've been busier with college lately, so weekly hang outs turn to late night phone calls. Hearing your voice feels like a refreshing cool breeze on these hot summer nights.

He collapses in his bed, only half listening to your rambling on about one of the professors. He didn't catch her name.

“Aran? You still there?“

“Yeah, I'm still here. T's been a long day, t's all.“

He hears you hum and he can imagine the way you lean your head to the side. “Coach in a bad mood?“

“Not really. I'm just not feelin' my best. Couldn't sync with Aritsura's sets. But ya know, more practice 's all we need. How was your day?“ he asks, forgetting you just told him a few minutes ago.

“It was alright,“ you say instead of repeating what you already told him. “Actually, I wanted to apologise. About last time. I shouldn't have dumped all my problems on you.“

“How many times do I need to repeat it's okay. I'm here for ya.“

“Still. I'm sorry. It was a lot. I... I don't want to be a burden.“

His brows furrow. How many times does he have to repeat it? Why don't you get it? “Yer not.“ Your low chuckle makes him irritated . “I mean it. If ya ever need to talk just say, alright?“

“Yeah, yeah I will... Thank you. It's just that... I don't want to ruin this friendship too. That's all. Tell me when I become too much. Please.“

What are you talking about? “Whatever is on yer mind I promise I can handle it.“

“Can you? So you not being able to play your best has nothing to do with me dumping all my problems on you?“

Something in the way you say those words pushes the wrong button. He's only trying to be here for you, why can't you see that? “I don't care enough to let it impact me.“ Fuck. Even before the final word leaves his mouth he knows it came out wrong. “I'm sorry, fuck, y/n, I didn't mean it like that-“

“It's okay,“ you interrupt. “You're right.“

“I'm-“

“Get some sleep Aran. You have practice tomorrow. G' night.“ You end the call before he gets the chance to say goodbye.

Fuck.

Ch. 3: In the light, your name

Tags: @rosecaffelatte, @aonenthusiast

#ojiro aran x reader #ojiro aran imagine #aran x reader #ojiro aran x y/n #aran x y/n #ojiro aran #aran haikyuu #inarizaki x reader #hq #haikyuu #inarizaki #haikyuu x reader #ojiro aran x you #aran x you #libri scribbles #all that is gold

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let-me-love-you-loki · 3 years

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The Christmas that Wasn’t-Ch. 16

A/N: As always, written with the beautiful, lovely amazing @mox-made-me-do-it . Sorry it took so long guys!

Chapter 16: Adam

I stayed on the swim deck all night with a bottle of Jack Daniels. I listened to Dan and Shay on an endless loop—hoping to make myself sick of it. Every note made me think of Allie, of the way she felt in my arms, of the scent of her hair and her skin. I tried to stop the thoughts, the memories. Tried to force myself to hate the music pouring through my speakers. My chest ached. I wanted to chuck the whole goddamn stereo in the water.

Allie’s face swam in my mind. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine what Allie was going through. She had just had her entire life turned on its head. Thrust upside down in a split second. Here I was trying to lay on my best moves. The woman had come all the way to Bora Bora to forget the pain of what happened to her, to reawaken her happiness. Not to find some new hook up. She’d come here with Leigh, to be with Leigh.

It was time for me to take a step back. To give her the space she so obviously wanted.

The empty bottle hit the deck with a clink. The swim deck swayed, churning my stomach. I tried to focus on the stars and the moon burning bright in the sky, but the bobbing made it hard to focus on anything. It took a minute or two to pull myself up to standing. I stumbled up the steps to the main deck, trying my best not to fall over. I’d no more than stepped inside than Kenny appeared from the other side of the bungalow.

“Man, I’m sorry,” I slurred, banging into the back of the sofa as I went. “About tonight. You don’t know how much I didn’t want to knock on that door.”

I made it to the minibar, slinging the empty bottle on the counter. I leaned heavily against the wall, hoping to regain my balance. “How’d it go?”

