#you can pinpoint the exact second i panic pause to scream | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

raggaraddy · 3 years

Text

Play Pretend

Summary: When the chance comes to escape you're are going to play it smart to make sure you get away.

Trigger Warnings: Murder, gun usage, abuse, violence, kidnapping, imprisonment.

Jungkook

Yandere!Jungkook

Mafia!Jungkook

It's been about a week since Jungkook locked you in. Only now were the bruises on your ribs going down. And no matter how quickly he shifted back to normal and calmed down the damage was done, he’d shown you a truly terrifying side of himself and you knew he couldn’t be trusted anymore. The worst of it was that he never even feigned an apology. He didn’t think he was in the wrong to react like he did. He just went from one day to the next like nothing was different.

You felt so stupid. You had thought there was something not right with him the first time you met him. But instead of trusting your gut, you got swept up in his good looks and charm. And that lack of discernment is the reason why you've been trapped in his house for a week now. You tried to tell him that people would be looking for your eventually. But with full certainty, he assured you that wouldn’t be the case. You weren’t sure why or how, but you knew that he 100% believed it. And that made your situation even more despondent.

This evening, for the first time in 8 days, Jungkook finally left the house. You had thought it might be a chance for you to look for an escape, but to your disappointment, he left one of his ‘employees’ with you. You still can't pinpoint what he does exactly, but all of the people you have seen with Junkook have a similar dangerous vibe. This one is no exception. Tall, strong, large and mean-looking. It completely dashed your hopes of getting away. That was until you heard the clear and threatening order Jungkook gave him. For the second time, you were seeing this sweet kind young man have men double his age, who were larger and tougher looking than him, look weak and fearful. The exact wording slipped your mind, but the gist of it was if anything happens to you while he is gone, Jungkook will violently kill your guard.

After a few hours of stirring, half hesitant to try and half trying to perfect the idea, you finally decide you need to at least attempt a prison break.

Calling the guard, you drop to the bedroom floor, curling yourself tight, clutching your ribs. You knew your bruises were still purple and black there, so it would be the most convincing place to say you had pain. After a few screams, the man dashes in his face draining at seeing you writhing on the floor in agony.

“What happened?” He barks.

“I fell. It hurts.” You wheeze, knowing it's best to keep your details simple to maintain the act.

He bends to help you up and you wail a faked cry of pain, applying your years of watching dramas into practice. You’re not sure how believable your act is, but the man is so swept up in the panic of the moment, it doesn’t really matter. As he gets you onto the bed, you pull up your shirt slightly exposing your marks and bruises and it's the tipping point. He goes from worried to frantic.

"Sh-" he whispers the exclamation under his breath. He looks to ponder his options, and you hope your theory is right and that he is too afraid to call Jungkook first. "Alright, you need to go to the hospital." He declares. You have to lean more into the pained acting to stop a smile from coming onto your face, thankful that your plan is so far working.

The guard picks you up bridal style and carries you downstairs with an urgent patter to his steps. Getting you into the back seat of the car, he rushes into the front and begins driving. Despite his craze, you're surprised to see him driving so steadily and rationally. Abiding the road rules and sticking to the speed limits.

You think your best, or only option would be to get some privacy with Doctor at the hospital and tell him everything. Beg him to call the police. The one risk for going to the hospital is the possibility of the guard not leaving you to talk to the Doctor.

"Fuck." The man hisses under his breath as his phone begins to ring.

The call connects to the cars Bluetooth as he answers, blasting Jungkooks voice in surround sound.

"I'm at home, but you're not. Where are you?" He questions with an ominous tone. The drivers head flicks back to you, his uncertainty flashing through his eyes as he decides what or how much of the truth to tell.

"She hurt herself. Her chest. So I am taking her to the hospital." He reveals everything with a shake in his voice.

Jungkook bursts into a sharp laugh, the sudden piercing of it through the speakers making both of you jump. "She's fine. Bring her back now."

You spring upright, eyes wide. The car rolls to a stop at the traffic light, the man's gaze meeting yours in the rear-view mirror. Jungkook knows! He knows you're faking it. He's going to hurt you again when you get back. You can't let him take you back.

The second the car stops, you don't pause to think, yanking on the door handle and throwing yourself out of the car. Because it is nearly midnight, the suburban area is desolate, but there are a few houses that still have lights on. You know your best option is one of those.

Breaking into a sprint you run across the main road over the island and towards the first house you can see any sign of life in. In a mad frenzy, you begin to pound on the door, calling and screaming for help, begging for them to open. Behind you, you can feel the guard quickly catching up and your pleading gets more desperate.

Giving you pure relief, the front door opens on a middle-aged man looking nearly as petrified as you. You don't wait to explain or discuss anything instead barge past him, hurling yourself through the open door. You spin on your heels, slamming the entrance closed. It doesn't shut though. The full body of the guard powers through the door colliding into you and the homeowner, knocking you both onto the ground in a painful blow.

With a heavy breath and a wild look in his eyes, he stalks over top of you, sealing you all in. The guard pulls a gun and his phone from his pocket, the call to Jungkook seeing to still be active. "Alright, I have h-" he speaks into the receiver, pointing the weapon at the man, rendering him frozen.

"Where are you?!" Jungkook yells, making the guard pull the phone from his ear. Even from a few meters away you can hear his hostile voice loudly and clearly.

For 10 minutes you are sat in the living room numb with fear. You could hear how furious Jungkook was. You can see how mad and nervous your guard is, and you can feel how confused and terrorised the older man is. Without movement, the three of you are stuck in a tense stare off, none able to speak.

On the 11th minute, there is a knock on the front door. The guard peers through the side window and his breath catches in his throat.

You start to physically shake as Jungkook comes in with two more men at his back, looking like an uneven, unsettling mix of calm and intense. Walking in with his hands in his pockets, he takes the size of all three people in the room.

