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dastardly-imbecile · 10 months

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Not the Dungeon

He’s gotten braver. Creeps up to their bed in the night, looming above. So fragile. Would be easy enough to crush any bone in that body, to peel back that skin and see the deformities within. Perhaps the dungeons have decided to go inside-out, and one day, feathers will burst through their skin and they will choke on the beak that pierces through their throat.

---

Feelings? What are these? Not things that a crow should have, but-

---

All is dark down here in this cursed place. It’s been so long since he saw any light but the dim glow of torches, since he smelled anything other than rot and mold. He can hardly remember what it was like up there—up where the sun shone and cool wind tangled through the trees.

You are not the dungeons.

There’s an old mantra. Not exactly sure what it means anymore, but it still cycles through his mind, back-forth, bouncing off the walls of his skull. They don’t define him, though they do surround, though he knows their walls better than he knows his flesh.

Far better, in fact. Given that one of his arms is not even his flesh and that his head is not human anymore. The crows have taken him and lifted his soul into something that he never really wanted in the first place. Somewhere that intertwines his being intrinsically with every stone of the dungeon.

That’s what lets him sense the intrusion.

You are not the dungeon.

Something other than guards. Other than soldiers, even. Knights, pesky knights. He felt them ages back but did not chase. Something stopped him—maybe a buried instinct from those days that he can not quite remember. They must be deep by now, deep or dead, both of those places that he doesn’t dare to go yet.

This person, however. Something about their aura does not scream knight nor warrior. Desperate, maybe, or seeker.

The guards will get them soon enough. If not them, then any number of others that dwell in the depths. Hunchbacked humanoids that crawl through the lower caves, gargantuan wolves with eyes like dominoes, shriveled bodies risen again from the throes of death. He knows all of them intimately. If not willingly.

The labyrinth of corridors used to puzzle him. When he stares at the walls, panic still rises up his throat, even though he could navigate the place blind. It says that there was a time before. When he had a name. Maybe even a purpose. When the prospect of being wandering through the halls was an unimaginable horror instead of a daily occurrence.

He starved here, once. Dreamed here. Felt blankets of crows settling over his head and tearing his skin to shreds.

Still, he pushes the panic down and navigates as he knows that he is able. Light spills in from the entrance to the dungeon—enticing, yet. There’s fear in that brightness, and duty as well. Despite the temptation, he cannot leave just yet. There is still business to attend to.

Past the cells, until he is barely outside of the light’s reach. The ones this close to the entrance lay empty—sometimes the wolves are brave enough to venture in and snatch someone from the broken cages. The only ones left are lost deep within, in cells whose keys have been lost, forgotten, or purposefully tossed away.

Despite their obscurity, despite the time, he still knows every prisoner here—such as the knightly man; the pitiable form; with ragged blonde hair and a home in the deeper places. There is a warrior, a scion of his race, and if he could not thrive here then this new seeker most certainly will not.

Perhaps they are one of the vermin. Parasites. Ones who were not trapped by the darkness, but chose to enter on their own.

It’s another human. Nondescript, carrying nothing but a pack. So easy to dispose of as well. In the back of his mind, he can hear the flapping of crows—hear the sounds of clicking beaks and small, pattering feet. They want it, he wants it, wants the blood that rushes beneath.

You are not the dungeons.

The guards will get the human. Or perhaps the ghouls, or maybe another prisoner altogether. It doesn’t matter—he is not the keeper of Hell.

Or at least, not anymore.

***

The guards do not prevail. He feels where they fall. What a strange little creature that manages to kill monsters such as these—what motivates them so? It cannot just be their search. Not bloodlust either, nor even knowledge. All he can sense is the desire to find.

At times they sleep, as all humans do, and sometimes he watches as they rest.

Wonders if they dream like him. Wonders how the dungeons will take their flesh; and if it will mold it into something greater.

Deeper they go. More vermin enter, but he hardly pays any mind to them. The other creatures defeat these with ease, or else insanity and starvation whisks them away, or else they skuttle into far corners that he has no mind to stalk.

Not right now, in any case.

As their journey progresses, they pass the other beings. Ones that aren’t as mindless and base as the others. He’s wary when they approach the Pocketcat, but he takes no special interest in them. They’re wise enough to run from the yellow mages and wary enough to avoid their disembodied master. All other beings in the dungeon that possess at least a sliver of sentience are far enough that their paths do not cross.

It… relieves him. Perhaps he did think that they would meet an early death in the beginning, but now… but now. Not a topic fit for delving further, even as he follows.

***

One day, they find an enemy that they can not best. He feels it in his bones, as he feels everything—but this is a stranger sensation. Not grief, but almost worry.

It’s on the seventh level. Vaguely, he remembers its significance. That’s where the special prisoner resides—the one whom the priestess had bade to transfer below. He does not wander down in those parts often. The dungeon goes deep enough even to inspire uneasiness in him sometimes.

The deeper guards are more dangerous. Something in the shadows twists them monstrously, contorts their flesh as it’s contorted him, turns skin to leather, warps bone into amalgamations.

A flicker of wings and then he is landing softly upon the seventh floor. Up, around the corner—there are noises, the sound of heavy panting and scrape of metal.

This, something tells him, this is not his nature. He is a being of the dungeons and the human is not—what is he doing? He should finish them off. A moment passes, tight with sensation—calloused hand drawing into a fist, the click of his beak as he considers.

You are not the dungeons.

That old, old mantra.

He steps around the corner.

The guard has its back to him. Its pebbly expanse of flesh is scarred and lumpy, bulging with barely-sheathed muscle. Still attacking—about to lunge. He can telegraph its movement in the twitches of its shoulders and twist of its hips. Real combat has not been a problem for him in years, not with the tools that the dungeon bestowed on him, but there once existed a time in which he needed to strategize.

Perhaps that’s what the human is lacking. Maybe this is what they need.

In one fell swoop, he swings his mauler against the creature’s head, and it falls monstrous to the floor. Gore spatters against the wall and viscera coats the metal of his bat. There’s some on him, but no matter.

Strangely, the human does not run. They look just as he remembers, though he’s only seen their face when in peaceful sleep. Albeit right now, it’s a bit filthier and stained with blood.

They are here for the man in the cell. He knows that much. Along with that knowledge comes that the man is dead. Quite recently—perhaps he could’ve been saved if not for the guard.

The human looks towards the cell, then back at him. Scared, it’s clear enough, and if he were not what he was, he would be too. He knows intimately what rests within every corner of this place, but the fear of the unknown must be even stronger.

He could lead them to safety. If they followed. If they were wise enough to leave the man to his death.

One step backwards. He beckons with his free hand and kicks the limp body of the guard to the side. A long moment passes in which he is sure that they will turn to run into the cage or even back down the hallway-

But, instead, with a wince of pain, they follow.

#fear and hunger #funger #f&h #crow mauler #crow mauler x reader #x reader #x gn reader #crow babyyyy

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boygiwrites · 27 days

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Harley D. Dixon 29

Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

Season three is here!!

The sounds of dry snarling surround us as Rick kneels at the base of the fence, taking a pair of bolt cutters to the wire, snipping it open. Maggie brings her axe down on the skull of the nearest walker with Glenn's help, Dad jamming his knife into another's eyeball just a moment later. The bodies drop into the grass. Rick peels the fence back for us to squeeze through, with his sights on the treeline behind us.

My Dad makes it through first, helping Rick brace the wire apart as the rest of us follow after him, one by one.

I step into the gravelled walkway, suddenly up close and personal with the prison. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my knife, a faint sense of excitement rising from my toes to my scalp. It ain't Buckingham palace, but it sure feels like it. The yard sits just on the other side of the fence, so close yet so far, stretching on for what looks like the length of I'on even know how many soccer fields. The grass is green, green like a pasture on a milk carton. Walkers stumble around, with nothing better to do than bake in the sun. It's kinda beautiful.

"Hurry," Rick's hissing, just as T-Dog and Mouse bring up the rear; the last to slip through. "That's it."

I share a glance with Carl at my side, who's grinning cheesily under the brim of his cowboy hat.

"So cool," He says.

"Okay. That's everyone," His Dad grunts. "Close it up."

They replace the wire door. Glenn jumps in and starts knotting it back together with a spool of red wire.

As he's securing the last loop, a walker crashes into him through the fence. He jumps back just in time. It grabs a handful of nothing, reaching after us as we turn away from it, jogging down the walkway, slow but steady. All the walkers in the field are coming up to the fence to gawk at us, growl at us as we pass by. It's like we're the new guys in town. Are we gonna take all of them out? Can we?

We make our way through the open gate up ahead, gathering in the main gateway area.

The sun beats down on us, sweat slipping down my neck.

"It's perfect," Rick's smiling to himself as we come to a stop behind him. I think he's right. The dirt road we're standing on leads underneath the vehicle gate, all the way up the hill and comes to a stop at another, smaller gate which is open. It's letting the walkers wandering around in the concrete courtyard have free reign of the field. Not good. There's a guard tower on every corner of the yard, overlooking the place. We ain't never had guard towers before. I can see Rick getting all amped up, just like the rest of us. He turns, wielding his machete like a pointer in a class discussion. "If we can shut that gate, prevent more from filling the field, we can pick off these walkers."

I try to count them. But once I get past ten, I remember it don't matter. We can do anything.

"We can take this place by tonight," He gestures.

No more sleeping in the car with Dad and Mouse, wondering what that noise in the trees was. No more running.

"So, how do we shut the gate?" Herschel starts thinking. I know he don't exactly love sleeping in the cars, neither.

"I'll do it," Glenn offers, squinting against the sun. "You guys can cover me."

Maggie shakes her head. "No. It's a suicide run."

"I'm the fastest. It makes sense."

"If speed mattered, Glenn, we'd be sending Harley in," Rick scoffs, tryna be funny. "She's the fastest."

I know he's only tryna make a point, but I can't help but think there's no bother. I am the fastest. I'm the smallest, I'm the youngest, and I'm the weakest, but I'm also the fastest. They saw how I ran outta camp that night at the quarry, how ain't nobody was able to catch up with me for a good five minutes. Ever since I got those keys at Thanton Memorial, I been wanting to do more.

"Why not?" I ask honestly, even though we've been through this before. "Why can't I help?"

My Dad turns a look on me. "Harley, baby, save it. You know the hospital was different."

"Yeah, but—"

"Mind yer mouth, girl. I said it ain't happenin'."

To soften the blow a little, Glenn adds, "Maybe some other time, you can help, okay? But... not now."

"Not now," Rick agrees. I done asked them so many times to let me help out. I ain't surprised they're brushing me off again. It's what they do whenever Carl does the same thing, but I'on know why. I got two hands. I'm smart. I can help. "No. Harley, you, T, Glenn, Maggie, and Beth can post up along this fence line, draw as many as you can away from me and pop 'em when they get too close."

I suck it up. I got no business arguing with them right now. "Okay. M'sorry."

"That's alright," He placates, before dolling out more instructions to the rest of the group.

Herschel and Carl make for the tower to our left, while Carol and my Dad make for the tower to our right. That leaves Rick standing in front of the main gate, hyping himself up to make a run for the courtyard. It reminds me of the day we crossed that frozen river.

"C'mon, Harley," Glenn grabs my hand, ordering Mouse, "Stay there, boy."

He leads me over to the fence line with the others, where he takes up a position next to me.

"You got your gun?" He checks, as Maggie and Beth start hollering at the walkers behind him.

"Hey, over here!"

"Hey! Hey, come here!"

Nodding, I unholster my small pistol as he holds out his palm to me.

Routinely, I pluck out my hearing aids and hand them over, the silence enveloping me. He stuffs them in his pocket.

'Okay,' He signs, 'Start shooting.'

I click the safety of my pistol off. As I line my sights up with the closest walker on the other side of the fence, I see Rick slipping past the main gate and into the field. If that were me in there, I'd be dodging and weaving 'em just like in a soccer game.

Focus, Harley, I scold myself, pulling the trigger. The lady-walker's cheek explodes onto her shoulder.

When I pull the trigger again, her entire head explodes, limp body collapsing like a sack of sand.

Rick continues making his way up the hill, hauling ass with a slight jog. The walkers around him are dropping like flies. Every chance he almost gets to shoot one down, somebody else does it for him. A crossbow bolt pierces their forehead, a bullet from one of the towers rips through their face, or they're turning their heads, lured the opposite direction as they catch wind of us folk at the fence.

They're pilin' up quickly, now. Quicker than we can shoot 'em down.

It's time to holster my gun, brandishing Merle's knife, instead. Rearing back, I stick the blade into the knee of a walker sidled up to the fence. It wobbles a little, its leg twisting, folding in half under the dead weight. Crouching down, I stab its leaky eye.

Warm, curdled blood spurts up my arm, and it's fucking disgusting, but I pull the blade out and carry on.

Taking down the next walker, I glance up to try and spot Rick. Where is he? Is he alright?

There he is. He's almost there; almost at the gate.

Right then, the ground in front of him is shot to pieces, the pebbles flying all over the place like he's stepped on a mine.

He skids to a stop, looking up at Dad and Carol's tower in scolding. Carol gives a little shrug as she reloads. Whoopsies.

Shaking it off, he finally approaches the gate. He takes the wire in his hands, kicking one of the walkers in the stomach and sending it onto its ass as he drags it closed, hooking some metal clips onto it. Once it's secured, he makes a dash for the closest tower.

He disappears behind the metal door. Thirty seconds later, he appears at the top, waving down to us.

'He made it,' Glenn signs to me, his hands bloodied.

'Are you okay?'

His expression softens. 'I'm okay. Let's finish them off.'

'Let's do it.'

With Rick outta the way, it's easy pickings; shooting ducks in a barrel.

The walkers keep dropping, one by one, sometimes two by two, until there's only one of the bastards left standing.

Everyone holds their fire for a moment, as if we're asking each other, Who wants the honors?

We watch Rick lift his rifle, peering down the scope. It could only be him. We all know that. It takes him only half a second to shoot a bullet into its head, and then its legs give out and it's the last to slump into the grass, leaving the field completely still. We did it.

Glenn hands me back my hearing aids, and the first thing I hear is Carol exclaiming, "Fantastic!"

"Nice work, chicken," Dad praises as they step out of the tower, ruffling my cropped hair.

"I killed five, Daddy," I brag a little bit, sheathing my blade as we make for the main gate. "That's, like, half of ten!"

"I know, I saw. I's thinkin' to myself, 'Is that Jackie Chan Junior down there, or what?'"

"Who the Hell's that?"

Glenn just laughs. "Never mind."

"Are you okay?" Carol asks Lori.

"I haven't felt this good in weeks," She sighs as we enter the field.

Holy shit. I know I said we did, but we actually took the place. We did it. All in the matter of an hour, we went from wasting away on a random highway to having an entire prison yard to ourselves. I chase after Carl as he runs ahead, squealing and holding my arms out, like I want the wind to hug me back. This is more than just cool. This is incredible! It feels like we got the whole world again!

"Oh," Carol laughs from behind us, "We haven't had this much space since we left the farm!"

T-Dog cups his mouth and calls out, "Wuh-hooooooo!"

I copy him, screaming, Wuh-hooooooo!, as I run myself around in circles. "We did it!"

"She's gonna drive herself dizzy," Maggie laughs, "Messin' about like that."

"Let her," Dad says as they walk past me, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"We did it!"

"Mmm," Glenn hums, sucking the meat offa the little bone in his hand. "Just like Mom used to make."

He throws it into the fire, knocking a piece of wood over and sending a flurry of embers floating up into the stars.

It's safe to say I ended up tiring myself out this afternoon. It's strange to be worn out, but not from fighting for my life or because I haven't eaten in days. I'm just a kid who's had too much fun. Sitting next to Carl on an old blanket, I peel off a bit of stringy meat with my teeth and chew it as I gaze out at Rick's small figure in the distance, pacing the courtyard fence line. I ain't sure he had any dinner.

This is it, though. This is the place he was talking about for all them months. It turned out to be real. I wish I could say I never doubted him, but there were some nights I thought we'd be on the run forever. I thought he was just spouting nonsense. There weren't no place for us to live like we wanted to, somewhere for us to call home. The work ain't done yet. We still have to get inside the prison. But with the warm night air sitting around us, and the sky twinkling over our heads, I'm happy to stay like this for just one night, even if Rick ain't. He's been at that fence for what feels like hours. He's like that dog again, sniffing out a bone he can't quite reach, not just yet. I wish he'd rest.

"Tomorrow, we'll put all the bodies together." T-Dog muses, absentmindedly petting Mouse.

I stop watching Rick and remember to swallow my mouthful, going in for another bite.

"Wanna keep them away from the water," He continues. "If we can dig a canal under the fence, we'll have plenty of fresh water."

"The soil is good," Herschel adds. In the light of the fire, I can make out the pinkish burn the sun has left on his face. It reminds me of my own sunburn, but it only stings a little. "We could plant some seed. Grow some tomatoes, soybeans, cucumbers."

"Eugh," Carl mumbles. "Tomatoes..."

Herschel's gaze drifts over to the fence line, then. He seems to remember Rick. "That's his third time around."

Everyone spares the man a glance, but only a glance.

"If there were any part of it compromised, he'd have found it by now."

"This'll be a good place to have the baby," Beth chirps, changing the subject. Rick's always a tricky one. "It's safe."

"The prison or the yard?" Lori jokes, idly cupping her belly. "At this rate, the baby might come tonight."

Wiping the grease from my lips, I muse, "Back in Sharpsburg, my Daddy said ya might let me name the baby."

"Oh, yeah? What would you pick?"

I give a bit of a shrug, taking another bite, 'cause I ain't given it much thought. "Sum' like... Bob."

Glenn humors me, "And if it's a girl?"

"Uhh... Bob...-ette?"

"Sure." T-Dog deadpans, shaking his head and chuckling. "If you want it to hate you for the rest of its life."

I throw my bone into the fire as Lori says, "We'll see."

That's adult language for, Not in a million years.

"Harley?" Carol asks me from across the group. "How's your Dad feeling about being in a place like this?"

I know what she means. A prison.

"I ain't asked him, yet."

She treads carefully when she asks, "It wasn't... It wasn't this prison, right?"

"Nah. He went to Arrendale State Prison." Nobody ever knows where that is, so I add, "It's kinda near Tennessee, I guess."

"Well, at least, there's that," Says T-Dog. "Imagine the world ending, only for you to end up in the same prison again. Woof."

I stick around for a couple more minutes, finishing off some more of the barn owl meat and baked beans, but after a while, I let everyone know I'm gonna go talk to my Dad for a bit. I know if I don't bring him some food, he'll end up going hungry for the night.

"We'll save your spot for you," Glenn tells me, instead of getting up to escort me like he usually does. It's safe here.

Grabbing a bowl of food, I stand from the blanket and cross the field, stepping up to the overturned bus.

I look up. "Uh... Dad?"

His face appears as he leans over the side, meeting my gaze through the dark. "Oh. Hey, babe."

There's a small problem. "How am I gonna get up there?"

"Well, ya climb."

"Oh. Thanks," I mumble, rolling my eyes at that remarkably unhelpful tidbit. I step onto the tyre, grabbing some sort of pipe on the undercarriage, and try to get a good foothold on another piece of metal, but it's too hard. I pull away. "Ugh. Dad. Help."

"I'm only playin'." He chuckles, setting his crossbow aside and laying on his belly. "C'mon. I gotcha."

Reaching down for me, he effortlessly catches me as I jump for his hand, pulling me up next to him.

"There ya go."

"Could'a done that in the first place," I point out, taking a seat by his side. "I brought'cha some dinner."

Bathed in the moonlight, his brow crumples as he frowns, eventually taking the bowl from me. "You ate?"

"Yeah. Makin' sure you get some, too, 'fore T-Dog eats it all."

"Thank you, baby."

"Ya welcome," I shrug, swinging my feet back and forth. "Carol's wonderin' if you're okay, bein' back in a prison and all."

Spooning some food into his mouth, he garbles, "Lady's almost as brown-nosed as Dale was."

"Well... I'm wonderin', too."

Something about my quiet admission gets him to actually answer this time. Swallowing his mouthful, the bump in his throat bobs up and down before he sucks in a big breath and lets it all out again. "I'm fine," He says, "'Sides, we ain't actually inside, yet."

I guess not. "But we will be."

"I said I'm fine, baby." He insists, biting down on a big piece of meat so he can pretend he can't say anything else.

My Dad ain't never talked much about his four and a half years in Arrendale State Prison, but I do know that when he came back, he slept on the porch for nearly a whole month afterwards because he couldn't stand being in his own bedroom. There were a lot of things that were better than they were before he left us. Like how he appreciated every meal, even if it was just a cheese sandwich. How most mornings, I'd wake up to him stroking my hair and just looking at me. But there were a lot of things that were worse. Enough to matter.

I overheard him telling Merle once that the guards used to beat on him extra, because they knew he wouldn't fight back. He had me to get home to. He couldn't afford to fuck up and add more months or years to his sentence. They all used to beat on him.

I don't want Dad to think I see him as a pussy or nothin', so I tell him, "I know. I's just makin' sure."

"I can tell ya what, though," He scoffs, slinging the bone over the fence, "I ain't gon' be sleepin' in no fuckin' cell again."

