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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

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“I’m not telling you again.”

If you’re still doing the sentence prompts?

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, minor whumpee (OC is 17), captivity, referenced dehydration and starvation, forced turning, wishing for death, religion

1905, somewhere outside New York City

"Come here, little one."

The boy presses himself back against the cold stone wall behind him. There's a cuff around one ankle, dull iron, and a chain that scrapes the floor when he moves. He swallows, shaking his head rapidly from side to side. Dirty hair falls dull over eyes that sparkle vibrant green in the near-total darkness.

He can't see her.

But she can see him.

"No." His voice is a whimper, a nearly-animal whine, pure fear. "Please, please, please no, not, not, not tonight, not... not tonight, please."

She sighs, chuckling fondly, and pulls a match across her palm to light the lamp that hangs on a hook down here. The wick catches flame, and now he sees the pale, pale skin, the deep red lips. The predator's gleam in glinting dark eyes.

She crooks a long, sharpened fingernail . He can see the hem of her dress, lace-edged, the skirt that sweeps up to curve her hips, the narrowed waist, the high neck. He's stared at illustrations of the Gibson girl put up in shop windows in stores that sell to richer women than he's ever known. She's an echo right down to the soft, upswept hair.

Like a man with an expensive coat hiding a knife, he thinks, that he means to slaughter you with. She's a monster who looks like an angel.

"I'm not telling you again. I'm hungry," She says, and gives a little pout. "I want you to feed me."

He pulls his arms in close, shaking his head again. Tears already threaten. He's so tired, all the time. There is never time enough to heal from one bite before the next and the next and the next-

"Come now, little pet. It's just one last time." Her voice is gentle, but he knows they lie. They all lie to get their fangs in you.

"What, what, what d'you mean?" The boy has a thick country Irish accent, still. Fresh off the boat, they call him when he tries to speak to the boys his age in his tenement. Half of them have accents like his, or thicker.

Not that he'll see any of them ever again.

Not since his parents-

Not since-

He chokes on a sob he can't quite hold back, turning at the waist to rub his fingers over the rough, cool stone. It helps. The motion, the texture, it helps. It calms him down, a little.

Everything here is wrong.

He misses home. He misses the green hills that were never so full of dirt ground in as the city streets are. He misses the air that didn't smell like offal day and night. He misses a world where it was all less overwhelming. He misses a world where his parents were alive to help him understand it.

"Oh, you're sad tonight," The monster wearing a woman's face says, taking the lamp off the hook and carrying it closer. The shadows dance off her cheekbones, they seem to give her a sneer rather than her soft smile. "Let Malorie be of aid to you. Tell me what you need, sweet boy."

"Can, can, can I have a-a drink? Miss?" His voice is hoarse from thirst, and he's parched. It has rained for two weeks and he's drunk the rainwater that leaks in through the walls, plus the few sips they give him each day. Food is a bit of moldy bread, cheese, maybe a thin soup. It isn't enough.

They don't seem to notice, or care.

But then food or water is something they left behind, isn't it?

"Hm." She steps forward, closer to him. Her eyes flash in the dark, reflect the bit of light, and he cringes back from her fangs as she smiles down at him. She moves to crouch before him, and sets the lamp down on the floor beside her. "Is it thirst that drives you, little one?"

"Please." His lips are chapped and cracked. He tastes blood, sometimes, and spits pink-tinged spit to blend with the soil beneath him. He tries to look pitiful - it's not hard to succeed. "Please. I'm, I'm so so so so... so thirsty, ma'am, just a cup, please-"

She looks down, unfastening the line of tiny pearl buttons on one sleeve, then rolling back the fabric to expose her wrist. A stray curl of dark hair falls down to brush her perfect cheekbone.

"Ma'am?" He can't understand what she's doing - none of them had ever started to undress in front of him before. "A drink, ma'am? Please?"

She looks up, and her eyes gleam like a cat's in the dark. Her teeth are very very white. He can see the venom shimmering on her fangs.

"A drink you want, you beautiful boy," She says, and he stares with uncomprehending horror as she moves her wrist towards her own mouth. "And a drink you shall have."

She tears her own wrist open with her teeth.

He gasps and tries to get up to run, but he's weak and dizzy and when she yanks at the chain that binds his ankle to the wall he goes down hard and lands with a thump, the breath knocked out of him.

While he wheezes air into lungs that won't take it, she pushes him onto his back and forces her wrist against his mouth, her other hand pinching his nose shut.

He cries out in horrified disgust against her cold skin and the thick brackish fluid that flows over his tongue. She stares down at him, avid, with huge eyes.

"Drink, sweet boy," She murmurs. "Quench your thirst."

He must drink or suffocate, and his body chooses for him. He swallows even as he gags, and swallows again, and she lets go of his nose so he can frantically pull in air, tears streaming to pool in the shells of his ears and soak into his grimy, dirty hair.

She is a blur through his terror, but her smile is written in stone in the yard beside a church.

"My turn," She says, and when she buries her fangs into his neck, the boy screams again.

And then goes limp as the venom takes hold, and the vampire begins to purr, her fingers gripped like claws into his shoulders.

There is no pain.

Only the fear.

I'm going to die, he thinks, and stares up into the darkness that wipes out even the lamplight. It seems like it's growing, within him and without.

His mouth is full of blood. It tastes better than it did when first she made him drink. The heaving of his stomach stops. He starts to swallow willingly, even eagerly. Nothing has ever quenched his thirst quite like this. It doesn't taste at all like he'd thought.

I'm going to die.

He wants to go home.

He wants more to drink.

He's so hungry.

He wants more blood.

When she pulls her wrist away, he whines and tries to grab at it, to pull it back. She laughs, swatting playfully at him.

"Not yet," She chides, wagging a finger. She licks her open wound and it closes. She laps at the remaining blood and he tries to sit up, to get some too, only for her to push him down again.

Then... pain.

Agony hits, a bright stripe straight up his spine, and he arches away from the ground, throwing his head back and screaming loud enough to bounce off all the walls. It recedes, and then comes again, through his stomach this time. The throb moves to his hips, thighs, into his calves and all the way to his toes.

He curls into a ball on his side, but the pain keeps growing. It takes over. He can't feel the floor he lays on, only the constant spark of nerves blaring alarm. He feels like he is being crushed under a rock, burned by the hottest fire, stabbed with a hundred knives.

"Wh, what, what's happening-... t'me?!" He coughs, and then sobs as the action hurts more than anything else ever has in his life.

"You're dying." She picks at her fingernails, already bored.

He turns to look up at her as she stands, licking her chops like a cat. Tears run down his face, and every time he blinks the air seems pink-tinged. "What...?"

"That's your body shutting down. You know, you're very fortunate." She wipes a droplet of the boy's own blood from the corner of her mouth and then sucks her finger clean. "Very few people get to be born twice. I'll see you tomorrow night. I would prefer if you didn't call me your mother."

Before he can even begin to form a question, she turns to walk away, hanging the lamp up on its hook as she goes, blowing out the flame.

The pain ripples again, he is broken like a brittle shell against the shore. His very bones feel as though they're tearing apart inside him.

He's going to die here.

And he won't stay dead. His parents will wait in Heaven for a demon son who will never be allowed to step foot into Paradise.

He gulps in air, lungs burning, and tries to remember the prayer through his panic. "Our Father, wh-who art in Heaven, hallowed be be be Thy Name-"

His throat blisters even saying the words, and when he tries to cross himself, his hand shakes too much, his joints crack and shatter. He can feel it, he can hear it. They crack and reform, break and bend.

He screams.

He screams until his throat is raw, until it bleeds, until his heart stops beating and blood runs from eyes and ears and from under his nails.

He whispers every prayer he's ever known when he can. He begs for salvation, he begs to be spared eternal bloodlust, he pleads for something other than damnation. He prays he'll see his parents in death and not become a monster like this.

His prayers are swallowed whole by darkness.

He dies, but he does not die for long.

Tag list: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

#whump #vampirism #vampire whumpee #vampire chris au #horror writing #horror fiction #vampire fiction #blood drinking #immortal whumper #sadistic whumper #captivity #bitten #chained up #horror story #vampire whump #vampires #monster whumper #chris the strawberry blond romantic #referenced starvation

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lokust · 3 years

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I AM GOING TO PREFACE THIS BY SEEING THIS IS A FANFIC ABOUT TWO CHARACTERS FROM A VAMPIRE MOVIE. I AM NOT WRITING FANFIC ABOUT THE BIBLE

@pamcake21 sorry this took so long, I literally lost all motivation to write for like three months but I’m back and I’m better.

_________

Comforting.

________

“My darling…”, Eve sighed, finding her husband moping on the couch, again, “You’ve got to get up and do something other than sleep, feed, and pout”.

He looked up as she sat beside him and pulled him to her chest. He stayed silent, curling into her comfortably.

She ran her fingers through his rather unkempt hair, lying her cheek against the top of his head, “At least tell me what’s wrong, my love”.

He had been like this for days, probably a week at this point. She didn’t know what was wrong with him and she hadn’t asked yet, only for the sake of allowing him to gather his mind and his thoughts.

He sighed, letting out a small puff against her neck. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, trying to find the proper phrasing for his emotions, “I’m not sure. We’ve been on this earth together for hundreds of years. Sometimes I feel like it’s time for a break”.

Eve’s breath hitched in shock and fear, and Adam shot up, realizing what he’d said, “No. No, that is not what I meant. Not a break for us. I could never- I mean, you… you make my life worth living, and you have for hundreds of years. I could never ask for a break from you. I just…”, again, he had to think before he could speak on his feelings.

“I want a break from this life. We lived through the greatest eras of science and music, and the greatest evolutions of religion and art. We’ve watched the world grow, we’ve watched society progress. We lived through plagues and famines and hundreds of thousands of natural disasters”, Eve listened intently as he spoke, and she understood where he was coming from, “We’ve lived our lives, Eve. We’ve lived a hundred lives. I’m exhausted”.

Eve sighed, nodding as she pulled him back to her, rubbing his back soothingly in hopes he would relax, “I know. I know, my darling boy”, she cooed, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, “I understand, alright? But there are no breaks in life, as much as it pains me to say. We just have to live until we die, and there’s no telling when that could be for us”.

He nodded with a small hum, “I know, and honestly, I’m not ready for the end. At least not… not the end of this. Of us”, he whispered the last bit of it, just loud enough for her to hear.

She smiled, looking down at him with nothing but pure love, “Don’t you worry, love. There will be no end to us”.

He huffed out a small laugh, but the smile on his face was uncontainable.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, cuddling as per usual with Adam laying against Eve’s chest.

It was peaceful and they were happy… but Eve could only handle so much silence.

“You know what else will never end?”, she asked, a smile growing on her face as the tone in her voice put Adam on edge.

Oh he knew that tone and he knew it well.

“…What?”, he asked hesitantly, and he suddenly found himself lying on his back with Eve hovering over him.

“This”.

Before he could react, Eve pulled one of his hands up above his head and started pinching at his sides. He choked out a surprised squeal, biting his lip to conceal his smile and his bubbling laughter as she skittered her nails against his bare skin.

“You really should stop sauntering around shirtless all the time. You’re beautiful but you’re also dreadfully sensitive, sweetheart”, she teased, a taunting but warm smile on her face.

He reached for her wrist with his free hand but he found that one pinned above his head almost just as quickly.

“You’ve occupied both my hands. However do you expect me to tickle you now?”, she asked, a thoughtful expression on her face.

He just shook his head, tugging at his arms just to feel the weight keeping them in place. Slowly, a shy smile grew on his face as more giggles bubbled in his chest. He knew she was going to tickle him and the anticipation was killing him but he was so excited he was practically shaking.

“What are you laughing about? I’m not tickling you, dear~”, she sang, though she knew exactly why he was giggling. He knew it was coming.

She leaned down and nipped at his ear with her fangs, eliciting a small squeal as he tensed up tried to scrunch his neck to protect his ear, but she kept nibbling and nipping and he broke into helpless cackles as he tugged at his arms again.

“Eheheheve! Eve, wahahait!”, he giggled, curling his fists as she worked her way down behind his ear and against his neck, nibbling and peppering little kisses. He squirmed and writhed underneath her, attempting to turn his head to hide his neck, but she started nibbling at the other side.

“Why are you trying to hide from me? Don’t you like your tickles?”, she asked with a small hum, breathing in to blow a raspberry on his collarbone. He squeaked and shook his head frantically as he kicked out behind her.

“Nohohoho! Quihihihit it!”, he was at war with himself. She was kissing him and giving him sweet little raspberries, and he just wanted to cuddle up to her and let it happen, but the other part of him was screaming about how horribly ticklish it was.

The farther down she moved, the more nervous he got. He knew she’d attack his ribs with raspberries and she did just that, suddenly moving to nibble at the sensitive area before making a show of taking on large, deep breath.

He squealed and tensed every muscle in his body, bracing himself for what was coming, “Eve- Eve, nohohoho! No, plehehehease! PleheHEHEHEASE, FUHUHUCK!”.

She blew the longest raspberry she could muster, and he threw his head back in pure joyous laughter. He tried to pull his wrists out of her grip, but he knew she wouldn’t budge.

She blew raspberry after raspberry all over his rib cage, and she even alternated between raspberries and nibbles from time to time.

The raspberries elicited loud cackles, whereas the nibbling and kissing got snorty, squeaky, hiccupy laughter.

He tried to bring his knees to his chest in an attempt to protect himself but because of their position, it was impossible, so he lay there as curled up as he could get while he laughed his heart out from the tickles.

She slowed for a moment, placing small kisses in the spaces between his ribs and allowing him a moment to breathe.

“P-Plehehease”, he breathed out heavily, “Hahahave meheherc-eee! Nohoho!”, he squealed when her lips connected with a particularly sensitive spot near the very bottom of his rib cage on his right side.

“Are you done sulking, my love?”, she asked, giving him a warm smile as she spoke. He nodded in return and blushed when he made eye contact with her.

She let out a find huff of a laugh, “That’s good. I’m glad I could get you feeling better”.

He smiled as warmth spread throughout his chest and he relaxed in her arms.

“Now…”, she said, “Shall we get that smile back on your face?”

His eyes widened and he shook his head frantically, but it was too late. She took a deep breath and blew a raspberry on the same spot that had him squealing just moments before and he shrieked, arching his back as loud desperate cackles fell from his lips.

“NAHAHAHAT THEHEHERE! PLEHEHEHEASE! EHEHEHEVE, LET GOHOHO!”

She just shook her head, “I’m afraid I can’t, my darling. I’ve gotta tickle you until that smile is permanent”.

He squealed and shook with giggles as she blew multiple small raspberries around the area before she took a deep breath and blew another long one.

He knew he’d be there for a while, but he was okay with it.

#tickling #tickle community #tickle headcanons #sfw tickles #sfw tickling community #tickles #ticklish #lee!adam #tickle fic #tickle writing

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vercopaanir · 4 years

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Fallen Kings

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 15

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Words: 4.7k

Summary: After you heal from the attack on Canto Bight, the Mandalorian flies you and the children back to Arvala-7.

Warnings/Rating: T, I think. There’s some vague mentions of child abuse, slavery, as well as allusions to animal cruelty.

Notes: It’s here! Things are happening! I finally fulfill my promise that you learn what Mando drew in the dirt in chapter 10 God I am the worst, and...well. Things are progressing. That’s all I got!

If you enjoy this story, check out the beautiful works of art that have been made for this story here, here, and here! Please support artists!!!

AO3

The first thing you think when you surface from the edge of dreaming is how comfortable you are. You are completely buried beneath a blanket and sheets, and when you reach out a hand across the top of the covers, you can feel a fur was added on top, too. It’s sinfully soft, and you let your fingers idly trace through the texture of it as your mind is slow to bloom back open.

Snoring softly, the baby is tucked beneath your chin, his ears keeping your neck warm where the tunic the Mandalorian is loaning you doesn’t quite cover your skin. Your other hand rests on his back, and you smile at the feeling of his tiny heart beating with your own.

Memories flicker along as you come to, and you remember a hot, desperate mouth pressing against your own that flushes your skin through. He’d kissed you until you were dizzy, until you couldn’t breathe for how he crowded you into the pillows like he might starve if he stopped. Your lips feel swollen from so much kissing, and your toes curl beneath the blankets. His hair had been thick between your fingers, just as soft as the fur that keeps the chill from you now, and you couldn’t imagine anything in the world feeling so lovely.

The baby coos quietly, and you can tell when he wakes up by the soft grunts he makes as he tries to push himself up. He sits back on your stomach, and you stroke his little nose with your finger.

“Hello, sweet one,” you greet softly, voice raspy with sleep.

He flops forward, and you huff a laugh as he begins patting at your cheeks, then over the thick gauze covering your eyes. You pat his back with reassurance, smiling as he feels your face with tiny, three fingered hands.

“We slept a while, I think,” you say to him, rubbing his back as he moves those small fingers over the cotton curiously. You hold your breath, waiting for the smallest movement to cause pain. He was a child, after all, and you doubted he could do much damage. Your eyes had been swollen shut, though, and you had never felt pain like that before.

You sit up gingerly, pushing the heavy blankets aside, allowing your mind to catch up with your body.

The Mandalorian kissed you. More than that, he took off his helmet, a third time in your presence, and though both of you knew you would never see his face even if he wanted you to, you knew the gravity of such an action is world shifting. Now more than ever, you want to speak with him-not just about what had happened, but about everything. The children on the ship, the animal below deck, what happened on Cantonica.

And where are you going now?

When your feet touch the metal floor, you’re surprised to find yourself wearing socks. You didn’t recall putting them on, and you lift the baby up into your arms as you stand. It’s a pleasant feeling to have control over yourself again, even if you can’t see anything now. Whatever creams, balms, and salves the Togruta applied to your injuries took away not just the pain and discomfort, but it also left not even a slight soreness behind.

Even your eyes feel better beneath the wrappings.

You shuffle on silent feet to the door, one hand out to feel for the button that allows you into the passage of the upper deck. You tilt your head when soft voices echo from down the hall, and the baby wiggles excitedly. Following the hushed noises, you creep along the wall and stop just by the cockpit’s doors that seem to be open.

“Kandosii, Venka. And this one?” There’s a short pause, followed quickly by the Mandalorian humming. “No, not quite. Try again.”

“I can help.”

“Let him do it.”

After a moment, you hear Corde gasp and clap, and the Mandalorian chuckles. “Gar serim, ad’ika. You both could fly starfighters one day.”

“Have you flown one before?” Corde asks, and you can hear the quiet squeak of one of the co-pilot seats. She must be fidgeting. You’d need to get the Mandalorian to oil those chairs.

The bounty hunter makes a noncommittal noise. “Various models.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“I prefer my own ship.”

Corde jumps down from the chair, and you can hear the way her little feet dance across the floor of the cockpit. “Do you think I could have a ship one day?” she asks, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing. How long had they been hanging off of him? At this rate, you are surprised he isn’t a bundle of nerves for someone unused to human contact and communication. Before he can answer her, Corde chirps, “I want to have my own ship and take people away like you.”

“Ah-well-”

“Like you did with us.”

There’s a long moment where no one says anything. You wish you could see them, but you dare not make yourself known. For some reason, you feel as though the Mandalorian will not be as talkative with you present, and you hold your breath until he finally says, “I think you would do it better than I ever could.”

Corde is moving around the cockpit, again. Her voice carries and bounces with the freedom of a child whose cares have been lifted from her shoulders, and it makes you feel light. “Is that how you met her? Sha-Sharee?”

“Cyare. And no, that’s not...she stays with me, here.”

“Why do you call her that?” Corde asks with no small amount of skepticism. “That’s not her name.”

The Mandalorian stands up, and you can hear his boots clicking against the metal flooring. He adjusts a lever of some kind, from the sounds he’s making on the other side of the wall. “I know her name,” he huffs defensively. “I just...it’s something people call each other, sometimes.”

“What does it mean?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

Corde quiets, and you imagine she must be thinking very hard about something. When she answers, her voice is smaller. “Am I in trouble?” she asks, and you think she’s hovering near the door, as if backing up.

“What? N-No, why would you be in trouble?” When she doesn’t reply, the Mandalorian repeats his question, and this time you can hear him frowning. “Why do you think you’re in trouble?”

“I got in trouble before,” she finally says, so quietly you almost don’t hear her. “But you’re-you’re nice, I thought…”

In your arms, the child’s ears lower as if he understands the fear and pain in the little girl’s voice, and you hug him tighter against you.

You can hear the Mandalorian’s boots slowly approaching the door now, and there’s a quiet brush of fabric where you think, perhaps, he’s kneeling to be closer to her height. “No one will ever hurt you again, ad’ika.”

Corde whispers, “Do you promise?”

“Ori’haat, with my life.”

There’s nothing but quiet sniffling, and you hold your breath, leaning your head against the cool wall and fighting down the tears choking your throat. You nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a small hand rest on your leg, and you hold your hand out to feel Venka take it, threading your fingers together. You swallow and let him lead you into the cockpit, and there’s a very quick shuffling sound, followed by Corde’s gasp, “Oh, the baby’s up!”

“You’re awake.” The Mandalorian’s voice is tender and pleased, and you offer him a small, unsure smile. Venka leads you wordlessly until you feel your leg brush the co-pilot chair. You sit cautiously, feeling the space with your hand before resting back.

“Thank you, sweet boy,” you tell him, and he squeezes your hand without letting go.

