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spookebee · 11 days ago

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Morning reblog 🌄

wod meet cute event with @spookebee!

I had a blast working with @spookebee on this event! writing this really helped me get my game back and finally gave me an excuse to write something set in the world of darkness; and it definitely helped that I got to write about my brujah, alan, going up against @spookebee's brujah, ryker! his piece featured in this post is just one of the many masterpieces he has to offer, and they're currently taking commissions, so make sure to check out his blog! without further ado, here are the finished pieces!

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amazing art by @spookebee:

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writing piece by @countfreakout (~3800 words):

The crowd roared when the first fighter made his way towards the ring.

Cheers and shouts erupted from nearly every direction, regular and first-time viewers alike eager to see what the moustached man had to offer; though even to those aforementioned regulars, this would be the first time they’d ever heard of Alan Harvey. They all watched as he pried his sunglasses from their perch on the crooked bridge of his nose, taking a few good glances around the arena now that his vision was fully unobstructed.

The Black Flag Combat Club was as advertised: nothing special, and a little shabby at that. It was sheer coincidence that had even informed him of its existence. He’d been out scouting for a safe place to squat, hoping to save himself the $100 he’d have otherwise had to spend on an AirBnB. Instead, he’d found a nondescript brick building whose only manner of decoration was the poster on the door and the banner above it, announcing the establishment’s name. The poster hadn’t been particularly eye-catching—it had looked like something designed by someone with no prior knowledge of graphic design on one of those apps plainly titled “Photo Editor”—but they’d already had him at the word “combat.” And their hold on him was cemented once he’d read the text on the paper, boasting the opportunity for seasoned fighters to participate in a match for a cash reward; $500 for participation, and another $1,000 if he happened to win. Which was guaranteed, seeing as he hadn’t yet met a mortal who had stood a chance against his preternatural strength.

The interior looked much the same as the exterior had, which was to say that it was practical. It wasn’t designed to please, just to provide a venue for sparring matches so the owners could presumably rake in some extra cash. And if they could afford to throw $2,000 total at every pair of brawlers, it was probably working.

The arena was small, capable of accommodating maybe two hundred people shoulder-to-shoulder, and was less of an arena than it was a large room with a boxing ring in the middle of it. There were no seats, leaving the space completely empty save for stanchions bolted to the ground, paving a much-needed path for fighters through the tightly-packed mob. Floodlights mounted on the ceiling trusses illuminated the ring, leaving the cramped audience with a clear view of the action. Alan had a feeling that might impede his vision during the match—unaccustomed as he was to bright light—but he supposed a little challenge was always fun.

There wasn’t a bar, or posters plastered on the brick walls, or even shelves, for that matter. Practical felt like the right word, though someone without his prior experience may have called it lousy or under-decorated. All in all, it wouldn’t be televised anytime soon. Still, Alan smiled at the audience as if he was, willing his dormant heart to pump blood through his veins and make him look some semblance of alive.

He tucked his sunglasses into his pocket, slipped his jacket off, and entered the ring.

He’d been right about the brightness of the floodlights. The onslaught initially blinded him, forcing him to squint as the crowd hollered, louder this time around. A few chants of “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!” managed to make themselves heard over the general cacophony, prompting a grin from the second fighter as he approached the ropes.

The man who appeared in the ring only seconds later wasn’t what Alan had been expecting. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe someone brushing if not breaking six feet tall, sporting a five o’clock shadow, decked out in little else but a tank top and scuffed jeans, like he was. Of course, he’d long learned his lesson about not judging a book by its cover, but the individual in front of him looked more like someone you’d find at a hole-in-the-wall record store and less like someone you’d find in a fight club. Though he figured the two scenes did have a bit of overlap.

Layered black hair framed the man’s angular face, ending just above his shoulders, the colour briefly intercepted by white stripes forming a raccoon tail on his left. His eyes were a deep brown, his skin somewhat lighter. An array of piercings Alan couldn’t name off the top of his head decorated his ears and lips, glinting in the overhead light. Clothing wise, he wore a spiked choker, a beat-up grey hoodie, a studded leather jacket adorned with pins, hand wraps, a studded belt, and a pair of pants that looked like they were actually two separate pairs of pants Frankensteined together; one leg red, black, and white plaid, the other just plain black.

Whoever this guy was, the crowd seemed to favour him. He carried himself with a confidence that suggested this was far from his first rodeo, or maybe even that he had professional training.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system, surprisingly loud.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our final matchup of the night! This one’s bound to be exciting, so feast your eyes and show our fighters some hype!

