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knives-out20 · 3 years

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Discrepancy - Dean Corso x Male!OC - #3

Fandom: The Ninth Gate (1999)

Pairing: Ambrósio ‘Ambrose’ Fargas (OC) x Dean Corso

Warnings: Swearing, Faggotry, Spoilers for The Ninth Gate, Flirting, Homoerotism, Sexual phone stuff but not phone sex y’know, Ambrósio has no chill and knows no bounds y’all,

Notes: what is going ON y’all....lmao

Dean lay on the bed of his hotel room in Paris, talking to Ambrósio over the phone. "Ambrósio, how are you holding up?"

"I'm lying down if that answers your question, Dean" Ambrósio answered, definitely wearing a shit-eating grin.

Lying down, Dean thought. "What're you doing?"

"Oh, I dunno...talking to some shady book dealer over the telephone."

"I'm shady?" Dean chuckled. "First I'm out of place, and now I'm shady?"

"Yea, man, what the fuck is with your fucking gray hairs around your ears, you got premature graying or something?" Ambrósio inquired, squinting a bit.

"Have you just been thinking about the hairs around my ears lately?"

"I've been thinking of more than the hair around your ears, Dean."

"My facial hair?" Dean teased.

"More than your hair, man."

Dean grinned, "ever the flirt?"

"I try my best, Corso." Ambrósio rubbed his thigh, biting the edge of his lip.

"You been, uh...back at the house, as of late?"

Ambrósio shrugged. "Carmen let me go back to check it out with her really buff boyfriend, like, wrestler-type buff, Jeronimo's huge."

"Is he setting some high expectations up for me?"

Ambrósio decided to mess with Dean. He put on a puzzled tone, "who said they're for you?"

This caught Dean off-guard, like Ambrósio wanted it to. "Oh- uh, nothing, I just- all this had led me to assume-"

"Chill, man, calm down, I'm playing around" Ambrósio giggled. "It felt a bit...grim, but that's obvious, y'know? I mean, with...the reason why I'm staying with my friends in the first place."

"Yea."

A moment of silence struck the two before Ambrósio asked Dean another question. "Where are you right now?"

Dean's gaze darted around his hotel room. "In a hotel."

"Central?"

Dean slowly licked his lips in thought. "Uhh...Sure." He nodded, pulling out a slip of paper and a pen. "I'm staying at this Hotel Central place nearby, in this room. You can reach me there if you're specific."

"No, no. Out of the country." Dean corrected him.

Ambrósio scoffed, "yea, so where are you?"

"France. Ever been?"

"You offering?"

"Again?"

"I'm assuming that's a no."

Ambrósio broke out into a smile as he leaned back in his seat. "Does adoption not exist in America, or wherever?" He giggled. "I'm adopted, half-Pakistani."

"Ever been?"

"You offering?" Ambrósio joked.

"Don't lose hope" Dean smiled. "If I grow to like you enough, decide I need some sort of companionship in my life, I'll reach out."

"You make it seem like it'll be a privilege to me, to be able to hang out with you. It's quite the opposite."

"Oh, really?"

"Yea. It'll be a privilege to you, or rather anyone, to hang out with me, Ambrósio Fargas."

"That's true. Any new up-comings with your..uh...grandfather?"

"Mmh." Ambrósio hummed in a gloomy way. "Jeronimo has an uncle that's in the funeral business. He'll help with all the funeral stuff for my Avô."

"Wish I could come."

"It's like you want to be out of place, Dean, jeez" Ambrósio laughed.

Dean liked listening to Ambrósio's laughter, even more-so since he caused it. He assumes he just liked that he was able to make Ambrósio smile during this suddenly-dark time in his life, given the abrupt death of Victor and all.

Ambrósio and Dean got hit with another moment of comfortable silence. It seemed to be a running thing between the two men.

"You still lying down?"

"On my bed in Carmen's guest bedroom, yea. Why? You gonna ask me what I'm wearing?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you're still wearing that red shirt."

"I have a damn washing machine, Dean" Ambrósio licked his lips. "It's unbuttoned just like the first time you saw it."

"You wearing those gray pants, too? With the stripes?"

Ambrósio hummed his answer, meaning a 'no." "I'm wearin' some shorts, actually. Switching things up, today. What're you wearing, Corso?"

"Same things from the day you first saw me."

"Not one for changes, eh?" Ambrósio questioned. "Well, no. You probably are, given that Balkan's making you go here 'n' there around the globe for some old books 'n'...whatever. Y'know?"

"Yea," Dean nodded. "I'm really sorry, too, Ambrósio. About your grandfather. I never meant for this to happen to him, I didn't anticipate it like you did, but anticipation really has nothing to do with it." He explained. "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing. My Avô was old as hell anyway, Dean. He was bound to go sometime, but I just...not so soon. He was a good man."

"I'm sure he was, he seemed like it."

Ambrósio smiled. "You're a good man, too."

"Really?"

"Yea." Ambrósio nodded. "You, you- you didn't need to give me your hotel number that night you first came, you didn't need to come inside the house to call for me the other day. You didn't need to make sure I was okay, and gonna be okay. You didn't need to make sure I had some place to stay, or ask for Carmen's number in order to reach me. Hell, you don't need to be talking to me right now" he listed out, admittedly blushing a bit.

"But...I am."

"But you are, exactly. You added me into your little equation when you had the choice to leave me in your memories as Fargas' pretty, queer grandkid."

"'Pretty'?" Dean repeated.

"I'm fucking divine, Dean, it's in my name. Meanwhile, Dean means like...'valley.'"

"Would you describe me as a valley, Ambrose?"

"A valley of weird gray hairs, some round glasses, dark academia, and an angular face."

"You think my face is angular?"

"In a good way, pretty boy."

Dean smirked to himself, dragging his free hand slowly down the side of his face. "You think I'm pretty, too?"

"I thought the flirting made it obvious."

"I'm more than a pretty face, y'know" Dean sassed.

"Well, duh. I'm not shallow" Ambrósio scoffed. "I like when we talk, too, and not just for your voice-"

"You like my voice?"

"I've told you this before!"

Ambrósio chortled. "I don't only listen to Hendrix and Foreigner, Dean, Jesus Christ."

"Who else do you listen to?"

Ambrósio stepped back, towards his staircase. "I could listen to you. You sound like you could do a number on people if you sing."

Dean knowingly shook his head, looking down to hide his smile. "I don't sing, but...thanks."

Dean hummed in agreement. "You mentioned reciting poetry, when I met you."

"Yessir."

"What writers do you like?"

"Aw, damn, uh..." Ambrósio scratched his jaw in thought. "Baudelaire, definitely. And JP Marquand, Oscar Wilde, and Lord Byron. To name a few."

"Quite an array."

"You like?"

"I wouldn't shy away from the names. It's an impressive list."

"Thank you, I know." Ambrósio smiled, proud of himself.

"You still lying down?"

"Yea, what're you doing?"

"Lying down, on my hotel room's bed, talking to the dreamy, divine grandson of Victor Fargas." Dean flirted, stroking his beard.

Ambrósio poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "I am dreamy."

"You really are."

"So..."

"So?"

"So, we're just both lying down, on our beds, talking to each other over the telephone?"

"Why, would you rather be doing something else, with somebody else?" Dean joked.

Ambrósio raised his eyebrows. "I'd rather be doing something else that involves being on a bed, with you...Doing a far more scandalous activity than just talking."

Dean fought back a grin, looking over at the wall. "You're on quite the roll, huh?"

"Whether it be the romantic poets I indulge in, or my natural-born charm, the world may never know."

"I think it's just you, honestly."

"I'm touched." Ambrósio placed his free hand over his chest, where his heart lay underneath. "Oh, also- I figured out another song you remind me of."

"Really? Which?"

"Poison by Alice Cooper. I was gonna say his other song Feed My Frankenstein for the sake of the title and sexual themes, but there's lyrics in there regarding a body part that neither I nor you have...I'm assuming. There's nothing wrong with if you do, though. I have a guy friend with the body part, but he's saving up money to get rid of it."

Dean's eyebrows jumped. "You listen to Alice Cooper?"

"Sometimes, do you?"

"Not really my thing."

"Ah, yes, let me guess." Ambrósio raised a finger in thought. "You enjoy sitting back in leather armchairs, surrounded by dusty, possibly-expensive books and listening to the likes of Debussy, Chopin...I happen to like Tchaikovsky myself, if he's any your style."

Dean laughed softly. "No, not actually. I don't know what I listen to, I don't know if it could be classified as one thing."

"If you ever come back to Portugal, we could listen to my records together 'n' see what you're into" Ambrósio offered.

"Are you asking me out?" Dean joked.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm a gentleman, I'd buy you dinner, first." Ambrósio corrected him. "I'm just flirting your socks of for the time being." He told, sliding a hand through his dark hair; he closed his eyes and gave it a tug, trying to imagine that it was someone else, someone specific, tugging his hair in his bed.

"I'm not wearing any socks right now."

"Task complete." Ambrósio nodded slowly, sure of himself. His smile grew when he heard Dean's slight laugh through the phone.

"Dinner, huh?"

"Yea. Wine, music, candlelight, the whole shebang. Again, a gentleman."

"The sound of it does intrigue me."

"That's the goal" Ambrósio stared up at the ceiling.

"Your activity from before, regarding a bed...What would that include?" Dean didn't know what he was doing, nor what he was hoping to accomplish, but liked the power it held over Ambrósio trying to flirt with him...Well, trying and succeeding, but he liked playing a hard-to-get guy.

"Oh, I'm not entirely sure." Ambrósio partially lied. "Winding, twisting, turning, gyrating, writhing...incessant writhing" he purred. "Perhaps some assorted debaucheries along the way."

"You can be so charming when you want something, eh, Ambrose?"

"Or someone," Ambrósio added. "And I can be so charming, full stop."

"Of course you can."

"Alright, how can I get to you, Dean?" Ambrósio asked him. "Tell me the rules." He whispered through the telephone, Dean stifling a shiver.

"Can I trust you?" Dean playfully rolled his eyes.

"Oh, my dearest Dean, have I given you any reason not to?"

"That's true."

Ambrósio's voice turned into another whisper, "you and I could be as thick as fuckin' thieves. Tell me the rules, Dean." His fingers stroked from his chin to his cheek, a faraway look on his face.

Dean could just imagine the look on Ambrósio's face as they spoke. "First, you gotta tell me if I can call you 'chico' yet."

"Beg for it, like you wanted to" Ambrósio reminded him, free hand trailing down his neck, down his torso.

Dean turned back around, seeing Ambrósio holding onto the opened gate. "What is it, chico? Can I call you ‘chico’?"

“If you ask nicely.”

Dean rolled his eyes knowingly, “save either one of us begging for something from the other for another time.” He finally flirted back.

Dean held a knowing expression on his face. He should've expected this.

"No problem, Ambrose. Can I call you 'chico', yet?"

"Only if you beg like you wanted to." Ambrósio flirted.

Dean looked around in thought, "wouldn't you rather in person?"

"Would either one of us want to travel seventeen-ish hours for you to beg me for something so small in the midst of your big book mission?" Ambrósio rhetorically asked. "You wanna call me 'chico', you gotta do what you suggested. It was your words, not mine, big man."

Dean hummed. "Please?"

"'Please' what?"

Dean giggled quietly. "Please, can I call you 'chico'? Please?" He insisted, "please? Let me call you 'chico', Ambrósio, please."

Ambrósio had a smug look on his face, "you may."

"That was barely any begging."

"Let's save actual begging for some other time, when we're closer together. Okay, amor?"

"Okay, chico."

"I also thought of another song."

"You're full of them for someone who supposedly couldn't think of any."

"Shut up," Ambrósio chuckled. "I Was Made For Loving You."

Dean licked his lips, "by Kiss?"

"You like Kiss?" Ambrósio looked surprised.

"I know Kiss, and I know the song you mentioned. How come I never remind you of any Jimi Hendrix songs?"

"That's not my problem" Ambrósio replied. "I Was Made For Loving You, Dean. Take it or leave it."

"Y'know what, Ambrósio?" Dean inquired. "Maybe you were."

"Not even 'maybe', Dean. I know I am." Ambrósio checked the time. "Listen, I gotta get going, a guy's gotta run. Talk soon?"

"Sure thing, chico."

"Bye, Dean. Stay safe."

"You too."

Ambrósio and Dean hung up their phones, Ambrósio's head spinning of round glasses, prominent cheekbones and smooth voices as he left the bedroom. Whereas Dean stayed where he was, rubbing his thighs with thoughts of dark, soulful eyes, inked-up torsos, and dreamy grandsons.

Both of them just hoped Dean's mission would end quick so the two could talk physically again, or maybe do a greater deal than talking.

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jurijurijurious · 3 years

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Writerly ephemera meme

I was tagged by @thisbluespirit in this rather intriguing meme!

Find five bits of yourself that you gave to your fiction (memories and places and phrases and things into our stories), post and tag five or more writers to share as well.

Now I know I do write bits of myself and my experiences into my stories, one way or another, I think everyone does, but it doesn’t half put you on the spot when you have to try to remember where you’ve done it!

1) I know that recently I wrote Walsingham passing out at the end of a scene in “Mea Culpa”. The entire description is based on personal experience. I went through a scary few years as a young teen where I would pass out for little to no reason, usually at school where there were lots of people watching to cause me huge embarrassment, which then almost gave me a form of PTSD. I was constantly anxious about fainting, it was not good, and we never found out why it happened. But that’s another story... I still occasionally pass out but it’s usually for a reason, after having a vaccine or blood taken or something, but the whole process of fainting, though horrible, is like an old nemesis to me, uncomfortably familiar. I generally feel intense sickness in my stomach, my vision is puckered increasingly with white dots, my entire body comes out in a sweat, and I hear a high pitched whistle-type noise as I lose consciousness. And so since that is my experience, it became Wals’s too:

His palms sweated, his pulse raced... He shuddered and emitted another strangled breath, fingers white where he clutched the window sill, body trembling. He needed rest. Ursula's voice was becoming distant, the room was swaying like the deck of a ship caught in a storm. He felt a sudden nausea in his stomach, could hear a high pitched sound in his ears, a siren's wail beckoning him into the abyss.

“I am sorry. So very sorry,” he whispered, though he knew not exactly who he was addressing. His own voice now sounded as if it was coming from underwater, far away; he was drowning and could resist no more, slipped where he stood and descended into the open arms of oblivion.

