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koutarouthighs · 3 years

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『 champagne bubbles 』

S U M M A R Y ― drunken words expose sober thoughts, and what do these boys have to say when their heart is too soaked in liquor to dull their filter?

post type ➺ headcanons fandom ➺ haikyuu!! characters ➺ tsukishima ⧾ kageyama ⧾ atsumu genre ➺ fluff; slight nsfw (sensual themes) tags ➺ established relationship; alcohol; language; pda; lotsa touchy drunk boys; word count ➺ 2.2k+ request ➺ [YES/NO] ; anonymous requested “could you maybe write drunk!tsukki being really sweet to his gf? like calling her pretty and being super sweet?” ↳ request status: *.·:·.✧ O P E N ✧.·:·.*

✕ tsukki doesn’t really like to get drunk, because he’s more of a spectator. he enjoys watching everyone else lose their wits so he can poke fun at them for it, sarcastically asking them a dozen questions just to video their answers to bring it up when they’re sober. ✕ but, with kuroo betting tsukki that he can drink him under the table, his obstinate personality has no option other than to meet his old friend’s challenge. what he doesn’t know is that kuroo never planned to win, not even from the start. ✕ when you see tsukki later, you’re confused with his wobbling frame and garbled words. his eyes seem to cross behind his glasses, and when he approaches you, he’s got his arm around your shoulders in a flash. you’ve never seen him be so publicly affectionate, especially not in front of a group full of his old friends who knew him once as an antagonistic rival. ✕ tsukishima compliments your appearance, your voice, your dress. he talks about how lucky he is to have you and you swear you see his reddened eyes begin to blear with tears. ✕ his hands cannot find a part of you he does not wish to explore further, always seeking but never finding solace. and finally he cups your cheeks and sloppily kisses your mouth, and you are so frozen in your stead that you do not have half a mind to kiss him back.

more below the cut ↯

⧾

“you’re just so pretty,” his voice drawls, eyes blinking slowly as he uses the arm not slung around your body to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. the slightest of pouts tugs on his lips and you want to push yourself up on your toes to kiss him, but you know how he feels about public affection.

a small laugh makes your chest blossom and tsukishima tugs you closer, your body engulfed by his lanky yet thick arms. his bicep flexes as he runs his index and thumb against either side of your neck, “you are! i know i don’t tell you enough, but you are. you’re the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

“kei,” you murmur as he drops his head to your shoulder, planting a quick kiss to your exposed collarbone. kuroo and akaashi widen their eyes at the sight, and you try to weave your fingers through tsukishima’s hair to get his attention, “kei, are you drunk?”

“yep!” kuroo’s voice is unmistakable, even from where he and akaashi, and now bokuto, are sitting in the kitchen, swiveling in their barstool seats, giggling to themselves. you narrow your eyes and hope that the glare you cut them is enough to not let them sucker him into anything like this again, knowing how much he will hate finding out about this when he’s sober.

“we can go home,” you murmur in promise against his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek before settling back on your heels. tsukishima kisses the top of your head and wraps you back up again, tucking your head beneath his chin. he sighs, and you feel his chest deflate, “no, i like going out with you. i know i say i hate it, but i like that you want the world to know that you’re mine.”

you tilt your head back, raising a brow, “tsukki, i’m not ashamed of you. never have been.”

“no, i know,” he almost sounds stone cold sober for a second, and you blink to try and make sure you can reconcile what you’re hearing with what you’re seeing. “i just hope you know that i’m not ashamed of you. you’re kickass, and i can’t believe you let me call you mine.”

“of course,” and you feel your own voice growing heady without the influence of whiskey, “i love you.”

tsukishima, drunk or not, reaches down to frame your face with his hands and as if in slow motion, purses his mouth until you feel the bow of his lips meet your own. you flex your feet so you’re up on your toes, face heated at the sudden display of affection, disregard to who might see. his palms are expansive and warm, floating from your neck to your shoulders, down your arms until he finds the curve of your hips. his thumbs slip beneath the hem of your shirt and he sighs, parting his mouth from yours, “tell sober me to appreciate you more. he’s kind of an asshole.”

“yeah,” you lick your lips and read the hunger in his eyes, matching it with a fire in your own, “i’ll make sure to tell him in the morning.”

✕ kageyama believes that alcohol dulls the senses and takes his mind off of what is truly important - the next match. so, it’s kind of difficult to get him to indulge in a drink from time to time. but hinata always manages to spur him on, citing his days in brazil have made him the better consumer, and kageyama just can’t let that redhead best him at anything. ✕ you wish you had the effort to try and deter him from it, but watching kageyama turn loose and enjoy his time with his friends is so elating in it of itself that you don’t have the heart to try and drag him to a glass of water. ✕ your face goes red when kageyama puts down his fourth glass of rum and coke and turns his attention to you. eyes sheathed by half-hooded lids, lower lip consumed in the cage of his canine tooth as he sucks the slow drip of whatever drink did not make it to his tongue. ✕ the praise he dotes on you when he slots himself into the couch next to you is not unwelcome, and yet foreign and uncomfortable all the same. tobio is not unknown to shower you in kindness when you are alone, and when he can gather his words and his spirits, but now, in front of his friends and rivals from high school, it all feels a little out of place. ✕ his hand rests curiously high on your thigh, the other arm around your back to hold you close. he kisses your cheek and then your neck, warm breath smelling of the sweet concoction he’s downed one too many of in your absence.

⧾

“tobi,” you whimper when his thumb drifts against the seam of your jeans, manicured nails digging into the plush of your thigh, “a-are you drunk?”

“so what if i am?” his curt response is quick, just like always. you suppose even when drunk, he’s not completely unlike himself. your gaze meets his darkened irises, pupils dilating as he tries to focus on any one feature of your face. his tone softens as he looks at you a little while longer, “god, you’re beautiful.”

your expression must show how taken aback you are, because tobio’s nose scrunches and he looks like he’s eaten something sour, “have i never told you that before?”