“In the wifebeater is our first fighter, coming all the way from Kingston! Weighing in at 76.1 kilograms with a height of 179 centimetres, he just barely qualifies as a super middleweight! I, for one, think he’ll put up quite a fight, and I’m sure you’re all eager to see what tonight’s guest has to offer! Please welcome Alan ‘Whizgig’ Harvey!

“In the leather jacket is our second fighter, a local talent many of you are already familiar with! Weighing in at 72.6 kilograms with a height of 173 centimetres, he may not look like much, but those who’ve seen him in action know he packs quite a punch! With an astonishing win-loss record of six to none, our undefeated champion is sure to take your breath away with his tactics! You know him, you love him, please welcome Ryker Kessgowasse!”

The crowd had cheered when Alan was introduced, but that was nothing compared to the uproar Ryker’s introduction prompted. Ryker drank the near-deafening noise in avidly, glad to be back in his element.

“As you’re all aware by now, this club doesn’t shy away from a little ferocity. That’s why we only have one golden rule…”

What was probably hundreds of voices all shouted in unison;

“Don’t kick ‘em when they’re down!”

Alan had known this wasn’t a professional club since he’d walked through the door; professional clubs didn’t throw money at whoever showed up itching for a fight. No, this was the kind of place that masqueraded as your regular, law-abiding gym by day, and bared its fangs as your erratic, wayward fighting pit by night. The audience wasn’t here to watch two people take harmless jabs at each other. They were here to see brutal swings and ruthless beatdowns.

They were here to see blood. And that was what they were going to get.

“I won’t keep you folks waiting any longer! Something tells me this one is going to be a close call, so give it up for our fighters and let’s see some action!”

With that, the bell rang, and Ryker crossed the entire ring in a few quick strides, delivering a nasty right hook to Alan’s jaw. Alan took the hit, slipping out of the way as his opponent thrust his knee forward in what would’ve been a jab to his thigh. He backed off to briefly plan his attack as the announcer said something about Ryker coming in hot.

He knew Ryker’s type; rash, relentless, speed over smarts. It wasn’t the first time he’d fought one of them, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. There was no real “trick” he’d discovered to taking them down besides just waiting for them to tire themselves out, though he was sure there was something he just hadn’t picked up on. He had the advantage of sheer size, but that was only useful if he could tank through the barrage ahead of him; and judging by the blow he’d already received, Ryker was no light hitter. Tanking through wouldn’t be his first course of action. So he had to think of something else, and he had to think of it fast.

A hand gripped his shoulder as another whizzed past his face, missing him by a hair’s breadth when he leaned back to avoid the strike. He immediately realized that doing so had put him in a nonoptimal position, but it was too late. The hand on his shoulder moved to grasp him by the throat, and he was heaved across the ring with alarming strength, ropes straining with the effort of catching his full weight. People howled at the sight, breaking into their chant from before.

“Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

He stared at the other man in disbelief, attempting to rationalize how someone ultimately smaller than him could’ve pulled that off in the first place. The last time he’d been hurled across the ring like that, the guy who’d done so had been several weight classes above him. And even then, he’d been like Alan was; cursed to spend his days asleep and his nights hunting for blood.

Ryker liked that look, the disconcertment that always made its way into the eyes of his opponents. It was especially satisfying to see in cocky mortals who underestimated him, to watch their air of superiority falter in the face of an adversary stronger than them.

He’d grown to expect it, just like Alan did. Every fight was a cakewalk, in the ring or outside of it, something the two of them could breeze through as if it were a minor blockade on the road to whatever goal they were chasing in the moment. Unlife had taught them nothing was unachievable; so long as you had the money, power, or fame to coax it into the palm of your hand. But they were still fledglings, new to the game with only the basics on how to play it. And fighting others of their kind wasn’t in the basics.

Alan was the first to notice something was wrong about his opponent. After a feat like that, Ryker should have stopped, panting, heart hammering against his chest. He shouldn’t have thrown Alan a smug look while motioning for him to approach, visibly unaffected despite having thrown a seventy-six kilogram man through the air only seconds ago.

He understood why the crowd had cheered so loud now. The guy was good. Too good.

Suddenly determined to prove himself to the audience, he lunged at Ryker, grappling him to prevent any further assault as he attempted to force his jaw to the side, expecting to meet skin moist with sweat.

But he wasn’t sweating. He was cold.

Dead cold.

Fuck.

He’d gone up against other licks a few times now. None of those experiences had been anything less than agonizing, and he didn’t care to repeat a single one of them; at least, not until he’d learned what to expect. And that was the problem. With mortals, he could almost predict their every move. Sure, some were more skilled than others, but so long as they weren’t armed with flamethrowers or machetes, they were relatively harmless. With vampires, on the other hand, he could never be sure they wouldn’t screw with his head, or vanish out of thin air, or become impossible to move, or grow a whole ass pair of claws.