“Can we feed the baby? Is he hungry?” Corde asks, coming to stand in front of you and petting his head as if she’s afraid he’ll fall apart.

“Oh, I’ll need to find where our supplies-”

“I showed them,” the Mandalorian says, suddenly much closer than you remember.

You bite your lip and nod slowly. “Alright,” you let Corde pick the baby up from your lap, and she giggles when the child coos at her. “Just be careful, and don’t run.”

“I won’t!” she promises, and you hear her padding towards the doors. “Come on, Venka!”

The sound of their little feet makes you smile, even though you know their toes must be frozen on the cold floor of the ship. You’re about to mention you’ll need more fabric, or perhaps you could simply find a tailor or clothes shop in a market. The gentle touch of warm, bare fingers ghosting over your jaw draws your face upward. You feel the back of his hand, holding it there before pressing a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Good morning.”

“Evening,” he corrects, and you can hear his smile.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Last night and most of today.” You hear him shift, and by the space his voice occupies now, you know he’s kneeling in front of you. “You needed it, but now we should change those bandages.” You lift one hand up to touch, but his other hand grabs your wrist like a snake striking, holding it hostage. “Don’t. She told me to change it three times before it’ll be well enough, and you messing with it will make it worse.”

“My,” you breathe. “You’re awfully bossy today.”

He draws you close until you have to part your knees to make room for him, and he leans up to touch his helm to your brow. “I’ll be bossy until you’re well again,” he mutters, and you can’t help but smile, leaning against him. The two of you spend a moment to simply lean into each other, his hands resting on your arms, and yours lying comfortably at his waist. It feels natural, sweet even, after what you shared the night before.

“You’re good with them,” you whisper, moving your head to the side to rest your cheek against the fabric of his shoulder. His arms slip around your waist, hugging you firmly, and you sigh in contentment. He’s so warm. “I...I didn’t know you would bring them with us.”

The Mandalorian is quiet for a moment, his gloved fingers slowly rubbing tiny circles at your lower back. “D-Did you not want me to?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You squeeze his waist with your knees, pressing your mouth to the fabric covering his neck. “I would not have left them there,” you murmur, feeling him relax further into your embrace. Your cheeks heat as your heart quickens, adding, “You are more dear to me because you didn’t.”

He gently pushes his helmet against your temple, brushing the cool beskar against your hairline, and you smile at the gesture of affection. It’s slight and subtle, like a shared glance across a room. He leans back, slowly standing, and says, “I’m going to unwrap your bandages. Stay very still.”

His hands are gentle as he begins unwinding the gauze from around your head, and you curl your fingers in your lap, waiting for the moment the pain will blindside you. When he peels the last of the cotton away, the cool air of the ship over your skin is refreshing, but then, nothing happens.

“W-What is it? Is something wrong?” you ask, keeping your eyes closed against your desire to do otherwise.

“No, but…” You feel his fingers ghost over your cheek, and then he tilts your face with a crooked finger beneath your chin. “It’s healed. Not even a bruise.”

You open your eyes then, slowly and carefully, and you find that your vision is just as blurry as you remember. You can only see a faint shadow and the shine of the beskar, and you blink several times in surprise.

“How do you feel?” he asks, his low baritone wavering with uncertainty. You let your fingers drift up to your temple, then beneath your lash line where the worst of the swelling was. It’s cool, smooth skin, just as you remember.

“I feel good,” you whisper, tilting your head toward him. “But I don’t understand. I thought you said it would take longer.”

He shifts forward on his knees, turning your head one way so he can inspect the stitches at your scalp. “That’s what she told me.” He goes still, suddenly, his thumb brushing over your jawline. His helmet tilts a minute amount, and he takes a deep breath through the vocoder. “The kid was with you, when you woke up?”

You nod, leaning your hands on your knees. He’s considering something and lets his hand drop away when tiny feet draw both of your attentions away from each other. Venka hesitates at the doors of the cockpit, and you smile at him, holding out your hand. When he approaches, you’re able to make out more than you were when he first brought you bread and wiped your face clean of blood.

Small even for a boy his age, he has a mop of soft dark curls, thick and wild, with large shadowed eyes. He holds a piece of paper between tiny hands that you notice are wrapped with gauze around his palms, and he holds the paper out to you.

“What’s this?”

It’s too blurry for you to make out, but you can see it’s a drawing. Venka leans against the side of your chair on tiptoes, attempting to look at it when you lay it in your lap.

“The kid drew it,” the Mandalorian says, and when you look up he’s leaning back in his chair, helmet directed out at the streaking silver sphere of hyperspace. A smile curves your lips, and you look back down at the paper, your thumb straightening a crinkled edge. Venka taps a small finger on the center, looking up at you with a tilt of his head. “The morning you went out.”

“Oh.” The Mandalorian turns to look at you and the small boy by your knee. Leaning back, he folds his hands over his belt and crosses one of his boots over his knee.

“It’s a constellation, like an instrument with strings.” He taps his fingers restlessly over his belt for a moment before turning in his chair suddenly, surprising you. His gloved fingers tap quickly over a datapad, and he only turns back when a small, blue hued projection appears.

Now you can see it. Venka gasps softly beside you, and you both stare in wonder at the digital recreation of the arrangement of twinkling stars.

“The Mando’ade believe that all the stars are fallen kings of the past that guide the honorable,” he murmurs, his voice sounding almost sad, you think. Your face softens as you listen, and you lean your chin in your hand, watching the blue and silver stars blink and glow. “Ka’ra . When a child of Mandalore falls, the stars burn brightest in their tribute.”

Venka traces his finger over the image on your lap, and you smile softly at him, looking up at the Mandalorian. “How would the child know to draw something like this?” you ask, letting the little boy take the paper.

“Because he’s seen me draw it,” he murmurs, closing the datapad with a swipe of his finger. He sets it aside, and you watch him carefully, seeing the slight hunch in his shoulders and hearing the crack in his voice.

Turning your head toward the little boy, you pat his hair affectionately and murmur, “Go find your sister.” You can hear him sigh, as if he knows something heavy hangs in the air that is not for him, and you listen to him leave the room before you move to kneel beside the pilot’s chair. You lay your hand on the cool steel of the cuirasse covering the Mandalorian’s thigh, and you watch the tell-tale gleam of his helmet beneath the streaking starlight.

You rest on your knees, waiting to see if he has more to share with you. When he lifts his hand, removing his glove to touch the crown of your head, you offer him a small smile, and he murmurs, “Some say the instrument was flung into the sky by a musician whose love was more beautiful than any music he could create,” he leans his head back, and you can see the bob of the apple in his throat beneath his shirt when he swallows. “It was my mother’s favorite story.”

Was. You are wise enough to know, underneath the words and silence and the gentle touch in your hair what doesn’t need to be said. Your eyes drift down to his chest plate, which almost seems like a black hole in the shadows of the cockpit, and you reach up, cupping his wrist where he cradles your head. You expect to be able to linger in this quiet, in the fragile stillness that comes with shared grief.

“Did you know you’re named after it?” You lift your head up, a gentle curve to your brow. His fingers slip to your scalp, tracing down to the back of your neck and bringing a sweetened chill over your body. “Those stars. You share its name.”

Your heart aches for him, then, because whether or not you can see him, whether or not he’s fully armored or completely bare, you can hear his world weary, bone-deep sorrow in that moment. Perhaps it has been passed down from the beast taming kings whose honor he shoulders, or perhaps he hides a frightened child beneath a chest of steel. You slip your hands onto the rests of the pilot’s chair, moving with deliberate and thoughtful care until you’re seated upon his lap. The position might have left you feeling awkward, even silly, if he didn’t immediately lean back, eager to accept you. His breathing is audible, now, and your hands cup the arches of his helmet, allowing you to lift the bottom of his helm slowly upward.

His gloves find their place on your body, one upon your knee and the other on your waist, and you bare his face up to his nose, just enough allowance for you to brush your lips softly against his mouth.

You had thought you dreamed the sweetness you had tasted from him the night before, the tender trembling that had only been calmed when he pressed close to you. His fingers curl, gently pulling you in at your knee, cupping the curve of your waist and spanning his hand for more. He parts his lips beneath your own, and that familiar tightness in your belly begins to warm you from the inside out. There is no stubble on his chin and jaw, now, though you can feel a little scrape of facial hair above his lip that makes you smile with ticklishness.

“Ner cyra’ika,” he breathes, and you brush both thumbs along both his cheeks before letting his helm lower back down to cover his face. You lean your brow to his, smiling.

“One day, you must tell me what all these names mean,” you murmur, lowering your hands to his shoulders. They rise and fall as he breathes deeply, allowing his ghosts to leave the two of you in peace for now. “I would like to speak your language.”

His hands flex against the curve of your knee, the plush slope of your middle, and the heat within you stokes. “You would like to learn my tongue?” he chuckles, seeming delighted as your face blooms pink.

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper, squeezing his shoulders. You press your thumbs into the thick muscle there, earning a full bodied shiver from the man beneath you. “I’m sincere.”

He leans his helmet back against the pilot’s chair, regarding you through the shined visor. You try to hold what you hope must be his gaze, though your sightless eyes never seem to be able to follow along just so.

“And do you wish to be a Mandalorian? To take the Creed and hide your face?”

You ignore his cryptic tone and cock your head to the side. “I would certainly bruise less.”

He suddenly bounces his knees, earning a sharp yelp of surprise from you. “Now I’m the one being sincere.”

You flash him a helpless grin, letting your hands slide down to his elbows. “I do not think I could ever make a tolerable Mandalorian. I’m not strong enough,” you confess, crossing your ankles. “But as part of your clan, I would like to honor it.”

The Mandalorian straightens in his chair, and you lean against him, drawing one arm to hang on his shoulder and propping your head upon your fist. “There is more than physical strength in a warrior,” he says quietly, his voice rasping in that lovely tremble you’ve grown fonder of. “We call it mirjahaal. The strength of the mind and heart, and it is just as important and useful a weapon as your body is in war.”

“You...think that of me?” you whisper, eyes widening and your heart beating with a heavy, aching pace in your breast. You had never thought yourself strong. You possessed more evidence to the contrary, in fact, but when the Mandalorian said it, it sounded so true that you were left bereft of fight.

He rests the ear of his helmet against your arm, and you feel him inhale deeply before relaxing against you. “I will not believe anything less, Mesh’la.”

An alarm sets off, flashing green from the console, and you gently extract yourself as he turns in his chair to turn it off. “We’ll be dropping out of hyperdrive, soon.”

“Where are we going?” you ask, moving towards the cockpit doors. Now that you had your meager vision back, you felt steadier on your feet.

“Arvala-7.”

You perked up, spinning around just as the children appeared from the end of the passageway. “Kuiil’s home?”

The Mandalorian turns to look at you now. “You remember,” he says, sounding pleased.

You laugh when the baby huffs and puffs, running toward your ankles at full speed as fast as his little legs can manage. You pick him up, smiling when he coos in happiness, and cradle him in your arms. “Of course I remember. He is your friend,” you say, ushering the two siblings into the chair you’ve just vacated. The Mandalorian watches as you help them fasten the belt of the chair across their laps. It’s only meant for an adult, but they’re small enough that they fit snugly.

“Associate.”

“I’ve seen married couples with less rapport than you and Kuiil,” you throw back at him, to which he only grunts and turns back around to face the controls. You smirk, shifting the child’s makeshift cradle from the other seat to sit with him in your lap. “And why the visit?”

“I have a sick fathier in my cargo hold, and I need someone to take care of it.”

Your eyes widen in understanding, glancing in the direction of the other two children who swing their feet happily from their co-pilot’s chair.

“I don’t know if-”

“Hold on,” the bounty hunter chuckles, and all of you seem to yelp at the same time, slamming forward from hyperdrive and pitching over the familiar planet. Both children beside you laugh and clap their hands, and even the baby in your arms giggles. You narrow your eyes at the back of the Mandalorian’s blurry shape, knowing without a doubt he was showing off, but you don’t find it in yourself to be anything other than amused.

So much for a fearsome, cold bounty hunter, you think.

When the ship lands, the Mandalorian takes care of post-flight checks, and you pack a small bag with a change of clothes, some medicine and food, and the child’s stuffed bantha. When you emerge from the chilly captain’s quarters and enter the hull, the captain in question has offloaded the large animal from the holding partition, helping the two children on top of it. That takes care of your worry that their bare feet would be without protection.

The floppy eared infant floats beside you in his pram, giggling when the Mandalorian touches a tiny finger to his brow. You take his other arm, grateful when you can begin to walk with his assistance over the rocky terrain.

“You don’t think Kuiil has enough to do?” you ask, slightly worried as you hear the grunts and clops of the animal that follows behind you. From the looks of it, the creature seems to be more of a responsibility than a gift. “With all the bluurgs, I don’t know-”

“The animal is sick,” the Mandalorian tells you quietly, and you realize that he keeps his voice low so the children behind you won’t hear him. “It has welts that I think are infected. If someone doesn’t do something, it’ll die or need to be put down.”

“Oh.”

“It was left alone in the stables. My guess is they didn’t want to spend the money to get it healthy. You’d be surprised how much one can go for, even sickly or otherwise,” he mutters, an undertone of darkness you’d only heard once before. When there’d been a gun to your head.

“No,” you murmur, watching as the familiar outline of Kuiil’s moisture farm comes into view against the dying sunlight. “I don’t think that I would.”

The Ugnaught in question is outside his hut when you approach. You can hear the loud noises of metalwork echoing from his workbench, and when he turns to face you, he dusts off his gloves.

“Why is it every time we meet, you have more recruits?” he asks, his familiar, rough brogue a source of joy for you. You don’t miss the heavy, irritated sigh coming from the armored man beside you.

You let go of the Mandalorian quickly and cross the rest of the way on your own, unable to keep your smile hidden. “It’s so nice to see you again, Kuiil,” you murmurs, beaming when he takes both of your hands in his way of greeting.

“And to you, my girl,” he rumbles, and you think you see him smile in the dim lighting. He turns toward the floating pram that seems to stay within your orbit, and he touches the child’s forehead with affection. “It is good to see you and the little one in such good health.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be said for all of us,” you murmur, turning toward the animal that folds its legs in to sit heavily on the ground. The bluurgs in their pen shuffle anxiously, and you wring your hands together as the Ugnaught crosses to size up the creature. The Mandalorian rests his gloved hands on his belt, standing beside you as his “associate” takes a turn around the large creature, petting the animal’s hide and muttering to it soothingly.

“Is this yours?” he growls up at Corde and Venka, the former who giggles. He nods to himself, turning to face you and the bounty hunter with a firm nod. “I will help this one.”

“It’s yours, if you want it,” the Mandalorian tells him.

Kuiil looks back at the beast, who rests its head on the ground wearily. Venka pats its ears soothingly. “A generous gift that I cannot accept,” the Ugnaught grunts.

“At least if you keep it,” you say softly. “We would know it would be treated kindly.”

You see the gleam of beskar out of your periphery when the Mandalorian looks at you, and you bite your lip as Kuiil considers your words. He steps up to the side of the animal and holds out his hands. The children immediately slip off into his arms, one by one, staying away just far enough that anyone watching would know they were not entirely comfortable yet.

“I will do this,” Kuiil mutters, turning to face you and the Mandalorian once more. “And you are welcome here, as my guests.”

The bounty hunter takes a step forward, hesitation in his voice. “Really, you don’t need to do that.”

But you hide your smile, already knowing the toughened Ugnaught will not be told what to do.

“I have spoken.”

Mando’a Translations:

Kandosii - Well done

Gar serim, ad'ika - "That's it, little one."

Cyare - Beloved

Ori'haat - "It's the truth, I swear it."

Ka'ra - stars - ancient Mandalorian myth - ruling council of fallen kings

Ner cyra'ika - "My darling"

Mirjahaal - peace of mind, healing, general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement

Mesh'la - Beautiful

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yesloverboy · 4 years

Text

Baby You’re a Haunted House (Iwan Rheon!Mick Mars x Reader)

Requested: Anon

“Hi! Could you do a Mick Mars one shot where Mick and the reader are really close friends and they’re watching a scary movie at his house and she’s scared so he lets her stay over. And she has trouble sleeping so she sneaks into his room and they both awkwardly admit they like each other?”

note: finally, after an arduous hiatus brought upon by school, I have a new little request to add to the library. I’m a little rusty so I hope it’s up to par. I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m glad y’all have stuck around. :’) (also if anyone wants to change their taglist preferences, lmk)

word count: 3,219

[no warnings! just two idiots in love!]

tags: @lauravic, @lululovesgwtw, @kingbouji3, @oldschoolimagineblog, @thecrue, @colsonbakersnoseringmain

To say you had a stressful week would be an understatement. Despite your best efforts to hold it together, things just seemed to go completely wrong of their own accord. You burnt your toast at breakfast, found an angry pink parking ticket on your windshield, and spent the entirety of your day working your fingers to the bone. It could have been your sour mood, or the melodramatic attitude you had developed since waking up that morning– but the day seemed completely and utterly cursed.

Even as you leave your shift, you can’t help but stare bitterly at the sun as it dips lazily into the horizon, wondering what exactly you did to make everything feel so shitty. It’s a Friday for Christ’s sake and it seems as though you hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to look forward to the weekend, let alone make plans.

Speaking of Fridays, you think, eyes flitting down to the watch dangling loosely from your wrist. The hands point toward 6:45, making it known that you are running incredibly and unbelievably late. Flustered, you sprint to your car, keys jingling noisily between your fingers. You should have left at least half an hour ago, but there had been so much going on at work that you lost track of time.

“Shit!” you exclaim, jamming your key into the ignition and speeding recklessly out of the parking lot. Tires screech against the asphalt as a cloud of dust erupts from behind you, settling only when you skid out onto the open road. The sky quickly shifts from honey orange to dusky purple as you retreat from the glittering lights of the city, instantly becoming more relaxed at the sight of sparse houses and distant mountains.

You and your best friend, Mick, have a Friday night tradition of staying in and watching movies while the rest of his friends– and bandmates –go out to wreak havoc on the remaining population of Los Angeles. Mick is similar to you in a lot of ways; you’re both the strong and silent type, usually only speaking when spoken and always responding with a biting comment. The two of you met in a record store off Sunset Boulevard, quickly bonding over your love for the emerging metal scene and your hatred for cheap glam rock. Nothing was ever smoke and mirrors with Mick– no, he was raw and honest. Something you admire far more than you’re willing to admit.

Fingers tightening around the steering wheel, you suppress the feeling of your heart twitching excitedly against your ribs. You aren’t sure what’s been up with you lately, but every time you’ve seen Mick these past few weeks your heart has begun to skip along to an unknown rhythm. This new sensation makes you grit your teeth in frustration. Mick is your best friend, you have no reason to feel anxious around him. Right?

Typically, when something abnormal is going on in your life, your first instinct is to tell Mick, but you already know this isn’t the kind of conversation you’re prepared to have with him. These days, it feels as though Mick is the only person you can really be yourself around and you can’t imagine jeopardizing your friendship for the sake of talking about your feelings, of all things.

With a heavy sigh, you pull into the sloping curve of Mick’s driveway, hoping the walk to his doorstep will be just enough time to get your head back on your shoulders. You rap on his door with a heavy hand, listening to the sound of crickets thrumming softly in the distance. It’s times like this where you find yourself thankful that Mick decided to move outside of the Los Angeles city limits. Sure, the drive is long and the daytime traffic could be excruciating, but there’s at least some semblance of stillness in the air.

Mick pulls open the door, greeting you with a soft smile and bright eyes. Rather than wondering what took you so long, he gives your disheveled appearance a once over and simply asks, “Long day?”

You nod, the fatigued slump in your shoulders only getting heavier as Mick motions for you to step inside. Abandoning your jacket and keys by the door, you flop onto Mick’s plush sofa with a content groan.

“Sorry I’m late,” you mumble, voice partially muffled by the pillow pressed firmly against your cheek. At this point, you had been over to Mick’s place so many times that it was slowly starting to feel like your own. You roll on your side, arms cradling the side of your head as you gaze upward with glassy eyes.

Mick just chuckles and lifts your legs so that he can sit underneath them, allowing your calves to rest comfortably in his lap. His fingers ghost the exposed skin of your ankle, making your breath hitch uncomfortably in your throat. The gesture is so familiar and yet, you can’t help but feel as though it were the first time. To your relief, Mick doesn’t seem to take note of your sudden uneasiness, and instead picks up a video tape from the glass coffee table in front of you.

“I rented A Nightmare on Elm Street,” Mick grins, “you seen it yet?”

You sit up, eyebrows knitted in concentration as you study the tape, unsurprised to see that it’s a horror movie. The cover art depicts a young girl staring entranced at a set of knife-like fingers as they hover menacingly above her head. The guys in Mick’s band often joked about him being some kind of ghoul or vampire, and his love for the spooky and supernatural really didn’t help his case.

“Another slasher, Mickey?” you tease, shoving at his shoulders playfully. Just last week the two of you spent the night watching My Bloody Valentine, all the while jeering and laughing at every ridiculous mistake that the characters made. At this point, it may as well be a Friday night tradition.

Mick rolls his eyes, “Come on, Y/N. It’s not just a regular, old slasher. This guy is supposed to come after you to haunt your dreams and shit.”

“What? You sick of me haunting yours?”

“Never,” Mick scoffs, flinging your legs to the side so he can get up and feed the tape into the VHS player. “Not if it’s you.”