“n-no, you have,” you shake your head to bring your wits about you, “it’s just weird to hear it in front of all your friends.”

kageyama shakes his head and straightens his spine, palm falling down to your shoulders to massage at the blade of your back, “well, it’s the truth. in front of my friends or at home. y-you’re pretty.”

you can’t help but laugh at his wavering voice, another wave of drunkenness bringing out a shy side of him that you’re used to seeing from time to time. you lean across the space between your bodies and press a kiss to his cheek, “you’re adorable, tobi. especially when you’re drunk.”

“d-do you need anything?” he asks, the palm on your thigh finding your hand to squeeze your knuckles between his own, “water? another drink?”

you nod, brushing dark hair back from his face to his ear so you can see his sapphire irises in full, “i could use some water, if you’re getting up. but you don’t have to get me anything, babe.”

tobio is standing to his feet as soon as you finish your sentence, eyes wide and hands still clutching at you, despite the distance, “of course!” and he is gone before you have another moment to draw him back in. biting your lip, you watch as he scrambles about the kitchen, but your attention is drawn away by the other girls sitting on the couch opposite of you.

when kageyama returns, his arms are full, and his mouth is moving as if it were attached to a motor, “i got you two bottles of water and they had a can of that seltzer you like in the fridge so i got that too, and then i know where hinata hides the chocolate so i grabbed you a few pieces and then there’s also an apple in case you get hungry.”

you want to laugh, you desperately want to let your giggles escape, but you tamper them down to take the various items teeming in tobio’s hands. you reach up to cup his cheek, “you really do think of everything, don’t you, kags?”

“for you,” his voice sounds faraway, ethereal, “i’d do anything for you.”

✕ most nights after a long week of training, or a tournament with msby, atsumu spends time with bokuto and hinata and sakusa, and even osamu tags along, and they buy up tumugi, sake, and vodka until they can’t see themselves home. atsumu has the dd or a cab bring him home, and you can always tell by the way his steps stutter over the rug that he’s too far gone to even know you’re home. ✕ atsumu is a clumsy, most of the time loud, drunk. he forgets how lumbering his body is, how much he weighs, and how his head might hit the overhanging light in the living room if he’s not too careful. ✕ as soon as he spots you, curled up on the couch, his whole being softens. he licks his lips and calls your name, eyes shining when you finally make eye contact. he’ll call out for you again, asking for his girl. ✕ atsumu’s hands are insatiable as he fumbles over the top of you from where you lay, tucking his head into your neck and caging you in with his limbs. he likes the reminder of how big he is, how he can encompass your space with minimum effort. he seeks skin on skin contact while he can’t see straight, preferring to close his eyes and just feel you. ✕ he’ll mutter things into your soft skin and slip his hands underneath your shirt, but it’s nothing you haven’t heard already, only accented with giggles and blown raspberries along your body.

⧾

“don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

“so what?!” he nips at your jaw, “what are you, my mother?!”

“that would make this a very strange position, wouldn’t it?” you snort, scratching your nails up the base of his back to his shoulders, his shirt riding up inch by inch. atsumu groans, dropping his head to your chest, circling his arms around your waist until he’s clinging onto you for dear life. he sighs and you try your hardest not to shiver at the feel of his warm breath over your bare skin.

he grunts, shifting his legs to get more comfortable, “osamu bet he could do three shots faster than me, and you know i’m the better twin, and i had to prove it, so i did it. and... and now’m here.”

another laugh makes its way out of your throat and you squeeze his shoulders, “that competition is going to get you in trouble one day. you can’t win everything.”

“i don’t gotta win everything,” atsumu licks his lips and takes a breath, craning his neck so he can look you in the eyes, “i already got you, don’t i?” you’re blushing but that doesn’t stop him, not when he’s on a drunken roll like this, “i mean, that’s about the best thing i ever coulda won.”

you twirl a finger in his hair to keep your hands busy, rolling your lips together as he rambles. atsumu pushes himself up further on your body so you’re eye-to-eye, the tip of his nose brushing up your cheek as he gets situated, “cause even when i lose a match, i still get to come home to you.”

the threatening heat of tears makes your eyes throb and you close them to get some relief. atsumu kisses both of your eyelids and then your nose, and your face scrunches at the overwhelming smell of vodka on his lips, but you don’t care, not when he’s being so kind and genuine. he cups your face with a palm, heady and calloused, and then kisses your cheek until your skin relaxes. he chuckles, “i mean it, sweetheart.”

“i know you do, ‘sumu,” your voice is thick and you clear your throat just after you speak. you finally peek your eyes open to look at him, and you almost wished you hadn’t. his umber irises melt into dark pupils, a warmth there that you cannot place, cannot describe. his skin is rosy, kissed by alcohol and emotion, and you just want to drown in him.

he noses your cheek and then captures your lips, soft kisses volleyed back and forth between the two of you as your hands roam and find supple skin and dense bone. lines blur between evening and morning, and words slur between the both of you.

and every time, as one breath ends and another begins, atsumu makes sure to show you that his words ring true, and his greatest win was always you.

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eugene-not-flynn · 4 years

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cavalry

word count: 1414

summary: Eugene’s been kidnapped. a short New Dream Rescue!fic.

Warnings: some elements of Eugene!whump, blood, injury, passing out, kidnapping, being tied to a chair, please let me know if I forgot anything.

A/N: first time writing for the tangled fandom, so of course this is nerve-wracking. But I’m also working on just getting back into the habit of writing after a few weeks of hiatus. So I wrote this fun little thing, mostly as a way to try out new characters and dynamics. Not meant to be Serious Fic. I haven’t read much in this fandom, so I dunno if kidnapped!Eugene is a trope in this fandom, but I think it probably is. If so, posting this in the name of the “two cakes” theory. Hope you all enjoy! Edited (loosely) by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

...

Eugene blinks as he wakes up, squinting against the limited sunlight that filters through the tiny window at the top of the cell. Is it a cell? He’s not sure, though he wouldn’t know what else to call a small room with a single wooden door in front of him, surrounded by stone walls and a hard, unforgiving floor. He takes a breath, wincing slightly as the smell of mold and copper assaults his nostrils.

He should be used to it by now, he figures. How many days has he been here? At least three. Maybe more than that. The sunlight helps with keeping track of time, though he’d been in and out of consciousness a bit too much for Eugene to have any semblance of confidence about the passage of time.