“Come on, Hanger,” Kenny said with a faint smile. He stood by the door, one shoulder against the wall. “A guy’s got to have his secrets.”

I smirked, words forming on the tip of my tongue. Words that I knew were too hurtful to say.

Kenny looked me over. “Did you drink that whole bottle tonight?” He was clearly trying to change the subject. “What happened over here?

I let him. “Dude, I don’t even know. Everything was perfect,” I replied, thinking of every second of those moments together. “We were dancing over there and I was just about to kiss her and then the song changed. She froze, I turned around, and she bolted. She didn’t come here for some hook up. I need to stop.”

Kenny moved closer, his eyes wary. I opened the minifridge with one hand, picked up and waved the empty bottle with the other. “And no, smart ass, I made this bottle last all day. But I feel like I need another one.” I pulled out another bottle—this time of Maker’s Mark—and swayed on my feet. “But come on, man. One of us had to get some tonight. Did you get her to make any cute noises? Get your dick sucked?”

I realized pretty quickly that I was rambling, spilling out bullshit while Jack ran through my blood. For a minute, I felt like I was going to puke. “Dude…”

The next thing I knew, pain bloomed up along my chin. I hit the ground hard, the wind rushing out of me in a huff. My vision blurred for half a second. The nausea rolled back over me as I tried to get to my feet. I was hardly up on my knees when Kenny’s fist slammed into my jaw just below my ear. My ears rang. I didn’t know which way was up.

“What the fuck man?” I shouted as I pulled myself to my feet. God, I felt like I was going to puke. “What’s your problem?”

“You,” Kenny spat, his fist already curling for another blow. “Your drunk ass is my problem.”

I shoved him back as hard as I could. “I’m the problem? You can’t even have a hook up right! Her hair wasn’t even messed up. It’s not like you were stormin’ the fucking beaches when I showed up.”

“You have no clue what was going on,” he replied. He shook out his hand. “So shut your goddamn mouth and go sleep it off.”

I should have taken his advice. A sober me probably would have. But Jack wasn’t much in the mood to be a good guy. My palm ran over the places where I knew bruises would be blooming by tomorrow.

“What was it, huh, Ken?” I spat. “Couldn’t get it up? Not as big a fan of the girls anymore? All talk and no action, aren’t you?”

Oh, Christ, I was an idiot. I knew it. I could feel it, but there was no stopping the Jack once it did its thing.

“Poor pitiful Kenny,” I whined. My feet were a little more solid under my feet. I squared up, knowing that it was a horrible fucking idea. “Nobody loves me. I can’t fuck Leigh. Kota left me. Boo fucking hoo. Jesus, do you ever wonder why?”

It was a shitty thing to say. I knew that it wasn’t fair to bring up Kota. That was a button pushed too far.

For a minute, I didn’t think he’d say anything. He just stood there, staring at me. I was watching his face. I should’ve been watching his hands.

“Son of a bitch,” Kenny yelled. He started swinging, not caring. I dodged one or two of the blows, but he hit me again on the jaw below the ear. I couldn’t hear for the longest time. My balance gave out.

Before thirty seconds had gone by, he’d clipped me twice more on the jaw and then popped me one massive time in the solar plexus. My chest locked up. Kenny moved faster and hit harder than anyone I’d ever met. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d broken my ribs. He yelled at me but I couldn’t make out a word of it. When he was pissed, he shouted in Japanese. But I understood “mother fucker” when I heard it.

I couldn’t catch my breath no matter how hard I tried. Kenny had punched me so hard that it was like having my chest caved in. Lungs popped. Like a fucking fish on a deck. A spike of rage bloomed through me. For a split second, Jack turned that rage into hate. I hated Kenny Omega.