"You left the car in the middle of the road?" He asks the guard, his gaze staying fixed on you.

"Yes. I had to chase her down." He tries to explain shortly.

"Ah," Junkook muses with a click of his tongue. "Get rid of it." He orders one of the other men who came in with him.

The guy nods, rushing to follow the instruction. As the door slams shut, Jungkook walks towards you squatting to your level. "Your ribs hurt Kitten?" he asks with a faked sweetness. He leans down digging his forefinger and thumb into your ribcage. It brings back the true pain of your injuries, making you squeal and writhe while trying to get away from him. His hand wraps around your side, keeping you in place and pushing you to the floor, crushing and gripping your wounds, bringing shortness to your breath and tears to your eyes.

After tormenting you for a few miserable minutes, Jungkook scoffs out a short laugh, standing back up nearly stepping on top of you. "Pick him up" He orders your guard, gesturing toward the homeowner on the floor behind you. He does so, having to hold a lot of the man's weight to get him to his feet. "Anyone else in the house?"

"No, I don't think so." The guard replies with uncertainty.

"Well you're not exactly reliable, are you?" Jungkook sneers.

You jump as two incredibly loud bangs echo out. One after the other, both the guard and the older man drop to the floor. Looking up at Jungkook horrified, he is standing over you holding a gun having just shot the two men. Your stomach is churning at the realization of what he just did. There is only a weak grunt and then silence from the older man, his body slumping still and lifeless. But from the other, there are continued struggled and gasped moans. Jungkook coolly walks to him, another shot firing and the pained sounds stop. Only silence and the pulsing ringing in your ears from the sudden blasts remain.

You're motionless. Panting broken breaths. Too in shock to move. Too scared to do anything. You can't believe this is happening. You're sure you're about to die.

"Go check the house." Jungkook kneels down beside you again, throwing the order to the second man that came with him.

With just the two of you left in the room, he comes closer, speaking lowly and gruffly in your ear. "See what you did Y/n." He motions to the side of you, to the murderous and violent display. You can't bring yourself to look. You know the sounds of those two men will haunt you for the rest of your life. You don't want to add the gruesome image of it as well. "Do want to play? You want to pretend to be in pain?" His hand roughly brushes the hair from off your face. He switches the gun from one hand to the other, his now free left hand digging tightly into your jaw, turning you to him. "Well, we're going home Kitten. And you won't need to pretend when I'm done with you."

#bts #yandere bts #yandere #bts fanfic #bangtan #yandere bangtan #jungkook #yandere jungkook #mafia jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts reactions #bts smut

393 notes · View notes

calmcilstoybox · 3 years

Text

Retribution (MCambion/FChangeling)

slightly NSFW for murder crime scene.

This is part of a Cambion detective/ Changeling Femme fatale story from a dnd campaign I’m part of.

Reblogs greatly appreciated

(I also love reading comments I promise you’re not bothering me I’m asking for feedback)

Around 1700 words

It had been a maid that reported in the murder on a cold rainy morning. Mary De Silva said she arrived early in the morning for work, and went upstairs to start cleaning. Then found her employer dead. Screamed, and called 911. However it was the name of the deceased that truly got Borden’s attention.

Duragon.

This sent a cold chill down his spine as it had been yesterday afternoon since he’d heard from Mercedes. She had spent the night at Adramar’s, and hadn’t come into work or called in either.

“Boss? Everything alright?” Detective Aldrich’s voice pulled Borden out of his thoughts.

“Everything’s fine, for me anyway. I can’t say as much for the recently deceased. I’m going to the crime scene.Put a fresh pot of coffee on you know how I like it.” Detective Whitechapel was aware of his vocal tone and pitch as he spoke. Luckily, Aldrich didn’t push. He hummed in acknowledgement of what Borden had said before heading to the break room.

Calmly walking out of the station and to his car was an exhausting exercise in self control. Once he had the keys in the ignition Detective Whitechapel called Mercedes’ phone and closed his eyes praying she’d pick up.

But the other end of the line was dead. Panic was setting in now. He shifted gears out of park and drove the exact speed limit over to Duragon’s. This was perhaps not the best idea given the rain. At the moment however Borden did not care.

The sooner he found out what had happened last night the better. Then, he could go directly to Mercedes’ last known location to check on her.

As expected there were other cops on the scene. The exterior had been taped off as officers from other departments waited on homicide. Detective Whitechapel parked on the street and went through the yellow tape up to Duragon’s front door. He used his eldritch sight to look around, but so far there was nothing. Nor was there any obvious sign of breaking and entering. So the detective examined the door itself.

Even on closer inspection he didn’t see anything that gave away how they got in. So, Detective Whitechapel walked around the house looking at the other windows, and the back patio. Yet still there were no signs of a forced entry.

Borden knew that the maid had a key to get in. But it seemed almost impossible to him that she had something to do with the crime. There weren’t many things that could kill a Mafia Don Especially an orc, who were notoriously tough to begin with. As Borden made his way back to the front of the house he approached Officer Anderson.

“I’m assuming you already checked for prints?” The homicide detective inquired, feeling like he already knew the answer.

“Only finger prints we found matched Mary Da Silva, she’s the maid.” Detective Anderson replied, shaking his head.

“I’ll need to examine Duragon, depending on how long he’s been cold I can determine how much time our perpetrators had to clean up. This could be a difficult case to solve.” Borden groaned and rubbed at his wrist. He walked up the front steps again and turned the door knob stepping into the house.

The decor struck him as something Mercedes would call tacky. Not that the detective really had an eye for interior design. To him it looked decently wealthy. But he couldn’t pinpoint what about the place made it tacky.

He glanced over his shoulder and closed the door behind him. Ms. De Silva had told them already that Duragon’s corpse was upstairs. But Detective Whitechapel wanted to take a look around on the first floor.

Again, his eldritch sight wasn’t showing anything magical. On this floor at least, when Borden looked up that changed. He could tell two things were magical on the second floor.