For the umpteenth time that evening, your heart leaps.

...

As it turns out, Mick was right, it wasn’t just a silly slasher movie– it was a fucking terrifying slasher movie. By the time that the television screen faded to black and the credits began to roll, you hardly noticed the way your body had wrapped around itself in terror. Gripping the blanket across your lap, you jump as the dark living room becomes illuminated in pale, yellow light. You peer behind a wall of couch cushions to see Mick lurking by the lightswitch with a smirk dancing on his lips.

“Jesus, Y/N, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scared,” Mick grins, his expression infuriatingly smug.

You feel your face grow hot as your heart hammers noisily in your chest, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration bubbling from within.

“I wasn’t scared,” you insist, “I was just–just, uh, startled is all. Long day, remember?” Gesturing to your blanket enshrouded form, you hope that the dark circles under your eyes are enough to persuade Mick to say he’s ready for bed and leave you be.

“Speaking of long days, it’s getting pretty late. Why don’t you just crash here for the night?” Mick points to the digital clock on his mantle, the bright red numbers flashing 1:32.

You nibble on your lip wordlessly, trying your best to ignore the feeling of butterfly wings tickling your stomach and climbing into your throat. Mick has a point, it is getting late. However, in all your time as friends, Mick had never once invited you to stay over. Would this change things? Could it change things?

“Um, Earth to Y/N?” Mick steps over to your place on the couch a waves an impatient hand in front of your face, making you jolt upright. “What’s the matter? Freddy got your tongue?”

“You little shit, I swear to God I am not scared–!” your tangent is interrupted as a clap of thunder rumbles from somewhere outside the window, the panes rattling and shaking in protest.

A dramatic yelp escapes your lips before you have time to rationalize what’s happening, making Mick double over in laughter. With trembling hands, you pull the blanket up over your head in an attempt to shroud your humiliation from Mick’s taunting eyes.

“F-fine, you win!” you relent, voice muffled beneath the quilted fabric.

Mick pulls the blanket away from your face, his dark blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Guess we’re having a slumber party after all.”

“If you wanted a sleepover, you could’ve just asked instead of scaring the fuck out of me. We could have braided each other’s hair by now,” you grumble bitterly.

“Better luck next time, I guess,” Mick flicks off the lightswitch with a devious grin, leaving you enveloped in darkness, “Sleep tight, and don’t let the interdimensional sleep demons bite…”

“Oh fuck off,” you squeak, uneasiness creeping on you as Mick leaves you alone in the blackness of his living room. Living closer to the city’s epicentre, you can’t even remember a time it was this dark in your apartment, let alone right outside the window.

Bundling yourself into a tight cocoon, you try to let the rare patter of California raindrops soothe you into unconsciousness. Just as the fuzziness of sleep starts to curl around your weary mind, another clap of thunder rattles through the walls of Mick’s house, your eyes snapping open in fright. You attempt to regulate your frantic breaths, chanting sweet nothings of normalcy and security to no one in particular. But, no matter what you do, nothing seems to unprickle the hairs standing rigidly on the back of your neck.

Rolling over, you decide to face the room in the hopes that your tired eyes will eventually adjust to the darkness. The shadows seem to squirm and shift as your spine tingles with paranoia, making you curse yourself for ever agreeing to stay in the first place. You groan internally when you realize that, in the time you’ve spent anxious on the sofa, you probably could have made it home by now.

Goddammit, Mick.

Ignoring the oppressive movement of the shadows, your eyes wander toward the hallway. The position you have on the couch gives you a direct view of where the curve of the hall snakes into the door of Mick’s bedroom. More than anything, you wish he had stayed out in the living room with you rather than retreating to the confines of his bedroom. It would have been completely unfair to ask that of Mick considering it’s his house, but you can’t help it. You hadn’t been this afraid of the dark since you were a kid and, as far as you knew, Mick wasn’t scared of anything.

The longer you lay scrunched up on the couch, the more tempted you are to just barge into Mick’s room and see whether or not he’s still awake. Minutes feel like hours as you debate the odds of Mick being mad–or worse, weirded out–at the sight of his best friend shaking him awake in the middle of the night. If Mick were having the same problem you probably wouldn’t be upset, right? Then again, there was a better chance of hell freezing over than Mick actually being afraid of the dark.

Deciding you can’t handle being alone a second longer, you swiftly untangle yourself from the comforting embrace of your blanket cocoon and place your bare feet on the cool, wooden floor. Shivering slightly, you hug your arms around your shoulders protectively and pad toward Mick’s bedroom, a nervous lump knotting in the back of your throat.

You approach the white door apprehensively, wondering for a brief moment if testing your friendship like this is even worth it. With a hefty sigh, you abandon all caution and pull the door open, a soft breeze rushing forward and tickling your face from the sudden movement. Heart thudding unceremoniously in your chest, you find yourself faced with the sight of your best friend sleeping soundly in a tangle of black velvet bedsheets.

Lying flat on his back with arms crossed securely over his chest, Mick slept like the dead, looking just as peaceful and twice as forbidden to disturb. A soft smile ghosts your lips at the sight of Mick looking so unwound and at rest. He was always a high-strung individual, that much is true, and watching him sleep so soundly made all your anxieties from earlier feel unbelievably not worth the effort. The realization that Mick’s face alone is enough to settle your nerves makes your heart hammer out a strangled pulse of adoration, twisting your stomach into a knot.

Inching away slowly, you decide that it’s probably for the best if you just saunter back to the couch and squash your feelings. Mick deserves a good night’s rest, not a lovesick best friend who is becoming blindsided by her feelings. Cursing your heart for being so fixated on the trivial human need for intimacy, you take a step back and immediately bump right into Mick’s dresser.

“Fuck,” you hiss as the dresser’s wooden frame trembles noisily against the floor.

To your horror, the man in front of you begins to stir. Raising balled fists to his eyes, he wipes away the sleep and glances over to the source of the sound in a haze of weary confusion. Your heart plummets to the ground as his eyes find yours in the darkness.

“...Y/N?” he mumbles, as he rises stiffly from his pile of blankets like a mummy from a sarcophagus. “Am I dreaming?”

“I was just leaving,” you squeak, hoping beyond hope that Mick would be tired enough to think nothing of his best friend suddenly creeping into his room in the middle of the night. Turning on your heel, you attempt to reach for the door knob but are immediately halted by the sound of Mick’s voice.

“Wait–” Mick calls out, his voice faint, “stay.”

You suck in a breath, grateful that the cover of night conceals the cherry red flush of your cheeks. Taking a tentative step forward, you find your fingertips gingerly clinging to the cool metal of the doorknob in worry. Swallowing the lump in your throat, it feels as though you might be the one dreaming.

“Mickey, look, I can explain, I, uh–I was just…” you stumble over the words of your confession, eyes now well-adjusted enough to see Mick’s expression go soft, almost as if he were concealing a smile.

Mick chuckles at your embarrassment, his gravelly voice making your heart flutter involuntarily. “You were scared, weren’t you?’

“Yeah,” you sigh, not bothering to dig an even deeper hole, “I guess I was.”

Staring down at your bare feet, you allow a beat of silence to pass between the two of you. Mick says nothing, only stares, and for a moment you squirm at the thought that you may have overstayed your welcome. The thought alone is enough to make you cringe.

Mick clears his throat, startling you out of your compulsive rumination. Peering up like a scolded child, you watch him scoot toward the far end of the mattress and straighten out his wrinkled duvet with a lazy hand.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he grins, “get in.”

“Seriously?”

Mick rolls his eyes and pats the empty space for emphasis, “Yes, seriously. Freddy can’t get ya so long as you’re with me– scout’s honor.”

“As if you were a fucking boy scout,” you snort, unable to let your previous feelings of shame conceal the utter ridiculousness of the present situation. Here you are standing at the bedside of your best friend with a bleeding heart, and he’s already prepared to bandage you back up.

“But it’s the thought that counts, right? Now hurry your ass up, I want to get back to sleep.”

Your feet seem to propel you forward of their own accord and, before your neurotic brain can shift into overdrive, you’re already nestling into Mick’s bedsheets. You hum comfortably, the velvet still warm from where he had been sleeping. Every inch of the fabric smells of him, and it takes the last shred of your willpower to not just let your feelings leak straight out of your mouth and onto deaf ears.

“That’s easy for you to say, Mickey,” you tease weakly, “you’ve never been scared of anything.”

“I get scared sometimes,” Mick confesses, “I just wouldn’t want you to ever think differently of me because of it.”

You don’t need to see Mick’s face to know that he’s frowning.

Emboldened by his sudden admission of vulnerability, you turn on your side to face him. Mick’s eyes are fixed firmly on the ceiling, as if all the answers to life’s deepest, darkest questions could be etched somewhere in the popcorned pattern.

“W-what do you mean?” you meant to sound confident, but your voice comes out as barely more than a whisper.

To your disbelief, Mick turns over as well, his deep blue eyes shining through the shadowy bedroom like the frothy caps of a stormy sea. You can practically feel your heart reaching out to him, begging to pull you under and keep you there.

Mick’s hand finds yours somewhere beneath the velvet sheets and gives you a gentle squeeze, his warm palm enveloping your cold one in an instant.

“There’s something I want to say but I’m afraid…” he whispers, voice as delicate as spun sugar, “...I’m afraid I’ll lose you if I do, and I don’t wanna lose you.”

For a moment all you can do is blink, your mind reeling from the implications of what your best friend may or may not be admitting to you. You know that you need to say something quick, but your tongue turns to sand in your mouth.

Mick’s hand still entwined with yours, you take the opportunity to move in closer. Slowly you close the gap between the two of you, leaving nothing but the space reserved for the halo of mutual body heat forming around your place in the sheets.

“I think I know what you mean,” you bring Micks hand to your chest and let the frantic pulse of your heart do all the talking.

Without warning, Mick gives you a gentle kiss on the nose. The touch is so faint, you’re almost worried you may have imagined it.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah, Mickey?”

“I think I love you.”

Your free hand rests gingerly on your best friend’s cheek, and for the first time that night you find yourself unafraid of what comes next. His face is red hot to the touch, and you wonder if anyone else knew Mick could be so warm.

“You sure you’d want to do a crazy thing like that?”

Mick just chuckles and shakes his head, “Nothing feels crazy when I’m with you.”

“Then I guess I’m just gonna have to love you, too.”

#hello!#i'm kind of back for now #sorry to be so shit #the dirt #the dirt requests #motley crue imagine #motley crue oneshot #motley crue #mick mars #tommy lee #nikki sixx #vince neil #iwan rheon #80s #80s rock #the dirt netflix

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laylacooke · 4 years

Text

Teenagers Scare The Living Shit Out Of Me || Carrington & Layla

timing: wednesday afternoon (6/17) parties: @carringtonblackwood & @laylacooke summary: carrington’s had enough of layla’s shenanigans. warnings: mind control tw

It wasn’t that she was actively searching out the place, she had just stumbled upon it, but the way it towered over her begging to be vandalized screamed out to her. It’s why Layla had left and made sure to return late in the evening with a bag full of rotten fruits and vegetables that she found behind Veggie Tables and a few of the other restaurants she used to dumpster dive at. And now it was time to put her werewolf strength to good use. Letting off some steam via trash pelting was just what the doctor had ordered, and this random house in the woods was the perfect place to do it without the threat of Ariana, Ulfric, or Frankie finding her. Pulling back her arm, she aimed, fired, and released with a good targeted hit on one of the windows. And within a matter of minutes, she was pulling out another disgusting piece of produce and chucking it again.

Carrington had not had the best week. In fact, his week had been shit. Utterly and completely. And while he was recovering now that he had a steady supply of blood that didn’t make him high as a kite, and a proper place to rest, surrounded by his own kind - though that had its own ups and downs - he was still a good ways to go. The poison from the slayer’s blade had left him weaker than usual. Even with the substance gone from his system, the toll it had taken - along with his week-long ‘captivity’ - was obvious to anyone that knew him.

He had taken to spending more time outdoors in the evenings, for one. Bloodhaven was a large, spacious home, but even those walls felt like they were closing in on him more often than not. Which explained his presence on the balcony overlooking the front lawn when the sound of something hitting the windows drifted towards him.

Carrington paused, cigarette halfway to his lips, and tilted his head just a bit. The sound came again, thick and wet on impact. He sighed, wondering ‘What now?’ as he got up - clad in joggers and a plain, dark-blue t-shirt - and padded barefoot down the steps before moving silently into the yard. The figure wasn’t hard to spot, nor was it hard to discern what they were doing - the smell of rotten fruit was easy enough to identify - but the question was why were they chucking it at the house?

Carrington didn’t say anything right away, taking a moment to eye the small woman so aggressively slinging the stinking handfuls of trash at the windows. He recognized her smell when it finally drifted to him over the scent of the fetid cornucopia, she’d brought with her. A small moment of surprise passed over his face, but it was gone a moment later.

He exhaled smoke through his nose, in no mood whatsoever to play childish games with the young wolf. Whether he owed her a debt or not. “Something vexes?” he said without preamble, ashing his cigarette as he locked his eyes on Layla’s red hair. “Because I’m afraid you can’t do that, darling.”

Layla continued to throw the rotten fly infested food towards the windows and walls of the large abode. Giving it some color, other than just the stained wood that held the home together. With each throw, she became more and more fascinated with turning it into a game. What part could she hit this time? What kind of art could she make? Would anyone come out that would allow her a moving target with a little challenge? The ideas were endless. However, she had gotten so caught up, that by the time she had smelled death, she realized the vampire residing inside had already come out to greet her.

Stopping what she was doing, Layla glanced over in his direction. Carrington. He had been the last person, she expected to see, but so be it. It just happened to make things more interesting, “Well, well, you’re the last person I expected to see walk out from a random mansion in the woods.” Looking at the bag and then at him, she held it towards him, “Care to join me?” She had completely ignored his warning, and instead, waited for a reply to her answer, cockiness apparent in her attitude.

Carrington knew the act was technically harmless. A bit of rotten fruit wouldn’t hurt the house, other than needing to be washed off before it drew flies or other creatures. It was simply the principal of the matter. And he wasn’t in the mood for teenage disrespect.

He ashed his cigarette as Layla recognized him. They’d only met once, but the young woman standing in front of him was a far cry from the one he’d met that night in the parking lot. Though he was old enough to know that one meeting could hardly give one an accurate read on a person. This might be perfectly normal behavior. Though Carrington didn’t buy it. Something was going on. His eyes moved idly between her and the fruit-covered windows. “And you’re the last person I expected to see chucking garbage at that same random mansion.”

When the bag was offered, Carrington gazed at her, head tilted curiously. She hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Alright then. So much for the easy way. He reached for the bag, but instead of taking a handful of what was inside, he deftly removed it from Layla’s grasp. “No offense, darling, but no, I’d rather not. And if you’re smart - which I know you are - you’ll go home and sleep off whatever it is that’s gotten into you.” He gave her a very pointed look. “Before something far worse than me finds you out here in the dark. Behaving badly.”

Layla didn’t like it when Carrington took the bag from her. She also didn’t like being treated like a child. A low growl coming from her throat, she reached out and snatched the bag back. “What is it with you old people and not wanting to have a little fun? I’m sure you had your moments back when you were young. Now let me have mine, old man.” She pulled out another piece of rotten fruit, let her arm go back, and just before she released the rotting tomato, looked to Carrington with a grin just to spite him. “What are you gonna do now, huh? Bite me?”

This version of Layla had been far different from the girl he had met nearly two months ago, when she had first arrived at White Crest. And while something deep inside of her was telling her this was wrong, she still did it anyways and took great pleasure in her newfound freedom of just not caring.

Carrington didn’t react as Layla growled at him. He even let her take the bag back, looking at her with a flat, humorless expression. Perhaps it would’ve been easier not to treat her like a child if she hadn’t been acting like one. Her words had little effect on him, other than making him wonder just what was the matter with her tonight. “When I was your age, I was fighting a civil war for my king. There wasn’t much room for fun.”

Her taunts only made him sigh. It was clear she wasn’t going to stop just because he asked her to. Taking one last drag of his cigarette, he flicked the cherry to the dirt and doused it beneath his foot before tossing the rest away in an appropriate place. “I don’t bite children,” Carrington told her, his tone shifting to something with a bit more warning behind the words. “But if you insist on continuing to act like one, then I’ll have no choice but to make you do as I ask.” He didn’t use compulsion lightly, but in this instance, it was better than letting her continue this idiotic - and potentially dangerous - behavior.

“And I can assure you, neither of us will enjoy it.” It was her last warning.

Layla had ignored his comment about fighting a civil war. Something, she normally would have reacted to and been more sympathetic towards. However, it was his comment about not biting children that resulted in a loud laugh coming from her mouth, “Don’t bite children?” She waved her wrist in front of him; the one that had been bitten month’s prior in order to save a life. “You don’t recall the bite you gave me? That’s funny. You must me going senile, too, Old Man.” Turning her attention back to the house, she grabbed another piece of food and chucked it as hard as she could watching it splatter across one of the windows, “I enjoyed that.” She looked to him with a wide grin on her face.

Carrington remembered the incident vividly. The way her blood had tasted, the way her heart had raced like a wild thing trapped in her chest. But that wasn’t the same as biting someone out of the desire to feed, or out of anger. Or for any other reason besides needing to save a life. “Perhaps. Though that hardly counts as a bite, now does it?” He could bite her for real if he wished. It would be so easy. Almost effortless. She was young, foolish… headstrong. Caught up in whatever was happening inside her head.

He could drain her dry before she could even think to scream.

For a moment, Carrington felt his fangs prick the edges of his lips, but then he remembered himself, and they receded. But the problem of what to do now remained. Layla wasn’t going home on her own, that much was clear. And he had warned her, after all. The young wolf had made her choice. So, when she turned back towards him and met his gaze with her own, Carrington didn’t hesitate.

Compulsion came easily enough to the vampire, especially on a consciousness as chaotic and untethered as Layla’s currently was. He didn’t enjoy it. The idea of making someone do something against their will was utterly abhorrent. But it was the lesser of many evils. So, he locked eyes with the young wolf, unblinking as he took a slow step towards her. His voice was low and soothing as he spoke. “Look at me, Layla. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Stay right where you are until I say otherwise.” There was no question in Carrington’s words. They were orders. Firm and precise. When he was close enough, he cupped her chin in his hand, gentle but firm, and tipped her face towards him. Never losing her gaze, never blinking.

“You will leave your bag here, with me. You will go straight home, safely, and go to bed. You will wake in the morning like normal, but you will not recall this moment, or this place.” He paused a moment to let the compulsion sink in. Then he let her go and took a single step back. When Carrington spoke again, his voice was no less precise in its commands, but there was a weariness that hadn't been there a moment before.

“Go home, Layla. Now.”

Layla was raring and willing to go, however as she gazed into his eyes, something took over her. She felt like how she did the day she hypnotized herself. Everything Carrington was saying was making sense. It was all she wanted to do now. And his voice drew her in so easily that she didn’t dare blink or make any other movements. She had barely noticed when he cupped her face in his hands simply listening to all the man had to say. And before long, she felt at peace. The rage in her body silenced for the time being.

Blinking a few times, after he had finally released her, Layla, without resistance, sat the bag at his feet. She didn’t dare look back at the house, and she barely kept her focus on him, before he gave her the command. Turning around without so much as a goodbye, the young werewolf let her feet carry her back home. And just as he had instructed, Layla didn’t leave her place on the floor, until the very next morning. A day that would certainly make up for the eventless day she had before.

#para: teenagers scare the living shit out of me #carringtonblackwood #saga: the dark side #wickedswriting #mind control tw

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whumpywhumper · 5 years

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Baser Natures

Thanks again @0idril0 :)) also, cannot wait for the next Nico installment—what I’ve seen of it so far 👌

TW: noncon elements and implication of sexual assault

Edit for Masterpost

*****

Markus was so tired. Everything slowly went dark, eyelids heavy and impossible to keep open.

“Ah ah ah,” cold fingers tapped his cheek, “don’t go to sleep on me now, beautiful. We’re just getting started.” Markus’s eyelids flickered and he lolled his head in a lethargic attempt to move away from the tapping fingers. All he could see was the bare concrete of his cell, the flicker of fluorescent lighting.

Lucien has been very careful to keep him away from materials he could use.

A sharp pain in his wrist drew him back with a gasp. Lucien had lowered his blond head to nuzzle back at Markus’s wrist and he felt the vampire’s lips seal around the new puncture wounds, gently sucking on the blood that pumped from his veins. Markus couldn’t move away, didn’t have the strength anymore. Blood loss kept him weak and the vampire’s venom kept his body heavy and complacent. Kept his magic just out of reach, even if he had materials to work with.

No more, please. I can’t give anymore

The vampire didn’t drink for long, pulling back to lave his cold tongue across his wrist. The witch shuddered at the intimate feeling, Lucien was almost loving in the way that he took from Markus. Small kitten licks sealing the wounds, his long fingers bracing his forearm and the back of his hand so that his body didn’t strain. It was grotesque.

Thumb rubbing across the newly sealed puncture wounds, the vampire let Markus’s limp hand rest back on the floor. “God, you’re delicious,” he said with a drunk smile. A flush bloomed across his face as the witch’s blood took effect. “Oh, fuck. . . .” he visibly shuddered and bit his lip. Head tucking down to rest on his chest, the vampire swayed in place, sighing.