2) This is another Walsibeth example I’m afraid because I haven’t written anything else for about a decade! So... Though the pandemic and my lack of funds has put a temporary hold to my hobby of horse riding, I am a half-capable rider and love tearing across country if opportunity allows on horseback. I can thus write people riding horses (English style, anyway) with a degree of accuracy. So in my smutty one-shot fic “In perpetuum et unum diem” (the one which is mostly a pastiche of the raunchy finale of “The Tudors” season 1, and also an excuse for me to write shameless sex), I began the ficlet with a bit of a horse-race between Bess and Wals to get the blood up (a scene that in itself mirrors Elizabeth’s racing with Raleigh in TGA, I later realised). Though I personally haven’t raced a person on horseback per se, I have done beach rides and also ridden on a horseback safari in Africa where you gallop as a group, and “giving your horse its head” is the order of the day! So a lot of this passage is me:

She turned her head back over her shoulder and caught Francis’ eyes. His lip quirked slightly at the corner but otherwise there was no change to his countenance. But that was enough. Her smile deepend as if to invite him to race her and she turned her head back around, gave her dappled grey mare its head and pressed her calves to its flanks. And the beast responded, driving its legs harder, faster, into a gallop and flew like a falcon through the trees.

...

As the wind flew in Elizabeth’s face, making her eyes water, a great whoop of exhilaration escaped her. There was nothing but her and the horse, and the knowledge that her blackguard of a lover galloped behind her. This was what it should feel like to live, even in tragically brief snippets; to feel the blood in your veins, the air in your chest, and the sun on your face, wild and free.

They then jump a tree trunk which I’d love to say I’d do, and I might, but most of my falls have been from jumping so I’d probably wimp out and go the long way around... ;)

3) Annnd another one from my Walsibeth fic “Mea Culpa”, just because it’s fresh in my mind. When I was driving to work last winter, there was one Sunday morning which had a jaw-droppingly beautiful sunrise. I tried to take a photo of it but could not do it justice. I did find a photo of Lincoln Cathedral on instagram from the same morning though which captured the sky perfectly. It literally looked like the sky was on fire, or something, and I immediately worked this memory into my story! I felt that a sky like that would make the perfect backdrop for a single, forlorn, broken bastard riding his horse in a clear, freezing morning:

There was a strange light in the sky as the sun began to make its ascent. It turned a deep crimson then lifted to shades of rich amber and gold; this combined with the few grey clouds passing overhead gave it the illusion of a huge fire, as if a great furnace now filled the heavens. Some might have called it beautiful, others would see a grim omen.

4) I had a look in my dreaded old fic archive, so full of cringe, and I found this from the end of my Doctor Who fic “Choices”, which I reckon I wrote between 2005-2006, possibly finishing it later than that. This scene right at the end (told from the perspective of Rose and the ninth Doctor’s daughter, Hope) is literally my old senior school - the class length, the finish time, the uniform was what I wore, and my history teacher was Mrs. Gaskin, and my mum would be waiting in her car to pick me and my sisters up:

By a quarter-to-three in the afternoon, she was in another History lesson with Mrs. Gaskin, and was spending another forty-five minutes hearing about the Black Death, the plague doctors, and the red crosses that were painted on people’s doors. It was fascinating, but Hope’s concentration wasn’t there. She kept looking out of the window at the school yard, noticing the little details that other days she would take for granted - like the way the trees swayed in the wind, the way a crisp-packet rolled across the concrete, and the pure azure-blue colour of the cloudless sky. Something was afoot but she had no idea what it was, or why she was feeling this way.

The bell rang finally at the end of the lesson, as the clock read three-thirty, and the class disappeared swiftly out of the door. It was home time! The voices of myriads of children echoed and shrilled down the corridors, and desperate feet, eager to get home, pounded down the stairs, making for the exits. White shirts were un-tucked from trouser and skirt hems, blue-and-red ties were loosened from about shirt collars, and black blazers were thrown off and carried over shoulders as the mass of pupils took flight.

Hope, however, took things slowly, almost as if she might never see them again, picking up on every smile, every individual laugh, and every joke pulled on every unsuspecting victim. She waved goodbye to friends, hitched her backpack over her shoulder, and made her way out of the school gates toward the spot where her mum or Uncle Jack would usually be waiting to pick her up. As she turned the corner onto Petunia Grove, though, she stopped and sighed. The car - either her mum’s or Jack’s - was not there.

Hope pursed her lips and shrugged, taking another good look around just to make sure that she hadn’t missed it, but there wasn’t a familiar car in sight. She thus let her bag slip off her shoulder, and she perched her backside on the street sign, swinging one of her feet back and forth as she waited for the arrival of her escort.

In the meantime, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander again, as it had been doing often throughout the day, and looked around the street. There was a blue tit on the hedge over the road, stood near a couple of sparrows and a robin. The front door of house number five was a brilliant shade of red, something which she had never really noticed before, and there was some graffiti on the road sign on the opposite side of the street. It read ‘Bad’ something or other, but she couldn’t read the other word since it was blocked off by the blue box.

Hope blinked and slowly rose to her feet. It couldn’t be…

5) And for number five, this is a short extract from the an unpublished Star Wars fic I wrote around 2010, where I tried for what must have been the third time to re-write the Star Wars nonsense I wrote as a teenager, all starring my very Mary Sue OC, Nadia, who became Vader’s apprentice and was mentored by Veers. I have here again worked my experiences of passing out into the story - a psychologist would have a field day with me. Nadia’s thoughts about showing weakness were also real fears of mine - I never liked to be weak, to be ill, to be a burden, and my character was the mouthpiece for my own self-disgust. It’s written in the first person with Nadia narrating in this scene where she accompanies General (Maximilian) Veers to the Kaminoan’s cloning facility to review further batches of troops and is taken ill by the experience of seeing the thousands of farmed foetuses:

Max nodded whilst I remained breathless and shaky in his shadow. I could not get those tiny, wriggling foetuses out of many head - they floated upon my consciousness, their inhuman eyes glaring into my face and their tiny hands reaching out toward me. I tried to rid myself of these infantile phantoms, but I could not, and I suddenly felt quite ill.

“We shall need many more in our next delivery,” Max told the creature, who began to babble on about the problems of this request, but was halted mid-sentence when Maximilian wheeled about and grabbed me, saying my name over and over. He disappeared amidst the snowstorm of white dots that littered my vision, however, and I collapsed upon the floor.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a bright, white room. The walls dazzled me for a moment and it took my eyes and my mind time to adjust and to recognise reality. I looked slowly at the plain walls, finding myself alone upon a bed with my hands by my sides and a drip feeding liquid into my arm. This seemed quite surreal - I knew I was not ill enough to warrant this - but I resolved to stay put until someone came to me. I felt extremely tired and I thought that I may as well take advantage of the rest.

I fell back to sleep again and, when I next woke, I saw Max sat in a chair beside me. I glanced about the room - we were alone. I looked at him uncertainly, my visage undoubtedly betraying the signs of my mortification, for he first said: “Do not worry, Nadia, I am not angry with you. It cannot always be helped.”

...

I wanted to defy him, to be strong, but no, I just showed him weakness and insecurity. What indignity was this?

Thanks for the tag, that was fun! I can’t think of 5 writers to tag but off the top of my head: @feuillesmortes, @robins-treasure and @captainofthegreenpeas? Have a go if you fancy.

#memes #writerly ephemera meme

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whump-tr0pes · 4 years

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HB4-42/Whumptober day 29

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, and Vera.

AO3

Masterlist

Content warning: blood, bad guys controlling the economy, past torture, dehumanization

I could use another OC, right? *starts sobbing*

Gray picked up the cell phone on the seat next to them and flipped it open. The car jolted as they rolled through a pothole, bigger than it had been before spring arrived. Gray flipped open the phone and went to the last message they’d received.

Come to Crayton asap. Have news about a refugee. Keep this private. Call when you enter the town.

They selected the number and hit the button to dial it. They held the phone to their ear as it rang. The clear blue sky stretched above them as they drove through the farmland that bordered the town on all sides, the plots spread out enough so as not to crowd each other, but close enough that they were in sight of each other.

The people up here kept each other safe. They watched each other. They took care of each other.

The phone rang once. For the dozenth time since Gray had left the house this morning, they wondered, dimly, if this was a trap, of all things. Called to a stranger’s house in the middle of the north, the remnants of the Stormbeck territory burning several hundred miles to the south, to be caught in some sort of plot.

The phone rang a second time. Gray chuckled. Plots and conspiracies and secrets were all a little above their interest anymore. Caring for their family was its own full-time job.

Someone picked up in the middle of Gray’s chuckle. They cut themself off and cleared their throat. “Hello?” they said, trying to keep their voice even.

“Mx. Gray Uriah?” a nervous-sounding man’s voice said on the other end.

Gray swallowed. “This is they.”

“Oh.” A sigh of relief. “Good. Are you by yourself?”

Gray’s hand tightened on the wheel. “I am. What’s going on?”

“I, um…” A slow, shaking breath. “We should really talk about this in person. I need you to come straight to my house. 913 East Holter Lane. It’s off Cherry and ninth. There will be a garage open. Drive into it. I’ll lower the garage door, and we can talk.”

Gray laughed delicately. “No, thank you.”

There was a pause, then a crinkling, like the man was shifting the phone in his hands. “Wh-what?”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I am not about to drive into a stranger’s garage with no explanation. Especially for something so clandestine that I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone I was coming. Now.” Gray pulled onto Main, and shops rose on either side of them. “We don’t have to share details. But I do need to know what it is I’m getting myself into before you close that door. This is about a refugee?”

The man paused, and Gray could hear him breathing on the other line. “Yes,” he said, the relief faded, with fear replacing it.

“Alright. Did something happen? Is someone hurt?” In with a slow breath, out with a slow breath.

“N-no, I… It’s just… please, Mx. Uriah. You and your family are known for, um… d-doing the right thing. And… we need help with this.”

Gray look a left on ninth. It took them away from the row of shops, and into a neighborhood. Most of the houses were run down, but maintained. Ivy grew on the walls behind gated fences. Each house had a yard, overgrown with bushes, overhung by tall, gnarled trees. It was a street where families lived.

They wet their lips. “Hm. My family is also known for putting themselves in harm’s way for the ‘right thing.’ Is this something that comes with risk?”

“I…” A sigh. “I don’t know.”

Gray’s stomach clenched. “Ah. Thank you for your honesty. I’ll be there in five.”

“Oh, thank you. Th-thank you. Good. Okay. Five minutes.” The man’s voice faded. “Five minutes. Yeah. Get your stuff.” The man’s voice became normal volume again. “Thank you. Truly. 913 East Holter. We’re the light brown house. The garage door will be open.”

“Understood. Be there soon.” Gray snapped the phone shut and dropped it onto the seat.

They blew out a slow breath. They wished they’d called before they reached the city, wished they’d demanded to know what was going on before even getting in the car to make the trip. Of course there would be risk to their family. Gray tried to think of what exactly would be so important that the town’s mayor could not be informed. It was obvious that it was Daniel Schiester being kept in the dark about this. Dread prickled on the back of Gray’s neck as they wondered what, exactly, the price would be if this plan, whatever it was, was discovered.

They took a left on Cherry, and saw a street sign for Holter Lane immediately on the right, branching off into a cul-de-sac. Tall trees with wide, newly-leaved canopies cast shadows in the yards. None of the houses were visible from the street. One house, painted light brown brick, had its garage door open. As Gray drove into the driveway, they checked the address. 913.

As they pulled into the garage, they peered around, pushing down their rising nervousness. The walls inside the garage were bare. They turned the key in the ignition and shut off the car.

The door to the house opened, and a man peered out. He hit a button on the wall. The garage door began to close. Gray got out of their car, briefly wishing they’d brought Isaac or Vera with them.

Isaac is in Burmingham helping Gavin, and Vera—

It’s not their responsibility to protect me. They’ve given enough. No matter what, this was my choice.

Gray held out their hands to their sides. The man’s eyes darted between them, then back to their face. He stepped out fully into the garage in his bare feet. He shivered and wrapped one arm around himself. The other he thrust out to shake Gray’s hand.

“Mx. Uriah,” he said, his voice breathy with relief. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Gray tilted their head at the man. He seemed familiar, but Gray couldn’t place him. “You’re welcome,” they said, gently, as they clasped his hand. “Now, I hope, you can be more forthcoming?”

The garage door settled to a stop behind Gray. The garage was lit dimly by the single lightbulb above them. The man nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding quickly. “I’m, um, Mathias, by the way.”

“Good to meet you. Have we, ah… have we met?”

Mathias met their eyes and nodded again. “Y-yeah. You have. The first day you came into Crayton. I was on one of the teams that guided you in.”

Gray sucked in a breath. “That’s right,” they murmured. Mathias had been one of six people to stand by the team, heavily armed, while Daniel Schiester introduced himself and discovered Gavin among them.

Mathias had also been one of the only guards who didn’t take the opportunity to beat Gavin while he had the chance. Gray’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

“So there’s, um… a lot to explain.” Mathias glanced at the floor. “I’ve been, um…” He shrugged and rubbed his arm. “I… shit. You know Mr. Schiester helps process the refugees that come through Crayton.”

“Yes,” Gray said, nodding. “I’ve helped him several times. It’s very energy-intensive work.”

“Yeah, it is,” Mathias said distractedly. “Um. Well, I… I had one come through early this morning. Young kid. And I… well, maybe you should just meet him.” The man turned and called into the house. “Hey, Zach! Uh— Zachariah. Come on. They’re here.”

Gray watched as a young man stepped into the doorway. His head was bent, his warm brown skin streaked with mud and something Gray strongly suspected was blood. He clutched a filthy backpack over his shoulder like his life was contained inside. He kept his eyes down at the floor, trembling, as he shuffled out into the garage. His lip was split. The knuckles on his right hand were bloody.

A breath rushed out of Gray’s mouth. “Oh,” they whispered.

Zachariah lifted his gaze to Gray. He met their eyes for a moment before he shifted them back down again. “M-Mx. Uriah,” he said softly.

“Zachariah,” Gray answered. They held out their hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

Zachariah took Gray’s hand and shook it once. “Th-thank you.” He pulled back his hand and buried it in his pocket.

Gray looked sideways at Mathias. He chewed his lip. “I, um… found him during processing. You know that screening form we use.”

“I do,” Gray said gently.

“Well…” Mathias rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s, um… the kind of thing we screen for.”

Gray’s head snapped to look at Zachariah. “Why is that?” they said, tension tightening in their voice.

Mathias nodded at Zachariah. “Show ‘em,” he mumbled.

Zachariah threw a terrified glance at Gray. He reached for the sleeve of his t-shirt – the kid was out here in only a t-shirt – and rolled it up.

The Stormbeck crest was tattooed across the top of his arm.