The detective went from room to room on the first floor looking for anything he missed. But, there was simply nothing out of place. Not even any fingerprints. The entire place almost seemed too clean. He would have to question Ms. Da Silva about that to see if this was the normal standard of cleanliness her employer expected. Or if a different kind of professional was behind this. Still, part of Borden did admire how polished and pristine things were. Even if it would make figuring out who got to Duragon first even more of a challenge.

Detective Whitechapel made his way up the stairs. He dusted the banisters for fingerprints, there was one set. Borden lifted the prints, though he was already expecting them to match with Ms. Da Silva.

But he didn’t want to make any assumptions just in case. The detective went right to the room where he’d detected magic. He was hit with the heavy stench of Chlorine.

“There goes the blood trail.” Borden mumbled looking around the room. One thing that stood out to him immediately was that Duragon’s arms were restrained behind his back. He recognized the restraints as the same handcuffs they used to hold dragons. Whoever the perpetrator was; they weren’t taking any chances with Duragon getting loose.

The second most obvious thing to the Cambion was that there were patches of wall paper missing. The bare wall underneath smelled heavily of bleach.

“One way to remove blood splatters from the walls…” Borden looked up at the ceiling and saw that it had been touched up as well. While the crime scene had been professionally cleaned, Duragon’s death had all the hallmarks of a crime of passion. It wasn’t a clean kill, and it hadn’t been quick.

As Borden examined Duragon’s body he determined that the mob lord had been bound and tortured until he succumbed to his injuries. The body was also in rigor mortis.

He had been dead a while.

“I wish I had gotten to you first. But we won’t tell the others about that will we?” Borden snarled sticking his hands in his pockets as he leered down at the deposed mob lord. The detective walked away from Duragon and over to a set of drawers. He took the top drawer out and felt around on the bottom of the compartment it fit into. There was nothing there, despite him seeing illusion magic coming from the oak furniture. So he tried the second drawer.

Then finally the third underneath this drawer was a playing card. Borden recognized the geometric black and gold leaf pattern on the back of the card as an in-house set used by a casino frequented by high rollers.

Detective Whitechapel flipped the card over. It was the King of Clubs, where the club was a King Cobra coiling its body in the shape of one. Borden’s hand was already shaking and he nearly dropped the card before a message appeared hovering slightly above it.

In the finest example of cursive penmanship Borden had ever seen. Were the words Hello Whitechapel in shimmering gold ink. The Cambion’s sunset colored orbs didn’t blink or look away from the card until the illusion faded. Then he slipped the card into his pocket.

Back outside Borden walked over to Officer Anderson and held out the prints he took.

“These were the only prints I could lift from anything in that house. Professional hit, Duragon was tortured to death. Everything scrubbed down. Barely any magic used to cover their tracks. Just a pair of our dragon restraints used to keep the victim from fighting back.” Borden paused for a moment to let Anderson take the prints.

“Should check inventory back at the station, see if any are missing or if another precinct is missing any. Need to find a key for those because I don’t think bolt cutters are going to work to get them off Duragon. I need to go write up my report.” Borden glanced toward his car.

“Shit…thanks for the help, uhh good luck with that. We’ll finish up here.” Officer Anderson said, looking over the prints before continuing, “These are Ms. Da Silva’s.”

With that, Detective Whitechapel crossed the threshold of the yellow tape once more and returned to his car. He dialed Mercedes’ number again to no avail. He tossed his phone in his passenger seat frustrated before driving to Adramar’s.

Borden parked in the driveway this time before climbing out of his car and going up to the door. He knocked three times quickly. Then waited, Borden noticed the curtains move to the left of the door. Then it opened a few moments later.

Mercedes’ eyes were red, her hair was a mess and she was uneasy on her feet leaning heavily on the door for support.

“Borden? But I wasn’t…” Mercedes stopped herself, and backed out of the doorway holding it open for Borden.

“Get inside before anyone sees you” From her tone of voice, Borden knew she wasn’t asking. He stepped inside and Mercedes quickly closed the door behind him, locking it back.

“Baby what happened?” Borden took one of his gloves off and caressed the side of her face. While his eyes lingered on the king cobra pendant on her necklace.

“Hitmen came from Adramar last night. I heard them come in, and managed to pull them off of him. But if I’d gone to our place…” Mercedes started tearing up.

“How is he doing?” Borden wiped them away as they fell without thinking about it. His mind was on the playing card he’d found, or rather it had been left for him.

“Adramar’s going to be okay, orcs are tough. He’s just asleep right now. I stayed here to keep an eye on him in case anyone came back.” Mercedes stepped forward and promptly tried to bury herself in Borden’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? I tried calling you when you didn’t show for work.” “I’m sorry Borden I couldn’t find it; fell on the floor in the scuffle. I’m not strong enough to lift the couch and other stuff to look underneath.” Mercedes almost whispered she didn’t look up either.

Borden’s gaze softened underneath the mask, “I’ll help you find your phone.”

What he wasn’t going to do was tell her that Duragon was dead, or that he knew exactly who was behind it at least, not yet. Now Borden was expecting an extremely busy day at homicide as more of Duragon’s men were reported dead. He wasn’t making any assumptions. It was clear as day that this was a synchronized strike to take Duragon’s entire operation out at once.

The fact that any one man had the kind of power to pull this off both impressed, and horrified him.

#noir fantasy #noir fiction #monster love #monster lover #demon exophilia

5 notes · View notes

inkribbon796 · 3 years

Text

What He Holds Dear Ch. 2

Summary: Word around the city tends to spread like wildfire. Everyone knows Illinois keeps a lot of secrets. Up until now his lack of a constant weakness has kept those secrets under lock and key. But now he has a fiancé. The Host is a foreboding force in the city with many of the Author’s enemies looking to get revenge. And word spreads fast that the Host is dating a doctor.