Before the thought could take root, I gasped in a heavy breath and held up my hands to defend myself. “Dude… Ken… stop!” His fist swung out one more time, clipping me across the cheek. Kenny stood over me, his hands clenched into fists, one of his knuckles busted open. “I’m sorry.”

Kenny looked down, the brightness in his eyes fading as the fight went out of him. He choked in a breath and then stretched out his hand to help me up. We stood face to face, watching each other with uncertain eyes. I could already feel my cheek swelling, pain lancing up beneath my left eye. I’d have a shiner for sure.

“I didn’t mean that,” I said warily. Fuck, my face hurt. “That was the Jack talking.”

He turned away, the expression on his face clouded. I couldn’t tell if he believed me. Hell, even I couldn’t tell if I believed me. “Sleep it off, Adam,” he said before walking toward the bathroom.

He’d barely made it two steps when the door nearly shook off the hinges. Loud thumping knocks vibrated through the air. Kenny pulled the door open, and Allie and Leigh pushed past him.

“What the hell is going on in here?!” Allie shouted, hands on her hips.

Shit, I thought, heart pounding, we were loud enough for them to hear us. FUCK!

Her eyes widened when she had half a second to take in my face. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She glared at Kenny from the corner of her eye, and I couldn’t help but smile. I’d seen her take fire when Leigh’s ex had been on the phone that first day. I could only imagine what kind of hell she would give Kenny for what he’d just done.

Allie turned toward Leigh, pulling the other girl closer by the wrist. I had a brief flash of when Ken and I had walked in on them. Jack made me think a couple things I shouldn’t have. I looked away and caught Kenny’s eye in the process. He raised his hands and backed away, as if he didn’t have anything else to say to me.

I watched as Leigh slid her fingers around Kenny’s wrist and pulled him toward the door. He relaxed at her touch, the anger fading from his face almost instantaneously. She smiled, her whole face changing when she looked at him. Her eyes were bright, face upturned as if she were waiting for him to lean down and kiss her.

I’m an ass, I thought bitterly. Kenny was easy to love. He was loved. By the woman standing right in front of him.

Kenny let Leigh lead him back out into the night, leaving me along with Allie.

Tag List:

@mox-made-me-do-it @not-that-kinda-gurl08 @lilred91 @unabashedwrestlefics

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damienthepious · 3 years

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lalalalala i’m still on my au bullshit :D

Knight of the Swamp (chapter 4)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ao3] [ch 5] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ch 10] [ch 11]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum & The Keep, Sir Damien & The Keep, Rilla & The Keep

Characters: Sir Damien, Rilla, Lord Arum, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, (some characters tagged will not appear until later chapters!), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Love Confessions, (for rilla&damien), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, (for R&D and Arum), Dueling, Fealty Dynamics, Pre-Canon AND Alt-Canon at the same time!! fun!!!, Mira is not Queen yet

Summary: Perhaps the King should have known better than to force Sir Damien to choose between his heart and his oaths.

Chapter Summary: The Keep should not have expected to be able to maintain a secret, considering that its familiar always knows, to some degree, what it is thinking.

Chapter Notes: mweheheheheheheheheheheHEHEHE. We are finally getting TO IT. also god i'm so stressed for completely unrelated mostly dayjob reasons please send good vibes and comments if ya don't mind bless love bless. also i'm working on the playlist for this fic and it fricking slaps so far. hell yeah.

The Keep brings them food again, when they begin to run low. Or- well, when their original pile diminishes to perhaps half, but- the Keep is not precisely certain how much they need to eat, so it decides to be proactive, just in case.

They can't seem to understand it when it sings. Not properly, not the way that Arum does, of course. It understands them decently well, when they attempt to communicate. The one with long dark curled braided hair (perhaps Amaryllis, perhaps Rilla, perhaps forever-flower or darling) is more likely to try to speak to it directly, but the one in the armor (Damien, as his companion only ever calls him) seems to understand the Keep's intentions more easily when he tries to speak.