Lucien had been feeding intermittently the entire day and Markus had watched the magic in his blood making the vampire appear more and more drunk as time went on. He’d giggled earlier, his tongue painting the lines of Markus’s body, over knotted up bite marks and bruised finger indentions, and explained that the magic made him feel alive for the first time in a century. Made him feel like he was flying through the clouds or climbed to the top of Everest.

Like he had seen a sunrise again.

The blond’s black eyes roved across Markus’s exposed throat to meet the witch’s glassy gaze. He smiled to see Markus watching him. “Hey there, beautiful,” he cooed, “I love seeing that look in your eyes.”

He knelt over Markus, wobbling, to straddle him at the waist. His fingers brushed over his pecs, pressing in to catch his balance, and traced his bruises. Tiny blossoms of pain unfurled under those touches and he swallowed back whimpers. “You’re just there enough to still be afraid, to wonder what I’m going to do with you next.” The vampire rolled his hips over Markus’s pelvis and he shuddered at the way the vampire pressed along his anatomy. The vampire’s thin boxers were the only barrier between them and he felt himself try to sink farther into the concrete, away from the vulnerability. “But you’re just gone enough to not have that spark back.”

He leaned forward, lowering his body over Markus’s to let his cotton t-shirt drift over his belly, and ran a hand through his hair. The witch couldn’t hold back the moan of pain when those long fingers tightened and the vampire chuckled. “Gone enough to give me those noises.” The grip on his hair pulled his head back and a shuddering exhale escaped Markus’s attempt at stifling it. A lavacious moan and Markus caught the brief glimpse of fangs, “Fuck, that’s glorious, darling.”

The witch trembled at the praise, a soft noise sticking at the back of his throat when he felt cold lips on his pulse point. He felt tear slide down the side of his face and squeezed his eyes shut. His head was turned by the grip in his hair, and the vampire murmured into his ear, “I do so love the sound of your voice. I want to hear you beg for me, beautiful. Say ‘please, Lucien.’”

Markus shook his head, pulling the strands gripped in the vampires hand taut, he grimaced, clenching his teeth. I won’t beg. There was no point. Lucien would do what he wanted with him if he did or if he didn’t. This was the smallest amount of defiance he was allowed, not giving him what he wanted. He would take it.

A low angry rumble echoed through Markus’s chest where the vampire lay on top of him. “I have been very nice to you so far, darling. Haven’t caused you any undue amount of pain, even made you feel good, haven’t I?” Lucien nudged at Markus’s neck, his hand running down his bare torso. He quivered at the tickling sensation over the sensitive skin of his ribs. “I’m asking you nicely, Markus. Beg for me.”

There was a note of warning in the vampire’s calm tone and Markus swallowed against the nervous palpation of heart. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling of what amounted to his prison cell, bare, cracked concrete, with a single recessed light. “No,” the word fell from his screwed up lips and that moment of denial felt heartbreakingly sweet.

Lucien hissed, drawing back to glare down at the nearly paralyzed witch. “Fine, you won’t beg for me then I will make you want to beg for me.” Using the grip on his hair, Lucien drug him into a sitting position and he cried out, feeling clumps of his hair pull free. Markus wheezed in a tight breath as the stronger man took him by the throat, standing to drag him out of the room. Exhausted, he stumbled, deer legged, into a brightly lit warehouse area and lost his footing. Lucien didn’t care. Dragging him to where he wanted him before allowing Markus to fall gracelessly onto the floor.

Markus groaned and huddled in on himself. Feeling exposed. Feeling watched.

Chains hung from the ceiling, ending in shackles that Lucien expertly cinched around his wrists. Markus couldn’t struggle against the vampire, could barely struggle to breathe. A rattle of chains. And he was upright for the first time in what felt like years.

The witch moaned when his weight settled onto his abused wrists. Felt tender new skin break open over sealed and re-sealed bite wounds. He trembled, his toes barely touching the ground. What’s about to happen?

Lucien pulled a chair out of a shadow of the warehouse and settled himself. Propping his feet on a wine box and tipping the chair on two legs. “My tastes have always been rather refined,” he began, like he was teaching a class. “I’ve never really preferred to get my hands dirty—“ he examined his nails, “—as such, my abilities in this form have never fallen into what’s about to happen very well. See, I like when my food is complacent, easy, relaxed.” The blond head rolled on the vampire’s shoulders and he gave a lazy smile, “At least as relaxed as one can be when he or she is food. But others,” he lifted a lip to make his fang glisten in the florescent light, “others have baser natures.”

The dangling captive shivered—from the cold, from the exposure, from the fear—and felt a sinking sensation in his stomach when he heard footsteps approach from a hallway. A dark haired woman approached, slender and svelte dressed in a slinking black dress, her heels tip tapping on the concrete. She smiled, unsheathing her fangs at Lucien, “Are you telling stories about me, love?”

“Always, beloved.”

The newcomer spared a long look at Markus as she approached Lucien. Her eyes devoured him. Catalogued him. Marked every bruise and notch in his skin. The way he twitched under her gaze. Speared into his soul when their eyes met.

Markus squeezed his eyes shut, hanging his head. Fuck, nononono. Not another. Please.

A wet smacking sound that he recognized as a kiss and their conversation continued. As if he were no more than a piece of art on the wall. “What tales were you spinning this time?”

“Oh, I was telling my new friend here that he should be happy of my company. He has been rather ungrateful of the time I’ve spent on him.”

“Is that so? Here I’ve been jealous of all the time you’ve been spending away.”

“Yes,” there was the quiet rustle of cloth, a thump, and Markus opened his eyes to see the female perched on Lucien’s knee. “I thought I would let him grow acquainted with you since he’s become so bored of me. He, after all, is excellent company.” His mouth held a sardonic smirk, like he was laughing at an untold joke. “Maybe he can make up my absence to you.”

She hummed skeptically, and raised an eyebrow at Lucien, dropping the banter. “I assume that there is something that you’re wanting? You’ve been quite taken with your little witch, I didn’t think you wanted to share.”

The anger rose back up in the other’s face, “I want him to beg for me, Christine, and you know how I hate getting my hands dirty.”

#whump #whumpblr #vampire whump #whump blog #whumper #writing whump #whump community #whump drabble #my ocs #my writing

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dragonmaiden79 · 4 years

Text

Sir Knight, Taj

Introducing, Madame Tajira

People left Vesuvia in droves after the horrendous situation involving the palace and word spread like wildfire, traveling with the survivers and bystanders alike, plummetting the country into poor conditions. Abandoned businesses and homes meant suffering economy, with land becoming cheaper and cheaper to encourage people to move back or stay; It had become destitute and were it not for the Magician, the Lovers, and the Fool's constant support and efforts, nothing would have remained. The Countess had no supporters left.

"Serves her right, doing this to me..." Said the bitter, homeless former Count as he read a discarded news paper in an alley. He crumpled it up and tossed it away, ducking behind a few trash cans to avoid the royal guard as they marched by.

He had been lurking in the shadows since begging wasn't feeding him enough, turning to petty theft. The shop and store owners became fed up in a matter of weeks, and had reported his worthless ass without a second thought. He scratched at his patchy beard and looked at his worn, dingy clothes. Suddenly the concept of wearing all white became incredibly overrated. "No one in all the history of mankind..." he grumbled to himself, slinking from back alley to back alley like common trash. He slipped in a puddle of Lord-knows-what and screeched indignantly. "Has ever suffered as I am now!!!" He growled, gritting his teeth as the cool, foul smelling liquid seeped into his pants.

"Hey, wasn't that-"

"Oh, that was definitely him."

It's too bad Lucio was so horrible at being inconspicuous. The rapid clang of metal approaching didn't allow him time to dwell on his miserable fate and he quickly staggered to his feet, trying to find a place to hide. It was at this moment that the worn leather heels that he had refused to give up upon his banishment broke, sending him careening to the ground. The last thing he remembered was the feel of cold cobblestone against his face and the metal clang from the knights armor as they surrounded him.

A splash of ice water snatched him from his unconscious state. He looked around frantically, realizing that he was flanked by a knight on both sides, each holding onto a chain that was coiled around his body. He immediately began to rant and struggle. "What the hell is this!? I can take you both--"

"Settle down, Count Lucio." Said a smooth, sultry female voice.

He followed the sound of the voice upwards to a dais, where a petite woman clad in armor stood looking down at him. More careful inspection made him realize that she wasn't alone too; There was a semicircle of about 11 chairs a behind her, all except 1 occupied by very regal and well dressed individuals with decorated faces masks, and head pieces.

"...Or I should say, former Count." The woman continued speaking. "Yes... The former Count of a bastardization of a country. It's a shame what you have been reduced to."

Lucio growled.

"Judgement will be enacted here, today, on you, dear Lucio. You are charged with several counts of theft, threats, harassment, and even a couple of physical assaults due to your behavior involving my lovely citizens. Your testimony begins now. My council will then take a vote based off of your word and your word alone, leaving me to consider their opinions before I make the final decision. How do you plea?"

"Not guilty!" He shouted, "Your townspeople are so stingy and selfish! You'd think they'd help me out, but no!"

The woman laughed shrewdly, glancing over her shoulder at the council members. "Okay, Lucio. While you do seem adamant in your stance, there are a few specific charges that I must ask you about. Did you steal food from any of the local vendors?"

"I would hardly call such gruel 'food'!"

"Did you get into a fight with a man whom you claimed to be 'being greedy' because he bought what you considered an excess amount of fruit and refused to share with you?

"Who eats THAT much fruit?"

"Did you threaten or menace at any children for teasing you on the streets?"

"Those brats were asking for it! They're lucky I didn't tan their hides!"

The woman fell silent for a brief moment. "Is there anything else you would like me to know, Count?"

"Your backstreets are filthy, these chains are awful, and --"

"About your case, Lucio."

"Nope. Clearly I've done nothing wrong. So whaddya say? I'm done now, right?"

She laughed shortly again. "Very well then. Regarding the testimony of the accused, Grand Council, how say you?"

One by one each elaborately decorated Noble rose and stated their verdict, which turned out to be unanimous. "Guilty."

"Mmhmm. Duly noted." She nodded. "Count Lucio, if you'll look to your left you'll see that carved into the white stone walls of this arena is a lion. On the opposite side, to your right is a bull. These are permanent symbols of the two houses that came together to build this country and comprise it's nobility. As such, I am to adhere to the laws set by each house in my position as acting Princess of Pierreblanc."

She leapt elegantly from the dais and landed a perfect summersault in the center of the arena, approaching Lucio slowly until she stood before him. "You have a stunning lack of discipline and are completely irresponsible, which means that the short-comings that riddle your life are rooted in your childhood. Therefore, where other people have failed you, I shall succeed. You will be properly trained and imparted with the skills and knowledge to function as a productive member of my society."

She gestured to the lion carving. "Through the dignity and authority on my left side," and then raised the other hand to point to the bull. "Partnered with the magnanimity and valor of my right... This is true justice, for the ignorant cannot be properly tried." Her voice echoed throughout the arena. "Have you any legitimate way or reason to contest my judgement?"

His eyes widened in a mix of fear and shock. "What are you on about? You aren't going to let me go!?"

She laughed, far too amused by Lucio's attitude to correct his manners. "Then I shall make my ruling immediately. I, Princess Tajira of Branch Et Serpentium, declare that you, former Count of Vesuvia 'Lucio' Montag Morgasson, be sentenced to indefinite full-time etiquette training with Most High advisor and royal tutor, Giles Christophe. Guards, that will be all."

***

The Guards escorted Lucio all the way from the arena to the fantastic display of architecture that was the Pierreblanc Palace. The stones that composed the building were bright white and perfectly polished, making them reflect every color of the rainbow and giving the entire thing an ethereal quality. There were many slick curves and perfect arches that gave it a unique silhouette and the gates were twinkling gold. Even Lucio was stunned into silence.

Awaiting him there was a clean cut purple haired man and a team of six maids.

"You may release him." He said to the guards that held Lucio's chains. "Quickly now, he desperately needs to be bathed and fed." They wasted no time in heeding the orders, finally removing the biting metal from the former Count's wrists and neck.

"I am Giles Christophe and by royal decree you are my responsibility from this moment on. I will ensure that Madame Tajira is satisfied with your reformation, but for now we will escort you to your personal quarters and attempt to make you presentable at once. Understood?"

"Great! Finally some proper treatment around here."

Giles merely frowned his disapproval. The Princess told him that he'd have his work cut out for him in even before her officers had made the arrest.

"He's kind of a bimbo, but if anyone can fix him, it's you."

"If you don't mind my asking Madame, why not one of our traditional corrections facilities?"

"Ah, yes." She had said, lounging in her tub full of sweet smelling bubbles, a bath girl feeding her small slices of fruit. "It's gotten very stuffy around here, so he will be a breath of fresh air- A ray of sunshine even! Just fix him up a bit." She said, waving her hand dismissively. "He is nothing to be concerned about."

Giles shook his thoughts away as he lead Lucio to his quarters, the maids in tow. "Her Majesty has personally selected and furnished this room for you." He said as he opened the door and gestured in.

The room was gorgeous; the farthest wall of it was made entirely of sliding glass doors, which opened up to huge balcony tiled in sparkling opal. The bed was a magnificent piece of art and the centerpiece of the room. It was low sitting and round with a blue chiffon canopy that extended from the ceiling to veil it. Much bigger than a king sized bed, it had no defined head or foot board but instead carved polyhedron railings to stand in their places.

Lucio didn't have much time to admire though, as he was then led out of a pair of double doors within the room. Exiting, he noted that suddenly he was two maids short. It went outside to a tall stone staircase that led down to a what appeared to be an empty pool. There were towering white and gold marble lion statues on each side of it. "Her taste isn't half bad! Much better than her attitude." He said to no one in particular.

Giles exhaled with annoyance, "Ladies, if you'd please." He said to the maids as he moved to a bench that sat near the pool, sending them into perfectly practiced action. They all disrobed to reveal different variations of soft, elegant curvature that could only be described as uniquely female and split into teams of two. One set used magic to get themselves atop the lion heads; Completely synchronized, they put their hands together as if meditating and water began to flow down from the mouths of the lions, and into the pool. In conjunction with them, the others began quickly undressing Lucio, leaving him bared from his rags in a matter of moments. "My, my ladies, one at a time..." He remarked, as if he wasn't in desperate need of care.

Little to no maintenance had been done to him since his eviction from Vesuvia so his skin was sunburnt and dirty, not to mention his overgrown facial hair and chipped nails. Even his golden arm had lost all of its luster and most of its magic, making it hard for it to function. His stench was wretched to the noses of everyone within arms reach as well. Certainly he needed to be cleansed as soon as possible. "This water is freezing!" He cried out, as the girls pulled him down few stairs that led into the pool. "I can't bathe like this! Back in MY palace there was hot water!"

"Give them a moment." Giles said sharply, having had his fill of Lucio's commentary.

He winced at the harshness of Giles' tone but, remained silent as the girls in the bath with him hovered their hands over the water, transferring heat into it. Goosebumps began to spread across his skin as the water warmed considerably. Before long, the pool was filled and the other duo had climbed down from the Lions. They moved to the statues' mounts which had hidden compartments that held towels, sponges, soaps, and an assortment of crystals. Each grabbed their own selections, placing them in decorative woven baskets and joined the others in the water.

Yellow and blue crystals were placed about the water, giving it a mysterious green glow with the relaxing energy blanketing the space. As soon as the soothing aura touched every corner of the water, the same girls who had undressed Lucio, grabbed soap and sponges from the baskets now afloat and went to work.

As they scrubbed his skin, layers of caked up dirt and sweat mixed with the suds and permeated the water. He moaned as they went further down, switching to a soft cloth to clean his dick and balls. They were thorough and gentle, massaging and caressing his sack until he was at full attention. A small crystal chair was synthesized with stone magic for him to be seated, so that his hair could be washed. It was so greasy that the shampoo wouldn't lather when the girl- the one Lucio thought the cutest, massaged it into his scalp.

She had olive skin and green eyes, with freckles and black hair. Her fingers felt like magic as they danced across his head, scrubbing diligently until finally, on the third go, the shampoo lathered into a nice foam. He relaxed into the touches of her and her tall, slender partner who had just finished washing his chest and was now seated on his lap, massaging his shoulders. "Ohhh, this is more like it..." He moaned, "Hey, what're your names?"

"I see you're enjoying my girls, Lucio." Came the Princess' voice from the long stairwell. "The one who washes your hair is called Ariella. Zafira is on your lap." She stepped directly into the pool without regard for the thin, loosely tied white robe she wore, carrying a long decorative case.

As the two maidens that prepared the baskets made the glowing water circulate around them, Tajira approached, giving a kiss each to Ariella and Zafira. Slowly, she trailed her fingers down Lucio's golden arm. "Mmm...What magnificent piece this was in your glory days, Wasn't it Count?" He frowned but otherwise made no comment as she let her fingers carefully trace over every detail and intricacy of the arm. "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful..." She whispered, free hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "Can you feel my touches, Lucio?" He widened his eyes, unprepared for the question.

"O-Of course I can feel it!" He shouted. She raised an eyebrow. "I mean...Well, mostly... Somewhat." He conceded, blushing. "It doesn't exactly work like it used to."

"I didn't think so." Taj said, her own magic bleeding into his shoulder, making it tingle.

"Hey, what are you--!" He began to protest. Suddenly, the golden prosthetic popped off, falling into the water and sinking to the bottom of the pool. "Why did you do that!?!" He cried out in alarm, girls still draped over him. Without a word, she popped open the fancy case that she was carrying to reveal perhaps the most sumptuous piece of work that Lucio had ever laid eyes on.

An arm. Crafted of diamond-- the purest blue diamond. With perfectly sized gold scales and 4 mounted red andesine going up it's shoulder. "I know red is your preferred color, but as you assimilate into the House, I would like you to look the part. I hope it still within the parameters of your taste. Will you accept my gift?"

He ran his fingers over the smooth finish of the diamond underside, to the perfect ridges of the golden scales, and then finally, over the bright red stones that decorated the piece. It even had tiny, fine-line etchings on it. "Yes!" He said with childlike enthusiasm, "I can really have it?"

"Certainly." She said with a glimmer of a smirk. "We will have it attached for you as soon as you're settled."

"Well Tajira, was it?" he said seductive smile tugging on his lips.

"Taj, please." She said. Giles’ small gasp could be heard in the background.

"Taj, then. I am very, very thankful for your present. You know, if there's anything that you want me to do to repay you, I'll do it." He batted his long blonde lashes at her. With his erect cock out and two beautiful women clinging to him, pouting and writhing in place it was incredibly hard to deny...

"Not yet." Taj reminded herself in her head. She bristled in place, eyes having gone slightly hooded and dark as she slowly closed the case for the arm. She loathed denying the throbbing of her nether regions. "No..." She said out loud. "You won't ever have to pay me back."

"What? You're sure?" He asked in disbelief.

"No, no, it doesn't work like that. This my pleasure. Giles, hold onto it for him." She said, exiting the water. The white fabric, now see through clung to her as she approached him, accentuating her thick thighs, toned calves, and perky rump. "Bring him to dinner after you're done in here. I want the Council and House Advisors to see him up close and groomed before you begin the discipline process.

"Yes, Madame." Giles nodded slowly. "You-- You're certain of this choice? To have him before the Nobles without any training?"

"It's not as if they can tell me not to." She shrugged casually. "And it's not as if I will allow them to question your advisory skills, If that's what you are concerned about." She kissed his cheek, patting his shoulder lightly. "Now, I must go dress myself." She continued with a nod. "I shall see you all tonight." And with that, she swept out of the room.

Ch.1 End.

Hope you enjoyed! There will be another part!

#lucio #giles #crossover #oc #hc #au #the arcana #midcin #midnight cinderella #the arcana game #lucio x mc #mc #theterrifyingten #the arcana mc #dragonmaiden79 #taj #princess #knight

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awake-not-today · 5 years

Text

NamKook The Gifted Hands / Psychometry AU:

Detective Kim Namjoon is investigating the case of a child disappearance. When the child's body is found, Namjoon finds himself trailing a murderer.

During his investigation he remembers a run in he'd had with a graffiti artist one night, and the artwork he'd done depicting the scene in which the child's body was found.

The graffiti which had been painted a month before the discovery of the child's body.

Jeon Jungkook is a small time graffiti artist with a secret, the power to see the memories of any living thing he touches. He hides himself away from the world, ashamed of who he is, that is until he's thrown head first into a murder investigation and becomes the prime suspect.

Part 8 / ?

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Fic starts under the cut

Chapter masterlist

Tag list: @yoongi-bearr @triheartedhero @doriadoo @rosybabytae @spookidema @mushypie233

Min Yoongi was not an easy man to find.

Taehyung had gone straight to the office, checking the records for anyone with that name. He'd come up empty. And so the search began to trace the phone number, a long and tedious process, but Taehyung had time. And he had determination. He believed in Namjoon, and he believed that Namjoon should be the one to solve the case. Being a junior detective he thankfully wasn’t given many cases of his own, and he hadn’t been assigned to any teams. He could help Namjoon with tracking down the killer, and with hiding what he was doing.

Meanwhile Namjoon had been holed up in the food van with Jungkook and Hobi, rolling his eyes and getting annoyed at the way Hoseok would try to sneakily feed the Jungkook. He couldn’t be too mad, of course. That was just Hoseok’s good nature, but he would still swat at Hoseok from across the seats every time the man snuck Jungkook another fishcake.