Gray fell back a step, their eyes riveted on the stylized raven’s head, the vines surrounding it. Their gaze snapped to Mathias. “So he’s—”

“Just a kid,” Mathias said, meeting Gray’s eyes and taking a protective step in front of Zachariah. “And you need to listen to him.”

Gray wet their lips and nodded slowly. We’ve got our own ex-syndicate boy. “Alright,” they said, and their voice sounded more steady to them than they felt.

Mathias nudged Zachariah with his elbow. Zachariah shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “Um…” He shivered, and goosebumps raised on his arms. “I… I was a, um, a-a guard. In Colleen Stormbeck’s house.”

A chill twisted in Gray’s stomach, but they stayed silent.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to… to be there. But they said it would just be security. They said they’d pay me well, and they’d completely taken over the jobs in Fort Meyers… There was no way to get a job in Fort Meyers without them assigning you one. I needed… Mx. Uriah, please, I h-had to…”

“Were you there with my family?” Gray said through their teeth. “Did you ever hurt any of them?” Their right hand curled into a fist. Their knuckles cracked.

“No,” Zachariah whimpered. “I… I was on the unit that guarded them when they first came in. But I never… n-never hurt them. I transferred as soon as I could. I worked the other side of the house, at the front door. “I…” He whimpered again, tears shining in his eyes in the dim light in the garage. “I never wanted to hurt anyone. They said it was security…”

“How long were you there?” Gray said flatly.

“A m-month. I was hired a, a week or two before they showed up. And I left, um— the d-day she was killed.”

Gray’s eyes went wide. “And it took you… twenty-four days to make it north?” Their heart squeezed painfully in their chest.

“Ah… y-yes, Mx.,” Zachariah said. “It was… a h-hard road. I walked, um, a lot of the way.”

Gray pursed their lips and gestured at his arm. “Why did you get that tattoo? When?”

“Um…” Zachariah swallowed and looked down at the sleeve of his shirt. “They, um, s-strongly recommend we, uh, get them. I got it the day after I was hired. They say it, um, distinguishes us.”

“Like a brand,” Gray breathed.

Zachariah froze, his eyes wide. “What?”

“That’s like a brand. They’re convincing their battle fodder to put that mark on themselves.” Zachariah flinched at battle fodder. Gray’s face softened. “Apologies. I… um…” They blinked and folded their hands. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

Zachariah sagged with relief. He looked at Mathias, and Mathias nodded at him. Then he turned to look at Gray again.

“What do you need from me?” Gray said, looking at Mathias. “What do you… what does this all mean?”

Mathias chewed his lip. “I’ve been on Mr. Schiester’s payroll for… a long time.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Long enough to know that, uh… when we come across people like, like him…” He nodded at Zachariah. “…kids who got caught up in the wrong jobs, people with syndicate associations who are just looking for freedom, those sorts… they get, um… rough treatment, through the placement process. And I just…” He glanced at Zachariah. “With his, ah, associations, and that…” He glanced at Zachariah’s arm. “…I knew he’d have it rougher than most. And, I mean… Look at him. He’s been through enough.”

Gray blew out a breath through their nose. Their eyes moved over Zachariah, taking in once again the blood crusted on him, his tattered clothes, the way he trembled under Gray’s gaze. They set their jaw.

“What do you need me to do?”

Mathias’s eyes slid shut as he sighed. “Just house him, just for a few weeks. I’ve been sending my…” Mathias giggled. “I’ve been calling them my own ‘rescues,’” he said, looking nearly delirious with relief. “I’ve been sending my rescues through a friend north of you. I’ll need to secure housing for him, but it’ll take some time. I just need to know he’s safe. I can’t keep him here.” Mathias glanced around his garage. “Too many eyes. Too risky.”

“I think I understand,” Gray said, and placed a gentle hand on Mathias’s shoulder. “And I think I can help.”

Zachariah’s eyes flicked up to Gray’s. “You can?” he breathed. He looked like he was about to fall over. “Thank… thank you.”

Mathias rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get him going, then,” he said quickly. “Zachariah, you should sit in the back. At least until you get out of town. Thank god you don’t have to go in the trunk.” Mathias laughed again, high-pitched and frantic, and Gray was beginning to wonder exactly how rough a treatment Zachariah would receive if he was found out before they left the city.

Or Mathias, for that matter.

“Mathias,” they said gently. Mathias immediately stopped laughing. His hands shook. “What happens to you if you’re found out?”

“Oh.” Mathias laughed. “Nothing. I’m just worried about the rescues. They deserve better than they get, and it’s not their fault people don’t stop long enough to hear their story.”

“I kn-know— knew someone like that,” Gray said, nodding. They held out their hand to Zachariah. “Here. Let’s get you into the back seat, then. There’s a lot of legroom. Lots of room for you to lay on the floor. And blankets.” Gray walked around the side of the car and pulled out a blanket. “Here.”

“Th-thank you, Mx.,” Zachariah sighed as he gratefully took the blanket. It was gray and patchy, but he clutched at it as if it was a lifeline. He dazedly stepped into the back of the car and slumped in a pile behind the passenger seat. He placed his backpack carefully in front of him. Gray gently closed the car door and walked around to the driver’s side.

“Thank you,” Mathias breathed. “I… I see a few of these come through every year. Shit circumstances. Every time. And I…” He rubbed his hands together. “They can’t help the world we live in. I just want to… help the ones that don’t have someone they can, um, trust up here. The mayor is a good man, but—”

“But some fall through the cracks,” Gray said gently, carefully watching the man’s eyes, his hands. “I know.”

“Yeah,” Mathias huffed. “Well… I’ll, um… let you go now. Thank you. I won’t… won’t make this a regular thing. I promise.”

Gray shrugged. “Where we can help, we will.”

Mathias nodded. He stepped back into the doorway to his house. He pressed a button on the wall, and the garage door creaked and began to open.

Gray settled into the car and tipped his head at Mathias. Mathias nodded.

“Zachariah?” Gray said, looking over their shoulder at the boy.

He was huddled behind the passenger seat, his head tipped back against the door, already fast asleep.

Continued here

@untilthepainstarts, @womping-grounds, @free-2bmee, @quirkykayleetam, @walkingchemicalfire, @inpainandsuffering, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @whatwhumpcomments, @cursedscribbles, @whumpywhumper, @stxck-fxck, @omega-em-z-02, @whumps-the-word, @justwhumpitwhumpitgood, @justplainwhump, @moose-teeth, @slaintetowhump, @finder-of-rings, @inky-whump, @thatsthewhump, @orchidscript, @insanitywishes, @this-mightaswell-happen, @newandfiguringitout, @whumpkitty, @pretty-face-breaker, @cinnamonflavoredhugs, @inaridriscoll, @im-just-here-for-the-whump, @endless-whump, @grizzlie70, @oops-its-whump

#honor bound 4 #whumptober 2020 #no. 5 #on the run #no. 17 #dirty secret #no. 25 #I think I'll just collapse right here thanks #OC #fic #blood tw #economy control tw #past torture #dehumanization tw #Gray: mom friend #re-introducing:#Zachariah: a boy who needs a nap

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falcon-eye · 4 years

Text

Part 3? of the story for my OCs for @inexplicifics Accidental Warlord AU! I intended to only write like the opening paragraph for this today but now it’s two hours later and the whole thing is typed out. Oops.

At some point this will all be on AO3, I promise! But until then, should I do a tag list? Would people want me to tag them as I write these in the meantime? Please let me know!

(Also points to whoever can guess what Veko’s talking about when it comes to colors and smells and things! I also have it, though not exactly like Veko does)

(Also bonus points to wherever can figure out what real life goat Ren is based on lol)

———————————————

Unfortunately, Veko wasn’t able to return to Eloise for a few more years. Between simply not being in the area, not having time between hunts, his brother Hamra almost being disemboweled one year, and his own injuries, he just hadn’t been able to make his way to her little town in Temeria.

This year, he was determined to go back, though he wasn’t sure why. He chalked it up to being able to stay somewhere comfortable, with actual good food, for free, but even he knew that was a flimsy excuse. Eloise fascinated him, for lack of a better word. She hadn’t been afraid of him—quite the opposite! From the get-go it was like she had tried to intimidate him, and godsdammit it worked. But she was so nice to him, and despite what she said, her food was quite good. Or maybe everything Veko had been eating recently was just that awful.

Veko swung down off of Nine—his new gray mare after Eight became wyvern food (rest in peace you prick)—and hitched her to the fence post outside Eloise’s house. For some reason, he was nervous to see her again. Was it because it had been so long (for a human anyway) since he’d been here? He didn’t want her to think he wanted out of their deal or anything.

Veko brushed as much dirt and grime off of his armor as he could before knocking on the door. A moment later, it swung open and Eloise stared up at him with wide eyes.

Veko scratched his burns. “Uh, hello Elo—“

Eloise threw herself at him, arms around his neck. “Oh my gods!” she cried. “You fucking prick! Where have you been?!” Veko faltered for a moment before tentatively wrapping his arms around Eloise’s, but she immediately pulled back, giving him an icy glare. “Well?!”

“I, uh, I’ve been... busy,” Veko replied, but for some reason, Veko felt awful despite it being the truth.

“Busy!” Eloise exclaimed. Holy shit, she’d really been upset about this.

“I’m sorry,” Veko said, staring down at his boots. “I really am. And—and I really was busy. I don’t want you to think I was trying to get out of the deal or anything, cuz I wasn’t—“

“You think I’m upset because of the fucking deal?!” Eloise shouted. Veko blinked at her and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “For Melitele’s—get in here!”

Eloise pulled Veko into the house and slammed the door. Despite the few years that had gone by, not much inside had changed. There were more paint supplies strewn around the house than last time, but that was about it.

Veko scratched his scars again and Eloise slapped his hand away. “Sorry,” he said automatically.

“I thought you were dead!” Eloise shouted, poking a finger into Veko’s chest. “You’re a bloody Witcher! That’s what happens, isn’t it? You fight monsters, and then you die. Well godsdamn you I thought you died!”

Veko was horrified when the salty smell of tears began tickling his nose; something must have showed on his face, because Eloise rubbed her eyes quickly, not letting any of them fall.

“I’m sorry,” Veko said again.

Eloise glared at him again before suddenly hugging him. “Fucking git,” she hissed. “Send a letter or something, at least! I don’t know how to get ahold of you but I’m always here!”

Veko hesitated again but hugged Eloise back. This time, she didn’t pull away. “Sorry,” he said into her hair. “Just, every time I was in the area, something would come up, or my brother was hurt, or I was too injured to travel—“

“Are you ok now?!”

“Oh yeah, all healed up now.”

“And your brother?”

Veko smiled sadly, remembering the blood on his hands and the horrifying look of resignation on Hamra’s face. “Touch and go for a bit, but yeah, he also made a full recovery. I just couldn’t leave him like that.”

Eloise finally pulled away and crossed her arms. “Well damn,” she grumbled. “How can I be mad at you now?”

Veko chuckled, feeling like a weight had lifted off of his chest.

—————

During lunch, Eloise filled him in on how things had been going since they’d seen each other. Lennart was still a bastard, but after being slapped in front of the gods and everyone by a lady at the tavern, he’d been officially removed from his position. A local woman had taken the title of alderwoman now, and things had been a lot better. A few of Eloise’s goats had had multiple babies, though a wolf problem last year had taken a few of them. She still had one of her original nanny goats, though, and apparently this particular goat was about as stubborn as they come.

“She actually chased one of the wolves off, even!” Eloise explained. “Charged it head on. I’ve never seen a wolf roll like that in my life.”

“Remind me not to piss your goats off, then,” Veko chuckled.

Eloise seemed to pause for a moment. “I actually have to go feed them,” she said. “Plus, your horse has just been... well, outside tied to my fence. Come with me?”

So that was how Veko found himself leading his horse to the tiny barn behind Eloise’s house. He could see a couple goats that were obviously youngsters immediately rush over to the fence, bleating loudly. From within the barn, a huge tan goat trotted out and fucking screamed.

Veko flinched and even Nine pulled back. “Sorry, sorry,” Eloise said. “That’s Georgina. She’s... special.”

“I’ll say,” Veko grumbled. “This our wolf chaser?”

Eloise shook her head and pointed to another goat on the opposite side of the paddock. A little black thing, shorter than the others, with huge, curled horns. Eloise whistled and the goat immediately charged—and slammed horns first—into the fence.

“Ren,” Eloise said, crouching down to scratch the goat between the ears. “She’s harmless. Mostly.”

Veko looked at Nine and seemed to almost share a stare with the horse. A ‘can you believe this shit?’ moment that got Veko chuckling despite himself.

“Whatever you say.”

Eloise led Veko and Nine into the barn and into a small empty stall. “This was my father’s horse’s stall,” she explained as Veko began undoing Nine’s tack.

“Where is your old man, anyway?” he asked as he heaved the saddle down.

Eloise looked away. “He, um,” she cleared her throat. “He passed, um, a few months after you left.”

Veko dropped the saddle. “Fuck,” he said. “I’m—I’m so sorry. Fuck, if I’d known—“

“Veko,” Eloise put a hand on his arm, “my father was sick. Even I didn’t realize how badly until a week before he went. But it was... it was peaceful, at least. I’d made him dinner, he wished me goodnight, and I found him in the morning.”

Veko honestly didn’t know what else to say. Death was a weird subject for Witchers, after all. He continued grooming Nine while searching desperately for something to say that wasn’t ‘sorry’ again.

“Did he have... a funeral?” Veko asked. He could’ve slapped himself. Of course he had a fucking funeral.

Eloise seemed to sense Veko’s fumbling, because she smiled gently and nodded. “A very nice one, too,” she said. “I’ll go get some water for your horse.”

As Eloise walked away, Nine looked at Veko again. What was it with this horse? Veko pointed a warning finger in his face; Nine simply huffed and turned away. Somewhere, Hamra was laughing, Veko was sure of it. His brother had always had a good relationship with his horses.

Eloise returned a moment later with a bucket of water. Veko immediately took it from her and poured it into the empty trough.

“What’s her name?” Eloise asked. If he could blush, Veko would’ve been scarlet.

“Nine,” he said.

“‘Nine’?” Eloise repeated. “Does that mean something in another language or like, the number?”

“The, uh, the number.”

Eloise slapped Veko’s hand as it reached for his scars. “Why?”

“She’s my... ninth horse.”

There was beat before Eloise burst out laughing. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Veko smirked to cover his embarrassment. “So I’ve been told.”

Eloise rolled her eyes and headed over to the opposite end of the barn. The far wall was lined with bales of hay. Before she could even reach for one, Veko rushed over and hoisted one over his shoulder. Eloise put her hands on her hips.