He's still very nervous, the Keep can tell. It doesn't blame him for that. The both of them are rather shaken, rather ragged, and the Keep has lived long enough to know that a measure as small as a day is not nearly enough in which to heal. Perhaps in a year or so they might begin to trust the Keep more fully. Perhaps two.

Arum is busy enough with a project that he does not fuss over the Keep's split attention too terribly much, restraining himself to only grumbles and rolls of the eye when the Keep does not respond immediately to his questions and requests. He is still suspicious, the Keep can feel it rolling off of him, but he is clearly trying not to let it show quite so much.

Amaryllis sings, light and warm, and when the Keep accompanies (harmonies are its most honest voice, its first language, it doesn't need to know her songs to sing along) the Keep can feel her spike of curious delight. After that song she pulls out the toy she seems to favor, the little clicking box with the wind-up handle, and then she asks what other songs the Keep (she does not know its name yet, of course) would be willing to sing for her.

It preens, as delighted as she is, ignores another frustrated grumble from back in its tower, and picks out a few more songs to sing. Perhaps she and Damien might even recognize a few in return.

"So. This is what you've been up to."

Rilla fumbles, dropping her recorder with a gasp as Damien spins on his heel, his hand flying to his bow.

The monster stands at least a full head taller than Damien, far more than that when accounting for the horns, with a bipedal, reptilian body shape and mottled, glossy green lizard scales that take on the appearance of beetle-like plating near his hips, along his biceps, by his ankles. His violet cape stands vividly against the green, accentuating the near identical color of his sharp, diamond-pupiled eyes. Two arms fold dramatically over his chest, and a second set of hands caress the lily-shaped hilts of a pair of knives belted to his thighs. Damien can see, as well, another pair of blades waiting at the monster's hips.

"Back, beast," Damien barks, automatic and sharp as he shifts his stance to stand between the creature and Rilla, standing uncertainly without her crutch. "Stay back, or-"

The vines from the canopy drop again, that ethereal song drifting from the entire swamp around them as a pair of green tendrils drop to the monster's shoulders, gripping there like hands as a third vine with a cluster of soft leaves gently cups the monster's snouted face. More vines follow, one reaching to touch his own shoulder, the other at the edge of his vision lifting Rilla's recorder to place back into her hand.

"You be quiet," the monster mutters, scowling and shaking his head to dislodge the touch of the flora on his face. "This is your mess that I will now be forced to clean up. Humans, of all the ridiculous-"

Another warble of song, and Damien can hear the distinct note of an insincere apology before it sings- something else, more complicated and nuanced and beyond Damien's ability to interpret.

"I'm going to kill them, obviously. That one-" the monster meets Damien's eyes, ducking his head pointedly in his direction, "is clearly itching to kill me. I would not assume that you would like me dead before them, would you? You cannot have grown so attached already."

Damien's fingers flex against the wrapped wood of his bow, terror and desperation and the thinnest sliver of hope all warring within his breast, and then he forces himself to breathe as he releases his grip.

"I- if you keep your knives sheathed," he says, his voice surprisingly clear, "I see no need to draw my bow."

Rilla steps closer, a warm presence at his back, and the monster- rolls his eyes, like a petulant child.

"Please," he snarls, shaking off the other two grasping vines. "As if I'd believe the word of some- some trespassing human. The moment I turn my back-"

The vines sing, admonishing but gentle, and Damien feels his nerves settle just the littlest bit more. He bites his lip, glances over his shoulder towards Rilla for strength, and then he stows his bow entirely away.

"I give my word regardless, to be believed or not. We are- we are Exiles, looking only for safety, for shelter. We mean no harm-"

"Pretty words from a human in that particular armor," the lizard spits. "You may have sanded away the crest, but I recognize the casing of one of the Citadel's pet knights easily enough."