"I'm sure they got proper bedrooms somewhere in there, right? Like, for the guards?"

Holding back some bitterness, he tells me, "No, chicken. They don't."

"Oh. Well, we can just sleep outside or somethin', then."

"Ain't you been nagging everyone about wantin' a real bed to sleep in?"

Yeah. "But—"

"Well, you're sleepin' inside, then." He decides. "I want'chu to have that."

I want him to have that too, but I ain't gonna win that argument. So, I just agree. "Okay, Daddy. Fine."

"Jesus. We're already hashin' out terms," He jokes, "And we ain't even made it inside the courtyard, yet."

"We're positive thinkers!"

"You definitely are, ya silly monkey." He picks up his crossbow and slings it on, standing up. "C'mon. Let's head back, now."

"Okay. But only 'cause I miss the fire."

He climbs down first and helps me down afterward, catching me and setting me on the grass. We make the walk back together.

"Bethy," Herschel's saying as we approach, "Sing Paddy Reilly for me. I haven't heard that one, I think, since your mother was alive."

Maggie gives him a tense look. "Daddy, not that one. Please."

"Well, uh... How about Partin' Glass?"

My Dad and I sit down on the blanket as Beth shyly protests, "Nobody wants to hear."

"Why not?" Glenn asks, putting on a small smile.

There's no real reason not to, so she gives in. "Okay. Daryl, do you know that one?"

"Yeah." Maggie chirps, some of the sadness that was weighing her face down disappearing. "You can play us through it."

"I can try," He corrects her, before he gets back up and heads over to the cars near the gate, grabbing his guitar from the backseat.

As I notice Carol sending me a questioning look, I feel myself trying not to glare at her. "Don't ask him about it."

Understanding, she nods to herself.

When my Dad returns, he settles the guitar in his lap, looking at Beth.

She only hesitates for a moment or two before she opens her mouth, and the words that come out are some of the prettiest I ever heard. Slowly, my Dad adds a few strokes of the strings here and there, before he starts to get a real feel for it and pieces something real lovely and quaint together, something I think most people wouldn't think he'd ever be able to make, but he's just as gentle with the chords as an artist would be with his canvas and paints. She sings softly about spending her days in good company, memories she can't recall.

T-Dog lays with his arm resting under his head, gazing up at the stars as the melody flows over him.

Lori and Carl sway side to side, Maggie fondly watching her sister as she holds Glenn's hand.

She joins in singing at the passing of the next lyric, and it's obvious they prolly used to do this a lot when they were my age.

Herschel looks into the fire, a picture of peace.

It even lures Rick over from the fence line after a minute or so. He sneaks in while nobody has the opportunity to make a comment about how long he's been over there, sitting next to me and Carl. I pass him some leftovers, too, before he can weasel his way out of it.

"Thanks, honey," He hesitates to say as he takes the bowl, despite himself.

"Good night and joy," The girls duet, "Be with you all. Good night and joy... Be with you all."

Dad strums a chord one last time, finishing the song off.

"Beautiful," Herschel decides.

He sets the guitar on the ground, sending me a fleeting smile.

"Better all turn in," Rick clears his throat, reminding me of where we are. "I'll take first watch. We got a big day tomorrow."

Glenn frowns, "What do you mean?"

"Look, I know getting to this point has been a lotta work," He sighs, looking from one person to the next, studying the exhaustion on their faces. "This was a great win, but we've gotta push just a little bit more. Most of the walkers are dressed as guards and prisoners. It looks like this place fell pretty early. It could mean the supplies are intact. They'd have an infirmary. A kitchen. Commissary."

T-Dog jumps in, asking, "An armory?"

"There'll be one nearby," Dad guesses. "Can't risk havin' it inside, 'case a riot breaks out and some John Doe thinks he's Rambo."

"Makes sense."

"This place could be a gold mine," Rick exclaims.

I can tell he ain't got nobody on the hook with this idea, except maybe Dad, and me. Sure, I'm tired. I'm only eight but I could sleep for the rest of my life. That don't mean I ain't eager as all Hell to see what else this place has for us. Hell, I'd do it tonight.

Herschel is the first to speak up. "We're dangerously low on ammo. We wouldn't even make a dent."

"That's why we have to go in there," He says like it's obvious. "Hand to hand."

Alright. He really weren't kiddin', then. Tomorrow is a big day. Even bigger than this one.

"After all we been through... We can handle it."

Early the next morning, I notice slight movement from across the fire as I'm poking at a tin of leftover beans with a stick.

Carl lifts his head from the blanket, blinking away sleep like a dazed frog. It looks like a coyote came along during the night and got into a brawl with his hair, but I know it's just 'cause he had a good night's rest under the stars, feeling safe. There's nothing like it.

Clicking my fingers at him, I draw his attention.

'Want some breakfast?,' I sign, knowing my hair prolly looks just as messy, even if it's barely longer than his.

Yawning, he stands from the blanket and comes to sit next to me in the grass.

'You kicked me again,' I tell him while we wait for the beans to warm up, the smell of smoke and fresh dirt on the breeze.

'I did?,' He frowns.

'Yeah. In your sleep. I think you broke a bone.'

'That sucks. Put in your—.' He gestures to his ear.

Keeping a little scepticism, I dig into my backpack and fit my hearing aids in.

"What is it?"

"Drama queen," He enjoys saying very loudly into my left ear.

Startled, I smack him away. Ugh. Walked right into that one. "Seriously? You ain't gettin' a single bean, anymore."

He just giggles to himself, sitting back on his palms. He thinks he's a real comedian.

Apparently, by this time tomorrow, we'll all be sat up in one of them cell blocks together, living the life. Looking at the buildings now, I take notice of the giant letters painted onto the sides of the cement walls, the shambling masses of walkers on the ground, unaware of the birds on the fence watching them with stalking eyes, waiting for one to succumb to its weight. I can only imagine what's on the inside.

I'm reminded of Carl when he suddenly contemplates aloud, "Man. I hope it won't be like the CDC."

Turning to look at him, my heart gives a little kick. The CDC? What's he mean?

"Or the farm," He adds, but I'm sure it's not an afterthought.

"It won't be," I say almost forcefully, offended he'd even think that way. "Don't say that, Carl."

"Sorry," He mutters regretfully as he sits upright, resting his elbows on his knees. "You're right. Forget I said that."

I know I should prolly take a page outta my Dad's book at this moment. Whenever there's uncertainty ahead of us, or somethin' awful has happened, he don't spout some empty promise. There might come a day where he's made himself a liar. Instead, he says something like, We'll try our best, or, There's nothin' more we can do. I always find the insignificance comforting. I know as sure as I do that the sun's gonna come up tomorrow, he's telling the truth. You can't be let down when you're dreaming in the dirt to begin with.

I don't think I can bring myself to say them things right now, not after everything we did to get here.

Besides, I'm in the dirt no matter what I say.

"None of that matters." I try and convince him. "Everything's gonna be like we hoped. This is our second chance."

"Third chance," He corrects. "Technically."

"Whatever. Even better. Third time's the charm, ya know."

He turns a suspicious look on me, like I've just done something bizarre. "You're being, like... positive."

"I'm a positive thinker," I tell him, just like I told my Dad last night.

"Since when?"

"Um... Since yesterday. I think."

That makes him giggle. "Okay. But, you need to say something negative. It's weird when you don't."

Obliging, I drawl, "You's a sour-faced scaredy cat, Carl, and I'on like the way you think. Makes me wanna punch yer lights out."

He can't help but let out a snort-laugh. "Thanks."

"Ya welcome." I watch him as he gazes out at the prison buildings for a moment, before I ask, "You believe me, right?"

He glances at me. "Do you believe you?"

I was kinda hoping he would answer first. "Well... Yeah."

"I do, too, then." He says, much to my relief. "Even if you did sound like my Dad just now."

"Who the Hell's burnin' beans this early in the morning?"

Our heads whip in the direction of my Dad's voice. He's sitting up, rubbing at the pink indentations of grass on his neck. Oh, right. The beans. Grabbing the stick, I poke the tin outta the way of the smouldering ash and blow the thin smoke away from it.

It clears, revealing the perfectly saucy, not-burnt beans. The smell draws Mouse from his slumber.

"Uh. Nobody," I quip. "Want some?"

"Nah, babe," He groans, scratching the dog behind his ears. "You have 'em."

"What about me? Do I get some?" Carl asks as I grab a spoon. "I'm sorry I scared you before."

I don't hesitate to pick up a second one, handing it to him. "I'on care. Here."

"Thanks."

Dad frowns at him. "You scared her?"

"Oh, uh. Yeah." The boy admits, sensing he might be in trouble. "I kinda shouted in her ear. It was dumb."

"Ease up on that shit a little," He chides. "And don't let me catch you doin' it."

"Sorry, Daryl."

"I'on care," I reassure Carl again, spooning beans into my mouth. My Dad's just protective. Sometimes, it can feel like I'm less of a daughter and more of a pet, but he's always been like that. Especially after I lost my hearing, and especially when he's stressed.

After everybody else has woken up and the beans are long gone, Rick announces, "Let's do this, then."

The courtyard is just as much a massacre as the field was.

The birds perched onto the fence fly off as soon as the first blood is spilled.

I drive Merle's knife into the walker's rubbery kneecap, twisting it around the bone, feeling some sorta crack, and finishing it off with a stab to the brain when it falls against the fence. Pulling the blade out from between the pink mush and browned skull, I watch them who's inside the courtyard make their way across it in a tight formation, lashing out at any walkers that get too close.

When they make it to the undercover area, all five of them skid to a stop.

They back themselves up against the wall, hiding from the sea of walkers just around the corner.

As they linger there, a couple sets of body armour stumble out from behind a dumpster. Wait, not armour. Walkers wearing armour. The only way to tell are the fingers poking out from under the sleeves, their arms raising as Dad tries shooting a visor.

The bolt ricochets off the plastic, landing somewhere in the piles of trash.

"Hey! Walkers!" Beth shouts, rattling the fence. "Over here! C'mon!"

"Over here!"

"Hey, ugly!" I shout at the walker closest to me, luring it in and stabbing it in the soft part of its knee.

When it falls over, Carl deals the finishing blow with his lead pipe.

"Thanks," I lilt, breathless.

The group realizes they ain't gettin' through that armour. In good old, Hand to hand, fashion, as Rick called it, they start charging at them. My Dad wrestles one up against the wall, grabbing its helmet and ripping it off, rearing back, bludgeoning it into the walker's face until it turns to mush, drops to the ground. Glenn slashes another's neck in two, kicking it away from him in a spray of blood.

When the opportunity strikes, Rick runs for the far gate, pulling it shut and securing it with more clips.

Maggie struggles to keep a big brute offa her, before she drives her knife up its nose.

The walker's blood freckles her face as it falls.

She's completely beaming. "See that?!"

Glenn and T only have a few seconds to be impressed, turning to hack down the next walker that approaches them.

Then, finally, the courtyard falls still.

Letting out a sigh, I sheathe my knife and grip onto the fence, watching the group talk amongst themselves in the wake of all the bodies. They point to a few of them, shake their heads some. I expect them to reconvene with us, but instead, they walk off.

"What's going on?" Lori wonders, as Rick and my Dad very carefully open the door to one of the cell blocks.

After a tense moment, they all creep inside, weapons drawn.

"They would only go in there if they thought it was safe," Herschel reassures us all. "We just have to trust them, and wait."

Carol glances at me and Carl. "You kids okay?"

"Don't worry about me," The boy says, while I just give a simple nod.

The next time the big, red door opens, Maggie appears and jogs over to us, pulling the clips off our gate.

"C'mon, y'all." She drags it open, that beautiful smile still plastered on her sweaty face. "Let's go get our things."

Her Dad asks, "You cleared it?"

She's already halfway down the hill, grinning at us over her shoulder. "We sure did!"

Wearing my backpack and clutching my soccer ball to my stomach, I follow everyone into the cellblock.

The dark, damp-smelling corridor stretches on for a while, lazily opening up to a huge, even damper-smelling room. I come to a stop with everyone else on the concrete platform, peering up at the sickeningly tall ceiling. Bands of sunlight drain in through the barred windows all the way at the top, too far outta reach for me to catch a glimpse of any of the greenery I know is on the other side.

"Nice, right?" Maggie smiles, right before a dead walker body falls from the second storey railing. Eugh.

It lands with a splat, T-Dog taking its ankles into his hands to drag it away.

Definitely no Buckingham Palace, alright, but like I said — Compared to being on the road, it might as well be.

We continue on into the cell hall, taking it all in as Rick plods down the rusty stairs. "So. What do you think?"

"Home sweet home," Glenn muses.

"Home sweet home," He agrees, stepping onto ground level.

"I love it," I exclaim.

He laughs, his face covered in grime and sweat, but happy; very happy. "I knew you would."

Lori wonders aloud, "It's secure?"

"This cell block is."

Still eager to find out more, I ask him, "What about the rest of the prison, Rick?"

"We'll find the cafeteria and the infirmary in a few hours," He nods, hands on his hips. "Gotta clear the bodies from here, first."

Okay. "Can I choose a cell?"

"Sure, go ahead. S'all yours."

A girly sigh. "We're sleeping in cells—...?"

Behind me, Beth sounds disappointed with the idea, but I don't mind. When ya think about it, a cell is just a bedroom with a funny door. I step into the first one I come across that don't got any walker bodies laying up in it, and sit down on the bare mattress, bouncing on it a little. A smile creeps onto my face. A bed. A real bed. Mouse jumps up next to me, seeming just as pleased with this discovery.

"We did it, Mouse," I mutter happily, setting my things down on the bedside tray. "It's home sweet home."

"Knock, knock," Beth sing-songs, as Carl peeps out from behind her. "Wanna bunk together?"

Nodding straight away, I gasp, "Together-together? All three of us?"

Mouse stares at me with that sweet, empty-brained look of his.

"The four of us, I mean?"

"It'll be like a sleepover." She smiles, placing her blankets on the bed. "One of us will have to take the floor, though."

"I can do it," Carl offers, tryna play the gentleman. Gross. Before Beth can protest, he's scurrying away to grab another mattress.

"You want the top bunk or the bottom bunk, Harley?"

"I want the top bunk," I decide, pulling my blanket outta my backpack and climbing the ladder. Crawling onto the cold mattress, I splay the blanket out and give the limp pillow a few punches and a hearty shake, in an effort to fluff it out a little bit. "Perfect."

Underneath me, Beth exclaims to herself as she sits down, "It's actually— It's actually comfortable."

"Got one," Carl announces as he walks back in, stumbling around with a mattress in his grasp.

"Can you even see around that thing?" I tease.

"Yep," Without much care, he dumps the thing on the ground, proudly dusting his hands off on his hips. "There."

Rick saunters up to the door then, leaning against it as he smirks at us. "What are you guys doin'?"

"This is our cell," I chirp.

He shakes his head. "You kids are ridiculous. Don't you want your own space?"

"Nope," All three of us answer at the same time.

"Let me know how long that lasts," He drawls, looking the cell up and down.

Hopping down from my bunk, I follow him outta the room and climb up the stairs, finding my Dad at the top. He's got two mattresses laying on the floor of the perch, his blanket splayed out across the both of them, crossbow leaning against the wall.

"You find a cell, yet, chicken?" He groans as he reclines on the makeshift bed, tryna get comfortable.

I kneel down beside him. "Yeah, I'm sharin' with Beth and Carl."

"All three of ya?" He quirks a brow. "How's that workin'?"

"Carl's on the floor," I try not to laugh. "It's a bit like the CDC, ain't it? When we first got there?"

"The CDC? Ain't like there's air-conditioning or hot water in this joint," He scoffs. "I ain't so sure."

"There ain't no bombs, neither, so I'll take it." I move to lay down next to him. We both stare up at the ceiling, even though there's nothin' up there, except for a few mishappen stains and scratches, like constellations. "Carl says it's like the CDC, too."

"Did he?"

"And the farm," I add, knocking my boots together. "But not 'cause of the air-con. 'Cause of... everythin' else."

S'true. I lied to Carl, when I pretended everything was gonna be fine. I might got a dirty mouth, but I try not to make a habit of dirtying it with anythin' other than a few swear words, especially not a lie. Third time's the charm. I'on even know what that means.

He turns his head to look at me, frowning the slightest bit through his hair. "You was so excited just yesterday?"

"I know. I still am," I admit, "But—..."

He waits a while for me to continue, but I just end up shrugging. The words are anchored down somewhere, won't come out.

Dad must get my meaning, though. "Harley, there's a whole world out there. If this don't work out, there'll be somewhere else."

"But I like it here."

"I know ya do. You can keep likin' it, too," He pinches my arm, "If ya stop thinkin' about what might happen to it."

"What is gonna happen to it?"

That's a question nobody ever has the answer to, but everybody's always asking it. "I don't know, baby. Maybe nothin'."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

I like that idea. Nothin' happening, ever, except for the sun rising and setting. "That's a lotta time to grow soybeans."

"Huh?"

"Soybeans," I repeat, smiling. "Herschel said last night he wants to grow some. Tomatoes and cucumbers, too."

"There ya go, then. Just think about them."

"Nah. I'll just get hungry."

My Dad sighs for a moment, studying the ceiling, before he props himself up on his elbows. "I'mma get some fresh air for a bit."

"What?"

"Ya heard," He dismisses me, mumbling something to himself as he scoots off the mattress, something about suffocating.

He's only been in here all of five minutes. I watch him pull on his leather vest, grabbing his crossbow and slinging it over his shoulder, very obviously trying not to look at any of the walls around us for too long. I ain't sure how he's gonna make it through the night in here, if he can't even make it through an hour of housewarming, but there's nothing I can do besides keep my mouth shut.

As he plods down the squeaky staircase, somebody else climbs up it, bumping his shoulder.

"You alright, man?" Glenn frowns, hesitating on the next stair up. "Where you going?"

"Outside," He pointedly replies, not looking back.

"Well, I can see that."

"I'm just gonna trail 'round the perimeter for a while."

We listen to his heavy footsteps retreat, retreat, retreat, and then the loud clanging of the metal gate.

After sharing a sympathetic look with me, Glenn continues on without a word, leaving me to get up and retreat back into my cell.

End notes.

I'm so excited for this season! I set aside some time to plan it all out in my notes and I had a lot of fun doing it. It reminded me of the times I was brainstorming for season one.

I hope you enjoyed this introduction to the new season!

Kindly let me know what you thought! See you next time :)

#the walking dead #twd #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl dixon daughter #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #fanfic #angst #rick grimes #twd daryl #daryl x reader #rick grimes x reader #carl grimes #glenn rhee #daddy issues #the ones who live #norman reedus #father daughter relationship

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unofficialcliverosfield · 8 months

Text

I keep writing snippets that don’t really fit in with any of the “main installments” of the Hallowed Cards series. I might add an entry called “The World” with no defined chapter count just to have as a playground for these kinds of things…

In the meantime, enjoy more Clive and Barnabas.

The two guards stationed outside Barnabas’s cell don’t stiffen when Clive comes down the stairs, but only because they are both already tensed. They do nod, though.

“He’s still just sitting there,” the nearer woman whose name he doesn’t know says. She most likely died in Kupka’s attack.

“Eats, sleeps, nothing else,” the farther man, Gaoler as Clive recalls, puts in. “Can’t tell if he’s sleeping when he’s like this, though.”

“Won’t say a word.”

Barnabas sits in the cell to the left of the one Clive had woken up in that miserable morning after killing Garuda.

During the first go of things, Clive had not made a habit of visiting the original Hideaway’s prison; his own misery hung over it like a shroud only he could perceive. Barnabas is unbothered by his confinement, sitting cross-legged with his arms dragged up and suspended by the chains fastened to the thick crystal manacles around his wrists.

By all appearances, he is meditating. Clive knows better: the man had moved, just fractionally, when Clive had stopped directly in front of his cell.

“He’s awake,” Clive says flatly. He pitches his voice to Barnabas: “Am I to prove myself?”

Barnabas chuckles, a sound that has the guards shifting on their feet and moving their hands near to their weapons.

He raises his head and leans back against the pillar that supports his chains. “No need. I can feel it.” His eyes rake over Clive, peeling back the skin to relish in whatever he sees beneath. “A god, in the flesh.”

The two guards exchange a look. Clive sighs; he doesn’t need any rumors spreading among the Cursebreakers, not when he doesn’t have the years of service at their sides to keep speculation both positive and to a minimum. Too late now, though. The former King of Ash has called him a god in front of them; there is no undoing that.

“You’re free to go,” Clive tells them. ”I can handle it from here.”

The woman’s brow furrows and it’s the man who speaks. “Are you sure?“

“I am. We…had an agreement.” His gaze lands back on Barnabas, who is still staring at him with unnerving intensity. “Didn’t we.”

Barnabas spreads his fingers for lack of being able to do so with his chained arms. “As you will it, Clive Rosfield.”

Never before has Clive heard his own name said with such reverence and he decides in that instant that he never wants to again. He tries to brush the feeling aside and addresses the guards.

“Please, you’ve both been standing here for hours, and he makes for poor company.”