His momentary hesitation cost him a blow to the side of the head.

And then another. And another. And another.

Before he could even register it, he was down on the ground.

“One!”

The light caught him right in the eyes with a sharp glare.

“Two!”

Over the PA system came a snarky remark about Ryker mopping the floor with him.

“Three!”

Rage threatened to take hold of him, but he reigned it in.

“Four!”

He picked himself up and settled back into a fighting stance.

Caution had gotten him nowhere. Not right then, and not in the past. He’d spent the entire round riding the wave and analyzing Ryker’s moves, forgetting that wasn’t what places like these respected in their fighters. They only respected brute force.

Now that he knew what he was dealing with, he’d show them that and then some. With mortals, he had to maintain a careful balancing act; he reigned himself in just enough not to breach the Masquerade or cripple his opponent, but still took enough advantage of his vampiric strength to end up victorious. It was an ordeal, which was why he didn’t fight as often as he had before his Embrace. But tonight was going to be different. Tonight, he fought against someone on even ground. The next round wouldn’t be a repeat of the first; at least, not for him. He’d show this Ryker guy what it meant to harness the might given to them by unlife.

As round one took its leave—signified by the bell—so too did his wariness.

The two men retreated to opposite corners of the ring, waiting out the break. Neither of them needed it, though Alan, for his part, tried to pretend he did. Not just for the sake of maintaining his mortal facade, but also because he suspected Ryker hadn’t figured out he was going up against one of his own yet. That was an advantage he couldn’t just dump down the drain.

Soon enough, the bell sounded again, and Alan surprised Ryker by hurtling forward in a reckless lunge, not unlike the one he’d received himself at the beginning of round one. The difference between his and Ryker’s attack, however, was that he wasn’t holding back. His fist connected with the punk’s nose, cartilage and bone dislodging themselves as a consequence of the brutal hit. No blood seeped from the injury, but if the audience was disturbed, they didn’t show it. A cacophony of glee filled the room, which only increased in volume as Alan kept going.

A forearm strike to the throat sent Ryker staggering back, leaving him free for only a moment before Alan enveloped him in a crushing bear hug. Bones splintered, a telltale sign of less-than-natural force that was thankfully drowned out by the crowd’s cheering. Despite his newly-broken ribs, Ryker grabbed Alan by the hips, pushed himself away, and delivered a knee strike to the other man’s groin, forcing him to relinquish his hold. Had he been mortal, that move would’ve surely given Ryker an opening, allowing him to put Alan on his ass.

Definitely not his first rodeo.

The pair retreated and circled one another for a moment, that same look of realization slowly working its way onto Ryker’s face. But Alan wouldn’t let him have time to think; or to use the power of his Blood to will his bones back together.

He came in high with an overhead punch, but just as Ryker moved to block it, he used his left arm to grab him in the abdomen with a low uppercut. Ryker soon found himself forced back into the ropes by a series of relentless jabs, doing everything he could to keep up and parry before regaining his footing and spinning away.

The rest of round two continued on in much the same way, roles reversed; Alan now on the offensive while Ryker tried to keep up and defend. Eventually, Ryker did manage to regain some of his earlier aggression, placing the two on even ground just before the bell rang.

Ding, ding, ding!

While the announcer gave a brief recounting of the events of the last two rounds, Alan and Ryker locked eyes, now both in possession of the knowledge that the other was a lick. There was a challenge there, in that moment of eye contact, one that wasn’t hostile, but instead friendly. The two had at last met their match; someone who could keep up with their preternatural abilities in a similar fashion. A common sentiment pervaded the arena: this is fun.

Ryker smiled, baring his fangs, and Alan smiled back in much the same way.

“Now, folks, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for! While the last two rounds may have awarded each fighter with a victory of their own, this third and final round will be the tiebreaker; whoever takes this one will take home the prize money! As a show of your admiration, I’d like you to give our brawlers a huge round of applause!”

There was less actual applause than there was people screaming at the top of their lungs, which was unsurprising. Controlling a crowd that rowdy was practically impossible, unless you were the Toreador Alan had once seen lure an entire neighbourhood into one bar using only her voice. In his experience, the announcement of the final round was always like floodgates being opened. That wasn’t to suggest the audience had been tame for the past two rounds—far from it—but there was always a detectable change in atmosphere when the grand finale hit. People were on the edges of their seats, eager to see if their bets would pay off or sometimes just if their championing idol would retain their streak. It was all held breaths, wide eyes, and slack jaws. Alan had come to appreciate the humanity of it in the years since his untimely demise.