Jungkook remained silent, accepting the food gratefully but refusing to answer any questions. He was tired, overwhelmed. The presence of another person being all too much, let alone being sandwiched between two of them. His wrists were beginning to hurt from the cuffs, the metal rubbing irritatingly against the bones of his slender wrists. He just wanted to go home, no, go back in time. Back to before he'd seen the memory, before he'd painted the damn picture. Maybe an anonymous tip off would have been a better idea after all.

Night slowly turned into day, and Jungkook had begun to doze in his seat. Namjoon had fallen asleep against the window, and Hoseok was curled into Jungkook's side. Jungkook had briefly considered trying to make a break for it when the men had succumbed to exhaustion, but he was feeling far too weak to even try and allowed himself to drift off between them. All three of them startled awake when Namjoon's phone rang in his pocket, making Namjoon headbutt the window with a groan.

“Ah, fuck.” He pulled out his phone and slid his thumb across the screen, rubbing his eyes to try to make them focus again. “Hello?”

“Namjoon hyung? I found him.” Taehyung sounded as exhausted as Namjoon felt, making the elder feel a pang of guilt for dragging Taehyung into it. “Do you want me to send over his address?”

“Please.” Namjoon sat up straighter, tilting his head from side to side and biting back a groan at the satisfying crack of his joints. Hoseok looked at him hopefully, Jungkook stared straight ahead. “We’ll head over there now.”

The second he received the location, Namjoon started the van. He felt giddy almost, thrilled. He was another step closer to finding the bastard, and to solving the case that had been taken away from him, but more importantly he was a step closer to finding justice for the girl's mother. Jungkook paled, realization hitting him as they got closer and closer to Yoongi's location. He didn’t want to see him, he didn’t want to hurt Yoongi again.

The apartment building he resided in was across town, nice but not too fancy. A vast improvement on what Jungkook called a home. Namjoon leaned forward in his seat, eyeing it up as he considered his next move. With Taehyung being back at the precinct he was really only left with two options, take Jungkook with him or leave him with Hoseok. Namjoon looked at them considering, biting his lower lip, when Jungkook's eyes widened and he let out a tiny gasp. Namjoon turned to follow his line of sight, seeing a small man throwing some trash into a dumpster beside the building. Jungkook ducked his head low and Namjoon made his decision.

“Hoseok, do not let him out of your sight. If he tries anything, you call me.”

Getting out of the van, Namjoon started toward the stairs where the man had started to ascend, upping his pace to keep up. The man seemed to notice him and walked a little quicker, and so Namjoon did the same. And then the man bolted, taking the stairs two at a time as he glanced back at Namjoon. Namjoon was hot on his heels however and caught him on a landing between floors, pinning him to the wall. The man squeaked, attempting to wrestle from Namjoon's grip but failing miserably.

“Min Yoongi, I presume?” The man stopped moving and huffed, using a leg to push back of the wall, making Namjoon stumble back too. He turned, glaring at Namjoon suspiciously.

“No, but I am his fiancé.” Namjoon blinked, the man rolled his eyes and rubbed his arm where it had twisted in Namjoon’s grip. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Detective Kim Namjoon.” Namjoon fumbled quickly for his badge, handing it to the man to look over. The man sighed.

“You'd better come in then. I'll call Yoongi.” The man turned away to head to another floor before stopping, turning back to look at Namjoon again. “I’m Jimin, not that you asked. Park Jimin.”

The apartment itself was cosy, homely. Unsuspecting. Jimin handed Namjoon a cup of coffee, curling up in an armchair as he eyed the detective warily. Namjoon took a sip, humming in satisfaction as he swallowed it down. He needed it, the night had been far too long. Jimin had called Yoongi on the way to the apartment, letting him know he needed to head back as soon as possible. The silence that fell between Namjoon and Jimin was awkward, making Namjoon cough.

“So uh, why did you run?” Jimin huffed out a laugh, tucking his legs under himself a little more.

“No offence, detective, but I went to put out the trash and suddenly there was a fucking giant chasing me.” Namjoon chuckled himself at that, understanding. Jimin was quite small in stature.

“Tell me about Yoongi.”

“What do you want to know?” Jimin placed his mug down, straightening up in his seat. Namjoon didn’t answer immediately, and so Jimin answered anyway. “He’s wonderful. He teaches music at the local elementary school, I teach art.”

“Is that how you met?” Jimin shook his head, his smile fond.

“We met in high school. I guess you would call us sweethearts.” Jimin was cut off by the sound of the apartment door opening, making him get up to go and grab Yoongi. They spoke, voices hushed, for a moment before Jimin reappeared with a man the same height as him in tow. Namjoon stood, holding out a hand as Yoongi approached him.

“I’m detective Kim Namjoon. I’m sorry to pull you from your job like this but would you mind answering a few questions?” Yoongi nodded, shaking his hand before sitting in the seat Jimin had previously occupied, pulling the latter to sit on his lap. Namjoon ignored that and sat back down on the sofa.

“What's this about?” Yoongi's voice was deeper than Jimin's, gruffer. He looked far more intimidating too, although Jimin was definitely the scarier of the two.

“I wanted to ask you about your relationship with a Mr Jeon Jungkook.” Yoongi say up straight then, Jimin almost falling off his lap. Jimin’s jaw literally dropped, mouth agape as he stared at Namjoon.

“Kookie? You know where he is?” Yoongi looked hopeful, and Namjoon was perplexed. His mind drifted back to the alley, the almost broken way Jungkook had whispered his plea for Namjoon to not bring Yoongi into it. He frowned, scratching just behind his ear.

“Well, not exactly. That’s what I'm here for.” Namjoon lied, assuming Yoongi hadn’t seen Jungkook on his way in. Yoongi slumped, looking every inch the defeated man.

“Oh.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?” Yoongi sighed, and Jimin pressed a soft kiss to his hair, comforting him. Yoongi truly looked upset.

“High school.” Yoongi's voice was lower, quieter. “After the accident he just called me and said he was going to America for a month. I haven’t seen him since.”

“We’ve been looking for him since then.” Jimin interjected, getting up and grabbing a file from the shelf in the corner. “After he went to the US nobody has seen or heard from him at all. He just disappeared.”

Jimin handed Namjoon the file, which turned out to be documents from a variety of private detectives, and a missing persons report that had been closed. Namjoon flipped through the pages, internally wincing at the bills he spotted in there among the different documents. Yoongi and Jimin had spent an obscene amount of money trying to find Jungkook.

“He doesn’t have anyone else. Since his mom-“ Yoongi paused, closing his eyes and tightening his grip on Jimin. Jimin relaxed into it, running his fingers through Yoongi's hair. “He doesn’t have any family and we were all he had. I just want to know he's safe. We both do. We just want him home with us where he belongs.”

"Can you tell me about the accident?" It had been mentioned twice now, and Namjoon was curious. Jimin and Yoongi shared a look, and Jimin took a breath.

"Jungkook was arguing with his mother about something and she stepped back into the road." Jimin closed his eyes, as if reliving the memory. When he reopened them they were glassy, wet. "She didn't see the truck coming. He tried to stop it, stop her, but it was too late. She was gone instantly. She was the last family he had. Well, besides us. That's why we want to find him."

It took everything Namjoon had not to run out of the door and grab Jungkook, to bring him inside to reunite with the two boys in front of him. But Jungkook had disappeared for a reason, and he obviously had no intention of being found. Namjoon closed the file, handing it back to Jimin as he sipped at the now sufficiently cooler coffee. Yoongi wasn’t the killer, he was sure of that. And neither was Jimin. He was back to square one.

Hoseok fidgeted in the van, watching the building carefully for any signs that Namjoon was in distress. He turned to Jungkook, noticing the younger man had worried his bottom lip to the point it was bleeding, and quickly grabbed a napkin from behind him. He tried to reach out, Jungkook flinching away from him.

“Come on, kid.” Hoseok lowered his hand and looked at Jungkook, offering it over. Jungkook watched Hoseok, feeling awfully guilty for what he was about to do to a man who'd shown him nothing but kindness. As soon as Hoseok got his hand close enough, Jungkook grabbed him, wrapping his fingers around Hoseok’s palm.

Jungkook's head flew back for a second, a heavy breath leaving him as his eyes opened wide. Hoseok looked on in horror, watching the deep brown of Jungkook’s eyes turn to a bright blue, a dribble of blood coming from his nose. Jungkook smiled, eerie, as he looked Hoseok in the eye.

“A scam artist?” Jungkook’s voice was unsettlingly deep, his chest heaving as he spoke. “They let anyone play detective these days, don’t they?”

“W-what?” Hoseok attempted to pull his hands away but Jungkook's grip was tight, fingernails biting into the skin of his palm.

“You’ve conned a lot of people, haven’t you 'Hobi'? Not as good as you first seem.” Hoseok used everything in him to rip his hands away from Jungkook, watching the younger gasp and cough as his eyes changed back again. Hoseok tried to open the door, forgetting Namjoon had locked the van. Jungkook used the moment to grab Hoseok’s head and slam it against the car door, knocking him out cold. “I’m sorry, Mr Hoseok sir.”

Jungkook dragged Hoseok along the seat with him as he wriggled over to the driver’s side, winding the window down to clamber out. He reached back in, dragging Hoseok the last but along to slump him over the steering wheel, letting the horn blare as he made his escape. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Hoseok, but now that he had he didn’t want him to be alone for too long.

The sound of the horn outside made Namjoon jump, getting to his feet quickly and mumbling an apology as he raced out of the apartment and down the steps. He was out of breath when he reached the van, fumbling for the keys to unlock the door and shake Hoseok awake. Hoseok groaned, blinking rapidly as he tried to gather his bearings.

“Hoseok, what the fuck happened?” Namjoon tapped Hoseok's cheek lightly, getting his attention. “Where’s Jungkook?”

“Jungkook?” Hoseok seemed confused for a split second until suddenly he was panicked, gripping the front of Namjoon's shirt with wide eyes. “Joon-ah, there's something not right with him.”

“Wha-“

“He knows things, Joon. And his eyes were blue and he was bleeding and-“ Hoseok took a breath, an absolutely fearful look in his eyes as he recalled what had happened. “Namjoon, he's not human. He's not right. He isn’t!”

“Shh.” Namjoon tried to calm his roommate, patting his hair softly as he pried the fingers from the front of his shirt. “It’s okay, Hobi. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get you home, alright?”

The fingers gripping his shirt relented and Hoseok shifted back along in his seat, face pale. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost. Namjoon shook his head, reaching out a hand to check Hoseok's temperature before starting up the van and heading back toward their apartment. Whatever had happened, he'd get he details later. It was useless when Hoseok was talking crazy like this.

It wasn't like he wouldn't find Jungkook again. He had nowhere else to go besides home.

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hookaroo · 5 years

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Vocivore, Ltd. (12 of ?)

A OUAT WINTER WHUMP FIC

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @cocohook38, and @killianjonesownsmyheart1 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL COVER ART BY COCOHOOK38 HERE!!!!!******

4 weeks ago...

“Got ‘im?”

Detective Jones tightened the second cuff around his prisoner’s wrists, grunting,

“Yep.”

David, who was keeping a tight hold on his own feebly struggling captive, took a labored step toward the patrol car. Broken glass and splintered wood crackled underfoot, a testament to the suspects’ recent activities. With the burlap-clad man in front of him finally subdued, Jones followed his friend to the vehicle, while a glaring woman watched with her arms folded. It was her shop front that had been in the process of being vandalized, and she appeared more inclined to blame the deputies for not responding quickly enough than to thank them for preventing further damage.

His charge now safely tucked into the back seat, Jones slammed the door and then promptly peeled back the sleeve covering teeth marks imprinted into the flesh above his mechanical hand. He scowled at the throbbing injury, which was courtesy of the very same prisoner he’d just arrested: the man hadn’t taken kindly to the attempts to restrain him.

David caught a glimpse of the black and purple punctures as he came around the hood. He hissed through his teeth. “Ouch. You all right?”

Nodding, Jones said,

“It’s a good thing this isn’t a zombie apocalypse, or I’d be a goner.”

David looked startled for an instant--he had yet to get used to pop culture references from this version of Killian Jones--and then laughed nervously. “As far as we know…”

Jones allowed the sleeve to fall back into place, having assured himself that the wound was not bleeding excessively.

“You should still get it looked at,” remarked David. “Human bites are nothing to trifle with.”

With a sigh, Jones started to head for the driver’s seat. “Yeah, I know.”

“You still good to drive?”

Before Jones could answer, David’s phone rang. He immediately tensed when he saw who it was.

“Emma? What’s up; is it… did you find something…?”

Both men climbed into the car, but Jones held off starting the engine as he strained to hear the other end of the conversation. Emma didn’t sound particularly excited or emotional, so likely no news on Hope.

“Got it. We’re headed there too; see you in a bit.” David ended the call, then reached for his seatbelt. “She caught a couple more slaves at the docks and is taking them to Whale.”

Jones fired up the engine and pulled onto the street. “More vandals?”

“She didn’t say.”

One week. It had been one full week since Hope’s abduction. The search parties were dwindling in both size and enthusiasm. No one would say such a thing aloud, but the majority had to be coming to one of two conclusions, neither of them good. And to make matters worse, the slave incursions were intensifying. People were starting to get hurt.

With Emma understandably distracted and Killian still limited in his capacity for action, Detective Jones had stepped in to offer assistance, joining a reinstated David as extra deputies for a very overworked sheriff. They frequently went on patrol or responded to calls together, and already, they made an especially effective team. Part of that was due to their common goal of making things easier for two parents experiencing something that they both had reason to empathize with. But Jones also suspected that David’s relationship with the other Killian colored how he interacted with his newer friend, and it was no great effort to form a close working bond with the prince as a result.

As critical as the need to find Hope was, Jones had to admit to a certain amount of relief in dealing with other matters, such as these slave vandals. Morale could be improved significantly by having small successes unrelated to the main problem… or, perhaps, linked in a roundabout way. The part of his mind curse-trained to connect clues and pieces of assorted puzzles automatically engaged with the world around him, searching for associations.

“That’s one thing that doesn’t quite add up, for me,” admitted Jones, breaking the silence that had fallen as the occupants in the backseat recovered from the struggle. “I can understand the thefts, if this… master is running low on supplies to feed his colony. But random destruction of property? Why would he order that? What does he have to gain, as far away as his compound is?”

“Eh, maybe it’s just a side effect of the mind control. Drives ‘em crazy, makes ‘em wanna destroy stuff.”

“Could be.” Jones yielded to an elderly pedestrian waiting to cross the street, even though his arm was killing him and he wanted nothing more than to speed home to an ice pack and some aspirin.

“What I don't get,” said David, “is why he seems to target men. Have you noticed that? Like 90% of the slaves we’ve captured have been male.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s true for the makeup of his slave population as a whole. It could be that he has better control over the males, or trusts them more for his errands. Or he prefers to have the females around him, sick as that may be.”

David sighed. “I wish we had better communication with the other realms. We could go through missing persons reports and look for patterns.”

“I believe Sir Henry is coordinating that very effort,” the detective told him. “We can at least create a profile of who’s most at risk and come up with better protection measures.”

Neither of them brought up the fact that, as far as they knew, Hope was the only 3-year-old among the missing. The only child, period.

Upon reaching the hospital, Jones pulled into a spot reserved for law enforcement vehicles, just behind Emma’s yellow bug. He and David each retrieved a slave passenger, both of whom were now mumbling the familiar plea to be allowed to return to their master.

The four of them were intercepted by an orderly before they’d even stepped through the door.

“This way,” they were directed. “Dr. Whale and the sheriff are in Room 7.”

Room 7 was occupied by two more twitchy slaves in addition to Whale, Emma, and a nurse. There were also two empty wheelchairs provided for the new arrivals, and the deputies had no trouble securing them in place to await evaluation and admission. Over the low repetition of brainwashed ramblings, the physician was conferring with his nurse, while Emma kept a sharp eye out for trouble. David moved closer to her.

“Hey.” He greeted her with a quick hug, which she returned stiffly. “Anything new? As… as far as…”

Emma shook her head. She wouldn’t look at him, but they could both see the set of her jaw and the steel in her gaze as she reached up to clutch at the shell necklace she wore. David put his arm around her in what was meant to be a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry, Emma. But, listen, we’ll… I’m sure we’ll find something soon. Has Regina gotten back to you yet about that locator spell? If she was able to make it work even with the magical shield thing?”

Emma heaved a huge sigh, and Jones braced himself to hear a negative on that count. But her following statement was unexpected, and seemingly unrelated.

“Killian’s gone.”

Jones thought he detected fear, pain, and a little bit of resentment under her carefully casual tone.

“Gone where?” he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. Emma rubbed at her eyes as she struggled to hold onto her composure.

“He’s convinced the monster has her. He’s going to try and get her back.”

David paled, concern prominent on his features. “By himself? What is he thinking?”

“I don’t know! That he can trade himself, maybe? That the monster will tell him where she is so he can break her out? That he’s some damn immortal hero who can single-handedly defeat the guy we’ve been trying for weeks to get at?!” With effort, she reined in her frustration and lowered the volume of her voice. “Classic, idiotic Killian BS.”

Emma glanced brazenly at Jones, daring him to protest. Instead, he inclined his head in solemn agreement. He wasn’t denying the idiocy of the action… but neither would he condemn it or pretend not to understand. Desperation was an all-too familiar burden for him.

“We should go after him,” fidgeted David. “Maybe we could catch up before--”

“No.”

Emma’s voice was so clear and commanding that even Dr. Whale stopped what he was doing to look over at her. Tears were threatening to fall now, but she never lost her air of authority. “We could send the whole town after him, and there would still be enough slaves to fight us off. A big battle means more chance that Killian or… or Hope--” here she cleared her throat as her voice cracked--“dies. So no, we won’t be going after him. Not this time. He made his choice.”

Jones and David exchanged a look. Was this truly the same woman who had risked everything to follow her husband into the Underworld for a rescue? Gently, David began,

“Emma… you’re hurting, and we get it, but maybe we should discuss this.”

“No, Dad,” she hissed back. “No one else goes on a suicide mission. I couldn’t take it.” She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes while David ran his hand up and down her back. “Until we have a solid plan… Killian stays where he is.”

Though it obviously pained him to do so, David nodded a slow acceptance of her statement. The problem was that they were no closer to coming up with a viable plan of action, while the urgency of the situation kept escalating. Sighing, David stepped back.

“What do you need right now? How can we best help you today?”

Emma watched Dr. Whale for a long moment; he had moved on to his assessment of the second slave and seemed to have things well in hand. “I’m gonna stay here and make sure there’s no trouble getting these guys secured. Maybe you could head to the station and check for new messages, any reports or new information. And I guess call Regina for an update.”

“Done.” David turned to Jones and gestured at his wounded arm. “Come on, partner. I’ll walk you down to Urgent Care and we can call the queen while you wait.”

Emma cast a critical eye in the detective’s direction; he made a face and waved off the concern. She didn’t press for details. David drew her in for one more hug, placing a kiss on top of her head.

“We’ll be in touch.”

#ouat fanfiction #wish realm killian #david nolan #emma swan #human bites #detective charming #killian is gone #oh no #Vocivore ltd

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lynyrdwrites · 6 years

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5x01 Smut Fix

Yes, I am being very on the nose with the name of this one. Credit to @adelindschade for pointing out that Klaus had a blood smear on his neck, and that Caroline’s OCD would totally make her notice that.

Obviously, some spoilers for 5x01.

---

“Though why we’re bothering with all of this, I don’t know.”

Caroline rolled her eyes, keeping her back to him. It was ridiculous, really, how easy it was to fall into old patterns. Right from the first hello, Love, it was like the clock had gone back a decade.

Except that they were both parents, and time had changed Caroline’s perspective on time and the monsters it created.

“It’s a historical building,” she told him pertly, and really, Klaus of all people should have already appreciated that. Where was his talk of music and food and art now that he’d made a mess of a national marvel? Quite frankly, the building deserved better.

Klaus raised a brow at her, and Caroline glared him down. She didn’t care if he was a billion years old, she still wasn’t going to be intimidated into excusing his crappy behavior. He should know that.

“Start here.” He accepted the cloth she held out, and turned towards the glass display. Caroline began to swipe at the blood, feeling his gaze like heat on her skin.

She wondered if he was making the cloth make that ridiculous squeaking sound on purpose. He had to be, and she turned her head, ready to start in the next part of the lecture she had been putting together mentally since Rebekah had asked her for help.

Klaus watched her, his lips twisted into the smallest of smiles, his eyes warm, his expression clearly meant to illicit some sort of response.

That response died on a tongue that felt suddenly dry.

She hadn’t been a nun since Stefan had died, but it had been a bit of dry spell… and when she closed her eyes to imagine feelings long past, it wasn’t always her dead husband’s hands she felt on her.

Klaus against her friend and a tree at her back played their part more often than she cared to admit.

Now, she stood in front of a man that had seen her naked, and she was suddenly and inexplicably incredibly aware of that fact. There was a smear of blood against the pale skin of his neck, and as though her hand belonged to someone else, she reached out and swiped her cloth against it.

“Well, that’s just a waste of perfectly good blood, Love,” Klaus murmured, catching her wrist in his hand when Caroline began to pull back. They both look at the blood stained cloth for a moment, before their eyes met, and Caroline had to swallow.