He flexes his grip experimentally against the rope that anchors his wrists to the arms of the chair he’s in. There’s no give. They must have replaced the ropes while he’d been unconscious. Eugene sighs. So much for the slow progress he’d been making on stretching the ropes out.

He hangs his head and immediately regrets it as the room spins slightly. Eugene clenches his eyes shut against the slight roll in his stomach, and it’s not until he tastes something sharp and metallic that he realizes he bit his already-split lip. He spits the blood out to the side as it floods his mouth.

“Okay,” Eugene says slowly, “Plan B, then.”

Except he doesn’t have a plan B. He had been taken at least three days ago. He’d exhausted most of his usual escape routines, and the fact that they kept him tied to the chair, even during their… interrogations… meant that he was limited in his ability to use and manipulate the space around him like he usually did. There was no hiding-and-ambush, no jerry-rigging a lockpick set, and the stone walls and floor meant there was no digging-your-way-out escape either.

He can’t give up, though. The sunlight through the tiny window reminds him of Rapunzel. He wonders if she even knows that he’d been taken yet. He’d been out with the guard patrolling the northern border of their kingdom when he’d been taken in the night. They’d been half-way through a week-long venture. So it would take the guard at least three days to get back to Corona. If the guard hadn’t also been ambushed. And that didn’t even account for the fact that Eugene still didn’t have a clue where he was.

He’d managed to glean from his brief exchanges with the people who came into his cell to knock him around that they weren’t from Corona, and that they didn’t seem to have a personal grudge against Flynn Rider like Eugene had first assumed. With a few smart remarks and carefully placed questions, Eugene had learned that they knew enough about the crown to know who Rapunzel was, and her parents, and had taken Eugene in an effort to force the crown’s hand for… something.

It had been an oddly gratifying feeling for Eugene. Most of the other times he’d been targeted, it had been for Flynn Rider. Now he was wanted for being Eugene. He figures that maybe there was something kind of nice about that. In a morbid sort of way.

Or maybe it was the concussion talking.

A loud crash on the other side of the door startles Eugene out of his thoughts. There’s muffled shouting, doors opening and distant thuds. Eugene thinks maybe another prisoner tried to escape. He doesn’t know who else these people had taken, but he knows that he is not the only one they’re keeping. He’d been hearing the screams for the past three days.

Then a horse whinnies and he shouldn’t because hope like that is dangerous, but Eugene finds himself thinking it anyway. Max?

There’s a heavy thud against his door that rattles it against the hinges. A muffled voice yelling something. A feminine voice. Eugene’s heart lurches towards the sound but he doesn’t dare think the name. Because if it’s not, if it’s not her, Eugene thinks something might break inside of him.

The lock clicks and the door slams open and Eugene squints against the light, trying to make out the silhouette.

“Get them out of here, Atilla!”

For the first time, Eugene is grateful he’s sitting in a chair because he thinks that if he were standing, his knees might’ve given out on him. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. And the silhouette is familiar and of course—of course—she’s holding a frying pan.

“Sunshine,” Eugene greets, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears, “Gosh, it’s good to see you.”

He hears Rapunzel gasp slightly as she rushes into the cell. “Eugene!”

She’s moving faster than Eugene thinks is possible, but the back of his mind mentions the concussion again. He wonders, with a terrifying jolt, if this whole thing is some kind of elaborate hallucination. But then Rapunzel is cupping his face in her hands and the touch is real and solid and achingly gentle.

Eugene sinks into it a little. He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Is this where I say you should see the other guy?”

Her green eyes—gosh but Eugene could stare into them forever—flit over his face, her brows pinching together in concern. Eugene thinks perhaps his attempts at a smile may have really looked more like a grimace. Her lips press into a thin line before she swallows.

“Pascal,” she says, who appears on her shoulder. Eugene blinks a few times. Where did he come from? “Think you can undo these ropes?”

“Frog, you’d have my undying gratitude.” Eugene flexes against them and tries not to grimace as the harsh texture rubs against already raw skin.

Pascal rushes down Rapunzel’s arm and inspects the bindings more closely, then shoots a look back to Rapunzel that Eugene cannot decipher. He almost wants to call it apologetic. Rapunzel frowns, but nods once. Eugene sees that spark of determination set into her eyes. She brushes her fingers softly through the strands of his hair that are into Eugene’s face.

“We’re getting you out of here, Eugene. Okay?” Before he can respond, Rapunzel glances over her shoulder and gives a sharp whistle. Maximus appears in the doorway and if a horse could look concerned, Eugene is pretty sure that’s how he’d describe the look on the steed’s face.

Eugene feels a laugh bubble up his chest. “You really brought the whole cavalry, didn’t you, Blondie?”

Rapunzel, evidently, doesn’t find the situation as funny as Eugene does. “Just hang on, Eugene. You’ll be okay.”

Eugene doesn’t really doubt that. Rapunzel is here. A part of him always felt like everything would be okay as long as she was there, with her relentless persistence and optimism.

“Eugene…” There’s a look in Rapunzel’s eyes—wide and soft and something else—that Eugene cannot decipher right now, but it does make him acutely aware that he just said his thoughts aloud.

Max and Pascal work together and manage to quickly undo the ropes around Eugene’s hands and feet. Rapunzel wraps Eugene’s arm around her shoulders and braces a hand carefully against the center of his chest. Eugene does his best to stifle the wince as it sends a sharp burst of pain through him.

“Sorry!” Rapunzel says, always closely attuned to how the people around her react, no matter how small the change.

“It’s okay,” Eugene assures her softly. “Just—ah.” He winces as Rapunzel helps him stand.

He takes a step forward and his knees immediately give out. Rapunzel catches him, and is really the only thing that keeps Eugene from pitching face-first into the floor. The room is tilting and spinning and it occurs to him that he probably won’t be able to walk out of here.

“Max,” Rapunzel says urgently. “Think you can carry Eugene?”

Max huffs a breath in affirmation. Rapunzel helps Eugene swing up into Max’s saddle, and Eugene is proud of himself that he only whimpers a little at the jolt of pain that floods his chest as his ribs are jostled in the process. He instinctively wraps an arm around himself as if he can physically hold his ribcage together.