A/N: It’s Valentine’s Day. Instead of doing an all-couples event like I did last year I’ll focus on just two of them.

Warning for kidnapping, and a very scared Eric.

Chapters: 1, 2

Chapter 2: Disaster Date Night

Eric was having a normal day. It was Valentine’s Day and Illinois had promised Eric an amazing dinner.

Which to Eric. Illinois could have taken him to a fast food restaurant in sweats and Eric would have thought it was the most fancy thing in the world.

But he’d been given a suit, one that didn’t quite fit him but he had put it on. Illinois took him to a really nice Mexican restaurant and Eric felt so nervous and out of place, and thought that Illinois looked so amazingly handsome.

Currently his only real problem was that he was so enamored by Illinois just being there that all he was contributing to the conversation was smiling and nodding.

But eventually he slipped off to go to the bathroom. A combination of actually needing to go and the anxious claustrophobia of other people in the room.

So he walked into the bathroom and while he was washing his hands, noticing that some dirt had gotten into his nail, he was hit in the back of the head by some force and in an instant he was out.

The next time Eric came to, he had a minor headache blooming in his head. He felt disoriented and scared. Everything was black and in that fear, his hands started making little explosions. Since they were tied behind the chair he was sitting on, his arms and back bloomed with pain.

And he wasn’t the only one.

“Fuck! Fuck! Stop!” In Eric’s panic he didn’t recognize the voice. It was Dr. Iplier. He was tied back-to-back with Eric. The young man’s hands almost on top of the Doctor’s arms. Iplier’s eyes were similarly blindfolded.

A strong smell was placed almost right underneath Eric’s nose and as he inhaled the substance it calmed him down, magically drugging him so he stopped freaking out.

“Hey kid,” Iplier tried to help. “It’s me, Iplier, you okay?”

“Hmmmm,” was Eric’s only response.

Iplier gently tapped Eric’s hands before gently taking it. Eric’s hand felt dangerously warm. But he was calmer — by force — he couldn’t keep hurting the doctor.

“Who’s there?” Iplier demanded. “I know someone’s there! What did you do to him?”

“He’s merely calmed with a very mild sedative,” a voice told him. “You’re welcome.”

Iplier tried to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. It sounded distorted.

“Look, I hate the Author but this is dangerous, you fuckers are all crazy. If we don’t clear out fast enough.” One of the voices, a deeper one, sounded angry.

“All we need is information,” another voice, slightly lighter but no less determined. “That’s the important part.”

“I’m not saving you if this goes tits up,” the mobster grumbled and walked over to Dr. Iplier. A smile on his face.

“Okay lover boy, let’s make this easier for all of us,” the mobster grinned and grabbed Iplier by the hair roughly, craning his head up. “We’ve got some questions. You’re the old bastard fucking that freak of nature aren’t you?”

“That’s none of your business,” Iplier spat.

Iplier got punched in the face for that, making Eric whimper in fear at the sound of Iplier getting hurt. He was trying to fight the haze over his mind but it felt like a weighted blanket he couldn’t kick off.

“Don’t be a smartass,” the mobster snarled. “Everyone knows who you are. You’ve shacked up with that sadistic freak.”

“He’s not who you think he is,” Iplier insisted.

“Yeah I bet he’s a real sweetheart,” the mobster patronized. “A Libra who likes to take long walks on the beach.”

Iplier gritted his teeth and fought the urge to sarcastically remark that Host wasn’t a Libra.

“If you could ask the real questions, we would appreciate it,” the second voice ordered.

“I could shoot you and I would probably get away with it,” the mobster snapped.

“We outnumber you right now, don’t try it.”

At that comment, Iplier tried to listen for another person but there were no signs to let him know if the person was bluffing or not.

“Fine,” the mobster snapped. “To hell with you and your stupid questions. Is the Entity’s body dead?”

“What?” Iplier asked.

He was punched in the face again, this time breaking his nose and making him scream in pain and anger.

“The Entity,” the mobster growled. “Is he dead?”

“How should I know?” Iplier snapped. “I’m not that asshole’s doctor.”

The mobster opened his mouth to speak, which is precisely when an aluminum bat made contact with the back of his skull. Cracking the man’s skull and killing him instantly.

Then the Host glared at the only other occupant in the room, a demon hunter in a mask. The hunter took a fearful step back at the sight of the blood running down from the Host’s face and the narrations that left them as metaphorically bare as a newborn, and felt the muzzle of a handgun pressed against the back of their head.

“Our turn for questions, asshat,” Illinois threatened.

“Ills?” Eric was semi-roused from his haze.

Illinois glanced at him, “Just taking out the trash, dulcito.”

“Illy,” Eric pleaded, starting to cry and limply started to struggle in his chair.

“Illinois should tend to his fiancé,” the Host told him and with a signal from the Host the Entity dragged the hunter through and into the Void for a nice, long interrogation. The hunter’s scream echoing in the room as they were violently and painfully dragged in.

Illinois raced over to Eric, waiting for the Host to thoroughly clean up the blood and evidence of death from the mobster before lifting his blindfold. “Eric, dulcito, honey. I’m here now. Don’t worry I’m here.

With a few, careful words the blindfolds and binding disappeared and Iplier blinked in disorientation.

As delicately the Host could he used his words to reset the doctor’s nose, setting it back to normal. Then with a few more words all the people in the room disappeared from it and suddenly appeared on the back balcony of the Manor.

Eric and Iplier were sitting on the comfiest seats as their partners stood in front of them. Illinois rushed back in to comfort Eric as the Host hovered around Dr. Iplier.

“I’m so sorry I let them take you dulcito, can you ever forgive me?” Illinois begged desperately as he frantically kissed Eric’s hands, almost begging wordlessly for permission to move further up his arm. “Did any of them touch you?”

“I-I’m fine,” Eric was hiccupping through his sobs.

“Does the Host’s doctor have any other injuries?” The Host asked. “The Host regrets not being able to remove the assailants sooner.”