“I’m not hungry anyway,” she replied, trying to bring back the levity that had colored their interaction up until that moment, despite the heavy topics they had been covering.

“Aren’t you?” Klaus replied, raising a brow.

It was a dare and an invitation, all wrapped into one stupidly attractive, accented package, and Caroline was only human.

His lips tasted as good against hers as she remembered.

She dropped her cloth, and clutched his shoulder with one hand, her other tugging his hair as she pressed her lips against his. There was no hesitation in Klaus’ response. He grasped her hips and pulled them tight into his.

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t much taller than she was. He always seemed so much larger than life, that he seemed bigger. But it was convenient, to be able to kiss him with barely a tilt of her head.

“I didn’t come here for this,” she told him, breaking away from their frantic kisses.

“Then let’s consider a happy bonus,” he replied, shoving her shirt up. She lifted his arms, and barely spared even a moment of thought for the blood that would stain the shirt when it hit the floor.

She was too busy shoving his jacket away, impatiently shoving his shirt up and off as well.

Contact. His skin felt so warm, and a cold that Caroline hadn’t even realized she felt fled as she pressed herself as tight against him as was possible. Klaus had always spoke to the monster in her, and she didn’t hesitate to let her fangs out, to graze them against the impossibly full lips that always played a main role in her fantasies about him.

His blood was rich and sweet on her tongue, and she moaned, lapping at the tiny cut, even as it healed.

“You need to feed more, Caroline,” he said against the skin of her neck, his own teeth not breaking her skin, but still giving her a thrill with the dangerous possibility that they could. She shoved a hand down the front of his jeans, her hand finding the hard length of him, and he hissed as she stroked.

“My diet is fine. You just taste good,” she said, her mind glazed over with lust. In her right mind, she never would have admitted that, and Klaus’ expression was smug over the fact that she had.

In response, she spun them in a flash, pressing him against the glass of the display. She wasn’t stupid – she knew she only kept him pinned so long as he allowed – but he seemed content to remain at her mercy, and Caroline happily took full advantage of that. She pressed kisses along the skin of his chest, her hand still stroking him.

“That’s enough of that,” Klaus muttered at last, and then it was Caroline’s turn to be pressed to the display. Her jeans were shoved down, and she kicked them away impatiently as the shreds of her panties tumbled to the ground.

“I liked those,” she told him, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood again, and sucking it between hers.

“I’ll buy you more,” Klaus promised, his fingers stroking her clit, and then checking to see if she was wet.

She was.

She almost sobbed with relief when he thrust into her, his cock hard and long and hitting all of the spots that had been left untouched for far too long.

Her memory didn’t do the feel of him justice.

“Oh, God,” she said, burying her face against his neck. “God.”

“Klaus, Love.”

“Did you seriously just say that?” she demanded, her head snapping back so she could glare at him. Silly clichés did not play a role in this… but then his cock hit her just right, and her glare became a sad attempt at anger, and finally she gave up on the attempt all together, and buried her face against him again.

“You feel even better than I remember,” he said, his breath warm against her damp skin. “Far better.”

Caroline tightened around him, her orgasm rushing over her as she clutched his shoulders. A few more wild thrusts, and Klaus buried himself in her, hiding his groan in her hair.

“I don’t think my legs are going to work,” Caroline admitted, stroking a hand down his back.

“I’ll hold you until they do,” Klaus replied, his voice still muffled against her, but they caused an odd warmth in her chest. Her hand moved from his back, to stroke his hair.

He finally looked up at her, his expression almost boyish.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to turn this French visit into that winter getaway I mentioned?”

To her surprise, Caroline felt true regret as she finally unwound her legs from his waist, and accepted his help to separate their bodies.

“You know I can’t, Klaus,” Caroline replied, her lips curving into a fond, but sad smile.

“Yes,” Klaus agreed. “I suppose I do know that. Still… a nice dream, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Caroline replied, and Klaus actually looked surprised at the comment. “It is a nice dream. And maybe it’ll come true someday, in a century… or two.”

Tension rose between them, her words a callback to the ones he had spoken to her so, so long ago. It was interesting, the ways people could affect your life, without you truly recognizing it at the time.

She had never forgotten the things he had said to her. Any of them.

“Until then, you still have a daughter,” she pointed out, grabbing her pants and setting about pulling them up.

“She’s better off without me,” Klaus replied, his gaze almost distant. “I know what it is to be raised by a monster.”

“You can’t do that,” Caroline snapped. She had picked up her shirt, but now she dropped it again, to rest her hands on her hips and glare at him. “It was, like, a thousand years ago. Mean dad? Newsflash: the guy’s dead.” And, because even when she had been mad at him, she had also been honest, she added, “I know what it’s like, to be a kid missing her father.”

“Caroline-”

“Call her, Klaus, before you lose your daughter, and she loses you.” She grabbed her shirt and pulled it on. When she looked at Klaus again, he was watching her, his expression distant. She didn’t want to leave this at that, so she stepped close and cupped his cheeks. He hesitated a moment, but finally let her pull him down for one more, soft kiss. “I happen to think that you’re someone worth knowing.”

He closed his eyes, and they rested their foreheads against each other for one last moment. Then she pulled back, and gave him a rueful smile.

“See you at the next parent-teacher conference.”

#Klaroline #Klaroline drabbles #Klaroline fic #adelindschade #smut fix #TO spoilers

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fyeahcaptn · 6 years

Text

Vampire. Or More?

this is my entry from the klaroline valentines day. for angie. kinda late in posting it here oops.

ff. ao3.

summary: klaus gets worried when james doesn't check in with a report on caroline, so when he calls, he's surprised when it's caroline who answers. worried about his vampire whose been apparently bitten, caroline demands he flies to new york to fix him. what will he find when he gets there? hint: caroline's changed a lot from the vampire he knew 10 years ago.

follows events past 5x11, but basically ignores TO canon (as per usual). no magical unicorn babies just because I can. NSFW because of smut reasons obviously. there may be a second part in the future. MAYY.

anyways, hope you all enjoy this one, and let me know what you think.

- shauna xo

He thinks about her everyone once in a while, truth be told. It could be something as simple as a piece of art he'd think she'd like, or a blonde girl in the street wearing one of those summer dresses she seemed to be so fond of. But his mind inevitably drifts back to her, back to them in the end.

He thinks about what she must be doing now, with her life. If she'd stayed in Mystic Falls, like she'd wanted once upon a time. Or if she'd left. She was born to see the world, to be a Queen. And honestly, what he'd do to be the one to show it to her. Perhaps. Perhaps one day. Maybe, just maybe, she'd let him.

But he'd promised to leave her alone. And he had, mostly.

He still had some tabs on her. Just enough to know she was safe. He didn't know what she was up to, however, or even where she was. His vampires were only required to report back to him if she'd managed to get herself in danger, and James tended to keep him updated monthly, to tell him she was fine. Which was why he found it weird when James didn't report back that day.

He sighed.

He promised Elijah he wouldn't get murdery whilst he was creating this meaning, something about keeping the city at peace. So, he settled on a text instead.

James, you know what happens when you disappoint me.

I do hope you haven't been lacking on your duties.

His phone vibrates not five minutes later, and he's unsurprised to find it's James. He doesn't even pretend to look at his stiffy, older brother with an apology, merely excuses himself.

He clears his throat as he answers, "James, I certainly hope-"

But he's interrupted by a voice he's all too familiar with, and one he hasn't heard in nigh on a decade.

"Klaus? I've been waiting hours for you to call! Hours! What do you have to say for yourself?"

He blinks.

"Caroline?"

"Duh," is the answer he gets and his lips twist up involuntary, "Now, would you care to explain why there's a compelled vampire following my every move?"

He sighs, his head tipping back against the wall.

"It sounds like you already know the answer to that, love," he says slowly. "And my apologies," he smirked, "about not calling sooner. Had I known you wanted to hear my voice earlier, I would have called you immediately." A pause, and then, "You could have called me yourself, you know, Caroline."

"Don't be cute." He knows she's glaring, even through the phone call. "Now, I suggest you get your ass to New York."

He doesn't quite know how to take that, but he smiles nonetheless.

"So that's where you are," he hums, "And you've missed me so badly that you need to see me immediately, I presume?"

"James was bitten," she hisses at him. "Trying to take down some wolf that was attacking me."

He growls at that knowledge. No one should even touch her.

But he shakes his head.

"He was just doing his job then," he summarises.

This time, she growls at him, and his fingers curl more tightly around his phone, unwilling for her to know how much that little noise turns him on.

"Come to New York. Now, Klaus," she demands. "It's the least you owe me for having me followed since who knows how long. And I've grown fond of James."

He deliberately avoids answering that, knowing that his reply won't make her any happier with him.

"Very well, love," he sighs. "I'll be on the first flight out."

"Good."

He's smirking, even as she hangs up on him. Seems he had a blonde vampire he needed to see.

Perhaps she'd be interested in visiting him in New Orleans soon enough. He suspects he'll have time to convince her, and healing James will sway her to him, won't it? (She'd said she'd been fond of him, but he chooses not to think about that part.)

He leaves Elijah a voicemail, knowing he'll be busy with the meeting for quite a while longer, but pays it no mention, other than for his brother to know he needs to look after the city while he's gone, however long that may be. He's in New York in less than a five hours, after having to track Rebekah down for the private jet, and he's at the address that Caroline had given him in not much longer, choosing to run there.

He senses her, before he hears her, and that's quite the feet for a vampire not two decades old. He hears rustling as she goes to open to door, and though he knew he were come to see her, his Caroline, at last, he still isn't quite ready for the sight of her after a decade of nothing.

Her eyes are somehow brighter than he remembers them, but perhaps that's because she's angry with him. If the expression wasn't a dead giveaway, with the way her lips are pressed tightly together and her eyes narrowed at him, the way her leg pops with her hands on her hips is a definite one.

"Caroline," he breathes, because all he wants to do now is gather her in his arms, and protect her at all costs.

It's overwhelming what he feels for this girl right now, because it never used to be like this before. It was never this intense.

She cocks her head at him, her eyes assessing him, even as he does feel a familiar heat in them, and he knows this can't all be one sided.

"Come in," she tells him, voice softer somehow. "Please."

She's different, somehow, he decides, as he crosses the threshold. He's not sure how, but she is. Maybe he is too. Because the pull he feels towards her now, the way he wants to make her his is something he never felt before. Not like this. He always wanted her, he knows that. He wanted her forever, but now? Now it's like he needs her forever, and he's not sure why it's changed.

He has his answer, as he tears into his own wrist, his blood pouring out into a cup, as he passes it to James, because her eyes bleed. But not into the searing red he was so used to seeing on her. This time they're amber. Like his.

She looks just as shocked as he does. Maybe it's the fact that her face is out, and she didn't expect it to be, he doesn't know. But she's magnificent. He's also aware of the way his fangs are out, unwilling to retract just yet, as he stares at her, hungrily, and yet in shock.

"You're a hybrid," he chokes.

She expected to see him eventually, to have to explain, but she didn't think it'd be so soon. And she most definitely wasn't prepared for the cluster of emotions she'd feel when she saw him. She used to love the way he looked at her, used to reveal in it, that the oldest being on this earth wanted her. But something's change, it's more intense if anything. And she knows that she's looking at him the same way.

It's lust.

Primal and hot.

And she feels her eyes darken, feels the veins pop out as she watches him tear into his wrist to feed poor James, and when his eyes flicker, she barely surpasses a gasp when she seems him in a similar state. And it most definitely doesn't do anything for her that he hisses at James to leave before he turns back to her.

She can't say she even pays it any mention.

"Caroline-"

"Shut up," she tells him, and she's up against him before he can blink, hands running through his curls. "Just shut up."

And she presses her mouth to his.

He groans against her, and his hands drop to her waist almost immediately, clearly on board with her plan.

(He feels this too right? He has to.)

His fingers curl around her, first around her tank top, and then bunching it up in his fingers, as his palms come into contact with soft skin of her back. The sounds he makes against her and rough and desperate as his mouth catches up, his teeth biting her bottom lip. His hands turn rougher, when his tongue snares its way into her mouth, pushing against hers.

This time, it's her whose makes a highly desperate noise.

He has her against a wall (who knows which one), with her legs clenched around his hips before she knows much of what is going on, and her top is in flutters around her waist.

Damn him, because she liked that one.

"I'll buy you a new one," he's muttering, as he sets to work, his lips following a trail down her neck.

His left hand wraps around one side of her neck, as he sucks. Hard. And she lets out a long stream of moans, as he grinds against her.

"Klaus," she groans, deep and throaty, as her head flings back against the wall.

He gives her a dirty grind in response, his cock pressing against her with such accuracy that he hits her clit with every thrust.

"Klaus-" she tries again, but she's cut off again when he suddenly has his tongue swirling around her nipple, her bra pulled down just bellow her chest, and her straps ruined.

"Mm?

"There's a perfectly good- oh!"

She feels his lips twist up, as his hand manages to slip down the front of her jeans, right into her panties, feeling the wet, heat of her. And she really wants to knock that smug look off of his face. God, he's annoying.

But, then he has two fingers curled inside her, and his eyes are back on her face, intent and watching her every move.

Nope.

So not happening tonight.

So as much as it pains her, she pushes him away from her, his surprise allowing her to shove him until he plops down on the black sofa with a humph. She doesn't stop until he tears his shirt off, and she kneels between his thighs, her hands undoing his belt buckle, and pulling his jeans down to his ankles.

Her eyes sparkle as she stares up at him, her hand just beginning to curve around his cock.

"Sweethear-"

"Shut up."

"Bossy," he gives her a throaty chuckle, but the rest is lost as she wraps her lips around him, and his head tips backwards, his mouth open on a groan.

His hand instinctively drops down to bury itself in her hair, as she moves at a steady pace, her hand moving at the base of him.

"That's it, sweetheart," he breathes, and she's surprised to find him looking down at her like that. "Suck my cock."

She won't admit that turns her on.

So, she sucks harder, her hand closing around him and stroking more firmly, and his hand tightens in her hair in response.

"I'll bet you like this, hm?"

Her eyes are staring up at him, wild and wide.

She hums against him, sending vibrations up his cock and he groans. He sees her rubbing her thighs together and he smirks.

"How wet are you for me right now, Caroline?"

She glares in response, but she pulls her mouth off him, and she traces a vein up his cock, as her hand moves around to fondle his balls, and he's far too close for a man who should have centuries off practise.

He hears, rather than sees the click that signals her fangs are out, and then he feels them, digging into his thigh, but not breaking skin.

"Very," she mumbles.

He knows his own eyes must be amber as he peers down at her.

"Take off your skirt, love," he demands, "And touch yourself for me."

It doesn't take much of her fluttering eyes, the way he sees her fingers move in and out of herself, as well as her mouth around him, that he's gripping her hair in his tight grip, and hauling her onto his lap, until he can pull her down on his cock, and the moan she lets out is positively sinful.

"Move, Caroline," he grits out, even as his hands reach around to grab a handful of her ass and pull her against him.

Her back is arched, as she grinds against, pulling and falling him and it's good, so good, great even, as he pulls her even tighter to him, his thrusts getting rougher as he gets closer, but she's so far gone that she can't quite fathom what else she needs.

Suddenly, she's upright, her thighs clenched around his waist, as Klaus pushes her roughly against the wall. One of his hands is on the wall behind her, the other coming around her hips to pull her more roughly into him.

"Yes," she groans, her lips pressing into his neck. "Right there."

He grins, his own lips trailing across her chest.

"Are you close, love?"

The noise she lets out is indication enough, and he leads back slightly, as he watches himself move in and out of her. She feels herself clench down at the sight. His eyes flicker up to hers curiously, before they flicker back down.

"Touch yourself for me," he breathes.

And yes, that's exactly what she needs, as his thrusts get rougher.

She feels her fangs come out as she stares down at him, biting her lip, as she wills them to go away. Klaus merely smirks, his head tips to the side. She doesn't ask for permission, the invitation more than clear as she tears into his neck, and she gives him her wrist, knowing it's what he wants, and it's what she needs too.

Not a moment later, he's tearing into her wrist. He's softer than she was, and less messy, but she doesn't care, as her hips chase his. Because this is exactly what she needed, to feel him.

He comes first, but it's a close thing, as she clenches around him not a moment later.

They're both breathing heavy, and Klaus drops them unceremoniously to the floor. He's pressing kisses against her throat as she comes back around.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

It's quiet, the words pressed against her.

"I wish I could," her words are just as quiet. "There's not much I know."

"Hm?"

"I was actually on my way to you."

His head snaps backwards, his eyes wide, as he searches her face.

"What?"

She smiles slightly, and shrugs.

"I was hoping you'd have some ideas, maybe a witch or two under your thumb in New Orleans? I didn't want to bother Bonnie. She's been busy raising two kids lately, they didn't need to be brought into this if it turned out ugly and-"

"Caroline?"

"Yes?"

"You're rambling, sweetheart," he dimples.

She gives him a pointed look, "Well, are you going to help me?"

"Depends."

"On?" she trails.

"How long were you planning on staying?" he asks instead.

"I don't know. Someone did once promise to show me around New Orleans. Music, culture, beauty, and all that. Any ideas?"

"Hm," he hums. "I don't know. I suppose he might still be interested."

He steals a kiss.

She gives him a look, and he bites back a smile.

"And I suppose I did miss him. Maybe even a tiny bit."

Another kiss that's far more heated that the last.

"Then who would he be to disappoint?"

She hums, as he leans forward on his knees, pressing his lips against hers that feels new. Like it's the start of something, rather than the end for once.

"So, does that mean you're coming home with me?"

"Depends."

"On?" He raises an eyebrow.

"If you're actually taking me bed tonight or if you expect me to sleep on the floor like this all night, because let me tell you, buddy-"

He rolls his eyes, as he swallows the rest of her sentence with a kiss, even as she throws her legs around him, as he begins up the stairs, dropping her down on the bed thereafter.

"Better, sweetheart?"

She smirks up at him.

"There's room for approvement."

And then she grips his neck and hauls him forward, planting a dirty kiss on his lips, and he groans against her.

Yes, they could deal with everything much later.

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #klaroline fanfiction #shauna writes stuff #kc drabbles #vampire. or more?#klarolinevalentines2018

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searchforthescars · 6 years

Text

Cicatrix

When she wakes in the middle of the night with a swollen, pus-filled wound from the crescent scar under her eye, Otan groans and swears, punctures it with a semi-clean knife and stitches it crudely, all the while scolding her for letting it get so bad.

“It could have gotten infected,” he tells her while she grips her knee tightly against the pain of the needle on her flesh. “You need to be careful.”

“I don’t care,” she whispers, shifting her eyes away from her brother’s face. “I don’t care.”

All my love to @bombshellsandbluebells for editing this THE NIGHT I FINISHED IT WOW and also for entertaining the headcannons that lead to this fic because honestly I need to chill but she’s all for it.

creation

She thought they would never be caught.

They’re asleep by the fire, Otan’s thin legs a sturdy pillow for her head, her breathing soft enough to lull him to sleep. Their camp is quiet, the rowdiness of a drinking game dwindling along with the firelight and the supply of grain alcohol stolen from a wealthy Polis merchant.

Emori is almost asleep when rough, angry hands jerk her awake. She feels her brother shift, then swear while her head is knocked to the ground, unceremoniously waking her from her half-slumber.

“What the hell?” she asks, half-awake, fully angry. It’s been months since they joined Baylis’ crew and weeks since they proved themselves as loyal. She thought they were finished with these pathetic games of well-worn mistrust. “I was sleeping.”

“You were stealing,” Baylis snarls. Emori realizes one of his seconds has a knife to Otan’s throat. Baylis’ own glints in the light from where it rests near Emori’s heart. “One of you took something from us. A piece of tech.” He presses the knife down. Emori feels her blood sing with fear. “Where is it?”

“Go to hell,” Emori snaps. “We didn’t steal anything.”

Baylis cracks her across the face. The handle of his knife cuts into the soft skin of her left cheek, right above the tattoo. She bites back a cry, baring her teeth instead.

“I said,” Baylis hisses, “where’s the fucking tech?” [Read on Ao3]

She knows where it is. It’s in Gideon’s hands, halfway to the island. Their theft was insurance for a life after this -- a life after Baylis and the others tire of the frikdreina and her brother and cast them out, the latest in a years-long story every mutant knows well.

She looks over her shoulder at Otan. Did you do it? His eyes ask.

No, hers reply. Did you?

He shakes his head ever-so-slightly, fear creeping over them both. They know they are lying. They know what happens to thieves.

Emori is chained in the dark, kept immobile by knots and metal too strong for her aching muscles to break. They come with knives, with crude whips and seawater to burn the wounds they make. She groans, but doesn’t cry out, cries out but doesn’t scream, screams into the silence, but doesn’t beg-

Doesn’t beg until Baylis returns -- this time, with her brother, and she wants to cry because he looks like hell, bruised and beaten, shoulders slumped and eyes dull -- and even then, she says nothing until he moves over her, holds a knife curved like a scythe under her right eye and presses down and down, smothering her, making Otan bloody his wrists to reach her, and in the distance she hears herself begging, but never once confessing.

He throws them out after that. He and his crew take everything they own as payment, and they run.

Emori doesn’t speak for days. Her pleas wasted all her words.

retention

They return to the desert -- the only place that covers their tracks without being asked. They have nothing but the clothes on their backs and the half-full canteen Emori swipes from an abandoned pile of supplies on their way out of camp.