“Rapunzel—” he grimaces.

“I’m right behind you, Eugene. We’ve got you.”

Eugene sees her soft smile and the determined set to her jaw before his vision tunnels and then goes dark.

#tangled #tangled fanfiction #tangled fanfic #new dream #eugene fitzherbert #kidnapped!eugene #blood #blood mention #injury #kidnapping #how do i tag #yikes #rescue!fic #aksfjksldjf is this intense for this fandom?#i literally do not know #ive gotten a little used to writing for witcher #which has a different canon baseline for gore and injury than tangled obv #hhhh

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inquisition-dragonborn · 4 years

Link

History has recorded that the Dwemer disappeared under mysterious circumstances many millennia ago. They were a resourceful people possessing wonderous technology, knowledge, and wealth, but at the pinnacle of their mastery over their world, they vanished entirely. Or did they? This is the tale of the last Dwemer who awakens to find themselves in a far different world than they left.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandoms: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Elder Scrolls Online, Elder Scrolls Characters: Original Dwemer Character(s), Various Skyrim Characters, College of Winterhold

Ratings and warnings are subject to change.

My dreams are filled with the sibilant sound of escaping steam, the whir of flywheels, and the rhythmic clank of metal cogs stepping through the gears one lash at a time. The constant noises are comforting in their way, like a mother’s heartbeat, echoing through the darkness of the womb.

My nightmares are different. They are filled with the horror of artificial silence, hunger and desperation, and the acrid scent of sweaty fear. The nightmares seem both immediate and distant in my mind and I do not like to dwell upon them.

I don’t know if my eyes are open or closed; darkness envelopes me in a constant state with no relief. I am neither warm nor cold. I cannot feel my body, assuming that is, that I still have one. I’m not aware of the passage of time, a blessing and a curse that I will come to understand later.

“Carefully now. We do not know what dangers may await us.” A ball of light zoomed into the middle of the pitch-black room then hovered lazily, rising slowly toward the ceiling of the cavernous space. “We don’t need a repeat of yesterday.”

Status: Initializing…

“Understood, professor,” a male stated, nervously clearing their throat.

“Dwemer ruins are notorious riddled with traps. Wards at the ready. Phinis, a little bit more light, if you please.”

Six people, five humans and an Argonian, cautiously entered the room, their eyes darting from shadow to shadow, looking for dangers. A middle-aged man, balding and with a confident stride, came first, sending globes of light up into the air. The two younger human men, twin brothers and Nords by appearance, jostled each other as they came through the door. A Redguard woman walked cautiously next to the Argonian. An elderly looking man, grey hair and beard neatly trimmed despite the unkempt look of his robes, brought up the rear.

Several more globes of light shot into the room distributing themselves into a ring, illuminating the space with a pale blue light. Smooth stone walls gleamed with collected moisture and crystallized mineral deposits. Rays of light, weak and watery, filtered down through the fractured stone. Metal glinted in the wavering light, twinkling in and out of view as the balls of light shifted on the air currents created by steam that rose from the single piece of machinery still working.

“Remarkable, simply remarkable,” the elder stated, craning his head to look around. “These ruins are unlike any we’ve discovered previously. Carefully now.”

The room was circular in shape with only the single door they entered by. At the center of the room stood a narrow waist-high pedestal with two rows of buttons, a single button glowed with a green light. Fanning out from it by narrow metal conduits were a dozen larger tubes, circling the available space like markers on an incomplete sundial. Most tubes were dulled and broken, but one glowed like polished moonstone in the magelight.

“Never have we seen construction such as these. Remarkable.”

“Yes, Professor Tolfdir.” The younger members of the group looked at each other and rolled their eyes at the elder’s rambling. None of them had any real interest in being there but as the oldest apprentices at the college, they had the dubious honour of being farmed out for such research expeditions.

Above each tube, ominously familiar round metal hatches were pressed into the wall. They were not the usual dull gold of dwarven metal either but silver, pitted and tarnished black with age. Nonetheless, these were easily recognized by the explorers. Most were ajar and empty, their contents of sleek silver metallic spiders, lay broken and dormant on the crumbling stone floor. Several hatches remained closed despite the broken tubes, but from within one, a green gem began to glow. The gem slowly rotated within the gyroscope housing that served as the spider’s head to focus on the interlopers.

Status: Analyzing…

“Look!” one of the Nords, the nervous male, stated excitedly, “one of them is still working!” He hurried forward, tripped over one of the conduits and froze at the ominous clacking of metal on metal.

When nothing further happened, everyone gave a slow sigh of relief.

“Apprentice Rundi! Would you please restrain yourself… by the door!” The professor’s voice had slipped from its normal calm tone to something much sharper and impatient.

“Yes, professor. I’m sorry, professor.” He carefully walked back past the group, slouching his head and shoulders forward with shame. His brother shoved his shoulder as he passed, making him stagger slightly.

“Borvir! This is neither the time nor the place for roughhousing of that nature.”

“Sorry, professor.”

“Now, where were we—?” Tolfdir muttered to himself, sounding bemused, before his eyes lit up with renewed focus. “Ah, yes. It is truly remarkable to see equipment of this age still functional! You can see that even here, the walls and floor have fractured with the upheaval of the mountain at some time during the past; however, the ingenuity and redundancy of the Dwemer design has allowed the machinery to continue to function despite damages.”

“What do they do exactly?” The Redguard, Yisra, asked, cocking her head to the side as she carefully studied the steam outlet on the single working tube.

“We have no idea.” The students stopped in their tracks and turned back to look at him with an assortment of incredulous and confused looks on their faces. “We have only recently discovered two of these ruins and they significantly pre-date the oldest known ruins of Nchuand-Zel, Alftand, or Bthardamz. Those ruins do not contain these circular vaults. They are an intriguing curiosity. Perhaps it would be best to have Calcelmo join us before we proceed further.” He turned around and looked startled to find a student at the door. “Oh! Borvir…”

“Yes, professor?” Borvir replied, standing next to him.