“I,” Dr. Iplier paused. He knew that the two of them had killed his assailants. Iplier knew it, and the Host knew it. “I’m fine.”

“Is the Host’s doctor sure?” The Host asked.

Unsure of what would actually leave his mouth, he nodded.

The seer let out a controlled sigh, “The Host could not bear it if his doctor was grievously hurt for something the Author had done.”

Iplier planned to say something reassuring, that killing people who meant to do him and Eric serious harm didn’t exactly qualify as a heinous act. That it was self defense. But at that exact moment Dark stepped through, his ringing shrill and his usually greyed out effect even more saturated.

“I have some more names, we’ll discuss the details later,” Dark promised and pulled out a small wooden case and passed it to Illinois. “I have business to attend to, I’ll be with Google if anyone needs to speak with me.”

“Alright,” Illinois said, noticing that Eric was curing protectively into him.

Then Dark was gone, heading through the balcony door and disappearing into the house. Leaving Illinois and Host with their partners.

Illinois sat next to Eric and popped open the box to find two little pins inside. Both of them were silver quill pins.

The adventurer took one of them out and offered it, pleading, “Eric, I’m going to make sure no one can hurt you again.”

Eric nodded, but Iplier spoke up. “What are those? What do they do? And why should we put on anything Dark gives us?”

Looking conflicted, Eric stared at the quill, and then at Illinois. Illinois looked back at Iplier. “They’re the same as our trackers except Host and I can track them. I guess yours is mostly cosmetic, Ip.”

“And that has your aura?” Iplier questioned. “Won’t that allow Dark to teleport to us?”

“Ours allow him to know where we are, his aura does the rest,” Illinois admitted. “If he feels one of us going through an anti-magic barrier like that one you all have down at the station, he’ll go to the other side of the field and figure out how badly he needs to intervene. In your base, I think the two of you should be safe. No intervention needed.”

“O-Okay,” Eric allowed, uncertain. He let Illinois replace the little star he usually wore with the quill. The adventurer held the star out to the Host.

The star disappeared without the Host needing to take it. Only taking a couple words to accomplish. Illinois delicately kissed Eric on the cheek. “I thought for a bit that when we’d find you again, my luck would have run out. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“The Host can return Dr. Iplier to his hospital, or would he rather the Host take him back home?”

“The hospital, everyone’s probably worried about where I went,” Iplier sighed.

“As the doctor wishes,” the Host’s eyes bled a bit more and the case Dark had given Illinois in the seer’s hand. The two men gone from the balcony.

It left Illinois and Eric cuddled up together on the balcony. Eric was happy to see Illinois again, and Illinois happy to just have Eric alive. That he was still holding someone who was breathing and their heart was beating.

They wound up on the couch in the living room. Illinois calming down to the gentle sound of Eric’s still beating heart.

3 notes · View notes

of-hell-and-hyacinths · 5 years

Text

an ungodly amount of italics

okay here’s the bella and adrien argument. it’s kind of shitty but pls know that I Tried. also if you want to suffer like i did listen to “so low” by spookyghostbro. yes it’s because of the first two lines

possible tw for a panic attack at the end

and bella swarchovski and adrien liou don’t belong to me obviously they belong to @skate-fast-eat-grass

“Seriously though, He-Man had the ugliest shirt—”

“Adrien.” Bella stops him just like that, holding her hand out to signal a pause. Her eyes aren’t sparkling. She looks no nonsense, and she never looks like that.

Some music is playing loudly in the background, a shitty pop tune that they definitely didn’t put in their playlist. He feels his heart start to beat a little faster when Bella reaches over and lowers the volume. Lowers it just enough so that they can hold a conversation over it.

Adrien swivels his body to face her sort of but not completely. “What? He did, you know.”

Bella shrugs and leans back on her hands. “Sure. Whatever. But I’ve been meaning to ask … about Rhys.”

To be honest, he shouldn’t be surprised. It was going to happen soon. But he was kind of hoping that soon would last a billion infinities.

“What about Rhys,” Adrien scoffs, looking over the steps of the Aphrodite cabin as if he’s admiring the weather. The porch starts to feel uncomfortable now. It’s getting dark, and they should probably get back inside, but there’s a cool breeze and it feels so nice.

Plus. If this ends in arguing, he doesn’t want his siblings to hear.

“Why’d you …” Bella trails off, screwing her face up. “Why’d you break up with him?”

“Oh,” he says, “doesn’t really matter.”

She shoots him an apprehensive look. Normally, if she knew he was upset, she’d be gentle. But not this time. Because this time, she leans forward and says, “Really, dude? Because if you broke up with him then it has to matter—”

Suddenly, Adrien doesn’t really know what’s happening. All he knows is he’s on his feet. A jolt of rage and irritation passes through his body. His fists are clenching. Bella stands up, too; she’s so fucking short it’s funny but her eyes are blazing so to hell with that.

“Does it? A lot of things don’t matter, you know. Nothing mattered to Silena when she sold the camp out. Oh, it mattered so much to her when half of us were dead. Oh, and it mattered to Aphrodite, too, when she let her own daughter die! She’s the goddess of love, yeah, and her own daughter died because of love. Isn’t that fucking hilarious?” His nails are digging into his palms so hard he knows they’re bleeding. He laughs bitterly, but when he stops he feels a painful sting behind his eyes. He could laugh through this entire conversation, just to keep himself from crying. Get a little bit high off his own despair.

You won’t cry now, he tells himself. Not now, not in front of Bella. You’ll lose.

And then Bella explodes, just as loud and just as furious. “This is about Silena? This is about Silena? Okay, and what the fuck does Rhys have to do with any of this?”

Her words leave a sour taste at the back of his mouth. They’re biting. They always are when she’s mad. Adrien’s mind feels like a bomb; Bella’s words are sharp as knives, and they’re poking and prodding him in just the right places to make him go off.