This time around, there was a countdown before the bell rang. The announcer began at five, but by the time he’d reached four, every other voice in the building had joined in.

“Three!”

Alan could just barely make out the sound of Ryker’s bones welding back together.

“Two!”

Ryker rolled his shoulders, ignoring the Hunger digging its claws into him.

“One!”

The two men readied themselves for action.

Ding, ding, ding!

In what would be the first time since the beginning of the fight, both brawlers charged each other at once.

The audience fell speechless when they watched the pair land their attacks on each other, Alan punching Ryker in the jaw with enough force to dislodge it completely, Ryker wrapping his hands around Alan’s throat until there was an audible crack. Both were giving it their all now, and the sight was grisly. Assault after assault came that should’ve had both of them on the ground, bleeding, groaning, dying. The only thing more disturbing than the arena’s dead silence was the sight of them tearing each other apart, strike by strike, bone by bone. And every single time, they got right back up. Like it was nothing.

The fighters, on the other hand, were having the time of their unlives. Being able to unleash their full potential was a luxury they seldom came by, let alone under a circumstance where neither party was trying to kill the other.

Eventually, the Hunger started to get to Alan. He’d been so enthralled by the action, he’d forgotten that every healed injury cost him more and more juice. He really should’ve grabbed a drink before diving head-first into a match he’d presumed would be a dull, easy win; but it was too late for that now. Not too keen on frenzying out in front of hundreds of mortals, let alone on one of his own, he slowed his pace marginally and stopped healing his wounds.

But marginally was a big difference when it came to fights like these, and Ryker soon seized the upper hand.

The round was almost over when Alan felt the world start to slip away from him. Neither of them were on the ground yet, and he wasn’t sure how the judges would be able to score something like this, but in any case, the outcome was clear: he would lose. For once in his unlife, that prospect didn’t bother him. Especially when, on the other path, there was torpor. And his experience with torpor wasn’t one he cared to repeat; mostly because sneaking out of the morgue was never fun.

When the next blow came, he let it knock him down.

“One!”

Ryker backed off, abiding by the one rule.

“Two!”

The cool feeling of the mat bit its way through his tank top, soaked with artificial sweat.

“Three!”

At last there was a moment of stillness, one that allowed him time to think.

“Four!”

Events hadn’t unfolded like he expected them to. But he was glad they hadn’t.

“Five!”

“After a beating like that, folks, we’re not sure if he’ll be able to get up!”

“Six!”

He healed the worst of the damage he’d received, reeling his Beast in as he did so.

“Seven!”

What a fight.

“Eight!”

A smile worked its way onto his face.

“Nine!”

Yeah, he’d like it here.

“Ten!”

The round came to a close with a final ring of the bell.

The silence that had permeated the arena shattered all at once, replaced by the ruckus of the first two rounds; somehow amplified to the point that the announcer could barely be heard over it all.

“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen; we have a winner! While Harvey proved himself to be a worthy adversary, tonight’s fight undoubtedly goes to Kessgowasse! Please show your appreciation for your champion before you head out the door!”

The crowd’s appreciation was shown indeed, as the hundreds of people within it lent their voices to a third chant: “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

The noise trickled out of the building just as the audience members did, and soon enough, the arena was left empty save for the announcer, a few staff members, and, of course, the two fighters.

As he steeled himself for standing up, a pair of worn-out Docs entered his field of vision, shadowed by the presence of the man they belonged to.

“Hey.”

In an attempt to preserve what was left of his dignity, Alan sat up, squinting in an attempt to make out Ryker’s face through the torrent of fluorescent light.

At the very least, Ryker was every bit as roughed up as he was. The entire left side of his face looked like it had been hit by a truck, and his nose was more broken than it had been when the fight started. He may have won, but there was a reason he hadn’t healed himself; and it was very likely the same reason Alan had let himself lose.

The two exchanged a glance much like the one they’d exchanged just before the last round had started, but there was a difference in the one they shared now; something akin to admiration present in each of their gazes. Teeth flashed in a grin just before a hand reached down, palm open, in front of him. Immediately, Alan recognized the gesture.

Sportsmanship.

That was difficult to find in mortals, and nearly impossible to find in those like the two of them. And yet, there it was. Clear as day.

Smiling back, he took the hand offered to him and heaved himself up.

Ryker stuffed his hands into his pockets once Alan got onto his feet, speaking once more.

“Welcome to Montréal.”

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thank you so much to @porcelainseashore, @crownedinmarigolds, and @vampemoqueen for organizing this event!