The guards exchange one last look before they nod. The woman hands him the ring of keys—a good number of which unlock precisely nothing in the Hideaway and are just cover—and walks away with Gaoler, but not without one nervous glance over her shoulder. Clive suspects it’s more Cid’s orders to trust Clive than Clive’s own trustworthiness that has them listening to him.

He sighs again, expelling the melancholy of the time he’s lost, selects the proper key, and unlocks Barnabas’s cell.

“How does it feel?” asks Barnabas while Clive gets to work opening his manacles. “To have the divine aspects collected within you, their power made yours, your purpose fulfilled?”

Clive yanks the second manacle open with more force than necessary. “It has nothing to do with purpose.”

Barnabas rubs at his bruised wrists. In the Hideaway, buried deep in the blight, there is no ambient aether to heal his wounds. “Of course.”

His easy acquiescence leaves Clive feeling even more uncomfortable than if he’d argued. Barnabas stands and smooths out his shirt, looking practically none the worse for wear for his weeks-long stint in the cells.

“Despite your divinity, you still cling so desperately to this place and these people. Would that you release yourself from those chains of consciousness—“

“No. If you want to call me a god in your mind, fine. But don’t think I’ll be the same as Ultima.”

Barnabas blinks. Then the ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “My apologies.”

His agreement will never fail to send a shiver down Clive’s spine. This Barnabas has not turned nearly all his people akashic, but he would have done it unquestioningly not so long ago. Perhaps he would still do it if Clive asks…

Clive looks at him more closely. Barnabas stares back and narrows his eyes with the barest of questioning looks.

No, he wouldn’t. At least, Clive hopes not. He can’t let the ghost of the Barnabas he remembers blind him to the changes—however slight—in the one who exists now.

“You would have me walk unchained?” Barnabas surveys the cell before his gaze once more lands on Clive. “Your people won’t take kindly to that with your insistence on shielding their eyes to the truth.”

“I’m not going to order them to do anything. I’m not their leader and I’m not their god.”

“You’ve claimed divinity through choice and will. There is no other god for them.”

Them, Barnabas says. Not us.

“Even so.”

Barnabas crosses his arms. “Very well. Let them cling to their false god and exercise your gift of will for paltry comfort and empty hope.”

Clive resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. If he isn’t careful, he’s fairly sure Barnabas will attempt to start some kind of cult in his name. “You won’t be restrained if you truly are an ally. But this talk of divinity, false gods, all of it—this isn’t the place. These people are here because this is their last safe haven. I won’t have you pollute it.”

Barnabas frowns at his use of the word pollute.

“Talk of Cid’s past and yours, as well,” Clive tacks on.

“You spare them fear and doubt for your own sake.”

“I want them to be able to sleep at night, and I want them to trust Cid because—regardless of what he did when he served you—he wants them to live with the dignity they’ve been denied everywhere else. It’s not your place to undermine that trust, understand?“

Barnabas steps out of the cell and takes a deep breath. He glances back at Clive with inscrutable waves rolling behind his eyes. “As you will it.”

#clive rosfield #barnabas tharmr #ffxvi fanfiction #ffxvi hallowed cards #ares writes occasionally #the more I write Barnabas the more I like him #which is unfortunate for him. it’s not good for your health to be on the list of characters I like

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fordarkisthesuede · 8 months

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Fangs of Ourorboros - Chapter 1 - Ghosts of the Past

Good evening from the east coast! 🌇 I've brought you a proper chapter for you to chew on! (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Last time:

Batman was playing a strange murder-mystery game with Joker when an explosion interrupted his investigation...

Rocky Hopper: employed part-time in Xotic Construction, living in a two-bedroom apartment in midtown with a wife and two children. His criminal record showed he was a three-time parolee by the age of thirty-six for armed robbery, assault, DUI, and theft. No known association to any Gotham-based gang. An unremarkable small-time criminal Batman previously noted for rubbing shoulders with Oswald Cobblepot during his time in Gotham two years ago, before The Penguin was taken into custody.

To anyone else, such a fact was a mere blip on the radar. But to Bruce - to Batman - it was a flashing yellow mark on the edge of his mind.

Richard Hartright. Vicki Vale. Penguin. One string leading to another on a cork board collage with a muddled picture of why.

The GCPD touted BlackGate Penitentiary as a fortress; a prime example of modern security in spite of the building’s age.

Heh. Not for Batman. The nighttime security were like any other lookout team, conversing on their radios or over their shoulders while paying mild attention to their surroundings.

It was practically a cake walk. Bruce grappled up to the roof and rolled over the railing with barely a swish of his cape. The guard by the rooftop door jabbered about the Knights’ chances in the league this year over the two-way as Bruce crept behind him and squirted all-purpose oil between the crack in the door where the hinges should be.

The door opened silently, and Bruce slipped in, breathing in the familiar smell of dusty hallways as he walked on the edges of his feet down the concrete steps.

Oswald would be in the C Block. It took no time to get down to the third floor. Even less time to find the section, painted in chunky white letters on the floor and wall as if the heavy metal door to the place was easy to miss.

The security lock was a simple hand scanner, meant to use the layout and size of the hand instead of a key or passcode. Bruce pulled out the luminous spray normally reserved for crime scenes and sprayed the scan bed. The Batsuit’s gauntlets scanned the imprint, and with a few taps on the key generator Tiffany had perfected last year, all he had to do was place his hand over the sensor and wait while for the lights to turn green.

The bolt lock slid open with a sudden thunk, and Bruce slipped into Cell Block C.

Three stories of prison cells stretched open before him, smelling like a public bathroom in the Narrows. He could see each barred door had two beds embedded into the walls, with only just enough room for two people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, bringing to mind a twisted shoebox diorama.

One long catwalk weaved throughout the place, spotted with rust and bits of peeling paint. The rush of air as he whizzed past rows of metal bars was only slightly satisfactory when he was still wincing at the slight sound of the metal clang of the grapple teeth hitting the railing.

The cell door was easy to unlock - all the doors were connected to an online grid for routine automatic unlocking, but had a manual override to use a physical key. A simple signal jammer was all that was needed to fool the cell into thinking it lost connection to the controller and let Bruce pick the lock.

Despite the cowl, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. He was being watched, but he wasn’t sure by who. At the very least, he knew an alarm hadn’t been tripped; his radio tuner wasn’t picking up any calls to action inside the prison…

The lock opened with too loud of a cha-clink. Oswald stirred.

The upper bunk was empty, despite the rumpled sheets. At least Bruce wouldn’t have to worry about potentially fighting off two prisoners at once.

Bruce chose to stay away from the cot to speak; there was no need to overstep and put either of them in harm’s way yet. He kicked the cot’s mattress instead to get attention.

Oswald jerked upward with a garbled sort of shout, flinching to press his back against the wall.

The direct approach was best. “Why did you want to destroy Richard Hartright’s files?”

Oswald glared at him, shoulders sagging as he relaxed into a sitting position. “Should’ve known you’d sneak your sorry-winged ass in here to give me the business one of these days. Or did the Commissioner give you your own Bat-pass?”

“I know Rocky Hopper worked for you,” Bruce said flatly, “The bomb he was setting in Hartright’s filing cabinet went off early. He’s dead.”

Oswald’s eyebrow rose a fraction, eyes widening in a sort of surprise that he was trying and failing to suppress. “Plenty of people worked for me,” he said with practiced casualty, casting a look at the cell door and waving away the issue. “I don’t care what they do with their spare time nowadays.”

Bruce had enough. He grabbed Oswald by the collar and hoisted him up to be more on his level. “I don’t play games,” he growled out, “You worked for Vicki Vale - you knew Richard was one of her sources during her time at the Gazette. One of your affiliates blew up his office with enough C4 to kill him. Why were you after him?”

“I thought you were supposed to be the detective,” Oswald scowled.

Bruce punched him hard in the jaw, holding him up so he didn’t fall back into the wall. “What did he have that you didn’t want getting out?”

“You can’t hurt me in a way that matters,” Oswald scowled in disgust, “You think I don’t see this every day in this hellhole?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. A clanging noise came from outside the cell.

“SHUT UP or I’m going to come over there and chew your FACE off, Penguin!” came a gravelly hiss of a voice from a nearby cell. “SOME of us are trying to SLEEP!”

“Your neighbor sounds mad,” Bruce taunted, “Tell me what I want to know and maybe I won’t wake up the whole block.”

Bruce tossed him to the floor, only too late feeling his cape pull along with the motion. His shoulder smacked into the wall as Oswald skittered out the open door.

He chased after him, boots clanging on the metal of the catwalk, priming a bat-bola to throw. Oswald barely reached the staircase when the weighted rope whipped through the air and wrapped itself around the man’s calves in the nick of time.

Oswald hit the floor with a loud, reverberating thunk. Bruce was able to grab an arm and pin it around his back as he leaned over him, out of arm’s reach.

“You bastard, you’re no different from the pigs that run this place!” Oswald spat, voice echoing around the cell block.

“Why did Richard pose a threat to you?” Batman asked again, feeling more eyes on him. He could see several prisoners had risen in their beds. One was already pressed against the bars of the cell for a better look. He pulled on the arm he was holding, just enough to hurt.

“Because he’s just like your lot,” Oswald grunted, “Sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong. Vicki’s worth ten of him.”

Bruce’s brain buzzed, trying to parse through what information he had. The private detective’s only link to Oswald was through Vicki Vale; he had nothing to do with Penguin’s crew, before or after his arrest, that Bruce knew of. The mention of Penguin’s old leader in the present tense was jarring. “Vicki Vale’s been dead for two years.”

Penguin gave a light wheeze of a chuckle. “Killed her yourself, did you?” he taunted, “Buried her in a shallow grave with the last rites? They never did find a body in all that rubble, did they?”

Bruce had seen the rocks fall as he guided Alfred out of the underground catacomb. He’d doubled back later, on the off chance he could find her, and found the chamber practically blocked off by the collapse. There were no other tunnels, no secret rooms, no pockets she could have climbed out of. He’d checked.

But it bothered him all the same.

He could hear the inmates start to blabber and howl as he dragged Oswald ‘The Penguin’ Cobblepot back to his cell by his feet.

Body slam him next! Body slaaam!

Not so tough now, are ya Peng’? Ha ha, oh man!

Fuck you! Fuck you, you hear me, Bat? Fuck you!

Let me out - I’ll drag your ass around the block, Bat!

Come on, Penguin, get up and grab him-!

You think you’re so tough, you’re nothing without that fuckin’ armor!

He ignored it all, leaving Oz to nurse his wounds on the floor of his cell, winding the bola back up after he slammed the door behind him.

Deep down, he knew getting information out of Oz was a longshot to begin with. Any more questions would be met with more stubborn non-answers. He would have to check Oz’ mail, visitors, cell-mates, anything he could have used to send out the message to his cronies.

He leapt up and over the railing to glide back down to the first floor, feeling the eyes of awakened prisoners all around.

“Hey, Batman” a smooth, familiar voice called from his right. “You got a taste for beating up bird-dudes or what? I’d think you know he doesn’t like to talk about work.”

Bruce barely gave Roman Sionis and his cocky little smirk a second glance.

“I could tell you what he was up to,” Roman added.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Bruce ignored the cacophony of noise as he left the way he came in, the sound of the hinge on the metal door far more noticeable now that he was in a hurry to leave. “I doubt it,” Bruce muttered.

🜁

The bare facts stared out at him through black and white scans and data retrievals on the Batcomputer’s oversized screens.

Rocky Hopper communicated strictly through text messages. Simple instructions of picking up the bomb and a key from a contact he’d meet on the street, dropping it off in Detective Hartright’s office, and flicking the switch to let the countdown start. Said contact was never named, explained as being able to recognize Rocky on sight.

Oswald Cobblepot’s outgoing mail took a long time to be scanned and approved, up until a few months ago. Most likely he or someone who worked for him was paying off one of the officers in charge of the mail room. At first, the letters used an easy code of the first letter in each sentence spelling out a short command. Silence person, pick up this, sell that, mostly to one Cameron Van Cleer. As far as Bruce could tell, Cameron was one of Oz’ one-time cronies that - judging by the social media profile Bruce had gathered - had sympathies to the Children of Arkham. Oz must have entrusted them with a financial account, judging by shorthand instructions to buy and sell actual stock as well. No mention of Detective Hartright.

All of this would be easily digested, if it weren’t for the last line in the last letter to Cameron: Our fair lady will be reaching out to you.

The incoming mail told a similar story of back-and-forth mob work disguised as friendly exchanges. And then there were the others. Arriving every week or two, short and to the point, like telegrams more than anything.

I know you must be surprised to hear from me. I know I’ve been away a long time, but I’ve kept a close eye on things. I can see things haven’t changed since I left… Wayne Enterprises is still standing, to my surprise. But I can see our friends aren’t all gone. Can I still count you as a friend, even though it’s been so long? -Your fair lady

Then, two weeks later:

I’m glad we’re still friends after all this time. I have so many things I’d like to share with you! Do you remember Julian Day ? He had a whole article in the Gazette on page 4! -Your fair lady

Bruce checked the date against the Gazette’s webpage. Julian Day was noted for causing a car crash that ended in his death and the destruction of a popular corner restaurant. The coroner’s report Bruce pulled up noted no street drugs in his system. One patron said they thought they saw someone else exit from the backseat of the vehicle, but no other person was found on CCTV.

And then the last letter, dated a week ago:

We need to catch up in person. I’ve got a little place downtown above the Iceberg Lounge. (I heard Roman Sionis tried to buy it once!) I’d love for you to visit… Drop me a line when you can. -Your fair lady

Bruce felt the impossible gnaw at him. But the strings he had were so easily put together. Oswald had been corresponding with Lady Arkham, despite the fact that Vicki Vale was buried under the rubble of Arkham’s underground catacombs.

She was dead.

Had to be.

He’d checked.

They never did find a body in all that rubble, did they?

Bruce tried to breathe steadily into his hands. His elbows were sore from the near-constant perch on the metal console as he read and re-read. He sank further to rest his forehead on his arms, breathing in the cave air as he tried to focus.

He saw that pile of rubble in his mind’s eye. Broken stone bricks were piled high in a seemingly endless mountain in the cool, musty darkness below Arkham. He moved through it, stepping on only the largest, sturdiest pieces to prevent an avalanche. Bruce climbed over a fallen column. The snakes winding around the stone seemed to shift in the light.

Even in the basement, he could feel the pull of the asylum on his psyche. The toxic energy that seeped into walls from years of madness and undoubtable abuse stirred down there like dust, swirling at his feet and seeming to stick to the edges of his cape. He tried to ignore it as he walked over the broken stone to the spot he saw Vicki last.

The opening she had tried to get to was completely sealed now. There was nothing but dead ends among long-dead bodies everywhere else underground.

He could see the top of the air-pulse weapon Lady Arkham had wielded sticking out between two stones. He reached down and pulled, straining against the rock until they started to tumble away; the weapon pulled free as if it were Excalibur, almost making him fall back.

His drone was too large to send into the fresh gap. He stooped down to shine his light into the crevice, dust swirling up to meet him and cover him in Arkham before could glimpse the gloved hand reaching up to snatch his cape, jerking his shoulder, trying to pull him down deeper into-

Bruce snapped awake, jolting in his seat. When had he fallen asleep…?

“Morning, honey-buns,” John greeted from behind, placing a cup of coffee next to Bruce’s elbow, “Rough night?”

Bruce watched a freshly dressed John lean his hip against the massive desk, taking a sip from his silly ‘clown juice’ mug with an expectant stare. He felt his mood sink upon realizing he hadn’t seen him since last night. He’d seemed surprised at the explosion interrupting the odd murder-game he’d made, but… He looked awfully casual right now, if not a little mad.

“I mean, I assume,” John added, squinting accusingly at Bruce, “you forgot to text me what happened.”

Ah. That explained the mood. “It was pretty long,” Bruce answered, his mouth tasting like old beef jerky. “I didn’t even know I fell asleep.”

“I could tell,” John teased with a snide little smirk, moving to sit on the flat surface so he could swing his feet in the air. “I haven’t seen you fall asleep in the suit before.”

The square cut of emerald and tiny amethysts on either side winked at Bruce from John’s ring finger, bringing Bruce back into the reality of the present. He pushed the thoughts of John’s involvement away, choosing to trust his fiancé and figuring that his mood was entirely due to Bruce keeping him in the dark. He finally gave into the urge to let his gloved fingers rest softly on the plum-purple corduroy covering John’s thigh. “That’s because someone keeps goading me out of it.”

John giggled, looking pleased. “If you weren’t so shy about mixing the other halves of our lives together, I wouldn’t have to.”

Bruce could feel the little smile in the corner of his mouth quirking up as John’s hand covered his. He relented in finally taking in some of the steaming caffeine John had brought him. The smooth bitter heat steeped into his chest, bringing him partially back to life.

“Soooo…Penguin, huh?” John craned his neck up to the monitor behind him, taking Bruce a little off guard. “Was he playing ‘Emperor’ in prison, or is it just another concrete jungle?”

Truthfully, Bruce wasn’t sure what to make of Oz’ predicament. “Hard to say,” he said, “He got out of the cell for a few minutes, but some of the prisoners had no problem with me fighting him. His neighbor certainly didn’t care about who he was talking to.”

“Could just be all that testosterone and sleep deprivation crammed in those two-by-fours,” John commented knowingly, legs moving steadily in the air, “Any fight gets ‘em all riled up! As you well know,” he said with a sly little grin.

Bruce remembered Zaaz’s fight with the orderly back in Arkham all too well. The orderly survived, but Bruce had felt the guilt of leaving him to fend for himself while he made the all-important call compound and sit in him for a long time.

“Could be.”

“Those little letters sure are interesting, aren’t they? I’m guessing you didn’t find the replies.”

Bruce leaned back in the chair, looking at the whole picture again. “No. He must have had an in-between deliver them. I know he must have had someone in the mailroom on his payroll.” He stared at the offending final letter, pulled up square among the rest. “That last one bothers me.”

“Right? It’s hard to picture The Penguin meeting up with a zombie in a club! Ha ha ha haa! Ah, doesn’t that sound like a bad horror flick?”

Such a silly thing to say should have quelled the thought still pecking at the back of his skull. It only left a bad taste in his mouth. Coffee wasn’t washing it away.

The smile slipped from John’s face. “...she is dead, isn’t she? I remember that pile of rubble looked pretty big on T.V…”

For a moment, Bruce thought about shrugging it off with silence. Or just saying that Oz mentioning her couldn’t be a coincidence. But John had asked the question that kept casting shadows over everything else. And if there was anyone else who could look at those, it was John. “I never found her body,” he answered, staring hard at the digitized letter, “No one did.”

“Sooo…there’s a slim chance she’s back in Gotham, then,” John said with a squint, pinching his index finger and thumb together in front of Bruce’s face, the emerald on his ring glinting, “I mean, IF we put aside the fact she was likely heavily injured and would have to hitch a ride back to the city, where everyone definitely recognizes her, AFTER getting out of the secret underground chamber and swimming back to Gotham from the island.”

It was the kind of thing he’d hear from him across the visiting table at Arkham. He wanted to believe him. “It’s still a chance,” he said, unable to shake the feeling he was missing something important, “If it’s not her, then someone’s going out of their way to convince us it is.”

“There is another possibility.” John paused to take a loud slurp from his mug. “He’s trying to throw you off your rhythm.”

“To what end?”

“Who says there has to be an end?” John shrugged, a smile on the corners of his cherry-red mouth, “If I was really mad at you - like, ree-ally mad - ‘you betrayed me’ mad - I’d do it just to mess with you.”

Even now that they were engaged, he found himself not doubting that at all. John sometimes enjoyed needling him for little to no reason other than getting a reaction. Maybe, if John were different… If their lives had gone differently, then…

He swallowed the dark thought down with coffee and a non-committal hum as the cell phone left on the console buzzed. Once, twice, and on the third Bruce finally deigned to answer.

“Morning, Iman.”

“Bruce,” came Iman’s no-nonsense voice, “you need to get down to the office.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on playing hooky,” Bruce said dryly.

“A few of my old colleagues are here,” Iman replied, her tone sharp and stable, “talking to our security team. They’re going to have a conference call with a few of our other branches. And I have a feeling they’ll want to talk to you personally.”

“Great. That’s all I need.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt he needed to know: “What are you doing there so early, anyway?”

A slight pause. “I wanted to catch the Quick ‘Fast truck again,” she answered sheepishly, “I figured I would just come in and get some work done afterward.”

Ah. The early bird catches the pancake-burger, Bruce thought to himself. “Right. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Be careful,” she added, “they’ll likely put a tail on you after they talk with you here, but they might have one already watching the house.” A beat passed as he considered the small frame of time he might have unobserved. “I’ve gotta run. Any longer in here and they’ll suspect I’m talking to you.”

John set his mug down by the fabric flowers he’d made Bruce while he was still in Arkham. “Bad news? Let me guess – our latest wedding planner’s gone rogue.”

“No. Worse than that.”

“Good; Kimberly might not have much going for her, but after the last two…”

“John.”

John mimed zipping his mouth shut.

“The Agency is back in town. Some of them are waiting for me at the office.”