Biting his lip, Adrien huffs out a heavy breath. He looks her in the eye. She doesn’t look away. “Have you ever heard of the Aphrodite rite of passage?” he asks her. It’s not even a question.

Bella’s eyes go wide and her face grows hot. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she spits.

“No. Not at all.”

Everything goes silent, and it feels like the world is about to spontaneously combust. Adrien can feel it all crumbling.

Bella starts to yell. “Wow. Congratulations! So you just did this all for some rite of passage, you—”

The Aphrodite cabin door flings open. Adrien and Bella probably look really awkward; red-faced and red-eyed and absolutely livid.

Drew Tanaka stands there, with her arms crossed, looking thoroughly unamused. She leans against the doorway with her arm as support and chews on her bubblegum for a couple seconds before speaking up.

“Can you two keep it down?” she sneers. “Some of us are actually trying to do things — hey, Bella, shouldn’t you be in your own cabin now?”

“We’re in the middle of something,” Bella snaps.

“Shouldn’t you be back inside, doing head counsellor shit or whatever?” Adrien replies.

Drew only rolls her eyes. “Okay, alright, whatever,” she says, retreating through the doorway, “but keep it down or take it somewhere else.”

The door shuts with a gentle click.

Bella closes her hand around Adrien’s wrist and practically drags him towards the woods. He stumbles over the steps. Her nails have never been long, but Adrien forced her to file them the other day and now she’s purposely making them dig into his skin. He wants to wrench his arm away. He wants to scream at her. He wants to shake her, to make her know what his pain feels like for just one fucking second.

Because she doesn’t know what it feels like. She’s never heard a name and felt her walls go up and her chest fill with sorrow and her heart with rage. She probably never will. Bella’s just so happy and confident, isn’t she? Her memories aren’t lies and her feelings aren’t crimes.

He walks, so does she, and both of them are seconds away from snapping completely.

“Really?” Bella hisses the moment they’re in a secluded area veiled with trees, throwing his hand away like it’s coated in poison.

Adrien scowls. “What do you mean, ‘really’? What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to—” Bella cuts herself off and stares up at her best friend. Something Adrien has never seen directed towards him is there, the same expression she would give him if he smashed her guitar. Disgust. “Who have you even become? Just because you’re bitter over a death that couldn’t be prevented, you’re hurting people who didn’t do anything—”

“You don’t get it at all, Bella, you don’t understand, so do not act like you do!” Adrien shouts.

The entire camp probably just heard that. But he wants to yell it louder and harder so everybody feels what he feels. He hopes his pain is contagious. None of them know it. None of them will ever feel it, and he can’t do this alone. He can’t be the only one to suffer so much. He can’t suffer and watch everybody be okay, watch everybody have it better than him. He didn’t do anything to deserve it. And now, he supposes, by breaking so many hearts, he’s giving himself a reason to deserve it.

He knows that at the start, he didn’t deserve all this. (These sleepless nights and never-ending doubts.) At least now he has a reason for all of this. Something to blame it on.

Do not act like you do. Those six words replay in his mind. They feel like the switch to his anger, the moment he can pinpoint as the moment he saw red. He can’t take it back; he’s as angry as he’s ever been. You can’t clean what you’ve spilled when it’s already been absorbed.

There’s no use crying over spilled milk, Silena used to tell him. Somehow that memory just makes it even worse.

There’s a split second of silence, and it holds more power than any biting argument any of them could think up.

Bella makes a choking sound. “Understand. Oh no, I understand absolutely nothing, don’t I? Yeah, dude, you’re not the only one who’s lost siblings. We all have. Look around. Most of us are still in mourning! But despite that, hey, we don’t go around breaking hearts just because!”

“Your brothers died heroes!” Adrien raises his voice even louder. “Your memories of them are real, you knew them. Everything I knew about Silena was a lie. She didn’t love me or care about me or care about any of us like she pretended to. She was fake. Everything about my sister was a lie.”

He takes a deep breath. “Do you understand that, Bella?”

“Maybe I don’t understand shit because you hide everything — you don’t tell me shit, buddy! You don’t tell any of us shit! You hide your emotions and you shut yourself off all the time!”

“When I do tell you even one thing that’s going on,” Adrien hisses, “you do this. You blow up on me! How am I supposed to tell anyone anything when everyone does the exact same thing?”

Bella scowls, fists clenched at her sides. “You deserve it, after what you’ve been doing to Rhys,” she fires back.

Adrien shakes his head. “You’re just like everyone else. Get yourself together, Adrien. No offence but you’ve lost your shit, Adrien. You should get some help, Adrien, you’re dangerous.” His throat is burning.

Before Bella can even respond, he starts again, tears collecting in his eyes. “You’re a hero, so were your brothers, and everything about you will always just be so heroic,” he says spitefully. “You can mourn like a normal person. Your life is so much better. I don’t even deserve to feel what I feel. Your life is so perfect, isn’t it? Because, Bella, you don’t understand what it feels like to be a bad guy. A villain.

You’re always with the good guys, yeah?”

Both of them breathe for a couple of seconds. They’re staring right at each other, but they’re missing something. They’re looking straight at different logics.

Bella shakes her head. Tears might be running down her face, but Adrien can’t see because it’s dark out, and her hair is falling over her eyes. “That’s such bullshit,” she remarks, her voice rising higher with syllable. “Pain is pain. Loss is loss. You should maybe go to a therapist instead of spreading your fuckery onto other people. Life sucks, you complain that it sucks, but you’re making it suck for other people.”

She swallows, pushes back her hair. She’s definitely crying. “Why are you being so hypocritical and moaning about pain? You’re doing just what you hate. Some twisted scheme because you hate life, you hate Silena, you hate everybody, hell, you even hate yourself.”

Nobody speaks. Bella isn’t half wrong.

“Rhys didn’t deserve this,” she huffs. “He definitely didn’t deserve you. You really had to bring him into this. You’re an asshole.”