Their first day back, Otan kills a Wastelander -- those soft idiots who think they can live on this barren land -- and takes his horse.

You idiot, Emori thinks, watching the Wastelander’s blood seep into the sand. You can’t live out here - only survive.

She watches until his blood runs dry. Otan lets her.

She likes the horse. She doesn’t name him, but she likes to stroke his soft nose, listen to him whicker and sigh when she feeds him a dried piece of fruit or gives him the last of her water. It soothes the empty ache inside her to make something so innocent happy.

Otan finds her a scrap of cloth to cover her face while the wounds heal. The sand still scrapes against the scabs, and Emori knows they will scar but can’t bring herself to care. She tells herself it’s because her beauty doesn’t matter, but she knows somewhere deep in her gut that she will never feel anything right again.

“It could have gotten infected,” he tells her while she grips her knee tightly against the pain of the needle on her flesh. “You need to be careful.”

“I don’t care,” she whispers, shifting her eyes away from her brother’s face. “I don’t care.”

He sits back on his heels, wiping her blood off on his shirt. “You were brave,” he says, and she sees her pain mirrored in his eyes. It’s the closest thing to praise she’s gotten from him in a long time, and she takes it, holds it close to her chest and tries to sleep.

They meet Gideon by the water. He’s willing to keep their deal, but they have nothing to trade, so he sends them back out into the Dead Zone to scavenge and steal. Emori revels in it, in the uncomplicated art of the con, the only thing she’s good at aside from pretending she isn’t hungry or thirsty - something she is doing right now as Otan lays a trap for their next mark with an abandoned cart they find near the bottom of a hill.

“Stay here, give them a story and lead them east,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “Understand?”

Emori doesn’t want to be alone. She only has a knife for protection, and her strength is waning fast. It’s been days since her last meal, and her body knows it. Deep down, she is afraid.

Their horse whinnies. Emori reaches out to pat his side. “I understand.”

He rides away. She winces at the flex and pull of the stitches in her cheek. Her other wounds ache and burn in the sun. She pulls the cloth over her mouth and waits.

realization

She didn’t know there were scars until she catches a glimpse of herself in the water’s reflection.

It’s been more than a few days since she met the boy in the desert, the one she doesn’t allow herself to think about, the one with the laugh caught in the back of his throat and the awkward smile and the stutter and shaking hands as he offered her water.

She gave him directions to the place where he could find her. His companions were searching for the City of Light, but he wasn’t, and she hopes against all that one day, maybe today, she’ll return to the island, and he’ll be there. She doesn’t think he’ll be waiting for her, but maybe she can convince him to forgive her for knocking him out.

It was a survivor’s move, after all.

She leans on the boat’s rail, the searchlight illuminating the dark water below, and looks down, hoping to catch a glimpse of the silvery fish that sometimes swim beside the boat, hungry and curious.

She sees herself instead, and bile rises in her throat at the sight of the half-circle scar under her eye, the gashes along her jaw and cheekbone. They don’t look as harsh as she guesses they would under real, harsh light, but they nauseate her and terrify her all the same.

Otan blows the boat’s horn. Emori glares at him over her shoulder, then relaxes when she sees them start to near the shore. Gideon is there, as is another figure, a man with dark skin, and another whose back is to them.

Her whole body stiffens, tenses like a rope about to snap. There’s so many of them and one of her, and the newly discovered scars marring her skin itch and burn as a reminder of just how dangerous men could be.

The smaller man, the one whose back is to her, turns, and she squints into the dark to catch a glimpse of pale skin and high cheekbones. Is that-

“John?” She maneuvers around Otan and can’t keep the smile off her face when she sees him, thin and incredulous, but obviously, remarkably the same. “I don’t believe it.”

“Emori?”

She breaks into a smile of relief at the voice, that voice , because it belongs to the boy she’s been begrudgingly missing for weeks. It's too good to be true, she decides, and even better than that when he climbs up next to her and leans on the rail, their arms almost touching.

"Jaha found the City of Light," he says, gesturing to his companion, who is kneeling at the back of the boat, a strange silver thing strapped to his back.

She looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "Did you?" When he shakes his head, her heart sinks. "Are you alright?"

Her concern must startle him; he looks at her with a sharpness that makes her flinch. "Y-yeah. I'm fine."

She nods. They stand there, side-by-side, and watch the fog roll over the sea. It's the first time in months she has felt at peace.

retribution

The man tied to the chair isn’t Baylis, but Emori doesn’t care.

After the story of theft and darkness and pain clawed its way out of her stomach and into John’s ears, she spent night after night tamping down the nightmares, the paralysis that seeped into her bones and tricked her hands into being bound by invisible ropes.

She will never feel trapped like that again, she vows. But that’s a futile promise now, now that they’re in this house and this lab with people that might take her and lock her into a glass coffin to bleed and break and die.

No. She doesn’t want this. She will not plead for her life. She will not let herself become a sacrifice for the people that hate the only one she loves.

So she will lie, and she will steal, and she will do everything she was punished for in the dark because if she is going to live, she will gladly pay the cost, because not a damn thing hurts her anymore, not after that night, the one that not even John knows about.

And if she uses not-Baylis as a stand-in for all the pain and fear she has kept hidden in the pit of her stomach, that’s her business.

After the first few hits, John stops pacing and watches her. She feels his eyes on her bloody hands and revels in it, in the terror she feels coming off the unknown man in waves. It’s easy to pretend he is Baylis — the trauma is fresh, the wounds only a little less — and it’s even easier to ease the knot in her stomach with fists instead of truthful words.

John could not stand to look at her if he knew. She would be a dirty thing to him, something used up and sad. She will not be anything less than strong. She will not beg. She has spent too many days and nights at the world’s mercy, and she is so damn tired.

John knows this. He lets her run herself out until her fists and knuckles scream for mercy. She feels the pain, winces at it, but doesn’t want the adrenaline to fade.

Oh, is it rush to make someone else beg before her for a change.

absolution

She studies herself in the mirror that hangs across from the bed she and John share. It’s big and empty, like the house around them, but it’s so soft and makes John smile, so she can begrudge them both this impractical comfort. Just the thought of John’s contented smile as he curls under the warm blankets makes her smile; she watches in mild fascination as her reflection’s lips quirk up ever-so-slightly.

Her eyes are dark. Her lungs ache - that dull, clean feeling after a heavy storm or a good cry. She breathes in, out, and touches the line of her jaw, the top of her cheeks. The scars are finally fading, little more than memories that her fingertips chase. The stitches Otan never removed are lumpy under her right eye, but the scar itself is nearly healed, the combination of sun and time erasing the last reminder of the worst night.

“Did it help?” John asks softly, coming up behind her, pressing a kiss to her temple and winding his arms around her waist.

She leans her head back, tipping her head and nosing at his neck until he leans down for a kiss. “Yes,” she says softly, precisely, and he smiles in the mirror. It’s a mean smile, a proud smile.

“He deserved it. For hurting you,” he says, and the ache is back because how does she deserve someone who loves her enough to fight for her?

She hums, reaches her good hand up to tangle in his hair, watches in fascination as his reflection’s eyes close reflexively. “Many people have hurt me, John.”

“You should beat them all,” he says, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her arm. Then, after a moment, “Why were you staring at yourself in the mirror?”

She takes a deep breath. “I used to have scars. My reflection is strange to me now.”

He nods, sighs. “I remember. The one under your eye looked like it hurt like hell.”

“Why didn’t you ever ask?”

He shrugs. “If you wanted me to know, you would tell me.”

She turns, wraps her arms around his neck, walks him backwards until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and she’s standing between his legs. “I want to tell you something. And you’re going to hate it.”

He says nothing. She lets the story pour out of her like a waterfall. When she’s finished, his hands are gripping his knees tightly, and there’s a vein bulging in his neck. The phantom scars she searched for earlier burn.

“I swear to fucking-” he starts, then stops. “I’m going to kill him,” he says with vehemence.

“No,” she says, catching his arm as he starts to stand up. She feels like lead, like she could collapse at any second. “Come rest with me.”

She doesn’t ask for it, but he hears her, looks down at her with a soft gaze and leads her to bed, pulling her to his chest and caging her with his arms. Vaguely, before sleep pulls her under, she marvels at his selflessness. Were the roles reversed, she would not be strong enough to forsake revenge for another’s comfort.

Or maybe she would be. He has always been her exception.

The last thing she feels is his thumb tracing her cheek. When she wakes, she could swear the last of the scar has disappeared.

#memori fanfic #dailymemori #lindseysfandoms #bombshellsandbluebells #maskingtapepoetree #daisytachi #murphystartedthefire #memorifanfic #idk validate me pls

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penelopelovesalvez · 6 years

Text

A Lucky Night- Chapter 4

Here is my multi-chapter pic featuring characters I do not own from Criminal Minds, Alvez x Garcia, in a story of my own creation. It picks up at the end of 13.5.

Warning: Some chapters contain smut. While many do not, the ones that do are definitely 18+, NSFW.

Please feel free to re-blog and review! Please ask for permission before posting on any other platform.

Penelope smiled, ushering her lovies to help themselves to food. “I love having all my people here, with good food and plenty of wine. What more could a girl need?” she mused happily to herself. She smiled as she watched JJ sit down on Will’s lap, feeding him a bite of food from the plate she balanced on her knee. Rossi was pouring himself a scotch, having already passed a tumbler to Reid. Prentiss has heaped a plate full of food and set it down on the mantle as she fiddled with the iPod that was pumping subtle music into the room. Glancing around, she noted Luke was in the kitchen tidying things up. He had pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the expanse of his muscular arms. She thought to herself, “I suppose I will have to go play hostess and get him to join the festivities. After all, it’s my duty, right?”

Penelope strode back into the kitchen, placing a hand on Luke’s bicep. “Hey Newbie, you better grab some food before Rossi eats it all. Here, try the goat cheese dip I was talking about,“ Penelope said. She reached out with her other hand, dipping a piece of the crusty bed into the melty cheese. Turning back to Luke, who was now facing her, looking down at her with an intense look, she put the bread up to his lips and watched as he opened his mouth. She gently placed the bread in between his gorgeous full lips, when a small piece of cheese fell and landed on the edge of his lip.

Luke was amazed that she had come into the kitchen seemingly with only the purpose of drawing him into the festivities, and then she actually fed him fondue or something from her hand. He felt the cheese hanging off the edge of his lip, and dared to catch it with his tongue, licking her finger in the process. He watched as are eyes, locked on his, darkened and her cheeks flushed. Her hand was still curled around his arm, clutching his muscles through his shirt and he was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to grab her wrist and haul her into his chest.

Penelope shook her head, ending the heated exchange. “Here, let’s make you a plate,” she urged, turning back to the table of food. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her movements. She scooped some of her favorite items, along with the steak she’d ordered just for him, onto his plate. “Here ya go Luke,” she said, offering him the plate.

He smiled down at her, that wolfish grin on his face again. Nodding his head at JJ and Will over on the couch, he asked, “There’s plenty on that plate, would you like to share, Chica?”

Her eyes widened. She wondered if he was merely referring to sharing the plate of food, or if he was suggesting she share his lap the way JJ was perched on Will’s. “Oh, mon coeur, you couldn’t handle all this.” She replied, in a teasing, self-mocking voice. “Too rich for your palate. Plus, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if I found my own chair,” Penelope said, patting his arm absently. She missed the flash of irritation that flitted across his features as she turned and strode across the room to pull out a folding chair from the closet. She set the chair up, reminded Emily to grab something to eat, and turned to stride back across the room, past where Luke was sitting in her cozy, purple armchair.

Luke sat in the chair, setting his plate down on the table next to him. His eyes followed Penelope’s movement shrewdly, calculating. As she walked past on her way to the kitchen, he reached out and grabbed her by the waist. Before she could even grasp what was happening, he pulled her down into his lap. He settled her onto his thighs so that she leaned against the arm of the chair, legs dangling over the opposite arm, and his muscular arm wrapped snugly around her waist.

Startled, she looked into his laughing face. She was literally left speechless. She couldn’t remember the last time she had sat on a man’s lap. Certainly, neither Sam nor Kevin, or really any of her other exes or men she had flirted with had ever pulled her onto their lap! She may have sat on Derek’s lap once or twice, but it was during awful moments when she needed comfort. It certainly was NOTHING like what was happening currently.

Luke smiled, seeing Penelope’s shocked expression as she took in her new position. It was amusing to be the one causing the stubborn, independent woman to unravel just a bit. “See, Chica? I told you we could share. Hmmm, you might be pretty rich, but I can sure handle all you got to offer,” Luke growled into her ear, a smile on his face and his eyes challenging her to disagree or make the next move.

Penelope threw her head back, laughing exuberantly. She could feel the firm muscles of Luke’s thighs below her own, the washboard abs through his soft, cotton shirt, and the warm, possessive press of his arms around her waist and back. His warm breath sent shivers down her back as she felt him start to chuckle. Conversations around the room stopped, and the rest of the team stared at her, curious and interested. Rossi began to open his mouth, “Kitten,” he started. But before he could make whatever sarcastic statement came to mind, she chuckled again loudly, “Oh Newbie, you certainly got a head start on that responsible intoxication while I was getting ready. You better slow down, or you might end up dragging Rossi onto your lap,” she announced loudly for the benefit of their team. She pushed her body up into a standing position, extracting herself from his embrace -although he flexed his arm muscles for just a moment, as if to hold her there on his lap.

Luke’s eyes flashed in irritation as she spoke and pulled out of his grip. He refused to let go of her waist, holding her to him a moment longer before he admitted that she had effectively backed him into a corner where he either let her get up good=naturedly or confessed his feelings for all to listen. As quickly as he’d allowed his armor to fall away he schooled his features once again into the easy going, good natured, stoic persona he normally displayed. He thought to himself that one day soon he’d show her just how stubborn and determined he could be, and how much she could enjoy allowing him to call the shots, bringing his beer up to his lips.

Penelope strode straight to the kitchen, passing the plates of food she normally would have been ready to devour after such an emotional, exhausting weak. But after that … whatever it was… what she needed was a tall glass of liquid courage. “What had just happened?” she silently wondered. Penelope glanced back over her shoulder as she pulled the wine stopper out of the bottle. Her friends had gone back to their previous activities, eating and talking. The sounds of their laughter and conversation, and the mellow music playing over the stereo, could not distract her from how warm the room suddenly felt as she brought the bottle over to the glasses on the counter. Nor could it prevent her from noticing that the one person who hadn’t resumed talking and eating, who hadn’t moved at all actually, was staring at her.

She allowed herself to take in his posture. His plate still sat untouched on the table, his feet were still planted, and his hands now gripped the arms of the chair. His gaze narrowed as she caught his gaze, and his jaw clenched briefly. She didn’t break eye contact as she brought the glass to her lip and gulped three mouthfuls of the cool, crisp white wine- the hand holding the glass just slightly trembling. She saw something spark in his eyes, as he nodded imperceptibly.

Luke smirked, watching her hand shake as she gulped her wine. “Yeah, she’s definitely not unaffected by me,” he thought, smirking. He causally stood, grabbing his plate, and wandering over to where Rossi and Reid were discussing an Italian art exhibit on tour at a local museum. He was going to let her relax. The plan coming together in his head would work better if she was relaxed, not watching his every move. He watched her let out a shaky breath, before making a plate and joining Emily, JJ, and Will.

Luke enjoyed his conversation with Reid and Rossi, as he always did. However, using his well-honed skills from his days as a Ranger, and then on the fugitive task force, he managed to track her movements out of the corner of his eye. He realized she has no idea what effect she has on him. Carrying on his side of the conversation just enough to avoid suspicion, he pondered all he had learned about her since he had joined the BAU. She cared deeply for her team, as if they were family. When SSA Morgan had retired she’d taken it hard, even though she delighted in serving as godmother to his son. She struggled with change, and although she was outgoing and incredibly friendly, she was scared to open herself up to a new team member, particularly a male one she was attracted to. She couldn’t lie worth a damn, which delighted him. She was quick to jump to conclusions, especially about him and what he might want. She was generous and warm, and showed her love through affection and gifts- Roxy had a plethora of toys and a collection of various collars, leashes, and the one sweater to show for it. She surrounded herself with trinkets and ridiculous, whimsical items because it helped her cope with the horrifying images she had to see in the course of their work. She loved color, and she wore her heart on her sleeve and her personality in her wardrobe. And as he had learned today, she was a hell of a fighter. He’d probably never met a woman who combined such tender care for those she loved with such strength.

Penelope had enjoyed talking to Will and JJ about Henry and Michael’s latest escapades. She and Emily had giggled as Will had recounted the story of the boys surprising them with “breakfast in bed” that not only interrupted some early morning sexy time but consisted of an odd assortment of foods that included eggs scrambled with leftover bbq chicken since they couldn’t find any bacon or sausage! She moved across the room to join Rossi where he was sifting through her CD collection, apparently looking for something specific. She smiled as he told her that he still loved Sinatra and Patsy Cline but he’d developed a recent fondness for Adele’s ballads. He didn’t care as much for her more upbeat stuff, but he had a hankering to hear “Someone Like You” or “Hello” after a few scotches.

Luke was pulled into conversation with Will and JJ, just as the topic of how they’d met on a case and started dating in secret came up. Listening to Will recall how determined he’d been to convince JJ that their romance was worth the work and the risk, and how he’d do it all over again, Luke came to a decision. He glanced over at where Rossi had pulled Penelope into his arms and was laughingly swaying with her to the Adele song playing over the speakers. Penelope laughed, spinning gracefully as her friend spun her around. The impromptu dance was over before it had truly started, but it had been enough to make up his mind. “Oh Chica, before tonight is over I will be the one holding you close and swaying with you to the beat. It will be me you laugh up at. And before the end of the night, I will have an answer to whether or not you want me too,” he promised himself.

Luke began to formulate a plan. He knew where he was hoping to lead them, but he knew he needed to pick the route carefully. He wanted her in his arms, her eyes ablaze with passion- not fury. Proceeding with caution was advisable so he didn’t offend her. He also didn’t want the rest of the team to have any part in this revelation, so he needed to play his cards strategically. He’d have to communicate very clearly to her that he wasn’t teasing, wasn’t leading her on, and that he had no intention of merely indulging in a night’s diversion. “She needs to understand that I’m not some player who wants a night’s entertainment. And I’m nothing like SSA Morgan. I’m not here to flirt and then leave one day to start a relationship elsewhere, never having acted on the chemistry between us. She needs to know that I want to be her man,” he thought, mulling over his next moves carefully.

Luke planned his move carefully. All he could do was ensure he’d get the chance to lay his cards on the table. He didn’t know where it would lead. He could only hope that she would truly listen to him and let her guard down a little. “If she’d just let me, I could make her so happy” he mused wistfully as the song ended and Rossi let her go with a kiss to her hand.

Penelope laughed breathlessly as Dave spun her a final time. Rossi might have more than 20 years on her, but the man had moves. No wonder the team referred to him as the Italian Stallion! She giggled as he kissed her hand. “If only I could find a man my own age that understood the value of a little old-fashioned chivalry,” she remarked to Rossi, thanking him for the dance. Both were left laughing as Reid launched into one of his customary ramblings about the historical originations of most chivalric customs.

The hours flew by, but suddenly it was nearly 1 am and everyone started to say their goodbyes. It had been a long week, and they weren’t young bucks anymore. JJ and Will were the first to declare the night over. They had a babysitter who would be waiting up on them. Being that they were giving Em a lift home, she also made the rounds wishing everyone goodnight and farewell until Monday morning. Not long afterwards, Luke woke Roxy up and made his exit. As he said, he’d have needed to walk Roxy downstairs to relieve herself soon anyway, might as well make his exit. Not much after that, Rossi offered to help clean up the kitchen. Garcia waved him off- she had no intention of allowing them to worry about trivial things like dishes and she told him just that. Such petty mortal concerns were not for a goddess such as she, at least not until tomorrow. At her insistence that they not worry about cleaning up, Rossi announced he better be going as he had an early morning tee time at the golf course. Being that Reid was driving the jovial, slightly buzzed Italian Stallion home, Penelope walked them both to the door.

Closing the door behind the last of her dear, sweet friends, Penelope sighed. She smiled, slipping off her sky-high heels and even shimmying out of the fishnet tights. What was she thinking, wearing heels all night when she’d already spent all day in the damn torture devices? Crossing the room in her bare feet, she began to fetch plates and cups from the mantle, the side tables and the coffee table. She hadn’t lied precisely- she would indeed wait to wash them until the morning. But she thought it best not to leave them out, that way Sergio doesn’t break any. She finished stacking all the items in the sink, and packaged up most of the leftovers. She put the food into the fridge, and smiled happily as she poured herself the last half glass of her favorite Riesling. Just before she sank down to the couch, she heard a knock on the door. “Who could that be? Oh, I hope it isn’t Mr. Anderson from down the hall, complaining about the noise,” she thought as she made her way to answer it.

#criminalminds #criminalmindsfanfic garvez #Garvez #luke x penelope

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black-strike-otp · 6 years

Text

part 95

I’m an asshole and I love it. Isn’t there a spongebob meme for that? I’m that meme. No wait- it’s “I’m a jerk and everybody loves me”. Okay, not as accurate, but I’m still a jerk and I enjoy it.