“The Agency?” Tiffany piped up from behind, “What do they want?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bruce said over his shoulder, “but considering they aren’t coming to the house, and are conversing with Wayne Enterprises’ entire security team, I’d say they’re waiting for someone to come in or out of one of our buildings.”

John was worrying the corner of his bottom lip as he looked at the steel floor, eyes darting over the squares like they held all the paths such a situation could go.

“John,” he said as gently as possible, putting a hand on his shoulder, “you don’t have to go to work if you don’t want to. I can talk to your social worker-”

“No!” he said suddenly, snatching hold of Bruce’s arm. He seemed to realize how frantic he seemed, because he quickly covered it by giving the armor plating a couple of pats and trying for a smile. “No. I’ll go. I shouldn’t…” The smile wavered. “I don’t want to be alone here,” he muttered honestly.

“We’re going to have to get you to work early, then. It’s that or dropping you off at St. Dymphna’s…”

Tiffany was already taking over the console, pulling up the 3D-generated image of the bomb. “Have you looked through this?”

“Not quite.”

Tiffany pulled away the layers of it, eyes traveling over the interior. The drone cameras had taken the pictures of the pieces, and Bruce and the BatComputer worked together to piece it back like a three-dimensional puzzle. He didn’t pay as much attention to its construction as he should have; he had been combing over Oz’ mail not long before and thinking about any other possible explanation than the one that kept popping up.

“So, you missed the partial left behind?” Sure enough, a partial print of what might have been from the middle or index finger was barely visible on one of the inner slices of metal, somehow not entirely burned off. If Bruce hadn’t been present for the explosion, he wouldn’t wonder if it was somehow planted for him.

Tiffany was already running a cross-check on the criminal database with one of her shortcut commands. “That’s not like you.” She squinted at him with a tilt of her head. “Are you okay?”

“I think the lure of the criminal chase was clearly too much last night; he fell asleep down here,” John excused for him.

Tiffany pulled a face. “I hope that’s not a euphemism for something.”

“He means I was distracted by case details,” Bruce butted in, “And I did fall asleep. But more importantly-”

“You need to go,” Tiffany and John said in unison.

John pointed at Tiffany in delight. “Ooh-hoo, jinx!”

“I can easily look into this,” Tiffany pointed to the rapidly growing list of names, “and still be on time.”

“And I’ll help!” John gestured to himself importantly, “Four eyes are better than two! Um, as long as you don’t mind driving me to work on your way,” John added, casting Tiffany a friendly look.

Tiffany pursed her lips in mock-thought. “Hmm… Alright. But only because I know I’m getting a seat of honor at your guys’ wedding. And this is a huge list.”

Bruce felt the usual itch to just take the important work with him. He knew he could only look at it at red lights, and knew he’d be thinking about it nonstop until he reached his office. But with the Agency back in town and speaking with his security team of all things, the sense of dread he’d felt last night was building higher.

Something was going to happen.

And for once, Bruce felt that he shouldn’t try to go it alone.

“I expect to see you,” he pointed to Tiffany, “in the engineering offices by 9 A.M. sharp. I want a brief in my office at 9:30.” Tiffany seemed to stand a little straighter, and the smile on the edges of her mouth became more pronounced.

“And you,” he directed at John, who was already looking bright-eyed, “better be at All Stitched Up Alterations by 8:30. And you’re going to stay there for your whole shift, go back to St. Dymphna’s with the others, and wait until I pick you up at 5:30.”

“Sheesh, I leave early one time to follow a lead for your case, and you act like I’m some delinquent,” John poked with a toothy grin. “I’d make a joke about detention with you if Tiffy wasn’t here.”

Tiffany wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, please don’t.”

John giggled at her as he brushed off his pants like he’d gotten them dirty just by sitting. “Okay, Bruce, I promise I’ll be good,” he half-sang, “but I better be updated during the day this time.”

John looped his arms around Bruce’s neck and leaned in to kiss his cheek, but his lips didn’t make contact.

“Don’t think any of this stops our game, Bruce,” John whispered in a low voice, the corner of his smiling mouth brushing over the fine hairs. Bruce wasn’t sure if it was the words or the soft movement that made the spike of heat in his gut. John’s lips barely brushed his skin in a soft peck. “Don’t make me sleep alone.”

Bruce felt John’s nails dig slightly into his back with the last word, and then John pulled himself away like nothing happened. “Have a good day!” he added brightly. “Uh, you know, as much as you can.”

His heart thudded with the small rush of adrenaline at the threat still burning against his ear. It was unreasonable to try and play this…murder-game Joker had established while Bruce and Batman had enough on their plates.

“I’ll be waiting,” John added, tilting his head to look at Bruce through his lashes with a challenging sort of smirk. The kind normally reserved for when he was moments away from being bound and on his knees.

Bruce reminded himself that this unreasonable, manipulative, handsome sneak of a man was who he was choosing to marry. He wouldn’t promise him anything; he couldn’t. But he wouldn’t deny him, either. If he was this hell-bent on playing, it was clearly important to him.

“I’ll…try.” Bruce heard the cape of his suit swish across the metal tiles as he made his way to the elevator.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author Notes: Finally, we're at our proper start, having returned to the classic TellTale formula! The Whole Nine Yards sure was a nice romantic break in the series, but things can't stay that way forever. (If you hadn't read it, no worries, I'll summarize for you: Bruce and John talked about their feelings and further built their relationship, boinked a lot, Alfred left again, and Bruce spontaneously proposed to John on a romantic sunset-lit beach.) I'm sure you realize that our return to base means "choices" have an impact again - for example, if you romanced Selina throughout and only befriended John, it would be her waking Bruce but John butting his way in partway to deliver his last whispered lines with a hug…minus the threat of sending Bruce to the couch, of course. Selina would then stick around to help next chapter as well, but only so far. A villainous Joker would have had made a real crime scene for our prologue and thus made his game a lot more pressing of an issue and a way more reasonable excuse to follow up on it. (No matter who he romances, Bats can't stay away from Joker's ploys.)

Y'all know by now that I love jokes in my work as much as I love making clues. Penguin's dead goon, Rocky Hopper, is both! The name comes from the rockhopper penguin, which is famous for it's bushy "brows", weird spikey mullet-like "haircut", and red eyes. We also have a callback to Season 4, The Tolls of Justice, with Iman's excuse for showing up to work early - Quick 'Fast (like "quick breakfast"), the mysterious food truck that eludes John and home of his coveted Pancake Burger! Apparently, Iman tried it and liked it enough to chase after it. Somewhere, in the recesses of my brain, there's a short story taking place before this where Iman and John hunt down the truck together… But that's for another day.

Next time, we'll see things from a certain bird-girl's point of view. After all, her choices matter as much as the rest, and she really doesn't get enough love around here. Until then...thank you, as always, for joining me on this journey! (●´□`)♡

#fangs of ouroboros #telltale batman #batman the telltale series #telltale batjokes #juce #the perseverance project #oswald cobblepot #bruce wayne #john doe #iman avesta #tiffany fox #vicki vale #lady arkham #the penguin #yes that is an alchemical symbol for a spacer #hmm I wonder who Penguin's neighbor is?

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echo-echo31 · 2 years

Text

The Water Hears and Understands | Siren!Yancy x GN!Reader

Chapter 1

I finally did it :3 I'm going to be updating this every third Sunday!

Warnings: hypnotism/mind control implied.

When you dream, you dream of the ocean. Not the tranquil, serene scenes that most people imagine. No, your mind is overflowing with tormented, mountainous waves. The colour of the sea is steel, almost black, as it curls around like it wants to destroy its own self.

When you dream, it's dark. The deep visions of the darkest depths engulfing your senses, till the only knowledge you have is of immense pressure and the memory of sunlight.

When you dream, it's of a voice. Not words but a language so ancient and etheral that it seems to be injected directly into your veins. Unable to be translated but omnipotent none the less. It's not even language really, it's more like...singing.

***

When you wake up, you don't remember any of that.

What you do remember, is that you have an appointment at 8am sharp with your boss, ominously titled 'Review' in your shared work calendar.

It's almost as if you simply time travel, suddenly finding yourself standing in their office with a vague recollection of having gotten ready, eaten breakfast, and taken the bus to work.

"Alright, I think that's it? Got any questions for me?"

You blink out of your daze to make eye contact with the warden of Happy Trails Penitentiary. The man looks warm, but in that 'might secretly be a serial killer' kind of way, which you admit would be pretty ironic.

"Um...oh, no! I'm all good, Mr Murrdar-Sloretore"

Seriously. Whoever got married to combine those surnames really had a very particular sense of humour.

"Ok then," The warden rises from behind his desk, pulling his suit jacket down and gesturing for you to follow him to the door.

You continue on your way through the corridors of the prison, passing the guard's recreation room, the staff toilets, the CCTV office, all the way down to the metal gate painted in a peeling pale green. The warden unhooks his keys from his belt, fiddling a little, before slotting the correct one in and opening the gate as it sounds its long, groaning protest.

It's still weird to you that Happy Trails hasn't modernised, but you can't help being grateful. Technology was never your strong point.

You continue on your way, passing the threshold between freedom and incarceration, until you get to the plastic booth that's used for the processing of new prisoners.

It's then your heart stops.

It's a flash, like when lightening briefly illuminates the sky. One moment you see the back of a dark haired man, a tattoo across his neck, shoulders omitting easy confidence. The next, he turns, and it's as if your lungs fill with water.

For a single moment, you see pointed fangs teasing you from a provocative smile. The neck tattoo is replaced with what looks like three incisions. But the eyes. Ice blue, almost white, with a pupil so small it might as well be a speck. Those eyes seem to look right at you. You smell the harsh sting of salt. You hear a voice, a noise, a song...so familiar...so right...you just need to-

Then the moment is gone and you find yourself suddenly stood right next to the new inmate, looking at deep brown eyes that reflect the same confusion and uncertainty that you feel.

"Ah, yes! Here's our new guest. Mr Philip Cyrus-"

"-Yancy," The man stops him mid sentence, for some reason looking at you whilst addressing him, "Name's Yancy"

You step back a little, conscious that you're probably imposing on personal boundaries. Yancy's mouth curls upwards at the side slightly.

"Alright then, Mr Yancy," The warden is now flipping through paperwork on a clipboard, frowning when he gets three pages in, "It's says here you're from Ohio, son. What's with the accent?"

"My Pa used to ask the same thing,"

He doesn't say it in anything but a nonchalant tone, however you notice the warden stiffen at his words.

"Right then, guess we welcome you to Happy Trails. Officer Y/N here will escort you to your living arrangements,"

With that he nods once to you and turns back towards the peeling gate. To freedom.

You turn back, unable to stop the feeling of déjà vu from crawling up your body.

Yancy holds out a hand with a gleam of something you can't quite define in his eye.

"Nice to meet ya, officer. You doing okay? Looks like youse ain't been sleepin' right,"

You know you're not suppose to touch the prisoners except for safety, but there's something about the man before you, that makes you grasp his hand and shake it without thinking.

A moment of awkward silence, then you remember your job.

"Right...Mr Yancy, if you'll follow me," You pull back from the contact quickly, moving in front of him and almost forgetting to check of he actually is following you.

Again, time seems to skip forwards. You put it down to tiredness again when you find yourself at the cell Yancy will inhabit for the next couple of years, without having really paid any attention to the journey there.

"If you could please drop off your personal belongings and then report to the canteen, they will register you for meal times. Wake up is 7am sharp, lights out at 10pm. Do you have any questions?"

You only realise you've been staring at the cell wall rather than the prisoner, when you look back to see Yancy leaning against the metal bars, eyebrow raised, with a smirk that makes you want to check your teeth.

"Youse seem familiar like, officer," He pushes himself away from where he's been leaning, traveling towards your space so that you cautiously place a hand on your emergency radio, "What's your name?"

His voice is suddenly deeper, more precise. He's now only about a foot away. You think you can see a ring of icy blue around his pupil.

"You...you don't need to ask that, Yancy. I am your prison guard, and you need to...r-respect boundaries,"

You hate the way your voice shakes a little. You're never normally this nervous, this unprofessional.

What the hell is going on? Get a grip, Y/N.

Yancy's eyes flick downwards towards your lips once.

"I guess I am forgettin' my manners," He steps away and you can breath again.

Quickly deciding to get out of whatever the hell this situation is, you go to walk away, leaving Yancy to wonder into his cell.

He calls back to you half way down the corridor, and you swear the accent dissipates for a moment.

"My apologies, officer. I did not mean to intimidate you. I'm sure we will have plenty of time to get to know each other properly...Y/N,"

Later, they tell you that you blacked out in the cell corridor. You wake up with ringing ears and wetness gathering at your thighs.

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spookyspaghettisundae · 11 months

Text

And All the King’s Menace

SLAM.

Keys locked the door shut behind her. A low buzz of electricity hummed from the tube of fluorescent light overhead. Another short buzzing sound sliced through the air—an alert. Doors behind doors opened and footfalls heralded the arrival of men.

Upon a silver chair, bolted to the floor, she sat alone. Her seat was mirrored by another, empty chair, on the other side of a tall pane of glass, which evenly divided the room into two identical halves. The window reached from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling. It allowed her to glimpse her own sad reflection in the glass—the disheveled crop of short red hair, and the crumpled suit on her body.

Another buzzing noise. Keys click-clacked and the door on the opposite side of the glass opened. A guard armed with a shotgun stepped inside, avoiding eye contact with her as he maintained his stony-faced expression, taking up a disciplined position to flank the entrance.

A man in a bright red prison jumpsuit followed him inside. Freddy Fletcher. Chains linked his ankles and wrists together in a small metal web, shortening the serial killer’s every step towards the bolted chair on the other side of the glass.

His eyes went wide upon recognizing his visitor. FBI Agent Parker.

The woman who had put him here.

His hands trembled as they glided along the shiny frame of his chair’s back, guiding him until he blindly took his seat, transfixed on the woman sitting opposite of him in the divided room.

One of the guards nodded at Parker, then pointed to the wall behind her.

“Press that button when you’re done.”

“Understood.”

She nodded, but kept her eyes glued to Freddy’s gaze.

Burning into one another. She read fascination there. Married to a distant sense of dread. With his mouth agape, he broke free from initial wonder, and scanned her face up and down. He scanned her entire frame, and wiped a hand over his chin. Disbelieving.

Starstruck.

His expression confused her.

He wants what you have.

The guards exited the room and the door on Freddy’s side slammed shut. Keys click-clacked, locking him inside with her.

He cannot have what you have.

She ignored the Whispers.

Muffled through the glass pane, his voice travelled through tiny breathing holes in the window.

“Agent… Parker. I did not expect to ever see you again.”

You have me.

She sighed and crossed her legs. Folded her hands on her lap, bit her lip and collected herself. Another deep breath, and the Whispers fell silent again.

“I didn’t expect to see you again, either. Especially not now, with—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted. “I’m scheduled for the chair. But I suspect you knew that already.”

“Only learned of it just now. I hadn’t been following your fate at all since the arrest and the trial.”

“Tactful as ever, I see,” he scoffed, with the faintest semblance of a tired smirk.

She narrowed her eyes as her chin crinkled in disgust.

“It’s not my job to flatter you with tact. You killed people without remorse—you ritually peeled off their skin—and you would have taken far more if I hadn’t managed to stop you. Or your entire cult.”

He shook his head. His mien turned sad, with a distant glimmer of regret swimming to the surface, and his gaze fell to the floor.

The moment he replied, he betrayed his true sentiments. They sent a chill down her spine before he even spoke up again.

“I was at the peak of human perfection, Agent Parker.” Once he locked eyes with her again, she averted her gaze. Unsettled by that electric sense of confidence. “Look at me. Look at what you locked away from the world. I am fit, handsome, well-educated, wealthy—well, I was wealthy—and I was going to change the world. You robbed the world of me. You robbed the world of what I could have accomplished for it.”

She shook her head.

Said nothing.

Do not indulge him.

He continued, “You know it’s true. You know what you took away from the world when you got me locked up. What you took away from me.”

The chains jingled as he leaned forward in his chair, creeping closer towards the glass pane between them, without ever getting up from his seat.

Her skin crawled in his presence, just like the first time she met, masquerading as a sheriff department deputy to catch him red-handed.

He hissed, “That book… Agent. Are you… are you at least making good use of it? Have you found a way to continue my legacy?”

Freddy Fletched studied her with burning intent. His gaze simmered with the madness of murder—not a yearning to end her life, but reflections of all the lives he had snuffed out with his hands and his hunting knife.

A knife he had almost plunged into her neck.

She swallowed the lump of nothingness in her throat. Taking another deep breath, she focused on her training. Her education. And her instincts.

Listen…

Another deep breath to snuff out the Whispers in her head.

Breathe. One, two, release. Breathe.

Her own voice in her head—no longer the alien entity, speaking to her from the fringes of her consciousness.

Breathe. One, two, release. Breathe.

She nodded. First with a painful slowness, then with more fervor.

“Yes,” she finally said with resolve, clenching her jaw to brace for the rest. “I am, in fact, going to finish what you started. I now understand a bit more about… your work.”

The chains jingled again as Freddy leaned back in his chair, mouth agape again.

Confused over this reply.

The gears were grinding behind his forehead, parsing her reply for any lies.

She seized the initiative again and added, “I need you now. I need to learn more about the jade book. The Thaum of Thritain.”

His eyes went wider with every syllable of that accursed name, dancing off her lips. As if he had never heard anybody else speak it aloud.

“How,” she asked. “How did you learn how to use it? How to wield magick?”

The shock and curiosity wiped itself from his visage and a clipped chuckle escaped him. He stared a hole through her forehead, seeking eye contact which she refused to reciprocate.

Listen to us. Do not listen to him.

Freddy licked his lips. Bit them before they widened into a seductive smile.

“Tell you what, Agent Parker. You find a way to get me off death row, and I will tell you all you need to know. I will teach you. I know you have it in you. I sense a… darkness. A Shadow.”

Leave. Leave him and never return. Leave him to die.

She shuddered and stifled a sharp sigh.

“Please,” he added in another sharp hiss. “You destroyed my life. The least you can do is indulge me. At least make an effort. I won’t have any chance of sharing all I know if I’m dead soon. But in a nice cell? Locked up for life? I’ll have time. I’ll give you… lessons… during visiting hours. Answer every question. Meet your every need.”

Her skin crawled again. Under other circumstances, there might have been some strange charm to his words and presence.

Now, Freddy Fletcher’s speech only felt like the drivel coming out of all the other psychopathic serial killers she had interviewed in the past.

Pleading for his life, pitiful in his delusions of grandeur, and all tied up in a neat little bow, spun from the very fabric of devious manipulation.

Listen… to me. Leave. He is walking disease. A filth of the soul that can infect your mind if you sample it.

Do not let him in.

She clicked her tongue and finally responded to Freddy. “I don’t think so. I don’t think you really knew what you were doing, but I had to ask. I had to do my due diligence and ask. Unless you convince me otherwise, I’m going to assume you have no grasp of the occult. You may have known your fancy three-piece suits, how to make a killing on the stock market, and how to get away with murder, but you were toying with things you didn’t understand.”

This struck a nerve.

Left him speechless.

She continued to twist the verbal knife. “See, I did my homework, Mister Fletcher. I always do my homework. In digging around in your personal life, I found no connection whatsoever to the occult. So I have no reason to believe you have any inkling of what you were doing. Even your associate, Philip Byrne—he too, appeared to be clueless. You… I feel like you’re just… s-stringing me along, hoping to convince me to spare you a gruesome end on the electric chair. But I’m not willing to buy you that time unless I get something concrete. Something real. I’m trying, Mister Fletcher. I’m really trying; I truly am. But I can’t work with fantasies and vague theories.”

Slack jawed, he still offered no response to her words. She had twisted each sentence to cut and drill deeper than the last.

Then softened her tone entirely.

“Please. Work with me. I can walk right back out of here emptyhanded, but I don’t want that. If you’re willing to give me what I need, then I will do all I can to keep you off the chair.”

Chains jingled anew. He leaned forward, but every first word failed him before it could emerge. He rolled his jaw, and any replies jumbled around in his head, percolating until he found it in him to finally spill the truth. His expression switched from grimace to smile and back until it all evened out.

His nostrils flared and he finally nodded.

Finally replied in earnest.

“Okay. I admit it. You’re right, I didn’t know—no, I don’t know the first thing about the occult. I don’t know anything about ancient Mayan blood sacrifices to evoke divine magic, or Voodoo, or Wicca, or any such bunk. As far as I know, it’s all nonsense.”

Ignore him. His words are not just disease, they are venom. They are ruin.

She leaned forward, creeping closer to the glass divider between them. Intent on hearing him out.

Freddy continued, “But that thing… that book. The Thaum, it was real. It held something real. You know it—you’ve seen it with your own two eyes, haven’t you?”

Her spine tingled. Hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

He asked, “Did you… touch it? Did you hold it in your hands? Did you feel it?”

Feeling dizzy, she breathed, “Yes.”

Do not indulge him.

“Yes, yes, I know you did. I knew it before you said it. I can feel it on you. I can see,” the words died in his throat. He shook his head. His words spilled out more hectically. “Listen, please, listen. The truth is, from the moment I looked at that book, and I studied its pages, and the glyphs, and the alien drawings, I understood things.”