“Just shut up, Bella.” Adrien finally succumbs to tears. He refuses to sob in front of her, and she does the same thing, so they’re both trembling and ignoring themselves. Bella’s glare darkens.

In that moment, their logics meet.

“Okay,” Bella says slowly. “Go fuck yourself, Adrien.”

Then she tries not to shoot one last comment, before turning away fully and wiping at her face. Fat load of difference it would make; it’s dark, and Adrien can barely make out her figure, let alone the tears sliding down her cheeks. She marches away without another word. The leaves crunch beneath her feet. And surely for both of them, this whole ordeal feels like it’s from another dimension.

Adrien wanted her away. He wanted to be alone. Now he’s just lonely. And he hates it, and he hates her.

The love he had in his heart for Bella (his best friend, his very best friend, a match like no other) is now only starting to feel bitter. His chest is aching unbearably. Heavily.

He starts towards his cabin, and although she’s not here anymore, he needs to refrain himself from breaking down completely.

In all the years that he’s known Bella, he’s never seen her so furious or heard that quiver in her voice even once. It replays over and over and over in his head like background music. He really fucked up, didn’t he? He shudders to think of the lecture Elysna is bound to give him after hearing the news.

All of the cabins are almost giving him dirty looks. It’s like the gods are shaming him for the argument.

You hurt Rhys. You hurt Connor. You hurt Pollux. The only person who was your sanity through it all was Bella. You hurt her, too. You just hurt and hurt and hurt everybody. Do you like it? Do you like hurting the only people in this universe who give two shits about you?

And when they stop, when they realise you’re a lost cause, they’ll leave you. You’re going to be alone. Who will you hurt then? Just keep hurting yourself. Just keep pushing everyone away. You deserve it.

Adrien can’t hold it in anymore.

The world feels cold and suffocating. He is cold and suffocating, too just like this stupid fucking world.

Block it out, please.

But when he pushes a hand through his hair, he feels burningly hot like a fever. Maybe he can’t feel, because his hand is shaky. The world is shaky. Or is it blurry?

Shut it out, please.

When Adrien closes his eyes, he can’t tell if the nausea swelling in the pit of his stomach is of relief or instability.

Cut it out, please.

He breathes in and out, in and out, out or in and and in out, clenching his hands and his jaw. His eyes are shut tight.

Stop it.

He moves past the door of the Aphrodite cabin and collapses against the back of the building, where nobody can see him.

Breathe, you idiot, you need to breathe.

He clamps a hand over his mouth and feels his breath come out in quick, heavy bursts.

#i know i cant pull off italics im sorry #bella swarchovski #adrien liou

5 notes · View notes

what-happened-to-agent-georgia · 7 years

Text

You Wanna Talk About It?

For the RvB Bingo Wars, Red Team entry for the “Hurt/Comfort” square. (Ao3)

Words: 1573

Pairings: Grif/Simmons

Warnings: Canon-typical language/violence/etc

Summary: Simmons reminisces while he waits for Grif to wake up from surgery.

It was never a question. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation, a second thought, regret. Chalk it up to obedience, if you want, or plain old scientific curiosity. Whatever you wanted to accuse him of, Richard Simmons was not about to let Dexter Grif die.

Grif needed his arm? Done. His lungs? Fucking take them. If becoming a cyborg (and let’s be real here, Simmons was not totally devastated by the idea) meant Grif lived, then Simmons was more than willing to do it. And so, he did.

Surgery was a nightmare, of course. Not that Sarge wasn’t a skilled… something. It’s just that he was one person. Donut had just cowered in the corner, and Lopez had been MIA. But he did it, because he was Sarge, and for some reason all his convoluted plans seemed to work out in the end.

Once his organs and body parts had been transplanted and replaced, Simmons stood watch over Grif while Donut held his hand. Grif was not going to be pleased about that.

Sarge left to sleep almost immediately after the procedure was finished, mentioning something, and even Donut started to nod off. But Simmons was surprised to discover that, despite having had surgery, he felt more awake and alert than he had his entire life. Which was saying something, for someone so high-strung.

Simmons tried to pinpoint the exact moment he knew. When had he decided he would do anything for the dumbass passed out before him, even if it meant letting Sarge to rip him apart and rebuilding him? His loyalty to Sarge aside, Simmons was super fucking sure that if Grif’s life wasn’t at stake, he wouldn’t let the madman anywhere near his internal organs.

Simmons thought back to basic training in Danger Canyon.

I’m Grif, by the way. And I think this is the start of a singularly beneficial relationship where you get me out of all these stupid boot camp drills.

Simmons smirked despite the twinge of annoyance he felt at the memory. No, that probably wasn’t it. In fact, he distinctly recalled wanting to shove Grif off the bridge for making him look down.

Simmons looked over at Grif. It was hard to believe the hand Donut was holding used to be his. His stomach churned as he took in the raised white scars, one on each knuckle. Damaged goods.

He remembered then. When he knew.

One night, when they were first transferred to Blood Gulch, Simmons had a particularly ugly nightmare. No monsters or snakes or people blowing up or anything like that. He would have given all his Dungeons and Dragons kits to have normal nightmares like that.

No, Simmons’s nightmares were memories. Screams and shattered bottles and slammed doors. And when Simmons resurfaced, he was drenched in sweat, legs tangled in his sheets, cheeks stained with drying tears.

Hyperventilating, he scrambled out of bed, tried to run from the dream. He ended up in the bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink like he was about to be blown off the planet. But Simmons wasn’t able to shake the nightmare, the voices still echoing over and over in his head like a broken record.

Worthless. Weak. Waste of fucking space.

An overwhelming combination of anger and panic welled up inside him, building and writhing until, letting out a frustrated wail, Simmons slammed his fist into the mirror. He heard the satisfying crack, followed by several staccato rings as shards of mirror rained down into the sink. Pulling his hand away, Simmons gave the wall a kick for good measure.