The vines squeeze gently at Damien's shoulder, comforting, and then it sings a sweeping, swooping phrase that dances between the higher and lower tones of the voice, yet again too complex for Damien to follow the feeling, but the monster in front of them clearly understands well enough. His expression shifts, wary, then scoffing, then contemplative, and then incredulous again.

"No," he growls, slashing two of his four arms through the air with a dismissive sneer. "By no means. No. I have no need of further subjects at all, let alone humans, and there is no reason to believe they would be anything but a liability, Keep. If they do not stab us in the back, then they will surely be followed by others who will be far more of a threat. I do not care to-"

The voice - the Keep - gives a murmuring phrase, its tone chastising, and the monster's face contorts into a scowl, his head ducking as the webbed frill at his neck raises in a fluttering halo.

"Be that as it may, I cannot possibly condone-"

Another phrase, more firm, and the monster throws all four of his hands in the air, his teeth bared.

"I am Lord of the Swamp, you complete imbecile! My entire purpose is to-" his eyes flick towards the pair of them again, suspicious and furious, and then he rephrases. "They cannot be trusted not to destroy our home. Your softness will kill the both of us if you do not allow me to do fulfill my role and protect our swamp."

Rilla's eyes dart between the monster and the draping tendrils, rapt and worried and still so tired, and Damien remembers helplessly the days before they found this place- before this place took mercy on them. He remembers each wincing step Rilla took upon her injured ankle, remembers startling awake at every creak and chitter in the night, remembers pangs of hunger between pangs of terror, remembers Rilla's raw heartbreak when she realized that they had left behind her father's oud in her hut, remembers desperation. Remembers hopelessness. Remembers resignation.

Remembers a monstrous, impossible, alien vine, offering his arrow back to him.

Grace, that's the word. He's been struggling, since this creature first began to help them, to think of the precise word for its manner. This monster acts with grace.

"This place... this place chose to take pity on us," Damien says quietly, and the lizard scowls in their direction. "This place- the Keep?" The monster hunches his shoulders, snarling, but the familiar voices sing in tandem, ringing around them with such clear delight that Damien nearly smiles. "The Keep," he says again, more firmly, "decided to allow us a place, here, even if only for a short while. There must be a reason why it would, a reason we were-"

"The Keep is a softhearted fool who may be convinced that any passing stray might be a pet and not an insidious threat against all of our lives," he hisses through his jagged teeth, and Damien's stomach twists.

"You protect this creature, then?" Damien asks, desperate, the weak outline of a strategy forming in the back of his mind. "You are its defender?"

The monster folds his arms in a tangle over his chest, sneering hard. "Our relationship is not so simple as to be explained in-" he pauses, clenches his teeth for a moment, and then says, "... yes. Yes, I protect the Keep. I am Lord Arum, he who rules the Swamp of Titan's Blooms, and I protect the Keep and its lands from any who would harm it."

"I am Sir- I am Damien the Pious," Damien says, and the monster's lip curls instantly in disdain. "You were right about my former profession. I am- I was a knight," Damien continues, his heart sinking, cracking. "I- I owe your Keep, the both of us do. I was a knight," he repeats. "I could be a knight again."

"And I'm Amaryllis of does it really matter right now," Rilla says, sounding anxious and frustrated beneath her casual tone, and her hand tightens at his elbow. "Damien, I don't think your career is gonna ingratiate us to a-"

"This place- this Keep sheltered us. It fed us. It saved us," Damien says, speaking to the monster as much as he is speaking to Rilla, "I know what we owe to it. I- I would pledge myself to protect-"

"I don't need your help to fulfill my purpose," Lord Arum spits. "You- you arrogant little-"

"I present no comment on your own ability," Damien says quickly. "I only mean to repay the debt owed to your- your Keep."

The monster bristles, his jagged teeth bared.

"The Keep prefers you alive. Fine. So why will you not just leave? If it provided you food and rest then you should be perfectly able to move on and just go home."