“You know I’ve been doing this for years even before you showed up, right?” And she had a point; what was wrong with him?

“I, uh,” he looked anywhere but at Eloise, trying to find an excuse. “I figured it’s... been a while since I’ve been here so I, uh, owe you. I guess.”

“Are you telling me or asking me?”

“Yes.”

Eloise laughed. “Ok then,” she said, heading back out of the barn. “I’ll get the gate at least.”

Veko followed Eloise to the paddock and held Ren by a leather strap around her neck while he made his way through the gate. The other goats immediately began following him. As soon as the hay hit the ground, the goats descended. Eloise let Ren go and the other goats parted to let her through.

“I never realized how scary goats were,” Veko said as Eloise latched the gate closed.

“To be fair, I have quite the herd of characters,” she replied. “Most people have a rooster to wake them at sunrise; I have Georgina and her screaming. Ren is like my own personal guard hound. Sometimes she gets out and chases off anyone who gets near the house. The others are still young, yet, but they’re slowly starting to show their personalities.”

“I’ll stick with horses, I think,” Veko said. “They’re enough trouble as it is.”

“Apparently!” Eloise laughed as she and Veko made their way back to the house. “Seeing as you’ve had nine of them!”

“This is a dangerous job!” Veko defended, but the tone was joking. “Plus in the grand scheme of things, nine horses hasn’t been a lot for how long I’ve been on the Path.”

Eloise’s brow furrowed. “How old are you?”

“Old.”

Eloise scoffed and started gathering some of her paints. Veko followed her into her art room, not sure what else to do at this point, and found the walls covered in different paintings than the last time he’d been here. One in an ornate frame was her father, exactly as real as if he was standing before them.

Eloise picked up a few leather straps from one of the tables. “Help me with something,” she said. “I’m going to repaint the goats’ collars and I don’t know what color to give who. I want you to help me decide.”

“Ok?” Veko said, taking a seat. “Why?”

“Something you said to my father, when you saved him,” Eloise replied. “It always confused him. He told you he lived in the house with the blue roof and you said it suited him. Why?”

Veko went to scratch his scars, but instead balled his hand into the fabric of his pants. “Well, it’s, uh,” he hesitated. Of all things for that old man to focus on!

“My father was always fascinated with color,” Eloise said, as if sensing Veko needed a minute. “That’s how I got into painting. He was never content with something being the original color it was. Hence, the blue roof. He said that you saying the blue suited him kind of, I don’t know, validated him.”

Veko’s chest felt tight. Now he felt fucking terrible for not being here before. Maybe Eloise’s father would’ve understood, or at least found it interesting that—

Veko cleared his throat. “So, sometimes,” he began, staring down at his hands. “When I think of things, or names, or... well anything, really. I get these senses.” When he looked up, Eloise was enraptured. “Like, your father, just looking at him, the color blue came to mind. I don’t know why.”

“Just colors?”

Veko shook his head. “Smells, sometimes. Like when I think of you... I, uh, I think of the smell of your paints.”

“That’s... that’s fascinating, Veko,” Eloise said. “Tell me more?”

Veko gestured to the collars. “Well, you’re trying to figure out what color for what goat. As soon as you said Georgina, green came to mind. I don’t know why. And Ren is red, but not because the name and word are close. Uh, sometimes when I picture my supplies in my pack, I see them like they’re all laid out on the table, lined up side-by-side, despite the fact that I know damn well they’re a jumbled mess in my bag. And in my head, the order is always the same. I kinda do the same thing with months. I see them lined up like squares on a wall.” Veko grimaced. Fuck. “No, ‘see’ is the wrong word, cuz I don’t—I’m not hallucinating or anything!”

“I believe you,” Eloise said softly, taking one of Veko’s hands in hers. And she was telling the truth. Veko felt the tension in his body release.

“It’s weird, I know,” he said. “So I don’t normally say anything. When I was younger the trainers thought my head got fucked up by the mutagens but it’s just the way I’ve always been.”

“Does your brother have this too?”

“No,” Veko chuckled. “But he’s been the most receptive to it, even if he doesn’t understand it. Like, his favorite color is green, but when I think of him I think of like an indigo color. And I’m red, but I don’t know why.”

“What about me?” Veko met Eloise’s gaze and held it. The look on her face was one of honest curiosity and interest. She smiled at him and squeezed his fingers. “What do you see when you think of me?”

Veko swallowed. “I see turquoise, like the color your dress was the first time we met. I don’t know if it’s because that’s what you were wearing or what, but when I think ‘Eloise’ I think of that faint turquoise color.”

“Does it work for family names?”

“Sometimes. What is your full name, anyway?”

“Eloise Calold.”

Veko cocked his head to the side. “Yellow,” he said. “Calold is yellow.”

“But not because of anything I’m wearing,” Eloise said, gesturing to the paint-stained brown smock she was currently wearing.

“Guess not.”

“Veko,” Eloise breathed. “That is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard of. So you see colors? Or, think in colors? I wish I had that. I wonder how it would affect my art. I wonder how it would affect your art.”

Veko pulled away and put his hands up. “Hey, whoa, who said anything about me being an artist?” he said.

Eloise laughed. “I bet you’re better than you think,” she said.

“I bet not.”

Eloise smirked. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll drop the subject if you do something for me.”

“Name it?”

“Let me paint you.”

Veko again was struck silent. She wanted to paint him? Apparently his mouth was hanging open, because Eloise tapped his chin to close it. “Why?” he managed.

“Because,” she replied. “We’re... friends. Or I like to think we are. And in case... in case something happens to you...” she gazed at the painting of her father, smiling down warmly at them, “I want you to be immortalized with him.”

What the fuck could Veko say to that? “Oh. Ok,” he said dumbly. “Uh. How do you want me?”

Eloise jumped up and ran for a blank canvas. “Whatever’s comfortable!” she called. “It takes a while.”

Veko just... sat there as Eloise began setting up. He turned this way and that, never quite settling, before Eloise huffed and dragged an armchair over. Veko abandoned the stool he’d been on and sat back into the warn leather.

“Better,” he said. He turned, scar facing away, and immediately Eloise’s hand reached out to turn him back. Her fingers grazed the puckered mess that was his cheek and he flinched.

“I’m sorry,” Eloise said gently. “I just—I want to see it.”

“Why?” Veko whispered.

“Because it’s a part of you,” Eloise replied. “And gods know I’ve kept you from scratching it enough.”

There was a moment where neither of them said a word. Veko’s heart sped in his chest like it hadn’t in many years. Eloise gazed over his burn scars and gently brushed her fingers over them again. Veko didn’t flinch this time, but just barely. Her fingers were cool against the phantom heat of his burns, and as she traced the expanse of them along his jaw, he couldn’t hold back the full-body shiver the touch elicited.

Eloise pulled back and Veko scrambled to find something to say before she said anything else about them. “So—so how does this work?” he asked. “I, uh, I just sit here?”

Eloise nodded and finally pulled back. “Yes,” she said, not meeting his gaze. Now that he was out of his own head, Veko could hear her heart hammering in her chest. “Just, um, get comfortable, relax, and um, don’t... don’t move, if you can help it.”

Veko grinned. “Ok.” Eloise nodded and began mixing a few paints.

Veko just... watched her. As brush met paint and paint met canvas, he could almost see the cogs turning in her head. Instead of sticking her tongue out, like he’d heard some artists do, she made faces. A stroke here and her mouth pinched to the side; stroke there and her mouth opened in a little ‘o’.

Veko wanted to slip into meditation, as that would be the best way to sit still for her, but he found he just couldn’t. As much as Eloise was watching him for her painting, he wanted to watch her. He couldn’t help but think of the last time they’d seen each other, and what he thought of her then. She wasn’t all that attractive, merely plain by any standards. Her laugh was unladylike and jarring. She intimidated him. She swore. She—

She made him dinner. She let him sleep in her home. She told him stories and listened to his in turn. She wanted his opinions. She found his mental crap fascinating. She worried for him. She cried for him!

She called them friends.

As Veko sat, watching Eloise paint his portrait, a warm weight settled in his gut. He didn’t want to leave in the morning. Hells, he didn’t want her to ever finish this bloody painting. And although emotions aren’t exactly a Witcher’s strong point, he had a sinking suspicion that what he was feeling...

Fuck.

#falcon writes #inexplicifics #accidental warlord au #the witcher #witcher oc

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phoenix1966sbottom · 5 years

Photo

The Nine Doors

Author name: nerdypastrychef

Artist name: phoenix1966

Genre: Wincest

Pairing: Dean/OC,Sam/Dean

Rating: NC-17

Word count: 18,000

Warnings: switching (see Ao3 for additional tags)

Summary: Dean Winchester, renowned book hunter, is called up in the middle of the night by one of his wealthiest clients, Alastair, and enters into something much more dangerous than hunting down an infamous book.

Link to fic: on AO3 (archiveofourown.org/works/20981162)

Link to art: LJ | Tumblr This was my first Eldritch Bang and I was very lucky to get to work on this story. I hope my images did it justice. I'm a big fan of the film The Ninth Gate, so this was definitely a labor of love. Also, there is a spoiler-y image below the Keep Reading cutoff.

I work with 3d models I sculpted in Zbrush, occasionally painting in additional facial features via Painter 2018. All the images are nearly untouched renders using Nvidia’s iray render engine.

Well, Tumblr broke the gif below the Keep Reading line, so let me see if I can post it another way. Grr. You can view it on LJ (link above).

#spn eldritch bang #wincest #top!sam #bottom!dean #switching #needy!dean

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puttingfingerstokeys · 5 years

Text

Dragon-borne Victory

Nanowrimo 2019 day 7 and 8 (I was on a roll) Featuring Ulfric Stormcloak, and a couple of @apexworthy‘s OCs, Narada and Azriel High fantasy Skyrim, Stormcloak victory in Solitude, violence, destruction, martyrdom Finished and unedited

Solitude was in flames, so hot in places that the very stone had begun to crack and falter. The foundations were ancient, however, and had not given way to the Ghost Sea in millennia. Today would not be the day they fell.

Ulfric strode down the main street, surrounded on either side by a retinue of guards led by Galmar Stone-fist, shouting orders and tossing fleeing citizens aside. The jarl of Windhelm advised a bit more decorum which Galmar immediately shrugged off and ignored.

“We are not conquerors,” Ulfric reminded his friend, “but liberators. The tyranny of the Empire ends today; we will crumble its foundations, but first we must appeal to Elisif’s heritage and her pride as a nord.”

“Why appeal to a wench who just picked her husband’s crown up off the floor and sat it upon her own head?” Galmar spat, pulling a face and gesturing to one of their archers to keep an eye on the overhang up ahead.

“She is still a jarl by right,” Ulfric growled, “if not a queen. We will afford her as much respect as is necessary.”

Galmar scoffed at this, too, but said nothing, titing his gaze upward. As if on cue, two massive shapes flew over, beating wicked, leathery wings upon the air, one set red and black, the other black and white, obscured almost entirely through the smoke of the burning city. Galmar marveled at the spectacle of the two dragons, but had little time to allow his jaw to hang open.

“The crown,” Ulfric added after a pensive moment, “wasn’t placed on her head, but on that of Falk Firebeard. I want him found… alive, Galmar.”

Galmar understood and nodded sharply, relaying orders. Ulfric continued onward, sword in hand. His blade was covered in blood. He had been at the front, fighting their way into Solitude, a road made much easier by the fact that he had touched down upon the back of a great dragon. He owed Varstaag much and was glad he had trusted the strange mage; his leap of faith had rewarded him tenfold, in its way.

All the same, the burning of the once beautiful city brought Ulfric Stormcloak no joy. His lips were set in a grim scar across his soot-stained, lacerated face. The guards of the town had fought hard, some of the citizens harder, to keep the Stormcloaks out. And why shouldn’t they? Would we not do the same at the Palace of Kings?

There were, he had noted, far fewer citizenry taking up arms than there would have been in Windhelm, however. That Torygg had been a passive high king was a known fact amongst the people of Skyrim. That his own citizens had not been terribly fond of this was somewhat lesser known, but to be expected. The wealthy kept him in power because his compliance with the Titus Mede and his regime filled their purses, no reason other than that.

Ulfric could not begrudge them their motivations. In a harsh land like Skyrim, wealth was hard to come by and when it was acquired, seldom was it released. Making a living so far north, in such an untenable climate was nearly impossible. Trade with other lands was one of the only ways to thrive in this place. He understood the economic implications of his rebellion as well. He assumed that their trade with any Empire-affiliated nation would be heavily taxed, or cut off entirely, but he knew they had a potential ally in Hammerfell.

Others would have to be forged and re-forged, the most difficult of these being the ancient Ebonheart pact. Ulfric had chosen to open his gates to displaced dunmer, but the argonian people were still very much outsiders. He had judged the favor of Morrowind more important than that of Black Marsh, a costly decision, but it was a choice of refugees versus free people, unhindered by the violent explosion of half their home. The decision had been costly, yes, but clear.

As much as many dunmer disliked his rule in Windhelm, he knew most of them also grudgingly respected his decision to give the so-called Gray Quarter, previously a nearly untenable slum, to refugees of Vvardenfell and would honor that favor with their own. The Summerset Isles had never done Morrowind any favors, as far as Ulfric was aware. But the first step was finishing what he had started here, in Skyrim. His sword was stained by the blood of Tullius, the Imperial liaison to Skyrim; he hoped he would not have to sully it with the blood of a largely innocent woman.

Elisif the fair was loved by her subjects insofar as she was beautiful, young, and had done little to offend them. As far as Ulfric was aware, she had done little, period. She had not even done Torygg the courtesy of bearing him any children. But that might have been his doing, rather than hers. It was well known he was quite a few years older than she was. A wry smile flashed across Ulfric’s craggy face as he imagined their wedding night. The thought was crude, crass, and gone as soon as it had come. He shook his head and sighed, weary with the whole of it, the smell of smoke and fire, the ring of steel upon steel. It needed to end. He would end it, today.

Before the doors of the Blue Palace, Falk Firebeard stood in their way, negating the need to find him. Galmar cried out in amusement and dropped back to clap Ulfric on the shoulder. “Look who we’ve found, and so easily! I thought for sure we would find him cowering amongst Elisif’s skirts!”

The laugher from their retinue was bawdy. Ulfric did not join in, but once more, the ghost of a smile he’d experience earlier returned and then fled just as quickly. “Stand aside,” he rumbled. Falk eyed him and his men up and down. The rest of the retinue had parted, leaving Ulfric, Galmar at his side, standing face-to-face with Falk. “Unless you would step forward in single combat, Falk Firebeard.”