He raised his cuffed hands, then pointed at his own temple.

“It feels like a sharp pain at first. Like a knife in your skull, and the sight of bubbling tar pits, and the sickening sweet smell of rotting fruit.”

The images flashed before her eyes. Images she had never seen before. The words flowed together in a dark pool, where her consciousness coalesced, and a shadowy silhouette with her own shape began to emerge from the viscous depths.

“I… I looked at those designs, those awful designs, and I knew. We all knew, even if we all disagreed on what exactly we saw in them. Different, conflicting theories. It didn’t really matter. We all sensed the same thing; that it was leading us to the same place, and the truth was probably somewhere in the middle of all our theories. No need to study any occult bullshit from bygone eras, no need to gather any occult paraphernalia. I just… knew. I knew I needed their skin. I knew I needed to wear a suit made of their skin, which would shield me from the… from the SUBSTANCE. From the stuff on the other side of the door. I knew it would help me open the door, and walk through it to the other side.”

Parker had sensed no such thing from the Thaum of Thritain.

In its place, in her memory, only a dark void swirled like an ominous vortex. Like an event horizon of her own thoughts.

Hungry. Devouring all imagination.

When she next opened her eyes, she glimpsed Freddy’s eyes to have reddened. With desperation, with yearning. His palm turned white where he pressed it flat against the window between them. Confused, she met it, placing her hand against the glass.

Cold to the touch.

“Please, Agent Parker, I’m begging you,” Freddy said with trembling voice. “Don’t let me die here in this wretched pit. Please, I know you can hear it. Please—whatever you are, behind her—I know you’re there. I know you’re listening, watching. I heard you then. I have dreamt of you ever since—”

Shudders shook her spine again and she jolted back away from the glass.

Ignore him.

Freddy relentlessly begged, “I heard you! Whispers! Shadow! Please, speak to me again! I’ve dreamt of you all this time, I’ve dreamt of hearing you again in my mind! You… you are from the other side. The other side of the door—”

Dread gripped Parker’s heart like a vice. Froze her solid.

Whispers? The Whispers snarled. The Whispers became Growls.

Silence him.

“Someone opened the door. Someone slammed the door shut. I dreamt it. But it was open long enough for you to slip inside. Or was it you, Agent Parker? Please, I’m begging you—either of you—speak to me. Tell me the truth. I’ll do anything you want!”

She jolted back again, shocked up into standing by the metal chair—shocked again as Freddy Fletcher slapped his palm against the window, overlapping with the fingerprints she had left on its polished surface.

Parker fought back the tears before any could well up in the corners of her eyes.

Corners in which the shadows teemed with strange life.

Insignificance made flesh. He will die in obscurity.

Leave this insect behind.

The Growls no longer sounded like they came from inside her mind. No longer even resembling her own voice. They felt like they came from an invisible mouth right behind her. Like a Shadow on the wall, growing, looming, towering over her.

Freddy no longer stared at her. He stared at something above her.

Behind her.

Leave.

She refused to follow the order of the Whispers—the Growling—but every fiber in her being was screaming at her to leave.

Yes, Qip. Leave.

We have work to do, you and I.

Freddy Fletcher had risen to full height. Even with the shackles and chains, rendered vulnerable in his bright red jumpsuit, he stood taller than her on the other side of the glass. Wet sparkles glittered with unmasked madness in his eyes.

He slapped the window again as he begged, “Please.”

She backed another step away from the window.

Leave.

Tremors wracked her voice as she gathered herself. She spoke with flaring nostrils, mustering every ounce of courage to ignore the Growls and talk down Freddy Fletcher.

“I-I don’t know what you envision to happen, Mister Fletcher,” she said, “But everything I do is something I do to protect humanity. I am going to keep that door sealed shut, and I’m keeping that book far away from you. This… this was a mistake.”

“No! Please!”

Parker blindly pawed at the button by the door until her fingertips connected to cold plastic, and a loud buzzing resounded from behind the door.

The Growls dropped back down to Whispers.

Yes, Qip. Now you’re speaking my language. I want the same as you. We’re going to preserve your kind for the future.

“No-no-no-no,” Freddy pleaded. Then his desperate face contorted into something hideous and furious. Something feral and violent. He banged his fist against the dividing glass and it shook with every repeated blow. “Do not leave me here! Do not let me die! I can help you! Both of you! You motherfuckers!”

Parker turned her back on Freddy Fletcher.

The sooner she could put the memory of him behind her again, the better.

Agreed. This was a mistake. And you know what, Qip? It may have been for the better, after all. Something very interesting is about to happen.

She bristled at the Whispers’ choice of words. On it using her old nickname from Quantico. But now she focused on them, using them like a blanket to drape over Freddy Fletcher’s growing shouts and threats, to muffle and suffocate them.

Buzzing, click-clack; doors unlocked.

Her mind not only muffled Fletcher’s words, it also muffled the sounds of guards bludgeoning him to stop his assault on the dividing window. And another guard escorted Parker outside the secure visiting cell.

Maybe this was for the best. Sometimes, we just stumble into the right place, at the right time.

You listen, and we’ll guide you into the light, Qip.

The haze lifted. The minutes had melted away. Her fingers, squeezing a cigarette between them, quaked. She sucked in greedy drags of cancer and the little burning stick in her grip burnt down quickly.

The cold of the brick wall behind her seeped through the meager fabric of her black suit jacket.

Somehow, she had even blotted out the Whispers for the past few minutes. Time had melted into meaninglessness. Fragments of the words she exchanged with the prison personnel only reached her with delay, through a haze like a distant dream, dissipating into oblivion.

Freddy’s despair and panic still sliced through the fog. Visions of his face, twisted with dread as he pleaded. The crack of a baton as a guard struck his leg, and he crumpled onto the floor like a bag of rocks, and they wrestled him outside.

The Whispers cut through the fog the same way. With clarity. With precision.

And a hint of something sinister.

He’s here, Qip. Closer than we could have ever dreamt of. Guess that’s synchronicity for ya, huh?

She screwed her eyes shut and stamped the cigarette out. The fresh air outside the supermax prison cut across her exposed skin where a cool breeze swept by.

Listen.

“You need to come back tomorrow, sir. Inmate number 1048467 is, uh, experiencing an episode. Psychotic break. Once he’s medicated and stable, I’m sure the acting physician will admit him to another visit,” said the guard behind the reception desk.

Look.

A man in a black duster stood by the reception desk. Neatly combed dark hair, slicked back on his head. Imposing stature. She hadn’t even notice him enter the prison lobby.

He nodded in response and massaged his left palm with a thumb. When he spoke up, the words cascaded out of his lips with an eerie and hypnotic calm.

“That’s a shame, but I’ll take what I can get. That story isn’t running away from me.”

Unmistakable. Undoubtable.

It was his voice.

The Whispers growled again.

Listen.

And Parker listened.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Nine o’ clock sharp.”

She recognized his voice.

A man she had never seen in person, and she recognized his voice. Smooth and resolute.

Deceptively calm, hiding something powerful behind his folksy words.

A voice from the Gravedigger’s lips, that angry ghost inhabiting a walking corpse, now dead. That demonic presence channeling his summoner while Parker taped his very voice on her recorder.

She almost wanted to root around in her pocket, to produce the recorder and play it back and confirm the match, but she knew, in her heart of hearts, that she would only hear the exact same voice.

The necromancer.

Michael tapped the counter twice. The crooked smile he flashed the uniformed receptionist bore an attractive glow—and the same seductive energy as the serial killer Parker had just spoken to.

Michael.

Michael, hissed the Growls.

Michael, who had sent the Gravedigger after them.

The Way King’s servant. The Oracle of New York.

Don’t just stand there, Qip. You don’t get opportunities like this every day.

Michael had swiveled and sauntered over to the entrance outside of which she stood—rooted to the ground, paralyzed with indecision and surprise.

Michael’s eyes widened, much like Fletcher’s before. Then his lips curled slowly into a smile. He tilted his head and showed perfect white teeth as his smile widened.

Shaking his head, he said, “My, my, my—now this is a surprise even I hadn’t foreseen. Special Agent Quinn Isabelle Parker, in the flesh.” He performed a fluid mock bow that belonged on a theater stage, never breaking eye contact or ceasing to smile. Then he muttered, “Oh, this is rich. This is so, so rich.”

“Michael?” she asked, croaking his name out like a toad.

“Yes ma’am, and I am honored. This is providence. A blessing. I am thrilled to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve been looking for you for so long, but the stars have aligned in unexpected ways, it would seem.”

Kill him.

The Growls scratched with shadowy claws at primal instincts, loosening a knot in her stomach. They teased something out from the darker bowels of her being.

Killer instincts.

Kill him already. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Qip.

And her instinct was—

To sling out her gun and aim it in his face. Demand his surrender with excessive force.

Maybe even pull the trigger, knowing all he had done. All the people he may have killed. A killer like Freddy Fletcher—maybe even worse. Maybe far, far worse—

And yet, she dithered. Those icy talons wrapped around her heart, turning into barbed wire where they twisted and churned, paralyzing her with bleeding indecision.

“Where’d you leave your friends?”

KILL. HIM. NOW.

The Growls had turned into the Roars. Snarling, violent, and bloodthirsty.

Michael’s smile faded. His eyes glistened, damp with anticipation. He looked like he was about to burst into tears of joy.

“It’s… you’re hearing it, aren’t you? Those Whispers.”

Parker wanted to scream.

DON’T WASTE YOUR BREATH ON THAT. JUST RAM THE GUN INTO HIS TEETH, AND REVEL IN THE SOUND OF THEM CRACKING, AND THE THUNDERCLAP TO MATCH THE THUNDER IN YOUR HEART AS YOU SQUEEZE THE TRIGGER AND FINALLY—

“No,” she lied.

No longer able to hold back the tears, her vision blurred. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve.

Michael stepped up to her. His breath shuddered, warm where it caressed the skin of her forehead. He extended a hand, bringing it near her face with caution—waiting for her to stop him—

BLOW HIS BRAINS OUT, QIP. YOU’RE GONNA REGRET IT IF YOU DON’T. WE… ARE GONNA REGRET IT.

And she did not stop Michael. Her hand burned to grab her service pistol.

Shivers ran down her spine again as he cupped her cheek with an eerily soft touch. Callused skin grazed her face, like a long lost lover’s timid touch of reunion.

Michael’s lips parted. No longer smiling.

Starstruck.

Close to her, he whispered, “I don’t believe you. I saw it through my vision. I… no, I heard it. I heard those Whispers. What are they? Did they… are they from the other world?”

Parker clenched her jaw, frowning, fighting every instinct, trying to suffocate the Roars in her mind like she had squelched Freddy Fletcher’s desperate pleading, then blinked more tears away.

Then she slung out her gun. Michael flinched from the pain of her jamming its muzzle into his crotch.

After wincing, his only reaction was an arched brow and a nervous smirk, but his palm still gingerly caressed her cheek. Either too careful to make any sudden movements, or eager to stay where they were until she told him to do otherwise.

Her skin still crawled.

And her training kicked back in. Muting everything and everybody. A welcome darkness. A more natural one than the alien voices in her mind.

Breathe. One, two, release. Breathe.

She hissed at him through gritted teeth. “Only reason I’m not sticking this in your face is because I don’t want to make a scene, because I don’t want to have to cut my way through a whole ocean of red tape before I get any straight answers out of you. You are going to come with me, and you have a lot to answer for.”

“Yes,” he whispered back. The smirk faded. “I’ll follow your lead. I just… please, whatever you do, don’t… don’t listen to those Whispers.”

The Roars had fallen silent.

A new and unexpected fear now crept up through Parker’s insides.

Her trigger finger itched. Twitched around the trigger. Like something was trying to override her own will. Like she was fighting herself. Like something was fighting her from the inside out.

She felt like throwing up on the spot.

Instead, she swallowed down bitter bile and jutted her chin out in defiance. She tapped Michael’s crotch twice with her gun.

“I assure you, I’m not listening to… it. Whatever it is. If I was listening to it, I would have just blown your brains out, right here and right now, and to hell with any consequences.”

Michael bit his lip and the smirk returned.

He said nothing. He removed his hand from her cheek, raised with splayed fingers to join the other in mirrored gesture, performing the universal sign of his surrender.

You’re on your own, whispered the Growls. I’ll be back, Qip. But for now, you are on your own.

“I’m all yours,” Michael cooed in stark contrast.

Parker no longer knew what she found more menacing.

The Whispers, the Growls, and the Roars, all snarling at her to indulge in murder, then refusing to stick around and help when she refused their violent urgings.

Or the unexpected seductiveness of Michael, which she should have seen coming. That he indulged her deepest instincts to deny those Whispers of what they wanted.

No cult without earnest promises. No flies caught without honey.

The occult cabal of the Way King was making more and more sense to her now.

She tapped her pistol against his crotch again.

“Let’s go.”

He nodded slowly and turned his back on her.

With a nervous glance over her shoulder, Parker holstered the gun in her jacket again. The receptionist sitting behind the counter shot her an uninterested glance and returned to reading a magazine.

“Tell me where to go, and I’ll do as you say,” Michael said. Then he sang the rest playfully as he added, “For now.”

Parker balled her hands into fists until her nails dug into her palms. Tensed up every muscle in her body to match.

Breathe. One, two, release. Breathe.

She had been looking for a lead, some way to reach the elusive Way King, and now such a lead was just within reach.

And even if the Whispers had decided to stay away—and she prayed against all odds they would—she was not alone. She kept telling herself she was not alone. Derek and Aria awaited her return. They may have already been on their way from the diner, given how long she had been taking.

And with their help, they’d figure something out.

Breathe. One, two, release. Breathe.

Michael cast a sidelong glance over his shoulder. Smirking again.

Parker shoved him.

“Walk,” she said. “That rusty old Buick over there.”

Michael chuckled as he spotted the vehicle she mentioned. “Jericho’s car. Oh, well, only the foolish would speak of coincidence in a world such as ours, wouldn’t they?”

He started walking towards the beaten-up old rust bucket. Parker followed. His question hung in the air, carried on the cold breeze, unanswered.

She shuddered again and rolled her jaw before speaking up, “What do you mean, in a world such as—no, scratch that. Tell me something else. Tell me what you wanted here. From him.”

Michael chuckled again.

“You answered your own question.”

Their footsteps echoed across the desolate parking lot. In the grim shadow of the penitentiary’s castle-like building, most of its spaces stood vacant, only with the scant scattered car parked about, and the old Buick resting at the far end of it.

“Don’t play coy with me,” she said.

“Yes, I came to visit Freddy Fletcher. Because he once held that jade book in his hands. Just like you.”

Either the cold breeze or the words caught her by surprise, a minor shock she should have been inundated to by now. Still, she shuddered.

The unsettling sensation repeated itself when Michael glanced back at her over his shoulder.

He continued, “C’mon, Parker. I know you know where it is, even if you don’t know. I know you must know more about it, even if you don’t realize it, and sense what it does. You must know we’re all after it, all for our own little reasons. You’re holding all the cards, so why… don’t you just… share with the class?”

Parker squinted. Swallowed a glib remark, refraining from answering him with any sass. Something she had schooled herself to stop doing, long ago.

Some part of her expected a reaction from the Whispers to take the place of such instincts, but the Whispers stayed silent.

Breathe. One, two, release. Breathe.

“I might,” she said. “I just might. If I’m properly convinced… if I’m convinced it’s the best course of action to protect every innocent person on Earth, I might.”

“Oh, my heart bleeds for you. I think we’ll get along just nicely. And you’re going to love the Way King.”

The cold breeze turned into a violent gust of wind, enveloping them both with such force that they stumbled and stood still to weather the airy blast. It caught the ends of Parker’s jacket and made the fabric flutter and flap.

Michael cocked his head back, smiling.

Loudly, against the howling winds, he addressed the heavens.

“He sees things just like you. Way King! Way King… I found her. Why not bring us home to your heart?”

The clouds swirled with unnatural shape and direction, forming a spiraling vortex in the sky. The gloomy daylight darkened, and blue horizon shifted in tone until a deep crimson saturated it, seeping upwards like earth bleeding into heavens. Distances melted and the skies of different places clashed like different liquids admixing in a glass.

In shock, Parker had drawn her pistol. She swiveled, helplessly surveying her changing surroundings.

Darkness had swallowed the Kentucky State Penitentiary building behind her. The trees around them had turned into abominable hybrids of firs and cacti.

The winds carried dust and desert heat upon them, yet they smelled like the dying winter’s final snow.

And streetlights from another state flared up, one by one, a chain of light cast down a long, paved path; illuminating first the rusty Buick, then the lonesome road before them.

THE HIGHWAY.

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smilesession · 9 months

Text

When I’m distracted and idly holding my vape in my hand my wife likes to gently try to peel it out from between my fingers without me noticing just like a cartoon prisoner when the guard falls asleep holding a huge key ring. And every time I’m like no such luck pal

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inspire-h3llfire · 2 years

Text

Detention... | Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!FReader

Part Two

Description: You & Eddie are both caught in an unfortunate circumstance, that only one of you is guilty of creating...unfortunately the teacher that caught you both is less than understanding, and you both end up in detention for the next two Saturdays...

CW: smut and cheating (in future parts), ptsd

Rating: 18+, minors DNI

Part One

Tagging: @catherinnn @mylunarlovess

Comment to be added to tag list

Saturday comes around fast. Too fast.

It hasn't been on your mind, really, the looming detention. Between finding the time yesterday morning to finally get the homework done (yes, the same homework that got you in this mess in the first place), and yet another pointless extra cheer practise followed by yet another pointless fight with your boyfriend, it snuck up on you. Tiptoeing, creeping, until your alarm is ringing, both for school and not.

You see him before you see Mrs Wannabe-Prison guard, and do not return the sly half smile he throws at you.

He absolutely does not deserve it.

Something about the way your eyes flicker to the ceiling is funny to him. This only makes you glare, and him laugh harder. Annoyance thrums through you like a pulse.

"Dried off, then?"

Somewhat reluctantly -- on your part -- you find yourself walking beside him.

"No thanks to you," you deadpan.

He grins again, shooting you a sideways look the devil would have been proud of. "I have that effect on girls a lot."

You open your mouth to retort that hasn't quite materialised, when you're cut off before you begin. "Ah, Mr Munson, Miss YLN." Her voice has the cadence of a disgruntled oxen. "How nice of you to join me." She fails to raise a single brow as she checks a wristwatch. It's gold and ugly, with a faded brown strap. "Three minutes late."

You're far enough away from her that Eddie is able to successfully murmur the words, "Wow, you better throw away the fucking key," out of her earshot.

It catches you so off guard, and a hastily feigned coughing fit is suddenly necessary to hide the eruption of giggles.

She leads you down the corridor that leads to the math classrooms, and then up two flights of stairs. You've never been here. The walls are bare, the magnolia paint peeling and more chipped than usual. The school is chilly, and dark. Outside, the makings of what looks like a nasty storm is battering against the thick windows. You shiver as you approach what turns out to be your destination.

There's no way around it, the cupboard is a tip.

Eddie says so.

"It's a good thing you have two Saturdays to clean it then, isn't it, Mr Munson."

Bitch.

As she walks away, you swear you hear a snigger.

You turn to Eddie. "I'm going to say this once." You turn back to the cupboard. There are boxes and boxes, some crumpled, some overflowing with papers and pens and envelopes filled with god knows what. The floor is littered in wrappers and files and yet more pens. There are pens everywhere. "Fuck you, Munson."

"Maybe later, sweetheart." He even has the audacity to wink right before he steps inside.

Wishing you were rather anywhere else, you follow. There's enough room for the two of you to stand comfortably within, and not much else. "Not what I meant," you grumble, cringing as a snap of plastic under your foot rings through the small space. You look down. A pen, of course.

You glance around, the storm of stationery making your arms prickle.

Eddie only laughs as he pulls a nearby box towards himself with a grunt. As soon as he lifts it, the base collapses, covering more of the floor, and his shoes, in a wave of yet more papers.

"Fuck!"

You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't, because it's not funny, yet you find yourself laughing, even as swirls of dust coat your jeans.

"Fuck, indeed."

You work for the next three hours. When you leave your crouched position, where you spent the last ten minutes organising some rulers, your eyes trail over the shelves. And realise something...unpleasant, as you look towards him. "How can it look no fucking better?"

"No idea." He shrugs, and pulls something from an inside pocket of his faded denim jacket. Something small and white and cylindrical that he holds in front of your face. "Fancy it?"

Your reply comes out rushed and breathy. "Oh my god." You eye the joint, then the cupboard, then him again. Do you fancy it? What? The terrible idea that could land you in far more shit than a few Saturday detentions? "Yes, yes I do."

He lights it with a chuckle, at the same moment a rumble of thunder echoes from somewhere above, and an involuntary shudder overcomes you.

You've never liked thunder.

Not since...

The snort of derision you expect doesn't come, nor does the snide dig. Instead, he sits amongst the pen-centrich chaos, and beckons you to join him.

And you do.

The first draw claws at the inside of your chest, making the desire to cough almost too much. Somehow, you remain composed.

More thunder. You pinch the joint tighter and look at your other hand. Balled into a fist and pressed into the top of your bent knee.