"We can't go home," Rilla says, her expression flat. "He told you already, we're Exiles. There's nothing left for us to go back to. They'll kill us if we do."

Damien feels his heart- crack. It's true, of course, but-

Neither of them have said it quite so plainly, since they left. Neither of them wanted to, while they were still in such a precarious, uncertain position, while they were still running. Of course it's true, but it still hurts.

Something crosses the monster's expression, just for a moment. A flicker, a twitch, something Damien can't quite read, and then his frown returns.

"I don't see how that could possibly matter to me. Go somewhere else, then."

The song- rather, the Keep sings, then, another chastising trill, and the monster's frown twitches.

"No I don't. Be quiet."

"Let me prove myself. Let me prove that we- that I could help to protect your swamp."

Arum's spine straightens, his lip curling. "You wish to fight me?"

No, that certainly wasn't what Damien meant, but-

"If that is what you require, for me to earn my place. If I must. I am- I w-was one of the most accomplished knights in the Second Citadel. If I must prove my mettle in a duel, I shall."

"That's idiotic," Rilla says, her words coming at the precise moment that the Keep sings a song with similar sentiment, and Damien cannot help a small sort of smile, despite their precarious situation. "Look, are you in charge, or is the Keep?"

The monster sneers, two of his hands caressing his hilts again. "That is not how we operate," he hisses. "Do not expect our hierarchies to mirror your own, human. Monsters will not conform to your nonsense arbitrary-"

"So, the Keep's in charge, then," Rilla says, and the monster chokes on an indignant noise. "Do you want these two fighting, Keep?"

The Keep sings a clear denial, and Rilla crosses her arms in front of her chest with a satisfied noise.

"That's what I thought."

"You stay out of this," Arum snarls, clearly meaning the Keep. "You, in all your ancient wisdom, have clearly already decided what you want to happen here. My own decision will not be made so flippantly. If the little knight thinks himself so formidable a fighter that he could be at all a threat or an asset, let him prove it." The monster narrows his strangely magnetic eyes, sneering down at Damien with clear venom. "Let him prove himself, then."

"You will duel me?" Damien asks.

"I will prove to you that I do not need you. I will show you that I could best any human in combat, and then the both of you will leave my swamp and never, never return."

"And if I win? If I best you?"

Lord Arum glowers. "Do not think for a moment that I truly believe that you have any desire to be our knight ," he hisses. "If you best me, I expect either my Keep will prevent you from killing me, or you will be quicker than it expects, and it will learn to regret trusting humans so easily."

The Keep trills another clear denial, stern and confident, and the vine on Damien's shoulder squeezes lightly before it releases him, and then it sings again, even more pointedly, and Arum wrinkles his snout and rolls his eyes again.

"Fine, fine, it does not matter because it will not happen, but if this human manages to best me in a fair duel, then he may pledge himself to whomever he pleases."

"And you will allow the both of us to stay?" Damien presses, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Arum's eyes flick to Rilla for a moment, considering, visibly noting her unsteady ankle and her own vicious scowl, and then back to Damien.

"If you best me," he says slowly, "you may stay."

It is... strange. Damien should be terrified. He has been unsteady, uncertain, unmoored since they left the Citadel, desperate in the dead of night. Saint Damien came with him, a whisper in his mind, an echo in his heart, but-

Here, in this place, he can hear Saint Damien as a ripple on the still waters, can see him as a shadow beneath the lilypads, can feel him, as ever, within his heart.

Here, among monsters, surrounded by magic, Damien can feel his saint all the better. His feet are steady, anchored in soft, damp soil. He asked for a sign, and the Keep opened its swamp before them like a temple, like a sanctuary.

This is where they are meant to be.

He will win, he thinks, just as Rilla squeezes his hand again. He will win, and they will be safe again, here in a land of monsters, and magic, and answered prayers.

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#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #the keep #amaryllis of exile #sir damien #lord arum #aaaaAAA #knight of the swamp

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