“Oh!” Tolfdir blinked repeatedly, then realized he had confused the twins. “No, no. Rundi—please fetch Master Calcelmo from the other chamber. Tell him we have a working example.”

While they waited, the students carefully examined the silent tubes and compared them to the single working one. The tubes, slightly longer than the average Altmer and wider than a Nord, were oval in shape instead of the expected round. The surface was slightly warm to the touch, slick as polished marble in some places, pitted and rough in others with the accumulation of minerals similar to the deposits on the surrounding walls. Pairs of pipes entered and exited either end, with gauges marked with illegible figures. Only the gauges on the functional tube flickered to suggest some unknown activity within.

“This tube is open,” Borvir said sticking his fingers under the edge of what looked like a lid and lifted. A loud creak of hinges made everyone freeze in their tracks.

Status: threat assessment pending...

The gem turned yellow and its legs flexed for the first time in millennia, the joints popping with a soft hiss of steam.

The tube was empty except from some sort of mineral deposit fused to the inside bottom of the surface that he scratched at with his fingernails. “What do you suppose was in them?”

“It’s hard to say. They could have been storage tanks for fuel or food. Perhaps fermentation…”

Borvir threw his hands up into the air as his brother returned with the Altmer mage, Calcelmo. “Dwemer mead!”

Phinis shook his head and rubbed at his temples in frustration at his students’ behaviour. He wasn’t the only one as their fellow student, Yisra curled her lip in disgust. “You and your stupid mead. One day you’ll freeze to death toasting to your own stupidity.”

“Now, now… Master Calcelmo. The students have found a working example of the Dwemer devices.”

“So your student said Master Tolfdir, although I very much doubt that,” Calcelmo said as he strode into the room, shooing the students out of the way as he entered, “but I suppose I can see what you have found. Ah!” He walked around the tube that continued to emit a jet of steam with perfect mechanical timing. He walked around the adjacent tube that had been pulled open. “Fascinating. There is no outward sign of hinges or latches, and yet they can be opened. But how? There must be some mechanism—”

“What about this?” Rundi asked, running his finger over the green light on the pedestal.

“Do not push—” Phinis called as the button depressed under Rundi’s finger.

Status: unauthorized input...awaiting bypass command...

The gem started to pulse.

The room fell abruptly silent as the methodic rhythm of the device’s gears ground to a halt and the vent of steam tapered off with a waning hiss.

“How many times must you be told—"

“Of all the stupid—"

Status: eliminate threat...

The gem turned red as the weapons system activated.

A loud chime rang startling them all into silence. They had never heard such a thing before in a Dwemer ruin. It nearly drowned out the swish of the remaining hatches on the walls, opening and spilling out their mechanical eight-legged guardians.

The spiders rapidly climbed over their fallen brethren, their metal legs tapping sharply on the stone floors as they advanced. Lightning arced through the air sizzling across hastily erected barriers.

Spikes of ice exploded against the spiders sending them tumbling across the floor only to right themselves with acrobatic leaps before charging back at the mages, razor-sharp edges slashing against fabric and flesh.

“Ice doesn’t work!” Rundi screamed, tripping over his own feet as he retreated.

“Then use fire, ice-brain,” Yisri barked, blasting the spider advancing on the scrambling Nord with a fireball. The spider flipping onto its back, legs kicking, then burst apart in a shower of sparks.

“Don’t panic. Work together now,” Phinis called out as he brought his conjured sword down onto a spider.

“Remember your wards, apprentices!” Tolfdir reminded them, his own glowing blue ward crackled but held firm against a bolt of lightning.

The spiders were vastly outnumbered and quickly overpowered by the mages. The final spider staggered upright again on its remaining five legs, two of which dragged on the floor from broken joints. It snapped its single functional scissor-like front legs aggressively at the intruders before being slammed back against the wall with a glancing ball of fire.

The spider’s inner workings hissed and spun in a mindless effort to fulfill its directive. The gem pulsed with red light, weaker than before.

Status: critical failure…

It burst apart in a shower of sparks and scattered legs to collapse in a silent heap.

The mages panted with exertion, sucking in gasps of ozone scorched air, all the while glaring daggers at a now-sheepish Rundi. “Sorry.”

“And that, young man, is why we do not go pushing buttons with abandon like a skooma-raddled khaj—”

A loud crack echoed off the stones abruptly ending Calcelmo’s tirade. Wards and destruction spells bloomed as they all rapidly scanned the room for new threats. Their hands slowly lowered as nothing came at them. Indeed, even the alarm bell had fallen silent.

“Oh, it’s leaking!” Yisra exclaimed, jumping back from the previously functioning device as a gold-coloured, viscous fluid started to pour out of the tube and splashed onto her shoes. The device had become hinged like its counterparts and was rapidly losing its contents.

“Quickly now,” Calcelmo darted forward with surprising agility, holding out a flask pulled from the inner folds of his voluminous robes, “get a sample before it all runs away.”

“Ew!” she protested even as she held the glass under the slowing flow of liquid. She held her hand up and rubbed her fingers together. It felt creamy, not greasy or sticky as she had expected. She wrinkled her nose; it was still disgusting. She wiped her fingers on Borvir’s shirt.

“Hey!”

“Well, I think there is no longer any harm in opening this the rest of the way, do you?” Tolfdir asked Calcelmo.

“No. I think what’s done is done. Let’s take a look inside.”

The lid opened smoothly after some initial resistance and more fluid spilled out to reveal the contents.

“Xarxes Backside!” Calcelmo exclaimed in an uncharacteristic display of shock.

“Is that—is that—”

They stared in stunned amazement at what appeared to be a female body, coated in the remnants of the golden liquid, lying in repose at the heart of the tube.

“A Dwemer,” Calcelmo said in awe upon finally collecting himself. “This is the find of a lifetime. All my research, my work as the pre-eminent scholar—”

The body jerked once, then again; gold fluid started to bubble at the mouth.

“It’s alive!”

“Nonsense. That’s not possible.”

Phinis gestured with his hands and each one of them in the room glowed with a red light in reaction to the life detection spell he had cast. And so, too, did the body before them.