Somehow, he doubted the man would do this. He had an imposing appearance, with hair as red as his name suggested. He was a full-blooded nord, but had almost completely embraced the comforts the Empire had provided to Solitude and it showed. He as soft. Ulfric did not like soft men. He was willing to give the man a chance to display his loyalty to Elisif, however. This alone would have impressed the jarl of Windhelm.

When Falk stepped aside, a simple jerk of Ulfric’s head indicated his fate was to be determined by Galmar, who advanced upon him as Ulfric passed the threshold of the Blue Palace. He did not look back as the doors closed behind him. He leaned his sword against a potted plant and focused upon the sound of his boots striking marble floors, rather than the shrieking without.

“Savage!” He heard this voice over the din of everything else going on outside. Elisif was further in, likely upon her unearned throne. Ulfric disregarded her accusation and began to climb the accursed stairs to meet her. “Kingslayer! Bastard!”

Ulfric denied none of these things as he climbed. “War makes savages out of men,” he said evenly. “I killed the High King in single combat… and I did not know my mother.”

He fully expected her to be armed and was not disappointed in the least when he mounted the final step. Elisif held a dagger to her own throat, rather than brandishing it at him. At the very least, she had thought ahead, knowing she could not overpower him with any weapon and opting for the next best thing.

“Coward,” she hissed.

“Not for quite some time,” he responded, dropping to one knee. “Jarl Elisif, I’ve come to treat with you, to end this senseless slaughter of the true children of Skyrim.”

Once more, and with excellent timing, the dragons made themselves known, trumpeting and bellowing overhead, shooting gouts of flame and frost into the air as they circled, searching for more prey and thus, entertainment.

“What do you know of sense?” Her voice was husky and low, on the verge of tears she would not permit to fall. Ulfric admired this strength, but found it foolish at this late stage in the game. Whence had it come and where was it when Falk Firebeard was puppeteering her court?

“I have had the sense to remove the Imperial connection to this land,” said Ulfric, remaining in his kneeling pose but meeting her eyes, rather than genuflecting as one might to a queen. “Tullius is dead and Rikke is in my custody.”

“Why not just kill her too?” The dagger was still pressed to the soft, unblemished flesh of Elisif’s neck. Ulfric admired this determination as well. Elisif had more grit in her than her late husband, that was certain.

“She is a native of this land,” he replied, “but Sovngarde is not for those who betray their loyalties. She might have died with a sword in hand, but for what? An empire whose rule is determined by elves who defile the gods by stealing Talos away from man?”

She winced at the name of the forbidden ninth Divine. There were Talos worshipers in Solitude still, despite their best efforts and execution of those who broke the White-Gold concordat. “It was the price of peace!”

“A price that is blasphemous,” barked Ulfric. “Talos is the very symbol of our people, a Septim and of the line of Martin, the founder of the very Empire that even now denies his divinity to appease elves.” Even Ulfric hated the way he spat that word, but after the war, he could hardly have been blamed for his dislike of their ilk.

Despite his personal grievances, he had not barred a single elf from joining the Stormcloaks, or entering his city lawfully. There were elves who owned businesses, those who frequented the Palace of Kings, and had even sat upon Ulfric’s war council as they planned this final attack upon Solitude.

“I just want peace,” she admitted quietly, her dagger dropping into her lap. Only then did Ulfric stands, but he did not move closer. Instead, he watched her, studying her young features. She could not have been much more than twenty, soft of flesh and beautiful. She was a woman in the prime of her life, married to a middle-aged puppet of the empire who had given her no children to love and had likely bored her to tears, to the point where her attention (and affection, if rumors could be believed) turned elsewhere.

Ulfric had long ago chosen not to give credence to these rumors. He had it on excellent authority, however, that Falk Firebeard had been tasked with the daily goings-on in the court. Any questions posited to the jarl and so-called High Queen were inevitably funneled through Falk, that much he had ascertained early on after Torygg’s demise. Falk was therefore a high priority target and, despite the howling he’d left behind, Ulfric had given his men the very strictest instructions to leave Falk alive, at least long enough to gain valuable information regarding the Empire and their supply caravan routes or troop movements, if indeed he had been privy to any of this. If not, Ulfric would decide his fate when he returned to Windhelm.

And he did intend to return. No slip of a twenty year old girl would prevent that. Ulfric doubted her dagger would even be able to pierce his armor; she didn’t have the strength for it. There were bags under her eyes and the way her shoulders sagged told him she had not gotten much sleep in the days, perhaps weeks, leading up to the final assault. That there were no guards left in the palace spoke for either their disloyalty, or her integrity as a ruler—perhaps both. She had sent them out into the city to help her people, or she had sent them home so the Stormcloak soldiers would not slaughter them like dogs, with a roof over their heads. There was a third option, of course, one he could almost hear in Jorleif’s voice. “She’s planning on martyrdom,” he would have said. “Don’t give it to her.”

Jorleif’s counsel had been invaluable throughout Ulfric’s time as jarl. The man himself was humble, claiming that Ulfric referred to his opinions because they were those of an inexperienced outsider. It was true that Jorleif was no warrior, no tactician, general, or king, but he was honest, intelligent, and incredibly cunning, given his gentle mannerisms. It was he who had first advised Jarl Ulfric not to play into the rumors of Elisif’s unfaithfulness. He had advised that the winning of this war would be at great cost, regardless, and that besmirching the name of a fair young woman would not reflect well upon Ulfric when he became High King. They would win this war the way it was meant to be won, with skill, strength, and their faith in Talos.

“Peace in Skyrim,” Ulfric intoned sonorously, “will only come when her people are not hunted down in alleys like dogs for the worship of Talos. On the orders of elves, my people—our people, Elisif—have been slaughtered.”

“And YOU have slaughtered them, Ulfric. You.”

“Torygg, by his complacency and acceptance of the puppet rule of the Mede dynasty in Cyrodiil, by offering quarter, aid, and succor to Imperial forces, by allowing the Thalmor free reign in Skyrim, has killed those people. He may not have raised a hand to the children of Skyrim, but his complicit seat on that throne,” Ulfric growled, gesturing to the place where she now sat, “has spilled blood. More blood will yet spill if this is allowed to continue.”

Elisif’s conviction faltered at his words. She shifted in her seat, the dagger still firmly in one fist, laid in her lap, but not forgotten. Ulfric did not move closer. He took on a more relaxed posture, but even with his weight balanced almost casually upon one hip, he was an impressive figure. With him, he had brought the smell of blood, of smoke, of sweat and leather, and of her city, ablaze and crying out for relief. He was a killer, she knew, but he was also a soldier, a jarl, a brilliant tactician and commander, and of Ysgramor’s blood. He, more than any other jarl, had a proper claim to the seat of High King. Why, then, had he not brought it up yet? Why bother appealing to her gentler nature. He could have slaughtered her where she sat, with his bare hands, or perhaps with a Shout. But he had not. She looked at him, puzzled.

Overhead, a dragon bellowed once more. Elisif winced and Ulfric uttered a quiet prayer. “Praise Talos,” he rumbled, “that they are on our side.”

“Our side?” The indignant rage in her voice was evident, though she kept her tone calm. Her smile was unpleasant, sweet only in that it was upon her beautiful face. It did not reach her eyes. “They burn my city, Jarl Ulfric. Solitude is being torn asunder by your so-called Talos-given ‘gifts’.” She had no idea how Ulfric had managed to tame not one, but two, fully-grown dragons. They had only been seen upon the field of battle in recent weeks, in the march leading to her home. She suspected this had been done on purpose, but had no method or reason to prove it.

“The children of Skyrim will be victorious this day,” he declared quietly, meeting her gaze, “when Solitude’s bastion of Imperial soldiers are removed, one way or another. Skyrim has earned her sovereignty. Talos bless us, Skyrim is free… Unless you would stop me, Elisif. But I think, in your heart of hearts, you hear what I am saying and, despite the loss of life and precious blood, you agree… and maybe you have for a long time.”

Her heart thudded hard in her chest. Was Ulfric giving her an out? Was he opening an avenue to her which would allow Elisif to live a free, unhindered life as the jarl of Solitude, where her people did not hate her for surrendering to the Stormcloak army? On the one hand, no one could be blamed for bending the knee to a man with two dragons, but the pride of nords ran deep and she would be forever remembered as a cowardly jarl and a usurper queen with no claim to the high throne. She sat in Potema’s castle, after all; why would any other queen who occupied her space do anything but add to the dark legacy.

“What you are saying is—”

“A guess, and only that, Jarl Elisif.”

Her mind raced, her pulse hammered, and a thousand and one thoughts and emotions flashed through her heart and mind in the few seconds it took to make a decision. She wrapped a hand tighter around the dagger and pursed her lips, closing her eyes. “You ask me to betray my late husband, to betray my lover—yes, Falk Firebeard was my lover, and why shouldn’t he be? They say you’ve long since taken a lover yourself…” She stopped herself, realizing she was rambling. Elisif had not noticed the minute shift in Ulfric’s expression which would have, to anyone but those who knew him well, signaled nothing but perhaps scornfully cordial interest, but which was actually a modicum of fear, or at least worry. “I will not do these things to save face, Ulfric Stormcloak, kingslayer.”

He admired her nord pride, but when the blade of the dagger flashed upward, Ulfric had little time to appreciate her strength and decision. He moved with speed that a man of his size should not have had, grabbing her wrist tightly and tugging the dagger away, though not before it had pierced her throat quite deeply. Red rivulets ran down her pale breast, staining the front of her dress almost instantly. He clapped a gloved hand to her throat as she wrestled with him, her already feeble strength from grief and lack of sleep easily overcome by his. She fell out of the chair, convulsing wildly as he clamped the hand down hard, pulling Elisif to him. Was there time to call for a healer?

“Murder….er,” she choked, staring up into his eyes, daring him to argue. He could not. Ulfric reflected in the few seconds before the door to the Blue Palace burst open that he should have disarmed her immediately, made certain she could not do something like this. He had been careless and it had cost him dearly. Ulfric cared little for Elisif in principle; he hardly knew her. What she stood for, however, was a soft, gentle fairness that may have benefited the people of Skyrim and particularly of Solitude in the coming conflict with the Aldmeri Dominion. She, had he been able to sway her, might have been a symbol.

“Ulfric!” Galmar’s voice rang through the halls and the sound of armor clanking, leather creaking and feet hitting stone echoed almost violently in the sepulchral space. “Ulfric, where—!”

Galmar had crested the final step to see the tableau which had befallen the jarl of Windhelm. Elisif had breathed her last, her eyes going glassy and her cheeks, once rosy with righteous fury, paling in death. She was still fair, even as Ulfric Stormcloak stood, holding her slight body in his arms, the dagger at his feet where she had dropped it when he arrested her wrist, too late by seconds.

“She…” Galmar’s voice was low. “But Jarl Ulfric, you can’t be seen with her body; are you mad? First Torygg, now—”

“Torygg met my challenge and failed. Elisif took her own life, rather than be swayed by my words and my cause. They died as nords and their souls will be borne swiftly to Sovngarde. Help me see to her, Galmar.”

“O-of course, my lord,” responded the general, his eyes flitting to the bloodstained dagger and the trail of crimson which followed Ulfric. He stooped to grasp the dagger and followed Ulfric down the stairs, hesitance lacing every bone in his body. He had never felt so apprehensive about a battle in all his days, though Whiterun had been close.

But the cause and course were clear: sovereignty for Skyrim meant spilling blood. He knew the jarl regretted this sacrifice, but also knew that Ulfric understood, perhaps better than anyone, how necessary it was to do so. As long as the Empire was under the thumb of the Aldmeri Dominion, Skyrim would be in tatters, their lands raped, their wealth pillaged, and their gods torn asunder. This was truth, plain and simple.

The jarl of Windhelm bore Elisif’s body out into the palace courtyard, and then into the city proper. In the short span of time he had spent speaking with Elisif the Fair, scores of Stormcloak soldiers had arrived, reinforcements from around Skyrim, many of them new recruits, to put out the fires and help begin the task of restoring Solitude.

Far above, both dragons circled, watching, catching their wings on the wind and gliding, pleased at the work they had done, but eager for more. Below, Ulfric instructed his men to build a pyre. “She died with blade in hand,” he insisted, gesturing with a gentle jerk of his chin that Galmar should produce the dagger. “She will have it on her way to Sovngarde.”

Ulfric tilted his cobalt gaze upward, to the smoke-filled sky and nodded his thanks to the dragons, his two greatest helpers. They would be needed again, but for now, the sky was theirs. This pyre was a rite for the people of Solitude and for the Stormcloaks, to understand what the new era would bring, the sacrifices they would have to make for it to come to pass, and the values they shared which signified a sovereign, united Skyrim.

#OC #CC #CW #nano #high fantasy #ulfric stormcloak #skyrim #suicide #violence #azriel #narada

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sweeter-thejuice · 6 years

Text

Bound: I

OC x Erik

Warnings: smut, angst

Word Count: 6.2k

Sweat glistened off of my body while my legs pumped at full speed, half resistance on the elliptical. With music blasting in my ear, I pumped hard trying to drown out the stress and trepidation that resonated through my bones over these past five days. Coming back to my hometown gave me a certain uneasiness that I couldn't ignore. The gym being my main stress outlet, I made it my first priority, the second I got here, to get a weekend pass to work out until I was numb, physically and mentally.

It’s been three years since I left this town, unannounced. Mia, my best friend, being the only person informed of my whereabouts. I made the impulsive decision of moving from New York to California, 2,764 miles away from everyone, the day after my high school graduation. This weekend was the first time we’d seen in each other in years. Over the past years, the act of Mia and I interacting, physically, was forbidden and taboo. I wanted nothing persuading or swaying me to feel guilty of my selfish decision. We communicated through social media and FaceTime, keeping our connection strong. Now that I’m prepared, and my life in California is too established for me to leave, I decided it was time for us to have a reunion.

Minus the constant trouble, negative energy and depression, I did, unfortunately, have a good, oblivious life here in Brooklyn. The universe gave me friends that cared about me, a boyfriend who loved me, and, all-in-all, a family that I chose.

We’re called the fab five. Five of the baddest, black women in our hometown walking around like the world revolved around our satisfaction. Honestly, we’re just a bunch of rude bitches, dividing and starting unnecessary mess within our community. The fab five hosts all of the parties, keeps our grades top of our class, dresses to impress, keeps our hair and nails slayed and only dates men that were above or on our level. You had to be cute, to our standards, or rich to associate yourself with us. We didn't even know the damage we were causing to self-esteems and quite frankly, we didn't care. The group started in the ninth grade and lasted until our senior year, surprisingly.