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #vtm oc #vtm ocs #vampire ocs #clan brujah #brujah oc #world of darkness

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spookebee · 11 days ago

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omg the WoD meet cute event is finally done ! I'm so happy with both works @countfreakout (please check out countfreakout's blog!! He's a fantastic writer !! )

I love how these two interact in this work ! 💜 I've been so excited about this event since I signed up ! Enjoy !!

wod meet cute event with @spookebee!

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amazing art by @spookebee:

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writing piece by @countfreakout (~3800 words):

The crowd roared when the first fighter made his way towards the ring.

He tucked his sunglasses into his pocket, slipped his jacket off, and entered the ring.

Whoever this guy was, the crowd seemed to favour him. He carried himself with a confidence that suggested this was far from his first rodeo, or maybe even that he had professional training.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system, surprisingly loud.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our final matchup of the night! This one’s bound to be exciting, so feast your eyes and show our fighters some hype!

“As you’re all aware by now, this club doesn’t shy away from a little ferocity. That’s why we only have one golden rule…”

What was probably hundreds of voices all shouted in unison;

“Don’t kick ‘em when they’re down!”

They were here to see blood. And that was what they were going to get.

“I won’t keep you folks waiting any longer! Something tells me this one is going to be a close call, so give it up for our fighters and let’s see some action!”

“Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

He understood why the crowd had cheered so loud now. The guy was good. Too good.

But he wasn’t sweating. He was cold.

Dead cold.

Fuck.

His momentary hesitation cost him a blow to the side of the head.

And then another. And another. And another.

Before he could even register it, he was down on the ground.

“One!”

The light caught him right in the eyes with a sharp glare.

“Two!”

Over the PA system came a snarky remark about Ryker mopping the floor with him.

“Three!”

Rage threatened to take hold of him, but he reigned it in.

“Four!”

He picked himself up and settled back into a fighting stance.

As round one took its leave—signified by the bell—so too did his wariness.

Definitely not his first rodeo.

Ding, ding, ding!

Ryker smiled, baring his fangs, and Alan smiled back in much the same way.

This time around, there was a countdown before the bell rang. The announcer began at five, but by the time he’d reached four, every other voice in the building had joined in.

“Three!”

Alan could just barely make out the sound of Ryker’s bones welding back together.

“Two!”

Ryker rolled his shoulders, ignoring the Hunger digging its claws into him.

“One!”

The two men readied themselves for action.

Ding, ding, ding!

In what would be the first time since the beginning of the fight, both brawlers charged each other at once.

But marginally was a big difference when it came to fights like these, and Ryker soon seized the upper hand.

When the next blow came, he let it knock him down.

“One!”

Ryker backed off, abiding by the one rule.

“Two!”

The cool feeling of the mat bit its way through his tank top, soaked with artificial sweat.

“Three!”

At last there was a moment of stillness, one that allowed him time to think.

“Four!”

Events hadn’t unfolded like he expected them to. But he was glad they hadn’t.

“Five!”

“After a beating like that, folks, we’re not sure if he’ll be able to get up!”

“Six!”

He healed the worst of the damage he’d received, reeling his Beast in as he did so.

“Seven!”

What a fight.

“Eight!”

A smile worked its way onto his face.

“Nine!”

Yeah, he’d like it here.

“Ten!”

The round came to a close with a final ring of the bell.

The silence that had permeated the arena shattered all at once, replaced by the ruckus of the first two rounds; somehow amplified to the point that the announcer could barely be heard over it all.

The crowd’s appreciation was shown indeed, as the hundreds of people within it lent their voices to a third chant: “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

The noise trickled out of the building just as the audience members did, and soon enough, the arena was left empty save for the announcer, a few staff members, and, of course, the two fighters.

As he steeled himself for standing up, a pair of worn-out Docs entered his field of vision, shadowed by the presence of the man they belonged to.

“Hey.”

In an attempt to preserve what was left of his dignity, Alan sat up, squinting in an attempt to make out Ryker’s face through the torrent of fluorescent light.

Sportsmanship.

That was difficult to find in mortals, and nearly impossible to find in those like the two of them. And yet, there it was. Clear as day.

Smiling back, he took the hand offered to him and heaved himself up.

Ryker stuffed his hands into his pockets once Alan got onto his feet, speaking once more.

“Welcome to Montréal.”

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thank you so much to @porcelainseashore, @crownedinmarigolds, and @vampemoqueen for organizing this event!

#Ryker Kesegowasse #wodmeetcute #Montréal mentioned lets GOOO #Love these two silly brujahs #these two got bestie vibes going on for SURE #vtm #vampire the masquerade #vtm oc #vtm ocs #vampire ocs #clan brujah #brujah oc #world of darkness

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