It was obvious ‘Cade was exerting a vast amount of will not to turn on them. As Blackout watched the smaller mech of inky armor and deep amethyst, his expression would warp and twist between that of a possessed demon and a panic-stricken face the former Hound did not recognize. Barricade had always been the cool-headed sort. Very few things ruffled him. He joked when things weren’t bad or serious, pulled his fair share of pranks, and mostly offered a relaxed state of mind for the most part.

To see him rattled and struggling to contain himself was both painful as it was worrisome.

“‘Cade, are we out of range of Shockwave’s missile launchers?” Blackout inquired slowly.

“Maybe,” he whispered in a voice that sounded like grinding gears.

“If we are, I should take Venus and head to the rogue base,” the larger mech offered.

Barricade dug his digits against the seams of armor on Venus’ backside. She made a soft whimper of pain, clutching at her chassis as she stumbled.

The infected mech instantly looked terrified and regretful of his error. His digits loosened as he relaxed his arm. Gently he moved his servo to rub along her lower back as the spectrum of his optics shifted into a salmon pink with unsettling white trimming around his pupil. With each circular motion of his digits against Venus’ frame, the invisible lines in his face began to grow more prominently distinguishable where his mouth could part into four sections.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” ‘Cade swallowed nervously, his voice scratchy and thick as he continued, “Venus is my anchor. I- I lose myself when she’s not around.”

“You look like you’re about to lose yourself and use your anchor for a snack,” Blackout warned in a grow.

Maroon hues in the huge mech’s gaze softened as he offered once more, in a quieter tone, “‘Cade, let me help-”

“I got this,” Barricade snapped furiously, turning a barbaric sneer upon Blackout as he glared menacingly. With his derma showing through his lips, the panels of metal began to part into quartets along his face. Along the interior of his jaws one could make out the pulsating glow of light in his mouth whilst he drawled out a lengthy breath of air in a hiss.

Venus flinched with pain as she tripped part of the way on her pedes. Agony flashed over her usually pristine faceplate for a nanoklik. She was quick to offer a pleasantly reassuring smile on to Barricade as he reached out with his other arm to help steady her on her pedes, dropping the container he was holding on the ground with a thud.

“Sorry,” she said with a brief, weak laugh. “Clumsy pedes.”

“It’s okay,” ‘Cade soothed as best he could despite the snarling undertones in his voice.

Tension moved through Blackout’s backstrut as he noted Venus removing her servo from her wounded side. He took a step forward, intending to comment when she pressed her energon soaked digits against the side of Barricade’s faceplate.

His vision turned blindingly bright as he inhaled in a low, echoing growl in the back of his throat.

“You got this, babe,” Venus praised in a faint voice.

Servo shaking, Barricade reached up to place his servo on hers. Although he was pressing his mouth firmly shut, it began to part slightly as he suddenly wrapped his digits along her wrist, breathing out in a loud, gurgling of hunger.

The alluring jet black and pink femme winced, and as she moved to recoil she nearly fell back as Blackout stepped forward to help catch her with one arm. Though, he doubted she would have hit the ground regardless with the servo ensnared in Barricade’s tight grip.

“Let her go, ‘Cade,” Blackout advised in a growling voice.

A powerful snarl escaped the infected mech as the feeder tube began to glint out of his maw.

“Barricade,” he stated in a loud, carrying tone. “Release Venus. She’s weak, and you’re hurting her. I know you don’t want to hurt her, and I don’t want to hurt you. Let. Go.”

Groaning loudly, the small mech quickly snapped his digits free and took a step back. He didn’t dare to inhale in of the sweet smell of energon so close, so tantalizingly close. Instead he covered his faceplate shamefully with his servos to mask his deformed faceplate. A painful, agonized wail drawled out of him slowly.

For the moment, Blackout disregarded his best friend’s mournful cry. Bending lower to Venus’ height, he temporarily placed the circuitboard he’d been carrying on the ground. Wrapping his arm around the back of Venus’ legs, Blackout hoisted her up in his arms effortlessly. He’d carried much larger mechs than her off the battlefield before.

She went almost instantly limp in his grasp. The light from her optics dulled significantly as she shuttered them offline with a sigh. Where her servo had been previously covering, a blackened stain mostly soaked in blue was still dripping out her life-blood in an ebbing flow. Blackout cursed himself for allowing her to continue walking despite her condition. He should have insisted upon it. Shockwave’s weapons were a refined art of war, and even though on the exterior of her frame it didn’t look terrible, he couldn’t imagine what the impact may have done to her if she was already this weakened.

He turned his attention to Barricade, as the mech knelt down on the ground. He could hear Novastrike’s pads on the ground by now as she approached from scouting behind to make sure they weren’t being followed, but her cyber-cat’s steps were unsure.

“I’m sorry, Venus,” ‘Cade’s muffled voice escaped his servos. “Blackout I’m so-”

“Stop with apologizes,” the ebony mech interrupted. “No one’s blaming you. You kept control. But Venus is going to go unconscious if she’s not gotten help soon. She’s in trouble, ‘Cade. I need you to think. Are we far enough from the ground-to-air missile launchers for me to fly her out of here?”

Dragging his servos away from his faceplate, Barricade looked down at the ground. Blackout had to resist stepping closer to comfort his old comrade and put Venus too close to him. The feeder was coiling and out of his maw as he tried to retract it with a helpless look of abandonment.

“I think so,” he barely managed to grunt.

“Thank Primus,” Blackout muttered. “And do try to forgive me for this.”

‘Cade looked up to him as a jolt of electricity arced out from Blackout’s arm as he cradled Venus against himself and sent out an electromagnetic pulse. He already felt groggy from the last burst of energy, and even the less potent wave he sent coursing over Barricade left him wanting to lay down and recharge for the next few days.

With a startled yelp, the small mech’s frame froze up from the energy arcing over him. The opening to his jaws sealed up as he groaned, falling back on the ground like a splayed out starfish.

Frag, he couldn’t believed that worked. If ‘Cade had an anti-spark of Unicron, he doubted that would have knocked him out.

Curving a tiredly mumbling Venus in the crook of his elbow, Blackout stepped over to the small mech’s comatose frame. He bent down just enough to scoop an arm awkwardly around Barricade and against his backside and flung him upward as he rose. He flopped with ease halfway over Blackout’s massive shoulder and hung lax with an arm placed around his back.

Novastrike strolled up once he had Barricade secured with a raised optic ridge.

“What?”

“You want to explain what happened? Or if you’ll be able to handle carrying both of them back to the rogue base?”

“I have it all under control,” Blackout stated with a brisk nod. “Just ran into a bit of difficulty. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Obviously,” Nova agreed with a nod. “So like, is there where you got your designation from? Giving bots black outs and just towing them off?”

“Ha-ha,” Blackout snorted with a roll of his optics. “I’m going to need to transform, but it might take a moment to rearrange my armor around these two, so bare with me a moment.”

“You’re going to fly carrying them both? I don’t know, isn’t that... a load?”

“I can almost carry my own weight. And these two combined, plus you, doesn’t even equal that.”

“Damn,” Nova purred with appreciation as she looked him up and down. “Color me impressed. I feel a lot better knowing I’ve been shacking up with not just with a former commanding officer of the Decepticon army, but a hunky mech of all mechs.”

Blackout rolled his optics and gave a shake of his helm as he commented, “You can marvel in wonder of me later. Right now we need to get Venus to a medic, stat.”

Between picking shattered pieces of Venus’ undercarriage out from her entrails and shredded protoform, the medic kept looking up to Blackout and Novastrike with a displeased expression. He didn’t seem happy with them nosing around while he was working, but unlike other medics Blackout had dealt with, he had no bite and very little bark.

Thus, despite his feelings towards medics and their offices, he remained behind to keep watch over the medic he knew so little on to make sure he didn’t try stealing the femme’s t-cog or something equally ridiculous. With his arms crossed and optics boring down on the mech, he’d yet to try anything Blackout would blatantly disapprove of. And with his somewhat trained femme upon his shoulder keeping an eagle out out as well, he had a feeling she’d be more apt to see something wrong with his procedures.

The bot took a moment to check the medical energon feed line going in to Venus before resuming his work in removing the debris inside of her. Much of the leaks had already been patched or sealed with that odd gluey substance Blackout recalled Novastrike putting his armor before. Under his advisement, the mech had agreed to dispose of all the rags that had been muddled with energon.

On a berth opposite of Venus’, Barricade began to stir and rise up. One of his servos pressed against his temple as he released a pained moan.

Turning to better look at his old friend, Blackout offered a slight smile as he spoke up: “Good to see you’re awake.”

“Ugh, my helm’s killing me,” he muttered. “Feels like someone dropped me on my helm from a forty story building.”

“Well I didn’t drop you from a forty story building, but I imagine combating the urge to eat the love of your life and taking an unexpected EMP that knocked you on your aft couldn’t have been good for you,” the larger mech chuckled.

“Well thanks for that, you aft,” ‘Cade snarled, wincing as he rubbed the back of his helm.

“You’re welcome,” Blackout replied without the least bit of tartness in his delighted tone.

Barricade sat up slowly to move his optics around the room. The instant he took notice of the frame on the berth, he was climbing off his own with alarm etched in his faceplate. Blackout made a move to get in the way in hopes of stopping him, but the mech was nimble despite having just awoken. He dove beneath the bigger mech’s arm and slipped past the medic as he turned to try stopping him to come over on Venus’ other side.

“Young mech, what do you think you’re doing?” the medic scolded furiously. “I’m working here, and you need to be on a berth resting!”

The small mech twisted his helm slowly to the medic. Once again, the previous light pink hues colored his optics as the metal plates shifted against his faceplate. A sinister hiss escaped his throat as he reached out to take his femme’s servo lightly in his own.

Reeling back, the medic let out a squawk. He turned as if to flee, only to smack his faceplate directly into Blackout’s armor as he stepped in the way.

“Move, mech!” the doctor yelled, trying to claw his way past. “Can’t you see that bot’s possessed! It’s a demon! Move I say-”

“Doc,” Blackout rumbled deeply, glowering down at the mech as he flexed his arms. “I suggest you get back to work, before you have a bigger problem on your servos.”

Terror lit up the mech’s blue optics. He opened his mouth partly as he leaned his helm back to look up at Blackout. The red light emitting from his optics was darkened. With a narrowed gaze, he rumbled in the depths of his chassis.

The intimidation had the mech shrinking back from him and against the berth.

“I’ll report you all for this,” he stated in a wavering voice. “None of the other rogues will tolerate having you treating me like this!”

“Sir, we only want you to help our friend,” Novastrike spoke up. The medic turned his optics upon her and the irresistible begging look of her faceplate. Slightly pouty lower lip, big round eyes of sadness, and the pathetic, pleading look that would make any saint weep and cave beneath such a pure and innocent stare.

“They don’t mean any harm,” she went on in a voice lulling and soft. “They’re just not good with social interaction. Don’t mind them. They won’t bite- or punch- I swear it.”

Muttering nervously, the medic wrung his servos in front of his chassis, the scalpel still in his grip. He turned to look back at Barricade, but his faceplate had conformed back to normal already and his vision was dark violet as he looked down to his femme on the berth with remorse.

“I’m still reporting you thugs,” the bot unhappily griped, turning around to get back to work.

Moving his optics to Novastrike’s proud faceplate, Blackout rumbled quietly in his throat, “You better watch yourself dear, I don’t want to beat off every mech that falls in love with you the moment you speak up or they lay their optics upon your beautiful face.”

“Sorry,” she whispered with a cheeky grin. “I just wanted to help.”

Grinning, the enormous mech walked around to the other side of the berth where Barricade stood. His servo reached out, lightly curling his digits over ‘Cade’s shoulder. The small black and purple bot barely seemed to register him. He only seemed to have optics for Venus. One servo held her servo from below, and the other was placed on top of it as he rubbed circles into the back of her hand.

“The medic already told us she’s going to be okay,” Blackout said quietly. “It was just shock and a lot of energon loss.”

Tearing his optics away from her, Barricade glanced up to him with pain. “I... I hurt her.”

“No, ‘Cade-”

“Yes, I did,” he snarled, turning back to her. “I froze when I saw Shockwave. I didn’t know what to do. I was just- stunned. The memory hit me so hard, I didn’t even know what was happening. And then not only did she get hurt, but when she tried to comfort me, I felt it. I wanted to tear into her wrist, I wanted to drain her-”

Blackout squeezed his shoulder roughly so that he stopped speaking suddenly. He passed a sideways look to the medic, whose optics appear to grow paler from the conversation. To his credit, he was pretending not to pay attention and hastily but effectively was pulling out more pieces of thin razor-thin metal from Venus’ body.

“None of that is your fault,” the massive mech rumbled. “You suffered a lot at his servos. You’re not weak or at fault because you relapsed into a flashback. She’s going to be fine. And she’ll forgive you.”

“You protected her and us all when you went to directly confront Shockwave,” Novastrike softly added on. “And you were the one who she trusted to help lead her to safety.”

“I was also the one who refused to let you take her because I was desperate,” he muttered.

Blackout shrugged. “You love her. She eases the burden on your spark. She’s helped you to feel normal despite all of this. I can’t say that I blame you for not wanting her out of your sight. You didn’t want to become unhinged, wondering if she was okay, where she was, blinded by fear.”

Barricade shrugged off his servo and turned his faceplate away. A brief vent escaped him as he solemnly spoke: “It doesn’t take away the fact I was being selfish and stupid.”

Drawing his optic ridges together with concern, Blackout glanced on his shoulder over to Novastrike for guidance. She was the one who was good at this kind of scrap. He was still learning how to do this whole comforting thing. It used to be so fragging easy to cheer up ‘Cade. But that was back when a slapstick joke could get them by.

She reached out, lightly patting him on the cheek as she mouthed, “Give him some time.”

Venting sharply, he gave a small nod of understanding. Speaking carefully, he looked back to Barricade as he announced, “Novastrike and I got word that the mech returned with a group of bots to help construct the intergalactic transmitter for us. We need to go meet them and discuss payment, as well as the location for the structure and see about what other supplies they’ll still be needing. Will you be alright left in here alone? We’ll return as soon as we’re done with our meeting.”

“Yeah,” ‘Cade murmured tiredly. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stay here with Venus.”

The medic turned a terrified glance to Blackout, but he ignored it. Much as ‘Cade might yell at him later for it, he would ask the rouges to see if they’d be willing to put a bot in the med-bay to keep watch for the time being. ‘Cade didn’t need another lapse into his feral Terrorcon state without someone around large enough to try containing him, or the consequences or burden of regret he’d carry later on would devastate him.

Raising a servo up to lightly caress Novastrike’s side, Blackout turned to depart the office. The doors opened and closed behind him with a cranking of old-style gears as he left, the medic almost sweating bullets to be standing alone with one beautifully unconscious femme and her diseased partner standing nearby.

No matter the gentleness and loving expression on his faceplate as he touched Venus, it mattered little to the elder bot. His servos shook slightly before steadying as he got back to work. He had to dig deep to remain professional calm on the exterior for the time being.

#quid pro quo au #OTP AU #OTP Lit #OTP Friends

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onkeywritings · 7 years

Text

Flowers and Ink II

Rating: G

Warning: N/A

Jinki gets his first tattoo on the day he turns 19. His mother almost falls off her chair when he proudly shows her the small flower on his bicep and he isn’t allowed to show it in public.

Unluckily for Jinki’s mother, he is old enough to get more than one tattoo.

In Jinki’s opinion, tattoos are the most exquisite form of art. He admires those who paint on him and other people and often wishes that he could do it too.

His own passion lies elsewhere, however. Such as with the countless of orchids that fills his room and his most beloved bonsai that sits proudly in his window sill. His friends think he’s silly - Jinki likes to think that it shows how compassionate and warm he is.

Whatever it truly shows doesn’t really matter, though, because Jinki still proudly nurses his flowers and the garden as if it was his kid and no matter what people say, they can’t change that fact. That’s why most people have accepted that flowers and Jinki go hand in hand. Now Jinki and tattoos go hand in hand as well.

Over the next couple of years, Jinki collects a sleeve, a small side tattoo and black and white line art on his shin. Jinki’s mother slowly starts to accept that her son is beginning to look like those rockers she sees in the news sometimes - except Jinki’s tattoos are of flowers and plants and mostly harmless, not skeletons, guns and girls.

When Jinki turns 26, Minho hands him a beer and sits down beside him.

“I’ve heard a new tattooist started in Hongdae,” he says and takes a swig of his beer. “Rumors has it that there is this really cute piercer.”

Jinki bites his lower lip so he doesn’t start laughing at Minho’s dreamy sigh.

“You could barely handle getting your eyebrow pierced. I don’t think you could get another,” Jinki says and Minho turns to glare at him.

“I could if she’s cute.” He takes another gulp of his beer and then points it towards Jinki. “Hey, you should go with me. Get a new tattoo from this place as well! Maybe the tattooist is awesome. After Taeyeon left The Holy Koi you haven’t really been able to find a new one as good as her!”

Jinki grumbles a little at that. Minho is right. Taeyeon had been Jinki’s tattooist the past year but she had left for Tokyo with her boyfriend Jongin and Jinki was not flying to Japan every time he needed a new tattoo.

After a few seconds of thoughts he nodded and agreed to accompany Minho to the shop, if only because Minho wants to flirt with the piercer.

The Painted Tide Tattoo says the sign over the shop. Jinki swears Minho has asked him to meet him here, but the shop looks nothing like what he has been used to. There is no staircase down to an underground lobby, no skulls in the windows, no black paint and no shadows.

The lobby is open and wide, the large display window houses a large Fortune Host along with pictures of drawings, both on paper and on people. There are spotlights in the ceiling, making the room glow in a comfortable light but it’s not in any way dark.

Jinki turns to look at his wrist watch and swears. Why is Minho always late?

When Minho does arrive, Jinki is starting to get cold and he glares at his best friend, but the other man doesn’t care much for Jinki and just drags him into the shop.

The shop is as light as it looks from the outside. The walls are white, a gorgeous piece of art hanging on the back wall where benches and comfortable chairs sits in a designated waiting area. The counter is made of wood and compliments the floor nicely.

Minho sends the woman behind the counter a wide smile and walks up to her while Jinki stays behind and admires the shop that is unlike anything he’s ever seen. Jinki can faintly hear Minho and the girl talk but he doesn’t really zoom in on their conversation.

It isn’t until Minho actively calls for him that he turns around.

“Don’t you wanted to get a tattoo of that Japanese Iris on your back?” he asks and Jinki nods.

“Yeah, but I wanted it to be … you know.”

Jinki gestures lazily with his hand.

The Japanese Iris is his favourite flower. It’s soft and delicate, a little like he sees himself. Not that anyone would agree with him, but Jinki doesn’t like to think of that. He also wants the tattoo to be special. He wants it to be dreamy, soft, delicate and without hard lines. He wants it to be like a water paint drawing, standing out on his tan skin in the most astonishing ways ever.

The woman behind the counter just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Hey Junghee, could you..?” a man says as he enters the lobby from a backroom and only then does he notice they have customers. Jinki just stares at him.

His hair is black and his eyes dark brown and he should look like any other Korean on the street, but he doesn’t. Because his hair and his eyes are were similarities to the outside world stops.

His facial shape is soft with a certain edge to it, his eyes feline-like as they look at Jinki with a certain intensity. His skin is pale in the most beautiful way, it compliments him and doesn’t look odd at all. He has broad shoulders but is skinny, almost scarily so but for some reason Jinki doesn’t want to force feed him.

If it wasn’t because he stood behind the counter, Jinki would have guessed he was a model. Or a celebrity.

But here he is, behind the counter, talking to the piercer Minho has been flirting with for the past 10 minutes.

“Could I what?” the woman asks and the man pulls his eyes from Jinki to look at her.

“The guy in the back says his nipple piercing might be infected, could you take a look at it while he’s here anyway?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not a doctor, Key,” she says and the man, Key, sends her a smile.

“No, but you’re almost a nurse, hush hush.”

He gently pushes her towards the back room and she glares at him one last time before she shuts the door behind her. Jinki smiles shyly as Key turns his attention towards Minho and Jinki.

“Can I help you?” he asks and before Jinki gets to say no, Minho has blurted out that Jinki would like a new tattoo. Curse Minho.

Key digs behind the counter and hands over a small book of common designs. Minho looks through it for a while before he gasps and reaches out to wave Jinki towards him. As Jinki looks around Minho, he looks at the most beautiful drawing he has ever seen. This is far better work than Taeyeon’s and Taeyeon is outstanding.

“Is this yours?” he asks and looks up to get eye contact with Key who is writing on a laptop. Key turns his attention to his customers and notices the drawing before he nods.

“Yeah, it’s nothing much.”

Jinki begs to differ.

“Can you do water colors?”

Jinki asks and Minho raises an eyebrow in confusion. Jinki ignores him. Key nods again.

“Sure. Do you want an appointment? We can talk more about design, detailing, colors and so on.”

Minho nudges him in the side before Jinki has even uttered a word.

“Yes, he would like an appointment.”

Key smiles and starts looking for dates and times.

When Jinki leaves The Painted Tide Tattoo he has an appointment with Key the next week. Jinki can’t get the face out of his mind, however. The beautiful smile that showed tiny dimples, the way his eyes sparkled, the beautiful hand writing on the small appointment card.

Everything about Key had been perfect. Jinki just hopes his tattoos are as perfect as his appearance.

#onkey #fanfic #shinee #mine #key #onew #kim kibum #lee jinki #jongho #tiny mentions anyway #junghee #girlee #jonghyun #minho #1 mention of taekai lmao

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