Tori, a dark-skinned, beautiful demon is the leader of the group. With her being rich, powerful and smart, the name and rules of the group was coined by her. Jade, Tori’s right hand woman, is always cleaning up Tori’s mess and creating some of her own. Her light skin complexion got her in and out of a lot of trouble. Keiosha, another member, followed Tori and Jade. The most calm of the group, Kei made it a priority to stay out of mess and settle any beefs. Although peace is her mantra, she finds herself in a lot of sticky situations, you know, with her head being stuck up Tori’s round ass. Then there’s Mia, a sad, depressed, troubled young woman and my best friend. We are polar opposites from everyone else and try to stay as far away from their mess as possible. The only reason we joined the group is because of the connections and, although we hate to admit, power.

“Bitches, we’re getting dumb lit prom weekend!” Tori announced while stuffing chicken nuggets in her perfect mouth. The rich bitch payed the security guard to allow the fab five to leave campus for food. Her father owned an oil company and her mother was an investment banker. The influence that they had on the school and public officials around them were too real. There was nothing money couldn't get them. “My mom rented out this club in upstate New York and we’re going to have the time of our lives. Free drinks, an unlimited supply of weed, a DJ, food catering, you name it and it’s there! My dad set up the arrangement and he’s working on the flyers. We’ll be passing them out Wednesday.” A squeal came from the girls that sat next to her, Jade to her right and Keiosha to her left, both her little minions. Unimpressed, Mia and I gave each other a look and stood up from the table.

“Uh, sounds good,” I said picking up my bag and putting on my backpack, “we’ll catch up with you all later.”

Tori waved her hand, dismissing us like we asked for her permission. Just a couple of more months and I don't have to look at this tired ho ever again. If it was up to me, I would've beat her ass a long time ago, but my fear of jail and losing all of my life investments spooked me out of the idea. Being her friend wasn’t all that miserable. I got a bomb ass scholarship out of the situation, Bill Gates to be exact. Almost one million dollars for college that I can spend at my own leisure. No debt, all four years paid for and extra spending money is what heaven sounds like to the average college student.

“Is she trying to mess up our opportunities or something? Talking about alcohol and weed. Bitch, we’re barely eighteen!” Mia ranted beside me. We were headed to our sixth period, government class that we shared together.

“Girl, you know how that silly bitch gets, thinking she runs New York and shit. I’m not going to the party. I refuse to associate myself with her after prom.” Mia shook her head in agreement. Inches away from the classroom, Mia took my hand and pulled me backwards.

“Wait!”

I yanked my hand from her firm grasp.

“Girl, what the fuck is wro-” I was about to tear the bitch another asshole when the sound of the orchestra played beautifully behind me.

When you're feeling lost in the night

When you feel your world just ain’t right

Call on me, I will be waiting

Count on me, I will be there

Monica’s, For You I Will was being sung by our school’s choir. They all wore yellow, my favorite color. The smiles on their faces were enough to wipe my anger away and send me into a smiling fit. I turned to Mia to see if she had some information but my eyes immediately fell to the beautiful yellow rose in her hand. Holding it closer to my face, she shook her head and stuck out her tongue.

“Take the flower bitch and go in the classroom!” I took the flower from her hand as she slid my backpack from my shoulders. My legs moved hesitantly towards the classroom where I was instantly blown off my feet at the scenery inside.

Hanging from the ceiling were beautiful yellow lights and the desks were pushed against the back wall. Yellow flowers, dahlias, my favorite, were shaped on the floor in letters that spelt out the words ‘Prom, lil nigga?’. A chuckle escaped my lips as tears rolled down my cheek. Nobody but Erik’s weird ass would do something so thoughtful and romantic, yet so hood. My tears were cut short when I felt a couple of strongs arms wrap around me.

“Prom,” his lips grazed my ear, “lil nigga?”

Turning around to meet his gaze, I pecked his lips. “Sure, big nigga.” With the choir and orchestra still going, we swayed in the middle of the classroom to our favorite song.

I pumped a couple of more times before my music paused and started again.

bestfriend sent you a message:

-Bitch, the kick back starts in 10 minutes.

Honestly, I forgot all about that party. Going to the party was not apart of my agenda. There was going to be too many of my demons there for me to face, unfinished business. If it wasn't for Mia manipulating and threatening me, I would've blocked her number and called her when I got back to Cali.

Forcefully removing myself from the machinery, I shot her a quick text saying that I’d be there in thirty minutes. I walked to the gym’s restroom, wiped my body with a fresh towel then headed to my car.

The girls and I planned on going to NYU together before I broke the group up changing to UCLA at the last minute. The fab five was not true to my character or who I wanted to be as a woman. Being self-absorbed is not a bad thing but when it’s used to divide and single out other women, it reaches a new form of evil. The group was not the best time of my life and if I could erase some of the memories from it, I would and that’s exactly what I wanted to do. If it wasn't for the history, prior to joining the group, that Mia and I shared, I would've cut her off too, but she was my sister and we promised to always be there for each other.

I parked in front of the huge chateau, belonging to the leader of our dismantled group. It was supposed to be a small get together, only the fab five and their plus one, but the cars splattered out of the driveway and on the road said other wise. Glancing at my self in the mirror, I pulled my now frizzy silk press back in a ponytail, adjusted my sports bra and smeared lip gloss on my lips. Maybe, I should’ve brought a change of clothes. Opting out of being completely careless, I pulled my light purple jacket from my gym bag and placed it over my body. My gym outfit was colorful, but not too bad. Why do I even care?

I checked the time that read, 8:03. My plane departed around two o’clock so I had my escape plan ready. Everything was packed back at the hotel but that was going to be my excuse. I plan on gettting out of here by nine o’clock, amen. Before I even arrived to the door, it swung open letting out an aroma of weed and alcohol. It’s about to be a long night.

“BITCHHHHHH! I missed you!” Mia yelled out, fake because we’ve been with each other for the entire weekend. I squealed and pushed her off of me quickly, denying that type of physical contact.

“Leigha!!!” And just like that the other three members of the fab five were embracing my body, kissing, grabbing and tugging all over me. Some touchy bitches they were.

“We missed you so much!” Keiosha practically screamed in my ear while hugging me.

“Okay get off me!” I said pushing them, knowing how I felt about intimacy.

“UGHH, you couldn’t find some better clothes?” Tori asked with a disgusted expression plastered across her gorgeous face. She wore a light blue, fitted, thin spaghetti strap dress with some strappy, nude heels, showcasing all of her womanly curves and kick ass body. Her thick hair was pulled up into a curly ponytail, leaving her shimmery shoulders on full display. A whole meal and I wanted a bite. My mouth watered ready to taste the rich chocolate and if she wasn’t such a bitch, I would have asked, even begged to have a piece.

“You couldn’t find a darker foundation shade?” Her makeup was fine but I wanted to match her tone.

“Tuh, bitch, my makeup is beaT.” her arms found her chest.

“Yea-” my mouth was ready to combat.

“Alright, Leigha, everybody is here and they’re so excited to see you.” Mia took my hand and walked me through the foyer, up the stairs and down to the party room where the rest of the guest were. If it wasn’t for her, Tori and I would have stood there fighting for dominance with our words daring the other to make a move. The tension between us was sexual on my end but volatile on hers, which is not a good combination. She’s still mad I broke up the group. Mad because she can’t control me like she does the rest of these girls.

I greeted all of the guest individually, genuinely happy to see everyone. There were a couple of football players, dance members and ‘popular’ kids along with the boyfriends of the fab five spread out in the dim-lit room. I get sick to my stomach thinking about how much these people love to hang on to their high school glory days. That shit was three whole years ago, it’s time to grow up.

One thing I can give Tori is that, the devil knew how to throw bomb ass parties. The music was banging from the wall speakers and the decor complimented her home well. Rose gold accessories were spread out on the tables and floor with off white flowers creating that bougie feeling. It was a small party, to her standards, so there was no need for catering. She had a food table, with finger foods and a sweets table with cookies and brownies. To the far right of the room, there was a bar with pre-rolled blunts on a rose gold platters. I walked over to the bar and found a bottle of water. Making my way around the room, I stopped at the food table and viewed my options.

“Leigha, when are you going back home?” I was picking through the small selection of finger food when I heard Tori’s irritating voice over the soft talking and speakers. Of course everyone stopped when the queen began.

After filling my plate, I turned to her and stated bluntly, “At two AM.”

“So let me get this straight,” my legs worked their way to an empty chair, “You just got out here from California, today, after three years of no communication and now you’re leaving for California in a few hours?” Her hip swayed to the side and stayed, her hand meeting it.

“No,” I placed the plate on the table and took a bite from my cucumber, “I came here Thursday and I’m leaving tomorrow, which is Tuesday, at two AM.” I plopped my fingers in my mouth and sucked them loud enough for her to turn up her nose at my rude table manners.

“See! This bitch is a whole ass bird.” I chuckled at her choice of words and dug into my tuna sandwich. The chatter picked up again and the four girls pulled up some chairs close to me.

“Lei, why didn’t you tell us you were here?” Keiosha spoke, the mediator of the five. Her hair was in a blunt cut and she wore a silk, red pants, two piece. Her and Tori had on the same shoes. Jade, a light skinned devil, sat next to her with her gorgeous body covered in a cute, orange romper. Mia was trying to contain her laugh while she stared at me with the other set of eyes.

“I didn’t want all of the attention on me. We all know how Tori gets when people aren’t talking about her all time.” Mia lost it.

“Cut the shit. You know exactly why you failed to inform us of your arrival, exactly why you failed to tell us about you going to UCLA. Ex-fucking-zackly why we had to get updates about your life for three fucking years from Mia. You're a coward. You and Mia are two selfish ass bitches who only think about yourselves.” Rolling her long neck, she placed her arms over her breasts pushing them up a bit

“If you don’t get the fu-“ My insult was cut short when the chatter in the room picked up, volume increasingly high. We all stood up in unison, ready to defend each other from a possible threat.

Unfortunately it wasn’t a murderer or a thief, nope, it was much worse, Erik Stevens showed up. The way I left things off with Erik was nothing short of a disaster. He was in the dark like everyone else. Mia promised me that he didn't know about this party. She told me that she made everyone promise not to tell him about it. My stomach knotted and sweat built up on my already scorching skin.

“Why is he here?” fear was laced in my tone.

“I invited him.” Tori announced pulling down her dress and making her way towards him. Jade and Keiosha followed like puppies, waiting for their owner’s command. Me and Mia sat down watching the pettiness exude from their perfect bodies. I wanted to get up and smack fire into them greasy bitches, but my memory of Tori’s power slapped me out of the thought.

“I hate that bitch! She’s always starting some shit. I’m sick of her, man. How do you still hang out with her?” Mia touched my leg as it shook fiercely and looked down at her feet. Against all of my natural reflexes, I left her hand there and rubbed my thumb on her skin trying to ease mine and her nerves.

“They’re all I have, Leigha. You left me, remember?” My body couldn’t have turned quicker.

“That’s not fair. You could have came with me, you didn’t!”

“Tuh, you’re the one who got that Gates Scholarship, Lei, not me! I couldn’t afford a move to Cali and I for damn sure wasn’t getting into UCLA.” Her arms found her chest and her body slouched in the chair. My lack of problem solving skills and empathy made me turn back around in my seat and glance at the wall, all thoughts of Erik’s presence pushed out my head, guilt replacing it. “I missed you, you know? You’re my best friend. The only person who knows everything about me. You ju-“

“You told me this before, Mia. I don’t want to hear this shit.” Standing up, I walked to the door that led to the balcony and slammed it shut behind me.

What did they expect from me? I don’t live my life for them. I’m tired of being the backbone. They need to learn to survive on their own, I’m doing it. Pressuring me to conform to them and cater to their needs is only going to push me away further. Mia will be alright. She don’t need me, man.

My thoughts were cut short when I heard the door open and shut behind me. “Mia, it’s my last night with you. I don’t feel like this, okay?” My legs turned so my eyes could fall on a creature that was the exact opposite of my soft best friend. With his dreads pulled back in two braids that ran to the back of his neck, his firm features were on full display. The gold in his mouth glistened on his pearl, white teeth as his dimples made an appearance. He looked simple with a plain white, fitted shirt, light washed jeans and white Nike’s.

“Do I look like Mia, lil nigga.”

“Fuck no. Mia’s not nearly as ugly.” I turned around to my original spot and placed my arms on the metal gate that circumferenced the balcony. Shortly, he stood next to me, his shoulder touching mine.

“Now you know I’m not ugly.” I felt his eyes burning the side of my face. Naturally, I turned to meet his gaze.

“You may not be ugly but you certainly not cute so what is it?” Gorgeous, an angel, crafted from the finest soil and molded by Jesus himself? Yes.

He showed his grill again and put his hand on my hips pulling me into his chest. My nipple grazed his bumpy upper body and my vagina shuttered at the touch. Aren’t I supposed to be feeling some type of guilt or anxiety? Nope, I’m horny. The same feelings that ran through my bones three years ago resurfaced for this man and my previous nerves vanished at his touch.

“I missed your smart ass.” Surprisingly, I welcomed his embrace and we stood there for a while, silent. It was nice to be held by a strong, confident human again. I haven’t felt this feeling in a while. Hugging was such an intimate thing for me, being an empath and all. Auras and spirits are absorbed through hugging so I try not to do it too often. Emotions were transferred from their body into mine and I felt some of his strength radiating through my blood while his arms pulled me closer. I wonder what emotions he took from me.

“You feel so good in my arms, lil nigga.” His softness surprised me, why isn't he yelling, making a scene? Something big twitched near my lower region and I knew that wasn’t his leg. I pushed him off of me, breaking the contact.

“Alright, that’s enough.” My arms found the rail again.

“You wasn’t trying to come to this party, huh?” Closing my eyes, I prepared to get dragged. At his lack of words, I opened them and found his eyes on me scanning my body. I looked down and remembered my work out attire.

Relieved, I chuckled lightly and did a slow spin while swaying my hips. “You not feeling it? Straight from the clearance rack at Academy.” I stopped and met his expression.

“Oh, I love it. The color contrast is what really speaks to me. A purple sweater, a pink sports bra and green shorts. Girl, what you trying to do, taste the rainbow?” I cackled. He always came prepared with the jokes.

“Anyways,” My legs moved to the lawn chairs displayed against the back of the house, he followed.

“Speaking of rainbows, you still with that gay shit? Mia told me about you dating girls and shit.” I’m killing the bitch. My sexuality wasn’t something that I brought up to just anyone, so I trusted her with that information. I didn’t even explore the thought until I got to California but that’s beside the point. Let’s get into this nigga trying to invalidate my entire existence.