“It’s not possible. To be alive after having slept for seven thousand years—”

The body jerked again, less violently, with another bubble of fluid rising from the mouth to burst and spill over the cheeks. The lingering red glow of the spell began to flicker.

“If we don’t do something quickly,” Phinis barked at them, “it’s not going to live for very long. It’s drowning!”

Ilas-Tei, the Argonian, jumped forward, “turn it on its side to drain the lungs. Dryskins are always drowning.”

“Yes, carefully now,” Tolfdir directed them.

“It’s softer than I expected,” Borvir said, his hands were wrapped over the hip and thigh.

“What did you expect? Metal?” Yisra asked, wrinkling her nose at the draining fluid as she held the head steady.

“Well yeah,” he said with a shrug. “Dwemer made things out of metal.”

“They made things out of metal, but they weren’t constructed of metal themselves, you frost-brain.”

“Apprentices! There that should do it. Carefully now, onto the back.” Tolfdir stood up and looked to Calcelmo. “Now what should we do?”

He waved his hand at the now breathing body. “I study ruins. I don’t know anything about caring for—” he waved his hand again, “bodies, persons. You look after it. You have healers, restoration experts at the college. If it survives, I’ll have questions. Until then, it's your responsibility,” he added as he strode out of the room.

Tolfdir scratched at his beard thoughtfully. “Well then. Suggestions?”

#Elder Scrolls Skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #modern character in skyrim #Helygen Writes #AO3 fic #dwemer

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thekastlediaries · 7 years

Note

"I need you to scream. You're Karen Page he's the Punisher, he will come for you." in which Karen hurt and taken by a villain and Frank is enraged. (I was inspired by the Tarzan trailer)

Hey, so today I actually cracked 1000 followers and I cannot believe it! I’m so happy there are so many people here that like this ship as much as me and I’ve had so much fun reading the stories everyone has written and reblogging the edits and the wonderful amazing fanart. I have so little to offer fandom sometimes, and I’m way too broke to do a giveaway, but I thought if I sat down and really concentrated on filling a prompt that might be enough to commemorate this little milestone. :D I hope you like it.

VIOLETS AND VIOLENCE on ao3

The last thing she remembered was the smell of violets, dainty petals pushed against her nose, the sweet scent invading her sinuses. She’d closed her eyes for half a second to lose herself in the scent, to imagine that he had been the one to leave them on her fire escape. How stupid could she have been?

Now the only thing she could smell was the dank mildew of an underground dwelling. Poorly ventilated and even more poorly lit. The back of her head throbbed and she knew without checking that there was rather large knot underneath her yellow hair, perhaps even a gash if the moisture dripping down the back of her neck told her anything. Her sight was the last sense that came into play, an errant thought passing through the back of her mind as she wondered if this is how it was for Matt.

Her pupils adjusted to the dimness, faint far off light filtering down into her cell, the bars casting shadows across the dirty floor. It wasn’t the first time she’d been locked up, but she had to admit that the clean yet stark cells downtown were a lot more preferable than where she was now.

Trash scattered across the floor, dirt caked in the creases between tiles, reddish brown stains on the wall that leave no question as to what went on here… It was a scene straight out of a horror movie, but she just didn’t have it in her to react accordingly, a calm strangely numb feeling setting over her. How had this become par for the course?

She shifted against the damp floor, dispassionately noting that her shoes were gone and her stockings were now unsalvageable tattered things. Her wrists were free, the expected cold and unyielding sharpness of cuffs absent. Nothing around her ankles either. It was rather ominous sign. Her captors being unconcerned about her freedom of movement only meant the cell was secure.

She sat up, vision blurring for a second as her head swam. Nausea threatened. Best not to move too quickly. She made a mental note to see the doc about a possible concussion after all of this was over. Her surroundings gave her no clue as to who was behind this nonsense, and the only ambient noise was vague whir of a fan kicking off and on. Not enough to offer any clue as to where the hell she was being held. Just fucking perfect. God only knew which set of pissed off assholes this was. She had a real knack for making enemies.

She heard a shuffling down what must have been a rather long corridor, and her heart began to beat a little faster. There it was, that spike in adrenaline that told her she was in some real trouble. Her eyes darted around the cell looking for something to use as a weapon, lighting finally on what appeared to be a spoon. Shit. It’d have to do.

She quickly snatched up the utensil and shoved it down into her blouse, tucking it securely under the band of her bra before resuming her prostrate position on the floor and trying like hell to steady her breathing. These creeps didn’t need to know she was conscious… not yet.

Micro described it as a vacation, although Frank wasn’t sure if hiding out in an abandoned warehouse and living off canned goods for two weeks could be called a vacation. Maria had liked short jaunts to the beach, weekends spent in one room summer shacks where they let their bathing suits dry on the line outside and drank sangria on the porch overlooking the ocean. Sometimes when he fell asleep he could still smell the salt on the air, just like it had whipped across the water. He didn’t think anything he’d done in the last couple years could possibly be described as a vacation.

But it was down time, and he had used it as best he could. Sleeping off a fair number of bruises and cuts, laying back to read a book for the first time since a bullet had torn through his gray matter. It was amazing how nimble his mind felt after a few weeks of recuperation. He was raring and ready to get back to work, but Micro wouldn’t give him the all-clear.

Apparently he’d inadvertently stepped into some real shit, snapping the neck of an entitled prick who’d been swinging his dick around a little too forcefully. Not that Frank was averse to rolling around in the muck with scumbags, especially pricks like Kimball Blackwell. The man seemed to think it was alright to hire sex-workers and leave them bleeding in alleys. Frank didn’t like that, and he’d put a permanent stop to it with one bullet.

It was unfortunate that the Blackwell family also happened to be an organized crime syndicate that Frank’d never heard of. Based out of upstate New York, they were old school skull-busters that had been in the smuggling game since it was profitable to pack barrels of whiskey into horse drawn buggies. The times had changed and so had the Blackwell’s product. The family owned a lucrative trucking business now, slipping various shipments of narcotics hidden in tirewells back and forth between the U.S./Canada border.