"You know," Eddie says as you pass it back, "I used to be scared of thunder, too."

"I'm not scared of thunder," you retort, a little too fast, too defensive. You know you both know it. You blow out a long breath. "Just don't fucking laugh, okay?"

"Now, why would I do that?" He may not be laughing, but he is grinning.

You throw him a pointed look, and -- against all your better judgement -- say, "Because that's what guys do."

"Guys...laugh at you?"

Yes. Shit. No. Sometimes. And not guys, plural.

Just the one.

"Just the one."

You take the blunt again, and your next draw is a big one.

"Josh, I assume."

You're pretty sure it's not really a question. Your boyfriend's name sounds absurd coming from Eddie Munson's mouth. You neither confirm or deny his words. It seems pointless.

"It doesn't matter."

He takes longer than a second to answer. "It kind of sounds like it does."

"Shut up."

"Yes, ma'am."

You snort, then abruptly stop as the third roll of thunder, the loudest, cuts through the air like a knife through soft butter. You're grateful then, to be sitting, for your knees, even in this position, are shaking. You swallow, hard, and knit your fingers together.

"Woah," Eddie begins, though his tone is soft, far more than any other time you've heard his voice anyway, "Y/N, you really don't like thunder, do you?"

You're ashamed of the way your eyes clamp shut, and of just how hard your head shakes from side to side.

And, as another roll forces your mind away from a chorus of memories you've tried in vain to dampen for six years, somewhere in the swirling darkness, a hand takes yours, and a boy's voice tells you it's okay.

And you wish you could believe him.

TBC....

Comment to be added to tag list.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine

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heliads · 3 years

Text

Prison Breaks

Based on this request: “idk if you write for zemo but if you do can you do one where sam or bucky starts flirting with the reader and he gets upset?”

masterlist

The halls of the Berlin Correctional Facility are strangely quiet. Sure, break time is over and all prisoners are back in their cells, but there’s still something uncanny about the place. Your feet echo on the smooth tiled floor as you walk, and you find yourself silently hoping that you don’t get caught. Sure, that would mean the end to the foolhardy plan you and Bucky cooked up, but the thought of having to stay in this prison for questioning or maybe even interment makes you shiver.

Right now, though, you’re protected by the fake ID hanging from your equally falsified badge as well as the navy prison guard uniform that you managed to borrow. Enough guards filter in and out of the prison that no one would know you or know that you’re not supposed to be here. All the same, though, you’d like nothing more than to get out. Is Baron Zemo really worth all of this?

At last, you reach your target: a cell block, the only occupied one on its row. Apparently the Sokovian baron inside is enough of a threat to warrant such treatment. You find that you can’t entirely argue with it. You straighten your spine, maintaining your charade of a worn out but strict guard, and knock once on the glass before sliding something under the door.

“Mail for Helmut Zemo.” Your voice is emotionless, but the prisoner turns around nonetheless, fastening his eyes upon you. You’re not sure whether or not he can see through your disguise, guessing that you’re not actually under the payroll of the prison, but if he suspects anything, he says not a word. Slowly, Zemo stands, walking forward until only the wall of protective, durable glass stands in between the two of you.

He tilts his head slightly to the side. “Thank you.” You nod once. “James says hello.” You can see Zemo’s eyes widen, but it’s too late for his muttered questions- you’ve already turned neatly on your heel, and stride back down the corridor, ignoring his startled look. Besides, you don’t owe him anything, certainly not any answers. All Zemo has to do is open the package and find the book inside. Nestled between the pages is a key card. It’ll come in handy for tomorrow.

Tomorrow, of course, is the prison break. You and Bucky had gone over the plan many times before, careful not to let Sam in on any of it. You trust Sam with your life, of course, he’s the best bet this world has at a new Captain America that could actually uphold the legacy, but you know how he’d react to mere discussions of Zemo being released from the Berlin prison. If you want him to help with your plot to uncover the Flag Smashers, you’ll need to do it your way.

So, Bucky waits in the car a short distance away from the prison. You nod once when you see him, indicating that you were able to deliver the key card to Zemo after all, and listen to the roar of the ignition as the car peels away from the prison. You’ll be back the next day, and it would be best if you’re not spotted lingering around the facility before one of its key prisoners goes missing.

Bucky drives you to the prison the next day as well. You can sense his eyes lingering on you, but you pay it no mind, same with the way he reaches across you to open the door. There’s a question he wants to ask you, something that makes his heart skip a beat in his chest, but it has nothing to do with the plan, so you pretend you can’t tell that he’s acting any differently from usual.

Prison guard uniform donned once again, you slip back into the facility. You’ve scarcely wandered the halls for a few minutes before klaxons begin to blare. The seeds of an uprising have been planted, and now it’s time for Zemo to make his move. Sure enough- just as you emerge from a corner of the guards’ wing, you spot him. He’s been able to hide from most onlookers in a prison uniform similar to your own, but a pair of guards have spotted him. Just before they reach Zemo, though, they reach you.

You knock them out efficiently, with barely more sound than the muted thunk of fist against flesh to alert anyone to your presence. Zemo looks between the fallen guards and you, and you can see a spark of recognition in his eyes. “You’re the guard from earlier.” He manages, and you nod. “Not a guard. Come with me.” You turn and walk briskly down the hallway. When you and Bucky were discussing the jailbreak plan, you weren’t entirely sure whether Zemo would take the bait and go with you. That’s why you’re here, in part: to provide a mystery, one that the baron will want to see answered.

Your planning was right, as it turns out- Zemo scarcely hesitates a second before following you down the corridor. You’re used to the twists and turns of the prison complex after hours spent studying blueprints, so you’re able to guide the two of you out without any difficulties. From there, you rejoin Bucky in the passenger seat of his car. Once Zemo is inside, Bucky takes off down the roads once more. None of you say a word; whatever must be said will be said in front of Sam. You have no time to waste on arguments that you’ll only have to rehash when you confess to Sam what you’ve done.

Sam does not take it well. Of course he doesn’t- you broke the man responsible for fracturing the Avengers out of prison, all without telling Sam a word. You do not fault him for his looks of betrayal, his harsh criticism. All the same, you did what you had to do. Right now, the Flag Smashers and any threats of new supersoldiers are a more important grievance than the political conniving of Sokovian barons.

This isn’t to say that Zemo makes it easy to work together, though. You swear that he does his best to sow doubt between Bucky and Sam whenever possible. You’d had your doubts as to how one man could ever break apart the Avengers, but now you understand it. With enough time for planning, and the significant funds of Zemo’s family, the man could do anything.

The thing that surprises you most, then, is that he doesn’t seem to be turning his talents for causing disputes onto you. In fact, he treats you with a civility and kindness that betrays his actions from before. Maybe it’s because you aren’t a supersoldier, and you have nothing to benefit from becoming one. All the same, you tell yourself to keep an eye on Helmut Zemo. It may be an easier task than you’d first thought.

Now, you plot in Latvia, doing your best to track down the location of the Flag Smashers. Your friends believe that Karli Morgenthau will be present to attend the funeral of one Donya Madani, which is why all five of you have arrived at the cobblestoned city to find her yourselves. Tensions hover over the edge of a wire, certainly, but you’re getting better as a group. Time will do that, as will a common need to be close and keep no truths hidden from each other.

However, there is one truth that you rather wish would go unsaid. Bucky Barnes is a good man, or at least he tries to be, but you’ve been a soldier longer than you’ve been someone who’s ever been able to listen to their heart. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he turns to you for help and advice. There are soft glances of his, quiet moments, when you can see his fingers twitch as if to reach out and take yours. It would be a perfect opportunity for you, a chance to find love when both of you are battle-weary soldiers, were it not for the fact that you do not feel anything for him at all.

You’ve tried, certainly. When you first realized that Bucky had feelings for you, you had tried to make yourself love him back. You are an agent and a spy, so you’ve been lying for a living for a very long time. Couldn’t you persuade yourself to have feelings for him as well? Every time you try, though, you just feel empty. There’s nothing there in your heart but a silent wish that Bucky’s heart would become as cold and steely as his arm in regards to you.

Today, for instance, Bucky is doing his best to make his intentions known, and you are doing your best to pretend you do not notice at all. You’re staying in a small building, with no real place to be alone, so you can’t exactly run off and avoid the whole thing. You’re sitting on one edge of a plush sofa, paging through a stack of reports on the Flag Smashers. Bucky sits on the other side. You can feel his eyes on you, although you’re doing your best to avoid it. Sam is out attempting to talk to Karli, leaving you and Bucky to make sure Zemo doesn’t try to escape.

Zemo is quiet in the background of the room, but you’re glad for his presence nonetheless. Honestly, he’s been growing on you during your time spent together. Where you expected only ambition and malice, he’s been kind, offering you his coat if you so much as shiver and making sure you have enough water to drink on late nights of hard work. You’ve spent much of your life stone-cold, training yourself to feel nothing, but you’ve still caught yourself smiling gratefully at him and laughing at quiet jokes passed between the two of you like notes. Does it surprise you that he would be kind? Maybe, but it’s not the worst surprise to have.

However, whereas Zemo is content to let you do your work in peace, Bucky decides to take matters into his own hands. He stands up, moving down to sit next to you, and puts on his best attempt at a suave smile. “Hey, Y/N. Find anything interesting?” You’re only here for work. If you pretend hard enough that there’s nothing more to him, will Bucky get the hint and move on?

“Not much. They’ve been good at sticking to the shadows. If Sam’s able to get something out of Karli, though, that would be good.” Bucky’s expression sours slightly when you try to shift the conversation away from you and back towards Sam and safer waters. “I don’t know about that, doll. I’d put my faith in you any day.” Then Bucky goes along with your worst fear, and casually puts an arm around your shoulders. You stiffen, although you don’t think that he notices.

Someone else notices, though, someone who’s been paying attention to what the slightest shifts in your emotions could mean. Zemo’s voice cuts across the room like a knife. “Remove your arm, James.” Bucky turns to face Zemo, although he does not take his arm away. “Can’t you go bother someone else? We’re discussing the mission.” Zemo shakes his head. “Discussions don’t involve that, James. Go find Sam.”

You’re grateful for the excuse and stand up, tapping the file folders against your hands. “He’s not wrong, Bucky. Sam should probably have backup if the Flag Smashers decide to cut his conversation with Karli short.” Bucky scoffs. “You’re taking his side?” Your eyes are cold. “I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m doing what’s best for the mission. Don’t you agree?”

Bucky postures for a moment, then gives in and leaves, taking with him a pistol and a lingering glare. You watch him go, listening for the slam and lock of the door, then turn to Zemo with an incredulous expression. “What was that about?” You’re surprised to see that Zemo looks almost angry. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

Unable to stop frustration from running through your veins like blood, you toss the file folders back onto a coffee table. Suddenly, you’re not sure that you could concentrate on a single word. “I’m used to people hitting on me. I could handle it.” Zemo smiles slightly. “I knew you could. I didn’t want you to have to alienate him, though. He already hates me. Why have him turn his displeasure towards you as well?”

It’s a calculating move, for sure, but one that you’d make were you in his position. Maybe you have more in common with the baron than you’d first thought. You hesitate a moment longer, then turn your eyes away from him. “Thank you, then.” It’s quiet in the apartment, but you don’t mind it. You think you could be quiet with him and still have it mean as much as a torrent of words. Zemo speaks again. “Any time. Whenever you need me, just ask.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s a strong statement for someone who’s technically your enemy. Once this mission ends, and the Wakandans take you back to prison, we’ll be back to where we were before.” Zemo allows himself a cunning smirk. “Will we?” You turn back to him, curious. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

Zemo busies himself with the glasses in front of him. “I don’t know why you would think such a thing. All I would ask is if you would speak to me again were we out of the mission and not held back by prison bars. In a hypothetical world, of course.” He’s hinting at something, you can tell that. If he trusts you enough to spell it out, then maybe you trust him enough to play along with it. “I believe I would.” His smile is genuine, and you find you like it quite a bit. “I may have to take you up on that offer.” Maybe you do have something to look forward to after all.

marvel tag list: i’d break you out of prison and we’d look amazing doing it @rogueanschel, @mycosmicparadise, @ellobruv-blog, @caswinchester2000

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kkusuka · 3 years

Text

Unsupervised

Dabi/ Touya Todoroki x Fem reader

Genre: Smut

Synopsis: You haven’t seen Dabi in a year and he seems to miss you a whole bunch.

words: 1.9k

Cw: minor manga spoilers, slight degrading, overuse of the word doll, you get walked-in on and I'm sure there's a word for that I just can't think of, voyeurism

The threat of being arrested loomed over your boyfriend's head since becoming a villain. Apparently, the fear of never being free again was stomped out by his ambition to overthrow his father.

So when he was captured during an ambush, you felt your heartbreak for him. No matter what had happened in his childhood, life in prison was the only outcome you could think would happen.

Your heart shattered when you were proven right.

You haven't seen Dabi in a year, he was constantly being transferred into higher security prisons. Not to mention the times you tried to visit but he was placed in solitary right before, his bad habit of getting into fights finally caught up to him.

The time made you think about all the nights you spent laying under the stars talking about your future, a peaceful life, maybe a family. Or all the evenings you would dance around your living room in that shitty apartment as a soft waltz plays from the speaker. You’ll never get the chance to have a nice wedding or that baby girl, he would treat so well-

“Um, Y/n? You’ve been cleared to enter.”

Shooting your head up at the mention of your name you take notice of the guard holding the door to the visitation rooms open. You could feel his eyes on you as you placed the fashion magazine back into its place, before grabbing your small purse and walking over to the man.

He led you down a monotonous hallway bringing you to a stop before door number 12.

As he went to open the door he asked once more if you had anything in your purse that could aid in an escape of a high-class prisoner, you're sure the reminder of just who your boyfriend is was a dig at you. But you couldn't even care about that.

He warned you one last time before opening the door and stepping in, taking a second to stand there when a deep familiar voice rang out from the depth of the room,

“Dude, no offense but I was getting in the mood to see my girl, and seeing you really turned me off, where is she anyway?” you rushed to step in immediately noticing the taunting smirk on his scarred face, “ah! There she is! How are ya Doll?”

Unable to hide your overwhelming rush of emotions, you almost ran towards the man, who promptly stood, letting you wrap your arms firmly around his waist. He maneuvered his still cuffed wrists over your head, pressing you into his body.

Slightly swaying your bodies, he lifted his head towards the guard, who was stationed in the corner by the door ( observation, a skill you picked up from one of Dabi’s impromptu survival lessons) raising his hands, “Man couldn't you undo these one time? They're ruining our reunion.”

You let out a soft, wet laugh at the humor that you missed so much, letting a sniffle out as he stuffed his cheek into your hair, eyes still burning into the guard.

“You know we can’t Mr. Todoroki, it’s against policy for high-class profiles” You could tell this guy did not like you or your boyfriend and wanted to make sure you knew it.

At the excuse, Dabi let out a loud groan and spun you to sit on the couch adjacent to the chair he plopped himself onto. Settling from across from him you finally got to take a look at him, the look was reciprocated as he stared back at you.

He wasn't as skinny as you expected, that meant he was eating well, or as well as he could in this situation. His skin looked less blistered, definitely from the lack of quirk use. The staples on his hands were replaced with actual stitches and seemed to be healing.

But most notably was the white roots poking out of his dyed locks, something you would never see. He would dye his roots the second his natural color peaked through. It was almost like looking at a different person.

But his eyes, the slight upturn of his lips as he smirked back at you, and the deep chuckle when he noticed your stare. All telltale signs he was the same man you knew, and loved, for the last six years of your life.

“Whatcha lookin’ at doll?”

You couldn't help but let out a smile at the nickname, “Your hair, and your eyes, and your arms, and your, your everything. I can't believe it’s really you” Yu tried to laugh the last phrase out but your soft sobs got in the way.

He gave you a smile and held his arms out, making small ‘grabby hands’ at you, motioning you to come back into his arms.

“Well you didn't come all this way to just look at me, and, dude can’t you just take ‘em off for a minute. These things are totally ruining our moment”

Before the man could answer an intercom blared into the room a fight had broken out in the main corridor and they needed all guards in the area. Meaning he had to leave, at least for a few minutes.

He shot the both of you a look, reaching to grab his keys from his belt, opening the door, “I will be right back, I’m locking the door, the cuffs are staying on. The door will be locked until I come back, no funny business. Am I understood?”

You gave the man a curt nod as he shut the dock, as the lock clicked in place you were thrown onto the couch, your coat and purse threw to the floor. Dabi was looming over you in seconds, pulling his arms apart snapping the chain of his handcuffs.

“H-hey! What-”

“Doll, I haven't gotten off in a year and all of a sudden you show up and we were handed a golden opportunity I will not waste” he growled as he slipped your top off.

Reaching behind you he unhooked your bra, throwing it into some corner of the room, something he’ll probably manage to sneak back into his cell with. He kneeled in between your legs leaning to take a nipple into his mouth, rolling the other, maintaining eye contact.

“Fuck I missed these, my head doesn’t give you credit, mouse” you missed this, you missed his voice, you missed the way he bit your neck as a hand reached down to maneuver your shorts down your legs.

He lifted his head, admiring the marks he left on your neck, pushing you to sit against the armrest. Then pulling your thighs to his shoulders pressing his face into your dripping core. Giving it a small lick and a guttural rumble from his throat. “Oh, baby you shaved just for me? Now I've got to give you a taste. And you’re just as wet as I remember”

Attaching his lips to your clit, giving it a suck, you followed his command of playing with your hard nipples aiding in the build of your orgasm. Reaching a hand to hand onto his colored locks, pulling him closer to you while tightening your thighs around his head. His chuckle sent shivers to your core, adding to the wetness.

His tongue was shoved deeper into your cunt as you clench around him, riding through your orgasm. Letting you fall onto the couch, painting as he released his cock from his boxers

“You know what to do Doll, get in position.”

You couldn't forget how he wanted you if you tried. It's been buried, fucked really, into you. You're sure you would have pulled your knees to your chest, opening yourself completely, presenting yourself to him, as he fucked you.

He laughed at your submissiveness, “I’ve trained you that well? All this time and you're still my cockwhore! Say it, tell me I was a bitch in heat you are for me.”

Instead of letting you answer he fully sheathed himself in your heat, his hips flushing against yours.

“I’m not hearing you talk Doll! ‘Cmon you’ve said it before, tell me how much you love my dick in your pussy.” he accompanied each word with a roll of his hips, brushing into your clit. Bringing a hand up to roll your nipple.

“I-i’m a whore for you cock, I’m a-a well-trained bitch in heat”

“Hah! Yes, you are, my bitch in heat!”

He was pounding you into the couch, thrusting with his entire body weight straight into your cervix. Your mind was a mess of his soft growls and the finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Only knowing the feeling of his cock re-carving his way into your cunt.

Mid-thrust the door swung open and you could make out the face of the shocked guard frozen in the doorway. Dabi shot a glare over his shoulder at the intruder before letting out a mocking laugh as he slowed his hip, eliciting a whine from you.

In a second, Dabi fell back, dropping you onto his cock, facing the shocked guard, who was opening his mouth attempting to speak.

“Dude, don't just stand there,” Dabi mocked snapping the guard out of whatever trance he was in, he opted to step in and shut the door going back into his former stance, “ha! Give him a show doll!”

He helped you start off by picking up your hips and dropping you back onto his cock, settling you into a steady rhythm. When you try to hang your head and look into Dabi’s burning eyes, he seems to have other ideas.

He placed his hand under your chin and pushed your face to meet the eyes of your observer, “Not at me baby, give ‘em a show, it's what he stayed for afterall” keeping with your rhythm his other hand flew down to your clit, fondling with it, laughing when you let out a gasp of his name.

You felt eyes fall onto your bouncing breasts, taking Dabi’s words too great you reached a hand to play with your pebbles nipples, letting out a pornstar worth moan, and Dabi let out a fake moan to pair with yours.

As you felt the coil in your core begin to grow, you lost your pace opting to let Dabi bounce you on his cock until he took mercy and flipped you over, throwing a leg over his shoulder.

Sensing you were close Dabi aimed for the spot in your depths, “Please, gonna cum, Please, please!” the coil was getting tighter and your cunt was squeezing him.

“Go, whore” and with that you fell apart around his cock, milking his orgasm from him as he shoved his cum, farther into your cavern.

A minute of breathing passed before he peeled himself off you and glanced towards the guard who choked out a command to clean yourselves up and that you only had five minutes left. Scouring the room for your clothes, Dabi surprised you when he handed your bra back until you noticed him pocketing your panties.

After staying in his arms for whatever remaining time you had left, the same guard came back and yanked the man off you and replaced the broken handcuff, locking them on his wrists.

As he was escorted out he glanced back, winked, announcing, “Bye-bye Doll, wait for next time, I’ll stuff your throat full, ok? Just wait.”

Two weeks and he’ll have to make do on that promise.