“What you mean ‘still into that gay shit?’ As if it was some kind of phase or act of rebellion? And I’m not gay, I’m bi-or- I don’t know, but boy, you can get the hell on with your dismissive tone.”

He pulled a blunt out his pocket and lit the end with the tip in his mouth. “Mmhm.” He took a drag and then held it out for me to grab. I swatted it and shook my head ‘no’.

“You’re still a square, I see.”

“You’re still annoying, I see.” I layed my head back on the lawn chair and stretched my body across the seat, memories of us in high school playing in my head.

“What if we get caught, Erik?” We walked behind the math building, going to Erik’s infamous smoke spot. It’s where all the rebels like Erik and his bad ass friends went to do God knows what. They smoked over here, had sex, shot dice you name it. No matter what it was, it was trouble and I had a reputation and scholarship to keep, so did Erik.

“We not going to get caught, relax.” His hand was soft in mine, making me swoon at his touch. Whatever he asked me to do, I did. I don’t even know why, honestly. He’s my closest friend besides Mia, but my feelings weren’t as strong for her as they were for him. We finally stopped at a spot hidden by an old raggedy storage unit. He pulled out a neatly rolled blunt and lit the end with the tip in his mouth. Taking a drag, he inhaled and let out the smoke then placed it in my hand.

“I don’t know what to do.” I admitted with no shame. Erik never made me feel insecure, everything was peaceful with him. I experienced a lot of firsts with him, this moment being one of them.

“Just place it between your lips, suck and inhale slowly, then let the smoke out.” He explained, simply. I did what he said but, somehow didn't have the same outcome as him. Instead, I was a coughing mess, cuffing and squeezing my chest. That stuff burned. I guess it was a comedy show to him because he laughed loud ass hell shaking and clapping his hands.

“Nigga, that’s not funny. I could’ve died.” I placed the death stick back in his hand and watched him in disgust. “But, I’m happy you’re amused.”

“Here, do it again.” He moved it to my face and I rejected his offer shaking my head ‘no’.

“I’ve had enough, thank you.” He took another drag and repeated the same action.

“Come on, man. I don’t want to do it on my own.” He made puppy dog eyes and fluttered his long lashes. I refused to succumb to his blatant manipulation and peer pressure.

“I said no, big nigga! Now hurry up before we get caught.” He laughed and finished off the blunt.

“Square.”

I smiled softly recounting that iconic moment in my life. Erik noticed my expression and spoke up gently. “What you smiling at?”

“You and how much shit you dragged me in.” He laughed sitting back in the chair beside me.

“Yeah, but you let me. I did as much as you allowed.” There wasn’t a lie in sight. If Erik asked me to jump, I didn’t even have to ask how high, I already knew. No matter what we did, I always knew that he had my back. I guess that’s why I followed him like a lost puppy, along with the attention he gave me that I so desperately needed.

“Yeah, I was stupid. But all that shit gone change when we turn forty, Craig.” Getting the reference, he laughed and placed his hand on mine squeezing lightly.

“You weren’t stupid, just in love.” Speechless, for the first time in my life, I was speechless because where is the lie? I couldn’t find it. Never have I ever been able to put how I felt about him into words and here he goes, with his all-knowing ass, telling me exactly how I felt about him. Telling me something that I would never admit out loud.

“Nigga, didn’t nobody love your wack ass.” My hand moved trying to lose his grip. He pulled it back effortlessly.

“Don’t lie.” His tone was serious now and I felt the tension from his body enter mine. This is why I hated physical touch. “Because I, unapologetically, loved your ass.” He sat up in his chair swinging his legs to where he was in between our chairs, staring at my body. His eyes were fixed on my frame, dancing over it, admiring my figure.

“You like what you see?” I tried to change the subject.

“Love it.” There he goes with that word again. “Sit up.” I did exactly what he said, my knees meeting his. “You loved me?”

“No.” He placed his hands on my thighs and pulled my legs open.

“Don’t lie, Leigha.” My body was off the chair as he picked me up and placed me on his lap.

“Erik, if- if you already know then why- why you need me to say it?” Pleased with my undoing, his lips turned up into a sinister smirk.

“Because I want to hear you say it with your words.” He kissed my cheek gently and took a puff from his blunt that I was suprised wasn’t finished yet. Keeping the smoke in, his lips met mine as he released the smoke in my mouth. I took it in like he taught me and then blew it out the side of my mouth. His lips met mine again and I instantly submitted to their passionate touch. A moan escaped my mouth while his groin touched my moist center. My body hasn’t been touched this way in years, his touch being the last, and it’s enjoying all of the attention. “Say it.”

Without missing a beat I uttered the three words I dread saying, “I love you.” With that, he pulled me closer to his chest, syncing our bodies together. I threw my arms around his neck deepening the kiss. His strong hands moved to my shoulders sliding the jacket off of my arms. The jacket hit the ground while his soft lips met my salty neck sucking and biting the exposed skin. Whimpers left my mouth and filled the air. One would think that him and my neck had a vendetta the way he smacked and chewed on it. Rocking me back and forth on his hard shaft, his firm hands squeezed my ass. Instantly accepting the stimulation, my hips moved to his pace and soon we were dry humping on the lawn chair. I moaned and whimpered as soft as possible trying not to signal someone inside.

“Erik, please, we can’t. Not out here. T-there’s- our friends are inside.” I sat up trying to escape his movement but he puled me back down deepening the initial contact. We needed this.

“If you be quiet, they won’t hear us, baby.” I shook my head in agreement and continued moving my hips on his covered member. It was rock hard while it grazed my soaked folds over my thin layer of clothes. His lips met mine again, instantly placing his tongue between them. His tongue found every inch of space in my mouth, his lips sucking and sinking on mine.

I broke the kiss, fed up with the teasing. “Erik, please fuck me.” He didn’t have to be asked twice. He stood me up, pulled down my shorts and placed me on his lap again in a matter of seconds. He sat up just enough to unbutton his pants and pull them down. Without hesitation, I settled down on the tip of his hard dick. His eyes met mine and my mouth opened wide. Trapping the moan I was about to let out, his lips crashed into mine. With his hands on my hips, he eased me down onto his long, thick shaft stretching every wall I had. My juices spilled all over his member, making it easier for me to slide down. I twitched and wiggled at the uncomfortable yet satisfying feeling.

“Mmmmmhhmm” I sat there for a while lips still on his adjusting to his length. He moaned into me and placed his hands on my ass. We stayed there for a minute before he got fed up.

“Move or get up!” Like the champ that I was, I pushed the uneasiness aside and moved my hips up and down his length. The man is a monster. His moan was deep and concentrated. After a while, comfort had me attacking his dick, moving to the rhythm of the muffled rap songs coming from inside. At that point, I didn't care if anyone heard us. I swayed on his dick, twerking and bouncing confidently trying to milk all of his love juice from his veiny friend. I wanted it in me. My body moved for him, trying to make up for the lost time and betrayal. My moans were sloppy like my riding, filling the dense air and encouraging my juices to spill all over his lap. My toes curled up and pressure built up in my stomach. He moaned into me neck as I reached my peak, cum shooting down his thighs. I shook at the orgasm that took over my entire body.

Before I could come down from my high, he flipped us in the chair, positioning himself on top of me. He slammed into me like a mad man, digging for lost gold inside of my throbbing center. His thrusts were powerful and strong making my legs, that rested on his hips, allowing him to hit my special spot with each stroke, shake and quiver.

“Say it, Leigha!” His lips found mine again. “Say it.”

“Daddy! Daddy!” I screamed unsure of what he wanted to hear. His lips traveled to my ear where he nibbled and sucked. Slowing down his strokes, his hands snaked around my body pulling me closer.

“No, not that, baby. Tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Erik.” He put his forehead on mine and a tear, that wasn't mine, met my cheek.

“Then why’d you leave me, huh?” His pace picked up and now he was attacking my slit. I felt myself getting wetter with each thrust, my orgasm coming on strong. More tears fell from his eyes and I moved to wipe them but he took my hand and pinned them above my head. “Why the fuck you left me, huh?”

“Erik, please? I-I don- OHHH!” My body shook under his fiercely, orgasm taking over. His strokes were sloppy as his warm seed traveled in my hole coating all of me. Still inside of me, he put his weight on me slowing his breaths, trying to gain his composure. My body twitched under him, wanting more. Going against my hunger, my hands moved to touch his back, rubbing up and down trying to help him with his recovery process.

A few minutes passed and he pulled out of me, pulling up and zippening his pants. I layed there, breathless, as he wiped me with my jacket and pulled me up helping me put on my shorts.

“Answer me.” He held me in his arms taking in my scent. “Why did you leave me?”

“Erik, I didn’t just leave you. I left everyone. I wanted to start a new life, I guess.” I closed my eyes and squeezed him gently, his sadness filling my bones.

“You didn’t think twice. We had plans and you just up and left without informing me,” he pushed me off of him gently. “ Do you know how fucking sad I was? My best friend, my girl, my fucking wife left me. That was selfish as fuck Leigha! You hurt all of us. We fucking needed you. I needed you. I love you!” Tears left me violently. I hated how they tried to villainize my decision of bettering my life. Why did they all try to control me? We don’t have to be stuck up each other’s ass our whole life. They can live without me.

“And I know what you’re thinking. No, we can’t fucking live without you. Tori was being a bitch, causing Kei to relapse. Jade went back to that abusive ass nigga that she won’t let me kill and Mia is just a sad, depressed, suicide case. Do you know how many hospital visits I had to make? The therapists, counselors. Nothing is working. You left us! We need you!” Quickly, my sadness turned into anger.

“How fucking dare you blame y’all fucked up life on me? Where the fuck were y’all when I needed help? Where were y’all when I was dealing with my crazy ass parents? Why the fuck am I always held accountable for y’all’s mistakes and life choices? I can’t cure depression or an eating disorder! Tori has always been a bitch and y’all know that! Y’all chose to stay here. Y’all could leave but y’all don’t!” The words left my mouth quicker than a freight train. I was not about to accept his abuse. None of that that was happening to them was my fault. We stood there for awhile staring and crying roughly. He tried to hold me but I rejected the contact. When he said nothing, I stormed through the door and grabbed my phone and keys.

“Leigha where were you?” Mia’s clingy ass asked. She saw my face and instantly softened her tone, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Fuck you, Mia!” That wasn’t the words that I wanted to say but that’s what came out. I was a mess.

“Bitch, what’s wrong with your dramatic ass?” Although the words were harsh, Tori was genuinely concerned as she ran after me with the other women while I ran to my car. I unlocked the car, opened the door and plopped down in my seat. Putting my key in the ignition I locked my doors, put the car in reverse and backed out. The women screamed words and beat on my car window begging me to stay and talk to them. I looked at the clock that read, 9:45. A few more hours and I would finally be back home. This place fucking sucks.

The ride back to the hotel was annoying and so was the ride to the airport. Surprisingly, Mia didn't show up, with the rest of them, at my hotel. I wanted to sleep away the emotions that Erik forced out of me, but I couldn't. Instead, I laid on the bed crying, for hours, begging the universe to take away the pain. I hated that he brought all of that up. He had no right to make me feel bad about their problems. I wasn't this kind of savior that they made me out to be. They needed professional help, all of them and I was just as fucked up as they were.

They all text me like crazy people. Between the five of them, I had over one hundred notifications: missed Facetime calls, audio calls, messages and even snapchats. These hoes were relentless.

One missed message stood out the most to me. It was a message from Tori, the wicked witch of the West:

-If you leave here without saying goodbye, make it a priority to not come back.

The words sat heavy on my chest. The audacity of her to think that I was going to come back, anyway.

Bound II

tags: @eriknutinthispoosy @theunsweetenedtruth @yourstrulyylauren @yoyolovesbucky

I wanted to keep going but 6k words was enough henny. Idk? lol but please give me some feedback and tell me what I need to work harder at.

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avengedsevenfoldfanfiction-com · 5 years

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Through All the Dust

A sequel to Almost Easy. Synyster Gates/OC

Chapter Ninety-Four: The Ninth of February

I opened my eyes to find that morning had come. A branch riddled with ice tapped patiently at my window. Unwilling to face the day just yet, I burrowed deeper into the mattress, pulling the blankets...

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blackballfics · 3 years

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My Hero Isekai

by Madmaiden

Chapters read: 22/?

More of an SI-OC with 2nd person singular pronouns than an actual reader insert (so has a name and everything)

Quirk is called Overclock and is already too OP with too little drawbacks from the very beginning instead of developing it more like saving visuals for later or limiting the higher percentages for now

Kisaki Shiro (OC) is pretty Mary Sue and too flippant about a lot of things? like yes, she does have panic attacks and stuff but like her planning out what amounts to the fate of the world is pretty blasé

interpersonal relationships with the characters is also going way too smoothly (and sometimes comes across as manipulative) to the point of them being OOC in some instances, especially when they're basically falling at her feet

Kisaki's temperament is also sort of inconsistent

Plot Summary: Reader died saving someone during a convention dressed as their OC. The saved person was some sort of god and lost a bet by actually being saved and reincarnates reader as their OC in BNHA. She's a recommended student (by whom??? Also there can only ever be 2 recommended students per class) in Class 1-A in place of Grape Boy. Runs into Shinsou on the first day and immediately become friends (+crush on Shinsou's side). She is partnered with Momo during the training and they win their battle against Kaminari and Jirou no problem. Somehow flirts/banters with Todoroki before and after the match. Quickly befriends majority of the class.

Gets a panic attack when she runs into Shigaraki in front of the gate and gets comforted by Todoroki who at that point probably develops a crush. During the USJ incident she gets warped with Bakugou and Kirishima, then leavs them behind to save Aizawa. She prevents him from getting killed but Nomou punts her through half the USJ into the conflagration zone where her overclocked skin finally catches fire. Aizawa doesn't rip into her for her actions.

At some point Bakugou develops a crush on her and he gets set of every time she so much as speaks to someone else. Sports Festival: Gets ninth place in the obstacle course despite aiming lower, is on Shinsou's team during the cavalry battle and let Ojiro be brainwashed and places 3rd with Tokoyami in the tournament. Her battle with Todoroki had him actually use his fire. He punched her and accidentally burned her, so there's some trauma on his side. The match results in rumors about them dating. Bakugou challanges her to a match after the Sports Festival, but they end up just talking and he mellows out a bit until her sleep over where his jelousy is at an all time high. Kisaki is ridiculously in denial. Like, it's not even funny anymore, it's more like fake-humble?

Has her Internship at Foresight Agency far away from Hosu, because Relapse, one of the Heroes in the Prevention Division of Foresight wrote to her not to go. Turns out she knows that Kisaki is not from this world but approves of her actions because she kept the timeline consistent. There are fixed points in the timeline that must happen but somehow Kisaki is now in a position to actually change them. Yoarashi is also at Foresight for his internship and they immediately hit it off, with Inasa being super flirty (and kinda smarmy ngl), complimenting her to the moon and back.