But had Kimball Blackwell not been such an through and through piece of shit, Frank wouldn’t have had any real interest in taking them down, at least not any time soon. Creating power vacuums in drug empires had a way of creating more problems than it solved, and Frank, despite his reputation for being a homicidal maniac, liked to be a little more prepared when it came to things like that. The problem was the younger Blackwells had been born into an empire, and they were spoiled rotten little shits who got off on hurting people. The Blackwells minions had come out in droves to avenge Kimball’s death before Frank had even known what was happening, which had resulted in this little vacation from reality.

He hadn’t liked how quickly he’d had to snatch up his things and move into hiding, but keeping on the move was a normal part of his new life. The only thing about this whole misadventure that gave him real pause was worrying about Karen’s safety. He’d spent too much time popping by her place, walking her home, trading leads. This was exactly the kind of mistake that could pull her down into the bullshit with him, especially with a bunch of woman hating sadistic fucks on his tail.

Micro’s emails were succinct, nothing dramatic really. All they contained was information about the family’s movements, their dealings and whatnot. Frank poured over it all for clues as to whether or not they knew about her. Finally, after days of dry intel, Frank actually brought up her name, tagging on a short line to an already brief email: Page’s nose still clean?

He expected a simple reassurance, but what he’d gotten was far from it.

Haven’t noticed movement in a couple days. Will check personally. Stay where you are. The wolf pack is still out roaming.

Hours later he’d received a phone call on his burner, but it hadn’t been Micro or Karen on the other end of the line.

Karen expected her visitor to drag her up off the floor, to roughly shake her awake. What she didn’t expect was the quiet whisper of a man dropping to his knees beside her. Her whole body went cold when she felt the man drag the tip of one finger down the side of her face, pushing away one lock of hair in a sick semblance of tenderness. She fought the urge to gag as the touch traveled down the side of her neck, tracing along the collar of her blouse.

The man spoke. “So you’re his whore, huh? His little fuckbuddy on cold nights?”

He leaned forward to sniff at her, grunting in satisfaction. “I heard he couldn’t get it up anymore, but looking at you I’m sure that’s not true.” He let out a lecherous sigh. “Does he call out his dead wife’s name while he’s pinning your to the mattress? Yeah? I bet that stings.” He began to finger the buttons of her blouse.

Karen’s jaw tensed, her heart picking up it’s pace in spite of everything she did to slow it. The only shot she had was to incapacitate the man and make run for it. It sounded like he’d left the door to her cell wide open. In the the space of a breath she hauled herself up into a sitting position, putting all her momentum behind the heel of her palm against the vile man’s nose. She hoped the force would break the bone and shove it up into his brain.

Unfortunately it didn’t work quite as planned, and although a satisfying amount of blood spurted out, the man wasn’t lying dead at her feet. She scrambled away from him, ignoring the bellowing roar as she dove for the cell’s exit. An ear piercing scream flew from her throat. “Help! Someone, please!”

Large hands caught her round the waist, hauling her up against a burly chest, quickly pinning her arms to her side. The man laughed evilly in her ear. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t ya? It’s been awhile since I had one who liked to bite and scratch and scream. Too bad that’ll have to wait till later, after Frank Castle is nothing but a bullet riddled corpse.”

He began to drag her down the corridor, toward a door with a weakly flickering bulb behind it. She screamed again, this time her voice feeling ragged. “HELP!”

It elicited another laugh from him as he kicked open the door. “Keep it up, Miss Page.” There was a phone sitting on the corner of a desk in a room with no windows, he shoved her toward it. “Call him. I need you to scream. You’re Karen Page he’s the Punisher, he will come for you.“

She clammed up, stiffening at the prospect. Not a muscle in her body would move toward the phone. Instead she spat at the man. “Fuck you! Call him yourself.”

All the air whooshed out of her lungs when he slammed her up against the wall, one knee jammed between her thighs, a hand clasped around her throat. “Listen, you little bitch. You’re gonna call him, and you’re gonna scream, and if you don’t feel like it, I’ll just have to motivate you properly.”

He raised his hand, a bulky ring with his family crest on it glinting in the weak lighting. She scanned her memory for anything relating to it, but nothing came up. The hand came down against the side of her head, leaving a ringing in her ears as she tumbled to the floor. She barely had time to process the pain before he was hauling her up again. “I already have the number, thanks to his little buddy that came looking for you, but I need your precious voice on the other end of the line.”

She laughed bitterly. “You’re signing your own death certificate.”

He dragged her back to the desk, pinning her face down against the smooth walnut, the tops of his thighs pressing pressing against her backside. With his free hand he removed the receiver from it’s cradle and laid it next to her face, quickly dialing the number to Frank’s burner. Karen tried one last time to escape, bucking beneath his weight, trying in vain to get the heel of her foot up high enough to kick him in the balls.

The man only pressed down harder, listening intently as other end of the line rang. Finally it stopped, the ringing momentarily replaced by a raspy breathing. Frank was never one to speak first when someone called his burner, Karen knew this and so did the man holding her captive. He twisted his fingers in the hair at the back of her neck and yanked hard, eking out a surprised yell from Karen. She didn’t want Frank to walk into an ambush. She clamped her mouth shut, biting down painfully on her lip until she drew blood, but it was too late. He’d heard her already, his voice very far away, small and tinny on the other end of the line…

“Karen?”

Micro had gone radio-silent, that was the first bad sign. The second was the phone call, half a second of Karen yelping into the receiver, followed by the sounds of a physical altercation, and then the panting voice of the last man Frank was going to kill today.

“Come and get her, Castle. Or the same thing’s gonna happen to your whore that happened to Kimball’s last one.”

“Where the hell are you?”

More nearly silent struggling, judging from the speaker’s choppy breathing. There was a thump in the background. Frank cursed softly. There was no way in hell Karen would be compliant. He only hoped this was just some moron underling who’d decided to take things in his own hands to impress his bosses. There was a chance she might get out of this alive if that were the case. Frank waited for the man’s response.

“I’m so glad you asked.” The man rattled off an address.

Frank memorized it quickly, pushing away the tinge of red that was beginning to encroach on his vision. This was no time for a mindless rampage. He had to be quiet, and precise and leave no stone unturned.