#mha dabi #dabi x reader #dabi smut #dabi x reader smut #touya todoroki #touya todoroki x reader #this is self indulgent #mha #mha smut #mha x reader #mha x reader smut #dabi is sexy #my hero x reader #my hero academia #dabi x female reader

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isabellafoster13 · 2 years

Text

Chapter One: Runaway

Lucy sat on the red covers that lay atop her large bed. The black curtains that hung from the corona above her canopy bed were pulled closed. The blonde teenager looked up from her book at the curtains and smiled. They were a gift from her mother before her death. The black curtains had a starry design on them, all eighty-eight of the night sky's constellations mapped out with golden threads sewed into the black, mesh fabric. Lucy reached out to one of the slits on either side of her bed and pulled back one of the curtains. Her brown eyes looked towards the large window that sat across from her.

She could see the full moon.

It was time.

The young woman sat her book down, stepped out of bed, and walked across her expansive bedroom to her large closet. Opening it, she reached in and pulled out an outfit that she had stashed in the back of her closet. She quickly walked back to her bed, laying the outfit down. She quickly slipped out of her nightdress and into the sleeveless, white-and-blue shirt, the short blue skirt, and tall, black leather boots. She fastened her brown leather belt around her hips, making sure that her whip and three keys, two gold and one silver, were fastened to her belt.

She made her way over to the large window. The pushed it open, looking down at the grassy ground below her. Steeling her resolve to escape this lavish prison, she walked back inside and grabbed a rope that she had managed to sneak away from the gardener's shed. She tied one end of the rope to her bedpost. Once secured, she went back to the open window and through the other end of the rope outside, watching as the end reached just a few feet above the ground. Lucy smiled, happy that her calculations were correct.

She took the rope in her hands and stood upon the window sill, turning her back to the outside world. Taking a deep breath, she began scaling down the mansion wall, going slowly so as to not lose her footing or grip. Once she reached the end of the rope, she let go, allowing herself to land on her feet. Lucy looked around, making sure that none of the guards had appeared. When she ensure that the coast was clear, she made a break for the forest that surrounded the estate.

She knew where she was going.

For she had long been planning this.

The blonde ran until she reached a town that had a train station. She stopped on the platform, leaning back against it as she breathed heavily, beads of sweat sliding down her pale skin. She waited a few minutes to catch her breath before walking over to the booth where she bought a ticket with the money she had tucked into her boot. She boarded the train and waited for it to take off towards Crocus.

Looking through the window, she could see the sun peeking above the horizon, just slightly. She knew that her father would notice her disappearance soon. She laid down as best could on her seat, closed her eyes, and tried to get as much sleep as she could.

"Now arriving at Crocus!"

The loud boom of the conductor's voice woke Lucy. The blonde sat up and rubbed her eyes. With a yawn, she stood up and walked off of the train. She exited the train station and stepped into the warm sunshine. Looking up, she squinted and saw the sun was directly above her in the sky. She looked back at her surroundings.

Crocus was the same as when she last visited a couple of years ago. All around her were large houses, stores, and restaurants. Lucy smiled, excited to be away from the mansion that her neglectful father had trapped her in. She began walking, searching for a magic shop. She hoped to not only buy a few new keys, but to also found out where the nearest apartments are.

After searching for some time, the blonde finally came upon a large magic shop. She dug out the money that she had tucked into her boot before entering. She was greeted by a middle-aged woman behind a counter as she scanned the shelves and glass casings, her brown eyes peeled for any keys.

By the end of her search, Lucy had found two silver keys. Happy that she was able to find any, the young mage walked to the counter to pay for the keys. "Ah, a celestial spirit mage, I see." The woman observed. Lucy nodded, smiling broadly. The older woman gave her a warm smile before asking, "Which ones are those?"

Lucy answered, "Horologium the Clock and Pyxis the Compass."

The woman nodded as she spoke, "that'll be forty-thousand jewel, dear." Lucy handed over the money, knowing that she had saved up enough for her first week in Crocus. That was enough time to find a place to live and a job.

Just before she turned to leave, Lucy asked, "do you know if there are any apartments for rent nearby?"

The woman nodded. "Just two blocks north, dear." Lucy thanked the woman and with a wave of goodbye, she walked out of the store and headed north. By the end of the day, Lucy had successfully found a place to live. Now with that done, she had to find a job. She sat in a bakery that also functioned as a cafe, sipping her iced coffee, and looked through a newspaper, looking for jobs that she was qualified for. Eventually, she sighed and set the folded newspaper down on the table she was sitting at.

The owner of the cafe approached her, folding her arms across her chest and donning a kind smile. The woman had greying brunette hair pulled into a tight bun. She was plump and clothed in a blue dress and white apron. Lucy looked up at the woman, raising an eyebrow. The woman spoke, "if you're looking for a job, then I can employ you. I've been looking for an employee for some time now." The woman pointed to a "help wanted" sign that sat in the window.

Lucy mentally face-palmed. How did she not see that sign? She looked up at the woman, asking, "what would I be doing?"

The woman answered with a bright smile, "you'll be taking orders, serving pastries and drinks, boxing to-go orders, making drinks, making deliveries, and running various errands."

Lucy sat her iced coffee down. "I won't be doing any baking, will I?"

The woman shook her head. "I will be doing all of the baking."

"So, basically, I'll be a waitress and a gofer?" The woman nodded her head at the blonde's question, causing Lucy to smile. It sounded like a job she could do. She decided to ask one more question, "how much will I be paid?"

The woman answered, "100,000 jewel a week."

Lucy raised her eyebrows at that. It was definitely enough to pay her rent and groceries. She nodded her head, accepting the job offer, as she questioned once again, "when do I start?"

"This Monday."

Lucy nodded her understanding and thanked the woman for employing her. The woman walked away and into the back of the bakery to tend to her baking pastries. Lucy picked up her cup and left the bakery. She was quite surprised at her luck. As she walked back to her apartment to retire for the day, she became more and more excited about her first job in five days.

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ramp-it-up · 3 years

Text

Everyday

Pairing: Rafael Casal x Reader, Rafael Casal (as Miles Turner) x Reader

Warnings: MINORS DNI, 18 + , RPF. CURATE YOUR OWN EXPERIENCE. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE IF YOU READ BELOW THE CUT. Cursing, drinking, allusion to smoking weed, fantasy, truth or dare, role play, SMUT, Graphic Depictions of Sex, oral sex (M/F receiving), a lil bit of bondage, established relationship, fantasy play.

A/N: I have no idea what is for trade in prison; sex packets are a made up joke. And I’m really into 90’s rap this week. Anywho, this fic is in response to the following request:

Anonymous asked:

Rafa!!!!! Maybe a fluffy smut where he’s role playing Miles for you? 👀

-------

“Ok, Dare.”

You steeled yourself from the query from Daveed.

“Which fictional character, real or animated, would you like to bone?”

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Real or ANIMATED????”

You were cracking up laughing and buzzed, feeling good surrounded by your crew of friends who were family.

“Ok, I will answer both.”

Rafa cleared his throat and settled back on the couch beside you.

You sat up straight and he watched the curve of your breasts underneath the Oaklandish tee you stole from him that morning.

“Rafael is getting swole! Don’t worry Rafa. She will still come home to your everyday ass.”

“Shut up, Ant. You always got something to say.” You rolled your eyes. “Everyday with Rafa is amazing.”

You leaned over and kissed Rafa’s lips, which were in a slight frown. He didn’t like that word, ‘everyday.’

“You good?” You whispered so only you two could hear.

He smiled at you, “No doubt. Answer the man’s question!” Rafa said a little louder, bravado on fleek.

“ANYWAYYY.” You shook your head at him as you straightened up. “Max could get it.”

“Max who?” Jasmine was confused. Then she realized, then leaned over Ant and Rafa to give you a high five.

“Max Who???” Daveed was curious.

“Goofy’s son. Max.”

Everyone erupted in laughter again. Daveed got up and took the bottle out of your hand.

“Enough of this.”

You battled him, jumping up and swatting around D’s head. You won your drink back and sat down.

“As far as ‘real’ fictional characters…” You took a drink. And smiled. All eyes were on you.

“Miles Turner could rearrange my guts.”

Anthony groaned. Rafa sat up straight. You took another drink .

“For Real. Ruffnecks kinda do it for me.”

“Gotta who? Gotta have a what?” Jazzy started rapping. You replied.

“Gotta what? Yo, gotta get a ruffneck.”

You two started dancing, rapping and singing with your drinks in your hands.

Gotta what? Yo, gotta get a ruffneck

I need it and I want it so I gotta get a ruffneck!

Rafael pulled you down to sit on his lap and Jasmine kept dancing, right in front of Anthony.

Anthony sucked his teeth, but was smiling at Jazzy’s ass.

“That’s cheating. I mean. That’s just Rafa. I mean, he bones you on the regular.”

Ant smacked Jasmine on the bottom and took a drink before she plopped down next to him and he put his arm around her.

“You know it!” Rafa and Anthony toasted.

“But I ain’t Miles.”

Rafa took another sip of his Abasolo on the rocks.

“And it’s just a fantasy. Right baby.”

Rafael rubbed your back giving you a look that made you tremble. Rafa felt your warmth on his lap. He grinned into his drink.

“Trueeee!”

You smiled, trying to keep it light and calm the fuck down. Everyone always made fun of you two smashing in people’s bathrooms.

“You aren’t Miles. I didn’t know you when you were younger....”

You locked eyes with Rafael, and the green fire there did something to you.

“I think Rafa is Miles’s wasted potential.”

“Wow. That’s deep,” said Ant from a cloud of smoke.

You and Rafa were locked in an eye embrace as well as a physical one. When he arched his eyebrow, you had to look away, because you couldn’t take it.

“Y’all need to use my bathroom?” More laughter.

You and Rafa both flipped Daveed off.

“Nah, Diggs.” Rafa stood up with you in his arms. “We’ll use our own. We out.”

Your man carried you willingly out of the door.

-----

About two weeks later, you came home with some groceries, you were looking forward to a night in with Rafa.

You’d both been busy and tired lately, only available for maintenance sex.

Rafa was running around creating all of his creative shit, and you worked in the writers room of a popular series. Life was hectic.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, hands together on top.

He was wearing blue scrubs over a white Henley and had his face turned to the side, staring out the window. You noticed that his hair was different.

“Hey, babe. Did you get a haircut? What’s wrong?”

He turned his face toward you and that’s when you noticed two more things. Rafael’s eye was black, and there was a tattoo on his neck.

THAT California tattoo.

You were very concerned and a little confused. Concern came first in your mind.

“What happened to your eye?” He gave you a strange look, then he spoke.

“A mutha fucka sneaked me in the yard, that’s what happened!”

You stood still and had to register what was happening.

Rafa was wearing a grill, and his voice was different, in a lower register and with a long drawn out, almost southern drawl.

But it wasn’t southern. It was all Bay.

He stood up and walked toward you, and you noticed that his scrubs had “Prisoner” written in yellow letters down the right leg.

You suddenly realized what was going on.

Oh, Shit.

“Baby. You’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s been a minute.”

You’d left Rafael in bed this morning. But it seemed that you came home to Miles.

“Hey,” was all you could say.

Rafael/Miles gestured for you to come over to the table. It was then you saw that he was handcuffed.

A strange feeling came over to you. He stood up, and you saw that his legs were shackled. You went close to him and looked at his eye closely.

“Rafa?”

His face was fine, up close, you could tell it was makeup.

“You been to see Galaxy today?”

You were peering at his neck and the Bay/California tattoo there.

He screwed up his face.

“Who tha fuck is Rafa? And what the hell you talking ‘bout space for?”

He peered into your eyes, then looked around furtively.

“Babe. Are you high?”

The drawl was a whisper now.

“These muthafuckas’ll kick you out if they think you got drugs on you.”

You smiled at him, pecked him on the lips and replied.

“No worries. I’m not high.” You sat down at the kitchen table and ‘Miles’ sat across from you.

“As for Rafa? He’s this guy I know. Had a nice… conversation with him the other night.”

You looked into his eyes to see if he would crack. But your man was a pro.

He huffed. “Psshhht. You MUST be high talking to another dude. What kinda name is Rafa anyway. Sounds like some hipster trash.”

He peered at you again, anger radiating off of him.

Damn, he was good.

“Tell me what the fuck you mentioning some other muthafucka to my face while I’m locked up in here! Every day.”

He pounded his bound fists on the table in front of you and made you jump. It also made you wet as fuck.

He gestured with both hands (because they were handcuffed) to the nice kitchen that you loved to cook in, but that you were now seeing through his performance as a prison visitation room.

But you were still shook.

“R, R, Rafael is a beautiful artist. He’s a poet. He’s gentle, and kind. And a wonderful lover.”

Miles glared at you. You stuttered again.

“I-I imagine.”

He gave you a menacing smile and leaned back in the chair, pushing his crotch up in your direction. Your eyes were drawn there.

“So you imagining fucking another muthafucka and decide to come visit me and tell me about it?”

You got into it.

“Well….I miss you Miles. But it gets hard. Not being able to be with you.”

He leaned forward, bearing his teeth.

“Don’t fucking tell me about it. Here I am jacking off with leftover chicken grease from the kitchen at night. Got my dick smelling like a Popeye’s chicken sandwich in this bitch.”

“Ew,” you said, disgusted, then you started giggling at the joke.

Miles pouted and sat back.

“ ‘S not fucking funny!” He looked out the window again.

“I shouldn’t even tell you about the surprise.”

You straightened up. “What is it babe?”

You put your hand on his and he caressed yours with his thumb. He looked at you, excited and mischievous now.

“I got us a conjugal visit.”

Your mouth dropped open, fully into it now.

“But I thought that was just for married couples, Miles…”

“I know, I know.” He leaned forward and looked around again. “But I got me a side hustle.”

He shifted his eyes as he scanned the empty room.

“I make sex packets outta the leftover chicken grease from my job in the kitchen. Make a KILLING in oatmeal cream pies, ramen noodles, cigarettes and other tradeable currency. I made enough to buy us a conjugal visit, girl.”

He leaned back, very satisfied with himself, his hands now on his lap, rubbing his crotch.

Your eyes were drawn there again and you found yourself irrationally wondering how big his dick was. He had you caught up in this fantasy.

“Let’s go to the trailer and I’ll make you forget all about this Raja guy.” Miles winked at you.

“It’s…” You saw the look on his face. “Nevermind. Let’s go.”

He stood up again, and shuffled his way to the bathroom, you at a safe distance behind him.

He entered the bedroom and shuffled to the bed, sitting down on the edge. He gestured you to him and you went and stood before him.

He put his nose in your crotch.

“MMMmmmmm. I missed your smell Baby. It’s been too long. He lifted his hands and put them on the insides of your thighs. He pulled back and looked at you, green eyes staring into brown.

“The guards left the key over there. That is, if you wanna get me out of these.” He nodded toward the

He trailed his hands up to your pelvis, managing to hook one set of fingers into your waistband and still have another at your apex.

He ran his fingers over your jeans right where it counts. This kind of petting felt good and made you want more.

You let him play for a little while, but then pushed him back to sit and watch you.

You peeled down your jeans to reveal a white satin thong. Rafael loved white against your coffee brown skin, but tonight, Miles would benefit. You stood there in your button-down shirt, that was really Rafael’s.

Miles’s hands went to his crotch again as he eagerly watched.

“You seem to be doing pretty well all hemmed up, but let me see.”

You went to the dresser to retrieve the key, and you did, then turned around and put it in your mouth while you slowly unbuttoned the shirt.

Miles leaned back on the bed and opened his legs as far as the shackles would let them go, licking his lips as you disrobed.

You were wearing a white lace bra, your dark nipples and areola straining through the delicate material. You were very excited at the entire scenario.

The fact that Rafa was doing this for you because he remembered what you said on a drunken night weeks ago was the shit.

You dropped to the ground and crawled over to Miles’s feet jutting your ass up in the air as you unlocked the shackles.

You massaged his ankles and trailed your hands up his legs to his crotch, where you rubbed the hardness there.

“It’s been so long that you’ve been locked up, Miles.”

You raised up on your knees, loving the feeling of his eyes sweeping over you.

“I’m gonna give you the world’s best blowjob.”

Miles smiled at you.

“Aw, baby. That’s so cute.”

“I’ll show you cute.”

You were about to give your own performance.

------

Five minutes later, you were gargling his cock, relaxing your throat and taking him as deep as you could, nose nestled at his base, and gently pulling and kneading his balls.

Someone moaned, and you didn’t know if it was Rafa or Miles. He bucked his hips up into your mouth while resting his cuffed hands in your hair.

“As much as I would love to … fuck baby… cum down your throat.. I need that… damn where’d you learn to do that?!... I need that pussy. Unlock the cuffs, baby.”

His cuffed hands were in your hair, alternating between massaging your scalp and pulling your hair the way you loved it.

The way Rafael invented.

You smiled around his cock with the knowledge that what you were doing was making him slip out of character.

You pulled your head upward, mouth open, allowing the saliva to trickle out with his dick.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe how nasty you were being. He was mesmerized. You looked a mess, eye makeup running, lipstick smudged, spit all over your face.

Your dream man loved it.

“Am I ‘cute’ now?”

“Fuck no. You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

You smiled and quickly reached behind you and unclasped your bra, taking your breasts in your hands and pushed them up around his dick.

“See, if you unlock these cuffs, I’ll handle things the way they need to be handled.”

You just smiled up at him while you manipulated your breasts around him, knowing that he could not control his hips fucking into your cleavage.

“I got it under control.” You stuck your tongue out to tease his tip as it neared your face, lubricating it with your saliva.

“Fuck, baby. I wanna fuck you so bad. It’s been so long…”

This entire scene was just about the hottest thing ever. You were breathless, dripping, and quivering with anticipation. But you didn’t want it to end so soon.

“How long ‘xactly?”

“Shit, 5 months of being here and jacking off to memories of you everyday. I need to see that ass and fuck that pussy, babyyyy. Please.”

Those eyes.

Those words.

The acting.

Miles.

You had to relent.

You reached for the key where you dropped it on the floor and unlocked the cuffs.

“Fucking finally!” Miles rubbed his wrists as he stood up, stripped his shirts off and his pants the rest of the way.

“On the bed, let me see that ass up.”

He smacked it about three times each and then rubbed it as you did as you were told.

Miles trailed his hand from your ass up your spine to your shoulder and then pushed your head down further into the bed.

“That’s a girl.” Your back had that perfect arch.

He got behind you and swiped his hardness up and down your slit, teasing you with the head of his dick.

He grabbed your hand and brought behind your back, and very swiftly the other, and before you knew it, your hands were cuffed behind you, head in the bed and Miles was entering you swiftly.

“Fuuuuck! How does it feel?”

You couldn’t speak. The thrill of Miles’ dick inside you and being cuffed had you ready to cum already.

His stroke game was on point, as if he was fucking you to a brand new rhythm- Allegro.

Strangely, it was different than Rafa had ever been.

That was blowing your mind.

Miles tugged on the metal restraints and the slight pain in your shoulders and wrists, combined with the thrill of this roleplay, made you release, all over him and the bed.

“Shit girl, you really are glad to see me.” That drawl got you ready to peak again.

“Oh fuck yeah, Miles, oh shit, oh shit.” Your pussy was clamping down on him at the thought of Miles Turner having his way with you.

“Shit, I’m cumming with you, hold up.”

Rafa tried to slow down, but you did that thing with your pussy and he couldn’t help it. His hips drove his dick inside you until it pulsed and started to flow, and then he pulled out.

“Turn over baby.”

You leisurely moved to turn over, and he motioned you down to the end of the bed, moving the pillow where he wanted your head.

“I need in between those legs, baby. I need to see you, I need to surround me with you.”

You positioned yourself at the end of the bed, your braids hanging over the edge.

Miles gave you a forehead kiss as he got between your thighs, and pumped himself a couple of times as he aligned with you.

He leaned down and pulled at your nipple with his mouth, moaning when you moaned, moving his eyes appreciatively down your body and keeping his eyes where you were about to join.

The look on his face when he entered you was very hot, and you found your pussy squeezing his cock in appreciation. It seemed magically somehow bigger, and all of your senses were alive as he started moving.

“That’s my beautiful baby. You’re so fucking tight. Don’t push me out, let me have the glorious pussy. Damn girl, this pussy, those thighs, your curves, these tits. What did a man like me do to deserve you. You’re such a fucking sweet princess for me…”

You were astounded. Missionary was far from your favorite position because you seldom came that way, but the way Miles was whispering praise in your ear and the total fantasy was getting you there.

Quickly.

He watched your face and adjusted his pace in response to your cries, and that knowledge made you start to come. When your eyes rolled back in your head, that’s when he knew.

He pulled your hair back and sucked the shit out of your neck as you came, and he released inside you. You wrapped your legs around him and held him as he shivered with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Your lover rolled off of you and you snuggled into his arm. He lay there and held you as you tried to process.

“That was… wow.” You weren’t sure who to address, Rafa or Miles. Irrationally you felt you were in love with both.

He just chuckled at you, and gave you another forehead kiss.

“I’m going to enjoy a shower. Goodbye for a while, baby.”

You grinned. “Bye Miles.”

He pecked you on the lips and you watched him go into the bathroom.

You rolled over on your back and tried to organize your thoughts. How would you write this?

Thoughts of writing this scene chased you into sleep.

---

You woke up to Rafael, grill and tattoos gone, freshly out of the shower and in a towel, gently trying to pull you from sleep.