“The fuck?”

Whirling around, Simmons slipped and begun to stumble backwards. He would have fallen into the sink if Grif hadn’t grabbed him by the collar of his pajama shirt and yanked him forward.

“Dude.” Was all Grif said.

“Uh, hey, Grif,” Simmons squawked, his voice shooting up an octave. “I, uh. Slipped?”

“I see that,” Grif snorted. “Did your fist slip into the mirror too?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, okay, Simmons.” Grif rolled his eyes. “Come on.”

“Wh-what?”

“You have a shit ton of glass in your hand, and I’m not about to be kept all night with your whining,” Grif explained, leading Simmons from the bathroom.

“Oh.” Simmons had yet to feel anything in his hand. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

In an awkward silence generally filled with their trivial banter, the pair of them made their way to the kitchen. Lopez had hidden the first aid kit from Sarge behind the freezer (The only medicine we need is the sweet, sweet taste of victory!). Grif led the way, hand still clamped around his wrist. Simmons let him, inspecting the tattoos up and down the groggy soldier’s arms. He realized, with a pang of guilt, that he’d never asked Grif about them. Not that the orange soldier was one for sharing.

When they reached the kitchen, Grif motioned for Simmons to sit at the table, cluttered with blueprints and attack strategies. Judging by the sheer amount of them, Sarge had had a late night too. Simmons wondered if the red soldier was still awake and on the prowl. He fucking hoped not.

Grif pulled the first aid kit from its hiding place and sauntered over. Flopping into the chair next to Simmons, he opened the first aid kit and began to rummage through it, producing bandages, antiseptic, and some tweezers.

Simmons flinched. If he wasn’t feeling the pain in his hand now, he would be in a few seconds.

“Hand,” Grif demanded.

“What?” Simmons looked up from the tweezers to ogle Grif.

“Gimme your hand, idiot,” he said.

“W-why? I can do it,” Simmons stammered. Grif rolled his eyes.

“Have you seen yourself, Simmons?” He huffed. “You’re shaking so fucking much, you’ll stab yourself with the goddamn tweezers. Now,” Grif thrust his hand across the table, “Give me. Your hand.”

Without another word, Simmons held out his injured hand, palm up. In the dim light the blood looked black. Grif took Simmons’s hand and flipped on the table lamp. He turned the bloody hand over, inspecting the knuckles with a look on his face Simmons had never seen before.

Serious. The dumbass was serious.

Eyes narrow, chewing on his bottom lip, Grif looked like he was performing surgery.

Then he grabbed the tweezers and went to work.

“FUCK!” Simmons howled, resisting the urge to yank his hand away.

“Shut up, Simmons, you’re gonna wake Sarge up,” Grif complained, not looking up from his work.

Simmons bit his tongue and watched Grif work.

Twenty minutes, thirteen ‘shit’s’, and four ‘fuck my life’s’ later, Grif and Simmons sat at the table munching Oreos.

“Where did you even get these?” Simmons asked, washing down his last Oreo with the strawberry YooHoo they were sharing.

“I’ve got connections,” Grif said with a shrug.

“Like… what?”

Grif glanced at Simmons out of the corner of his eye. “I’m a man of honor, Simmons. If I tell you my connections, then you’ll tell Sarge, and then the whole jig is up.”

“I wouldn’t tell Sarge!” Simmons cried, crossing his arms.

“Puh-lease,” Grif snorted. “Like you wouldn’t jump at the chance to kiss his ass.”

“Hey, I didn’t tell him about your hiding spots, did I?” Simmons pointed out.

“Touché.” Grif paused, leaned in conspiratorially. “I can’t tell you who, but I can tell you where.”

“Where, then?” Simmons tilted his head towards Grif.

“The Vegas Quadrant,” Grif whispered.

“Fuck you, Grif,” Simmons huffed, crossing his arms. A jolt of pain laced through his hand and up his arm. “OW, fuck!”

Raising an eyebrow, Grif asked. “You wanna talk about it?”

Simmons grimaced. “About what? How I tripped into the mirror? Big deal.”

“Yeah, whatever, you clumsy nerd,” Grif sighed. Standing up, he added, “I’m gonna go back to bed. There’s only three hours until dawn. Coming?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Simmons answered. He stared at the bandage wrapped around his hand. It was actually… Perfect. Not too tight, not too loose. “Hey, Grif?”

“Yeah?”

“Um... Thanks.”

“Sure. Yeah. No problem.” Grif shrugged. He looked off to the side, embarrassed by the praise. “Well, g’night.”

Grif ambled out of the kitchen, tossing the empty package of Oreos as he went. Simmons watched him go. He had an odd feeling in his gut, and a sudden urge to sprint laps around the canyon.

Grif had Simmons’s heart long before it was given to him.

“Hey, Simmons!”

Simmons, startled back to the present, nearly tripped and fell off the top of the base. Donut was waving frantically at him, beckoning him over.

“I think he’s waking up,” Donut chimed.

Simmons looked down at Grif, who was, sure enough, beginning to stir. It had only been three hours since the surgery. Simmons marveled at how quickly the healing unit had worked. Ah, the miracles of modern technology.

Sarge appeared, stomped over to where Grif lay, and leaned over him expectantly. Then, appearing to realize he was being watched, leaned away, crossed his arms, and harrumphed.

“Can’t even die right,” he grumbled.

Simmons and he felt his eyes start to burn. Blinking frantically, Simmons sidled over to his teammates. He was not going to cry in front of Sarge. Grif would never let him live it down. Or maybe not… the fatass owed him for sure.

Maybe now, Grif would tell him who he got the Oreos from.

#rvb #rvb bingo wars #my writing #red team #grimmons #grif #simmons #sarge #donut #mirror punching #swearing #not sure about the ending #but it has oreos at least #hurt/comfort

28 notes · View notes