He ended the call without responding to the asshole, reaching for his ready-bag. He was out the door in less than thirty seconds, running along the rooftops toward the docks, twisting a silencer onto his favorite pistol. The locations these pricks picked were really beginning to be old-hat for Frank. An empty warehouse with the words Blackwell Shipping slashed across the brick facade, the paint nearly as old as the crumbling bricks.

He picked off the snipers on the roof first, one shot, one kill. Each man falling in a silent heap before they could even register what had happened to their companions. Frank suspected the kidnappers knew this would happen, giving no shits for the unfortunate assholes posted up there. They were decoys, something to make him feel safe and in control. He glanced along the windows of the surrounding warehouses, finally catching the glint of a rifle scope in the moonlight. Frank took the man out with one shot, quickly moving down into the alley beside the building.

If he had anything to say about it, there wouldn’t be a lone survivor of the Blackwell family when he was finished with them.

As soon as the line went dead, the man hauled Karen back up against him. He pulled her back into the corridor, this time moving toward a set of damp stone steps. She fought against his movements. Every fiber of her being told her that going to yet another location with this man spelled disaster. She elbowed him in the ribs and took off down the corridor, only to be caught in the midsection by an unyielding fist out of nowhere.

She crumpled to the floor, and the new man picked her up like a sack of potatoes and threw her over his shoulder. “Where you want me to put her, Mr. Blackwell?”

“In my office. I have plans for her.”

Unable to catch her breath, she was helpless. She could feel the man going up the stairs with her, heard the click of a door unlocking. He dropped her in a heap on a slick leather couch, her vision doubling as her head knocked against the wall behind her. The bigger man was gone before she could gather her senses. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried valiantly to catch her breath and ease the throbbing in her skull. Everything was happening too fast, her mind foggy with the latest blow.

Her original captor was back, Mr. Blackwell his man had called him. She wracked her brain and still couldn’t come up with anything. Why did this man want Frank so badly? And what did he have planned for her?

One question was answered with the sound of leather belt sliding free from its loops and dropping to the floor. Karen’s eyes flew open to see Blackwell unbuttoning his trousers and stalking toward her with a leering smile on his face. “My brother liked to beat his whores a little before availing himself of their services, but I’m more of a gentle sort. Gentler even, I bet, than your fuckbuddy Castle.”

Karen felt her mind go blank. Men like this couldn’t be reasoned with. She didn’t have anything to trade him, no information, no assurances. He wanted one thing, and that was to crush her beneath him, to inflict as much pain as possible. He had no ulterior motive now that Frank was already on the way, and she had no means of stopping him.

Seeing her frozen in fear made Blackwell’s smile grow wider, and he threw caution to the winds, approaching her quickly. His snatched at her blouse, eyes dancing as the buttons bounced on the wooden floorboards. The motion made Karen look down, and she saw it. The metal edge of the spoon hidden in her bra.

In a split second she fished the utensil out, holding it in her hand like a dagger she lunged forward and plunged the curved metal into Blackwell’s eye socket, twisting the spoon and pulling out the man’s eyeball.

He let out a bloodcurdling scream, staggering back, hands clutched to his face. Karen was back, her mind firing on all cylinders. Quickly she jumped up, scrambling to the fireplace to grab the only weapon-like object in the room: a rusty fire poker.

She hit him over the head with the handle, heavy cast iron leaving a crunching dent in the back of the man’s skull. He dropped to the floor instantly, but Karen’s momentum and rage carried her forward, raising the handle over and over again until the man’s face was nothing but a bloody pulp.

The door behind her flew open, and she turned, fully prepared to fly at her next attacker, but she stopped cold at the sight of a white skull painted across a flack jacket. Relief surged through her body, making her go limp, fire poker falling to the floor. Her spiking adrenaline had nowhere to go now that she wasn’t fighting. Instead she burst into tears, knees collapsing beneath her.

Frank caught her before she hit the floor, holding her tight against his chest, soft shushing noises whispering in her ear as his hands probed her body for injuries. “I’ve got you. They’re all dead. You’re safe.”

She didn’t see him again for two weeks, but it wasn’t the same as the last time. One by one the heirs to the Blackwell Shipping fortune began showing up dead, clearly assassinated, one bullet lodged in each of them. She kept track of it in the obituaries, safely ensconced in Foggy’s apartment. Frank wouldn’t let her go back to hers until this mess was over.

When she did go back there were new locks on the door, a new steel reinforced door frame even, and the windows looked like they belonged in fort knox. The glass was suspiciously thick and Karen was pretty sure it could withstand more than a few rounds of ammunition.

And he was waiting for her, standing in her kitchen with small flowerpot clutched in his scarred hands, an unreadable expression on his face. She walked toward him, unsure of what he was thinking. “That for me?”

He nodded, setting the succulent plant on the table beside him. “I would have brought flowers but…” He trailed off, the memory of the violets still painful for the both of them. “Ma’am, I’m sorry–”He stopped short, something in his voice catching. His vocal chords were raspy, mostly unused in the past few weeks. The sound of emotion getting tangled in with the hoarse vibrations made her pulse skip. “Frank?”

He moved toward her, lifting one hand to her face, fingers tracing the spot where she’d been bruised. The mark was long faded, but she knew he could still see it in his mind’s eye. His roving hand slipped into her hair, cradling her head, fingers brushing against the spot where she’d been knocked over the head.

Swallowing, she tried to form the words to articulate how she was feeling. There was a well of emotion inside of her, rising until she thought it was going to spill out in a cascade of tears. He was being so gentle, his eyes probing so deeply into her soul. Before she could say anything, she was crushed to him in a tight hug.

He mumbled against her hair. “I should have stopped coming around a long time ago. You’re life is tainted by me. I’m sorry.” He began to pull away.

She shook her head, reaching her arms up around his neck and pulling him closer. “What’s done is done, Frank. Leaving won’t change that.” Her bottom lip began to tremble. “Please stay.”

He leaned down, his forehead touching hers, skin melding. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

#kastle #kastlelibrary #karen page #frank castle #kastle fic #kastle fanfiction #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fic #this one is a little bit on the violent side #so #assault cw #tw assault #it's not terrible and i feel like it's not gratuitous #but i thought i should put a warning #please let me know what you think.

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