“C’mon.”

You let him get you up and into the bathroom to a hot bath. You let him tenderly clean you up and then get you out of the tub and dry you off. You were more tired than you thought.

“You hungry?” You walked into the kitchen in a towel behind him.

Rafa had put the groceries up and was holding up takeout menus. He was truly magical. You smiled, nodded and told him what you wanted.

45 minutes later, you were in his softest Oaklandish tee and you were curled up on the couch in the living room together, food containers spead out on the coffee table.

You felt totally in sync with this amazing man.

“I loved tonight.”

He smiled softly back at you.

“Had to give you your fantasy since you help me live mine. Every day.”

He leaned over and kissed you. He looked you intensely in the eyes. Those green pools had you trapped.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Rafael.”

Your fantasy had been Miles, but your reality was Rafael.

And that was fantastic.

Everyday.

-------

Tags:

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jaws-and-canines · 2 years

Text

The Re-education of Haskell Haveter, #3

This is a Count The Days story. I believe this particualr part to be reasonably trigger-free, so I will use this space to apologise for how dark this particular series is. I won’t. Sorry, not sorry vcmvcxmcxm

---

Haveter

I’m left back in my cell, seven paces up, seven paces down, a bed, a metal toilet and a sink. No table, no desk, just my ratty boots at the head of the bed frame and a pathetic yellow strip light that barely lights the grey walls. Not even a fucking window.

I’ve spent a lot of time in a lot of different cells in Northwall, and the majority of them at least had a window. Hell, even the ones I spent a handful of awful nights awaiting trial down at Nation House had windows. Admittedly, the back wall of the holding cells at Nation House is where they shoot people, so it wasn't a particularly nice place to have a window, considering I was utterly terrified they'd do that to me, but it was a window all the same.

No windows in the ReEd cells, though, no, the environment is too carefully controlled for that. At night, the only light that comes into the cell is through the glass spy-hole on the thick metal door.

I take my socks out of my boots and put them on. I’m cold. I wrap the grey blanket from my bed around my aching shoulders and sniff, wiping my nose on the back of my bony hand. I check under my shirt, feeling the cuts and bruises with a gentle hand.

I'll have to watch myself tomorrow. I don't think I can take that again. You hear stories of them pushing people a little too hard and killing them. But considering there's a zero-tolerance policy for communication between prisoners in the unit, I don't know how true they are.

But likely they are.

There's a scrape of keys in the lock and a bang on the door. I get up, haul my heavy legs to stand back against the head of my bed, a step back from the door. If it’s one of the technicians, I pray it’s Fennec and not Kade.

It's one of the guards, pushing the meal trolley and not one of the technicians, to my relief. "Haveter, H?" he asks gruffly.

"Yeah."

He takes a tray off the trolley and puts it on the floor between me and him. It's not a hot meal, that's a privilege I've rarely gotten and never kept, and I'm so sore, tasting blood in my mouth and nose that I'm not really hungry. "Thank you," I say, turning my back on him to watch a moth smash into the halogen light.

He says nothing back. Slams the door and locks it, and I'm alone again.

I pick up the meal tray and sit on the edge of my bed, a thin, plastic-covered mattress, a single starchy pillow and a grey blanket. I pick around at the food, bread and butter in a little foil packet as well as some slices of meat I can’t identify and a few slices of apple. I’m not hungry. I’m just not hungry. I pick at the apple, peeling the skin off with my teeth, and chew it to a pulp, hoping I can swallow it. I can’t bring myself to, my throat tightening at the thought of swallowing it, so I end up spitting it into the toilet and leaving the tray be by the door.

My stomach turns, and I clutch it, feeling decidedly ill, shoulders throbbing and burning, back aching. I toss and turn on my bed, then get up and pace, and only stop when they come to collect the tray. My eyes water, almost constantly when I’m tired, so I dab at my right eye, trying to wipe the moisture out of the gouge of the scar, and scrub at my left eye until it stings, frustrated that I appear to be crying.

If I told you that a handful of years and months ago, I was one of the most powerful men in the country, respected, feared, even, would you believe me?

Would you believe me?

Eventually, I rock myself to sleep, curled up at the end of the bed.

I don’t think you would.

#the reeducation of haskell haveter #count the days #whump writing #writeblr

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talas-starlight · 4 years

Text

Scarred Spirit - Zuko x fem! reader (pt.3)

SUMMARY: this takes place around the end of book 1 - but uhhhh I deadass don’t know how to give a summary for this without giving anything away soooo enjoy!

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

WARNINGS: mentions of death and suicide. Scars. Swearing. Non- sexual nudity. Nightmares. Panic attack ish. mention of torture.

KEY: italics = internal thoughts & *** = flashback

OTHER PARTS: pt1 / pt2 / pt4 / pt5 / pt6

MASTERLIST: Here!

You’d been walking in the back streets of the capital with your face turned to the sun for the past two hours. The black mask shielding the bottom half of your face hid the sigh that left your lips as you finally approached the palace.

Fucking finally.

Even though you were a Fire bender, it didn’t make it any less annoying as the sun blistered down of the completely black outfit you were wearing. It covered every piece of your skin from your neck, down to your feet. Even your scarred fingertips were hidden from the world.

As you neared the gates, they immediately began to open, inviting you in with open arms. This made you one of the few people, apart from the royal family, that didn’t need to prove their identity to get in. All the guards knew who you were and what you did for the Fire Lord, promoting you from being a prisoner to one of the most well looked after people in the entire Nation. Technically, they were never instructed to provide you with immediate access. Yet, as rumours spread throughout the palaces’ echoing halls, their fear of you doing what you did to all those people when out on missions, seemed to override those basic routines.

Normally you’d scoff at how silly it all was, the fact that they feared a 16-year-old girl almost made you feel sorry for them. As guards of the Nation they should stand with pride and confidence. You suppose that’s what happens when even though they don’t see it, they have nothing to be prideful about considering who their current ruler is. Regardless, today you appreciated their diligence, storming through the gates, and making your way straight to the throne room. You didn’t even give anyone an initial glance. You were pissed. This had been the fourth mission in a row where you were sent to take out some random high position person from some other nation. All this travelling back and forth began to get on your nerves.

Maybe it was from the heightened stress of the most recent task. This one, in particular, set you off because of the minimal information you had to take them out. All you were provided with was that they were from the Water Tribe, and had been at sea in a fleet for multiple years, taking down Fire Nation units.

Gee thanks! Give me a few weeks, and I’ll track down this mysterious person you don’t even know the name of and be on my way! Hmmm, now my first plan of action will be to flip a gold piece to decide if I should swim to the Northern or the Southern tribe to gather intel! Just you wait Ozai. I’ll take that stupid, pathetic, floppy thing you call a beard and drag you into the fire in front of your throne you piece of-

Abruptly cutting off your internal rant, you walked past the guards who immediately opened the doors to the throne room as they saw you approaching; noticing the long braid down your back alit in your raged fire. Reaching the middle of the throne room you didn’t even bother to bow, throwing a Water Tribe necklace splattered in blood to the ground. “It’s done.”

The guard closest to you hastily picked it up and climbed the stairs to hand it to Ozai for an inspection. Eyeing the tribal necklace in the guards’ hand, he made no move to take it away from him physically. Ironic how he has slaughtered so many yet refuses to get real blood on his hands.

“Prove yourself.”

You instantly provided him with the report you memorised on how you conducted the mission with details on an weekly basis. This ensured you actually went through with the assassination- you suggested that you could bring back their head two years ago, but apparently that was too gruesome to be in the presence of the great Fire Lord. There were no pauses or stutters as you rehearsed it on your journey back to the capital.

“Present the details of the savage.”

You held back a sigh, this was always your least favourite part. “The person you sent out for went by the name of Hakoda. He was of the Southern Water Tribe and Chief to one of its smaller villages. During my time undercover in the tribe, I acquired knowledge that his wife was disposed of under the assumption that she was the last Waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe and had two children. It is also to my knowledge that his children are currently travelling with the Avatar. Through making connections with the villagers, I set out to sea in search for him and managed to gain access and trust upon the main ship when they were docked in an isolated part of the Earth Kingdom for supplies. I went under an alias of a homeless non-bending orphan from the Northern Water Tribe wanting revenge on the Fire Nation for slaughtering my parents. When it came time to dispose of him, I did so in the middle of the night after faking a nightmare, seeking him out as a father figure for comfort. I used his own weapon against him as he held me, speaking words of comfort, expressing that I was safe and how I was like a daughter to him. A daughter who would have been a great older sister to his children. During this moment of emotional weakness for him, I assassinated him before he could have even registered that I would have been an awful sister. Leaving before dawn, I made the scene look like a suicide with a letter expressing in detail how being away from his children was too much to bear.”

Ozai looked up from the necklace, satisfied with the briefing. “Hmmm, well-done y/n. Tell me, what do you know of his children?”

“Nothing of great importance other than knowledge of them travelling with the Avatar.”

“Very well, you may have a day’s rest and will be informed of your next task tomorrow evening. Your payment for your services is already in your quarters.”

You bowed knowing you were lucky he let it slide when you walked in. “Thank you, my Fire Lord.”

Exiting the throne room, you made your way to your living quarters, looking forward to the sensation of washed hair, clean clothes, and your bed.

When you finally made it back to your room, you let out a sigh of relief immediately ripping off your mask. As the years went by, nothing seemed to get easier, and nothing seemed to stop. You cherished the moments of silence, the brief period of time where the universe aligned in such a way that you were able to pretend this wasn’t your life. One mission after another, constantly lying to do what needed to be done, amid all the alias’ you made up, you wondered which one really demonstrated who you were as a person. The idea of having to settle with the Fire Lord’s personal assassin didn’t necessarily make you giddy with pride.

You made your way to the bathtub that awaited you in the adjoining room, peeling off the once breathable fabric, off your body as you went. The tub was already full as the servants went to prepare it when they heard the word of your return. You finally unravelled the braid holding your hair together, yet another symbol of the job you committed yourself to. On the first day of training, you were told that if you were caught, your affiliation with the Fire Nation should be buried with you.

Your skin shuddered as you entered the chilled water, easing your mind that warm water would never satisfy in this Nation’s climate. You leant back with a small wince as your scarred back made contact with the tub. Growing up, it wasn’t uncommon for other assassins to have some form of physical scarring whether that be from training, a mission gone wrong, or punishment from their supervisor. In some unusual way, you were never insecure about it, only annoyed that you had to sleep in odd positions because of the sensitivity.

You began to drift, succumbing to the cool, soothing water around you. Between the stress of returning to the capital, and the stress that awaited you on your next task, you allowed yourself to let go. Free yourself of any thoughts. In your current state, you weren’t scarred. You weren’t trapped in what seemed like a never-ending cycle of duty. You weren’t anyone to anything.

As the moon began to shine through the windows into the bathroom, you woke up with a start, water splashing onto the tiles around you, your heart racing and sweat soaking the unsubmerged parts of your body. Running your hand through your hair, you fought the urge to let out an overwhelmed sob. Nightmares were a common occurrence for you, but this one settled under your skin like a scratch you would never be able to itch.

Air seemed to close in on your lungs, no matter how much you tried to calm yourself down, all you could focus on was the fact you couldn’t breathe. Hastily fumbling, and tripping as you got out of the tub, you forced yourself to reach for the first clean robe you could get your hands on. As your thoughts mixed into on jumbled heap, you desperately tried to get it together.

He believed you.

They all did, you knew it in the way that the guards struggled to hide back their expressions of discomfort as you described how you oh so easily manipulated a grown man, warrior, and chief, only to kill him.

It was a lie. All of it. Yet why did I dream of them finding out now?

You’ve never assassinated anyone since that general three years ago, and you most certainly never killed Hakoda. From the very moment you accepted the offer, you knew you’d never go through with the commissions. During the brief period when you trained and got back onto a healthy diet was when you mentally formulated how you would conduct each “killing”. It was simple, you’d carry out the mission as you normally would, but in the time you were supposed to spend working out how to dispose of them, you helped them create a new life for themselves. You didn’t bother trying to shield the truth from them, knew the Fire Lord wanted them dead. While it sent them into a panic, in the long run, it made everything a whole lot easier. They could never go by who they once were, and needed to move far, far, away from wherever they lived. The lives they once knew erased, cutting off all ties.

Idiot. Why did I have to make an exception now?

Instantly dismissing the question that wriggled its way into your head, you began to journey to the kitchens in desperate need for a distraction. You knew why you made the exception.

***

Three weeks ago, when you were on the ship with Hakoda, you did actually have a nightmare, prompting you to go out onto the deck to clear your mind. The air was crisp, eliciting goosebumps across your skin. Quickly letting out a breath of fire, you began to regulate your body temperature as you noticed Hakoda already looking out to the never-ending expanse of the ocean. As an experienced warrior, he heard you approach.

“Y/n? The moon has been out for a long time now, you should be asleep.”

Sighing, you stood next to him, joining him in looking out to the sea. “Nightmares.”

He nodded in understanding. “Do you want to talk about it?”

There was no fear in your voice as you recounted the altered memories of your torture, he already knew who you were, where you were from… what you did. All things considered; he took everything pretty well, barely holding it against you. To him, you were just a kid who was sucked into this life, making the best with what you had.

Finishing your poor recount of the nightmare, you turned to face him. “I have to go back soon. I’ve been pushing it by staying for an extra month. We need to make a plan for you to leave. You need to start a new life.”

He knew this conversation was coming ever since he managed to persuade you to help them out for a while. After all, he seemed to look straight past the wall you put up to know that you wanted Ozai’s reign to end. Despite respecting your boundaries, when you took off your mask in front everyone on board, the scar on your neck that travelled beneath your long sleeve shirt as it encompassed your hand, was enough to know that you suffered just like everyone else.

“Y/n, you know I can’t do that. My children, Sokka and Katara, they’re travelling with the Avatar right now, and I haven’t seen them since they were young. I can’t just leave and have you fake my death like that, Bato told me how much hope that knowing I’m alive brings to them! If I go and word gets out that you ‘assassinated’ me… it will crush them. Their close relationship with the worlds only hope is too much of a risk. I need them to be strong. The world needs them to be strong. I’m sorry y/n, but I can’t.”

You stared at him processing his words. Ultimately you knew he was right, but you couldn’t go back after such a long time just to say you failed. The Fire Lord would destroy you. “I understand where you are coming from. I do, but you can’t seriously expect me to go back with nothing! What do you expect me to do?! Oh, sorry Fire Brain I couldn’t kill him because something suddenly possessed me to feel bad about how his children might feel! Don’t worry, though, I didn’t care every other time I knew about other targets’ children! Unless you have some genius plan, I’m sorry, but Sokka and Katara are just going to have to suck it up. Let’s be realistic, yes, this MAY damage them and their duty to support the Avatar, but at least you can go back to them when this war is over!”

He ran his hand over his face, clearly trying to stay calm and collected. “I know, y/n. That’s why I’ve been up all night making a plan, but you’re not going to like it.”

You crossed your arms, scoffing at him. “The fact you’re suggesting something other than what I have ALREADY planned makes me not like it… but let’s hear it.”

He attempted to start with the parts of the plan he knew you’d agree on, which didn’t last long. “Well, we can incorporate some of your plans into it, that being we fake my death taking by tribal necklace back to the Fire Nation splattered in the animal’s blood. Yet everything else? We’re scrapping it.”

Biting on your tongue, you fought the urge to scream at how stupid this was sounding.

Relieved you didn’t bite back, he continued. “I’ll stay with the crew and then-“

That was enough for you to lose control. “Okay, I’m sorry did you just say you want to stay with the crew?! I am supposed to be taking out the LEADER OF THIS FLEET! If you stay with them and continue to attack vulnerable units, they will know, and they’ll have my head!”

“I know y/n! Which is why, when you’re gone, Batu will temporarily take over as captain until further notice. I, on the other hand, will only help plan the attacks stay in the background until it’s safe. Now, as for my kids, we’ll send them a letter letting them know I’m safe and hopefully a location so I can reunite with them.”

“But what if-“

“The letter gets intercepted? It’s just going to have to be a small risk.”

Taking a deep breath, he tried to bring the conversation to a less hostile level. “More often than not, there is no perfect plan. You should know that, by faking all of your assassinations since working for the Fire Lord. Which might I add, is the biggest risk you could possibly take. It will all work out in the end; trust me. But, this is your playing field, if you truly think me disappearing is the only way, then we can go ahead with the original plan.”

Sucking in a breath, you stared at Hakoda as if he grew two heads.

Did he just give me an option?

“W-what do you mean what I think?! You literally just said that you CAN’T leave your children! You gave me an alternative plan, and now you’re saying that if I disagree you’ll do as I say? That doesn’t make any sense.”

He let out a laugh, amused by your concerns. “Y/n, you have been trained in this area and executing the fake assassinations all on your own for over two years. No one knows the ins and outs of how the Fire Nation plans things like you do. If you think my plan is severely flawed and both of us are bound to get caught, I will trust your judgement in which is the best to conduct. Yes, I said that we should be thinking of my kids and the Avatar, his destiny is bigger than any of this, but everyone should be allowed to choose what they want to do, I am just allowing you to expand your options.”

With a final breath, he truly looked at you with sincerity, “I trust you y/n.”

It all seemed too much. All your life it felt like there was only one obvious pathway; do what it takes to survive. Everything he said was right, and it dawned on you that for once the decision you were about to make had two genuinely good choices. Hakoda gifted you with that privilege. Either way, you would save his life and yours. Yet you knew that the new pathway presented to you would lead you something bigger, just like he said. You couldn’t take one of the few good things away from his kids.

Overcome with emotion, you hugged him. “Thank you. We’ll do it. You need to stay.”

He hugged you back as you began to cry.

***

After spending the remainder of the night stuffing your face in the kitchens, you didn’t go back to sleep and started to train with whoever was willing until it was time to hear of your next target. By no means were you looking forward to it, but you were ready to distance yourself from the last mission as it regularly filled your mind.

I wonder if he actually put Bato in charge and stood down? Stop thinking about it y/n. It doesn’t matter anymore; you’ll never have to see him again.

As the sun started to disappear into the Fire Nations skyline, you headed for the throne room knowing you shouldn’t keep Ozai waiting.

I can’t wait to see the show he has prepared for me. I wonder how dark he tried to make the lighting this time. Ooo! Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get 20-foot flames! Then I won’t have to see his ugly beard.

Entering the room and bowing before him, you fought back a snicker as it truly felt like the room seemed darker than usual.

“Y/n, you have come a long way from being a traitor and prisoner to the Nation to one of the most valuable assets. Your next task will be the ultimate test of your loyalty to me. I have trusted and sent my daughter Azula on a mission to bring back my traitor of a brother, and my failure of a son.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Azula was no stranger to riling you up whenever you crossed paths over her brother, and you were well aware of the encounters he had with the Avatar. But not once were you brought into the dysfunctions of their family. Now all of a sudden you were formally addressed by Ozai who was mentioning these events to you? It made you hyper-aware of the scars that stretched along your left side. The only personal connection you had with Zuko.

“While she undoubtedly has my complete trust, and I do not doubt her abilities, she lacks experience. Azula does not have the knowledge of the world, and fighting styles from the other nations like you do. For that, I am entrusting you to take care of the collateral damage. If things are to go wrong, if she is faced with a circumstance hindering her ability to do her task, it is your job to finish it. Even if that means harm must come to her, the mission is the utmost priority. Should you fail, do not underestimate the consequences you’ll face if you ever step back into the Nation.”

In your best attempt to keep your composure, you replied in a cool but firm tone. “Of course, my Fire Lord.”

“Good. You leave at dawn and do not return until my daughter succeeds.”

Bowing in acknowledgement, you began to leave. But you quickly halt your movements as you hear his voice again.

“One last thing y/n. Azula is not to know that you are tracking her at any stage during her mission. You are to distance yourself, only intervening when there is no other option.”

You bow for the last time. “You have my word.”

Making your way to prepare supplies for your journey, you fight the urge to curse out the entire royal family throughout the halls.

Babysitting duty. I was tortured for eight fucking months. Trained to boredom by Zemin’s brother, Piandao, for one month, and some knock-off fire bending master for a week because he didn’t know how to control me, and went gallivanting across the nations to fake assassinations. Not only that but also assist them in making new lives for themselves, FOR BABYSITTING DUTY! ALL BECAUSE HIS SPOILED, SOCIOPATHIC DAUGHTER WITH AN SUPERIORITY COMPLEX ISN’T EXPERIENCED ENOUGH?!

In your silent rage, you make it back to your room trying to reason with yourself that you shouldn’t kill Azula the second you both cross the Fire Nation boarders.

A/N: so…. Did I have y’all in the first half? LMAO AHAHHA.

Also I really thought I was going to have the gaang in this one #fool (oopsies) I really didn’t think the hakoda portion would consume so much of the chapter :/ BUT!! They’re definitely in the next one

Thanks for reading though! On the bright side I’m (finally) on my mid-semester break!!! Woohoo! I’m so excited to wrap up this semester wowies (uni has been kicking my butt),, but this does mean I’ll have more time to write so you guys might get a chapter earlier than normal 😊 Anyway, as normal feel free to message me or leave a comment!

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