#bnha #mha #canon timeline #si/oc #reader

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kuh-boose · 7 years

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Hey, more writing crap because it’s been sitting in my files for forever now and that’s no way to have your writing. I am no Emily Dickinson. This was written like years ago for the TMNT Universe and just never really came to anything. Audrey has had a lot of changes made to her and ideas for her have been lent to a lot of my other characters. I think was my honest to goodness first real OC and I have so much written for her. Anywho, here.

She came from a facility out of Manhattan. Created from two hundred and seven different gene donors, all varied species, and all very unwilling. But it was the two hundred and seventh donor that made her different from her siblings. She disconnected from her growth tank a month too early, and she was born three pounds, one ounce and fragile as an egg, with a complexion to match. The Kraang and Dr. Steele placed her survival odds at .037%. Rather than put the poor thing out of its misery, they decided to run tests on her as she stumbled her way towards death.

The problem with that was she wasn't ready to die. She didn't get much better, but the tiny, pale, sick, and squirming infant refused to die. Fussing day and night, weak and quiet, but furious, she took every last inch of that .037%. For the first two years of her life she had needles and tubes sticking out of her skin every few inches or so, scanners running her vitals and brain patterns constantly, projecting them on the screens that surrounded the little silvery pod she was kept in, with the inside glowing a burning fuchsia. Every day the pod infused her with the necessary elements and compounds to keep her alive and jolted her with minuscule electric currents to stimulate her muscles. It was painful, but it was all she knew, and so she stayed in the pod for two years before she made a single sound. It wasn't a babble, or a scream, or even a cry; it was a quiet, broken word. A Kraang word, and it meant release. It went largely unnoticed, gaining only a second of attention and no response. No response save for a small gasp from the mutated form of Jorge Koroko.

Jorge Koroko was a human, at one point at least. He had been raised first in in Japan, then in America by his mother's family, and he lived his life knowing that his father was scum from some vague European country, and his teenage mother died to bring him into this world. His grandfather loved his child more than anything in the world, and loved her child even more. Refusing to make the same, coddling mistake, Mr.Koroko was somewhat harsh on his grandson. He trained him every day in his own modified mix of martial arts for a decade and a half, despite his family's quiet disapproval. By the time his training was complete, Jorge was old enough to enlist in the army; one tour and he started medical school. Eleven years later and he was on his way to the airport to begin a third tour. It was on his way to the gate with a bag in one hand and cheap food in the other that he had his run in with the Kraang. The conflict, along with a faulty good luck bracelet his grandmother had weaved from bulls hair, lead to his mutation. In the following confusion, an eight foot tall, hulking bovine version of Jorge was ushered into a van and taken captive by the same aliens that would keep him for the next twenty-eight years. Only through good behavior and clever speaking did he become one of very few mutations they allowed to help in the many tasks that came with running the facilities, namely security and clean up. It just so happened that he ended up in the same facility that would splice Subject Venus-207.

Project Venus was one of many, many brainchildren conceived by Dr. Amanda Steele. After the successful splicing of their robotic gorillas, the Kraang gave Steele whatever tools she desired to continue a number of projects, with the understanding that said projects were to only be useful to the Kraang. Project Venus was Steele's pride and joy. The splicing of hundreds of species into various--human looking--young women to act as spies among the human population; sleeper agents, whose only purpose was to blend in and gather information until the Invasion. Then her daughters would wreak havoc, pulling any hiding citizens from their homes and reducing hundreds of years of human achievement to rubble. Unfortunately, due to dominance in various alien races genes, nearly five hundred of her seven hundred children did not make it past the second trimester. Another hundred appeared more amphibian than human, and could only be used and raised as sub-par warriors and slaves, whom the Kraang would not use, but sell to the highest bidding race. Of the remaining hundred, ninety-eight died at various stages of life of failing organs, and the ninety-ninth disappeared seven years later, along with Steele. The very last was 207, removed from her tank early after tangling herself in her substitute umbilical cord, and the only one left the Kraang had at their disposal. She was weak and useless, but experience had taught them better than to toss her away. Waste not, want not.

And so everyday, for a little over two years, Jorge Koroko watched Venus-207 grow in her tiny little pod. He would hear her heartbeat, far too quick and weak. He would listen to her breathe in her harsh and labored way. He would watch her writhe and fuss silently until her face went red and she was pumped with a mild sedative to relax her until her next fit. For two years he watched her grow and fight death. On her first birthday, he gave her a name.

He crouched low next to her tank, fainting cleaning up a spill of chemicals, and whispered, "Your name is Audrey now. You hear me? None of that Venus stuff. Audrey. She was a strong lady I met in service. Pretty too, like you."

He placed a hoof-knuckled hand on the pod and Audrey responded in kind with a heavy huff of filtered air.

"Good girl."

On her second birthday, he gave her freedom, or... at least freedom from the pod. He convinced the Kraang that he could train her. Koroko, as he had learned to do, spun the request into a favor; he could make her a weapon, he promised. For who, he never specified.

But then, they never asked.

For better or worse they agreed. Perhaps they were tired of waiting for her to die. Perhaps they believed him when he said he could make her a weapon. Maybe they just wanted to laugh at him, or whatever Kraang did to show amusement, as he tried to train the pathetic little red faced twerp. Whatever the reason, they gave him a small section of the facility, which included an old fire station and its underground connection to the main construct. They supplied him with whatever he asked so long as he could prove it had to do with her training and could not harm the facility. And then they moved her. When they removed her from the pod and placed her on the bed in the loft of the fire station, Jorge began to have doubts. She gasped and clutched her throat and whimpered when the tubes were removed. Her whole body was covered in small welts, and bruises bloomed like spring flowers everywhere she was touched. Her body was so tender, and the Kraang were not known for their gentle nature. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which were half closed and bloodshot. The only thing that gave him hope was the fact that she was squirming, grunting here and there when a metallic hand clamped too tight, or a tube was yanked out too harsh. She laid, struggling, on the bed for a day before she started trying to get up. Koroko began to reach for her, but stopped. It was in that moment he decided he must stay detached. She would gain nothing from babying, and her survival was still not guaranteed. It was best for both of them if he remained a Master, and not a guardian… at least for now. At least until the fear that this was a mistake, one he would never come back from, subsided. So he leaned back into his chair and watched her struggle desperately to rise, the arms of the chair crunching under his grip. She managed only to roll onto her side. Jorge sighed and made a mental note to request mild steroid injections for her until he could build her strength up enough so that she would be at the physical level of a girl her age. Time in the pod had done her no favors, and she was far too weak. He fell asleep silently praying that she die quickly if she must, and listening to her huffing and rustling in the bed.

The next morning he would find her trying to climb back onto it.

Three years of training and Audrey still looked scrawny and ill, with dark circles under her eyes and pale skin stretched over near meatless bones. Koroko was forced to realize that she didn’t have the same benefits naturally made beings did. She didn’t know when she needed water, when she was hungry, when she needed to sleep; what he considered intense pain was a little more than a minor sensation to her, and fear was hard to provoke, leading to more than a few nasty scars. She was still showing heartbreaking symptoms of her faulty creation. Sickly pale skin, fits of choking and gasping, vomiting, and more. And yet, despite her tiny and helpless appearance, Audrey was strong. Or muscularly efficient, rather. Just five years old and underweight, yet her tests put her with athletic six year olds. This alone gave Koroko hope, enough to express his pride to an uninterested Kraang droid. ‘Like a calf, she is, running on those tiny little legs. Clumsy too, but strong.’

He worked her harder and changed her diet. Three hours of her day was devoted to eating as much as she could fit, twelve hours were spent fitfully sleeping, and every other second was spent working. She trained until she couldn't stand, and then she trained her mind. She worked on being in each moment, on being in tune with her surroundings and using them to her advantage. She learned about the Kraang computers and inventions, the earthly and alien creatures that made up her own DNA, and struggled horribly to learn about human literature, language, military history, chemistry and physics, mathematics, psychology, physiology. And then she got up again and did exercises until her muscles gave out and refused to move no matter how hard she willed them to work for her.

Koroko worked through her stubbornness and endless questions. She fought every step of every lesson and took severe punishment like treats, silently refusing any method but the one she found ideal. He taught her each new subject with wariness in how she would use it to find loopholes in the rules he had placed for her own safety, and found the more he pulled, the more she resisted. With time, he broke her code. She needed objectives and tools, not plans. So he pushed her to her limits, and pushed her past them. She learned to fight as she retreated, when the odds were against her, when it was too easy, or when it was too hard. She learned how to fight hard and how to fight stealthily and how to fight smart. She learned how to fight when the enemy couldn't be touched, or even seen. Kelli developed balance, power, speed, endurance. There was no mercy, no breaks, no rest that wasn't necessary. Jorge ground and pounded and drilled into her for years, over and over until she couldn't remember a time when she didn't fall into immediate stances, or swing perfectly without thinking about it. She didn't recall a time when she couldn't fight droids with her eyes closed and rely on hearing and muscle memory to win. He made her push her thresholds, her mental limits. He broke her down to rubble, and then made her build herself back up.

It didn't take very long before he found he couldn't break her down anymore.

And in time, Jorge discovered that even though she was made to be ruthless, she was kind, and thoughtful, determined, and loyal, if a little rough around the edges. He noticed her willingness to put up with unkind treatment without snapping. Even when she was hurting, she was kind. Audrey was always polite, and took his lessons on respect and courtesy to heart. She devoured his tales of heroes and kindness with eager ears. Koroko found that more than anything, she believed in herself and her own abilities, perhaps to a fault. She would happily face any challenge presented, and not stop until she won, even if she had to win with bruises and broken bones. He waited fearfully for the day when that confidence would not be enough and her body would not take the punishment she demanded it to.

It was because of this, because of her performance in spars with the imprisoned mutations, that made the Kraang finally pay attention to her. At ten years, they began to take more of her time with surgeries, tests, faux operations, anything to try and break her in some sick way. Koroko watched her carefully, waiting for her to turn into the blood thirsty killer he had promised them. But each time she returned, beaten and bloody, she smiled, shining her happiness at him for having won and asking for the next lesson.

Three more years of training, with frequent "operations" to the outside world, and Audrey was more than Jorge had ever hoped. Five foot with lean, highly efficient, solid muscle from head to toe and a right hook that could bring down concrete. She was stronger, every movement easy, and every skill honed to a razor edge, though there was still work to be done, she was more progressed than he had thought she would be. Missions in other countries and dimensions tanned her skin to a richer shade, deepening to a milky caramel color, marked by freckles and the dozens of scars ranging from slashes, to plasma burns, to surgery incisions. Her hair had grown out and was thick and shiny and a golden honey color down to the middle of her back, for he had convinced her to keep it long. Her face was somehow sharp and soft at the same time, with dark brown, almond shaped eyes that gave away nothing but deep determination. Behind them he saw a spark just as he had thirteen years ago. She was not the smartest, but she was far from dumb, and made up for what she lacked with quick wit and battle prowess. He could not be more proud.

He carried this pride to the day he died. It was illness that took him, giving it's warning months in advance before the Kraang froze both him and Audrey. They separated them, and he knew, though he could not tell you how, that he would never see his dear girl again. He also knew he could never be angry for the fate given to him.

#kuh-boose writes n stuff #writes crap that is #there is so many cliches in here its not even funny #but whatever #i do what i want #gonna put this under my art tag cuz otherwise ill never find it again #its a doodle

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knives-out20 · 3 years

Text

Discrepancy - Dean Corso x Male!OC - #2

Fandom: The Ninth Gate (1999)

Pairing: Ambrósio ‘Ambrose’ Fargas (OC) x Dean Corso

Warnings: Swearing, Faggotry, Spoilers for The Ninth Gate, Flirting, Angst kinda, Grief,

Notes: they’re back, deal with it or whatever

Dean opened the door to his hotel room, shirtless and bed-headed.

The strange blonde girl stared back at him.

Dean held onto the blanket he had wrapped around his waist, "what time is it?"

"Early, but you have to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"To Fargas' place.”

"I've already seen Fargas and his fruity little grandson." Dean didn't mean it as an insult more than he meant it as an adjective. He had other adjectives in mind when it came to Ambrósio, but kept those in his head for a reason.

"I think you should see them again."

"What is this, some kind of practical joke? Who are you? What do you know about Fargas and Ambrósio?"

"Get dressed. I'll wait for you outside." The girl didn't answer his questions, instead turning and walking off.

Dean almost didn't do as he was told. If there was a problem with either one of the Fargas', he knew Ambrósio knew to call him at the hotel. But, maybe something popped up in which Ambrósio couldn't call Dean. He thought back to his conversation with Balkan on the telephone the previous night.

"I must have that copy, Mr. Corso. Get it for me." Balkan instructed.

"The old man wouldn't sell it to save his life, he said as much. And the young'un, his grandson, he...well, he said he helps Fargas take care of the books for a reason."

"Did they?"

"Hello?" Dean called, repeating himself when Balkan didn't answer. He hung up the phone and leaned back against the headboard of his bed, deep in thought. Mixtures of the copies discrepancies, red Hawaiian shirts, the blonde girl from the lobby, and tattooed arms, Balkan's suspicious last words, along with special song abilities. Dean figured he had too much on his mind, more than he knew how to handle.

Dean exited the hotel, seeing the girl waiting for him on a strikingly familiar motorcycle. He didn't ask questions and got on, allowing the strange girl to ride him over to the Fargas house.

Once at the house, Dean led the girl up to the front doors and tried ringing the doorbell. Maybe Fargas or his cute grandson would answer the door, along with his various questions.

"Don't bother, Fargas isn't there." The girl told.

Dean turned to face her, "oh really? Then where is he?"

The girl pointed over at the dull fountain, "over there."

Dean hesitantly looked over at the front door, as if expecting for at least Ambrósio to answer it. When nobody came, he shuffled over to the steps.

The girl pointed over at the fountain again.

Dean looked at her suspiciously, then back to the fountain. He walked over to the fountain, and peered into it. "God almighty."

Victor Fargas' dead body lay face-up in the fountain, floating lifelessly as the Koi fish picked at him like vultures on a carcass.

Dean turned to the girl, taking one last look at Victor before marching past her, and to the door. He attempted opening it to get inside, get to the book, or hopefully a breathing Ambrósio.

"You want to get inside?" The girl inquired.

Dean sighed, locking eyes with her. "I had thought about it, yes. If Victor is out there, his grandson is probably in there. His grandson, is he still in there?"

"Yes, but he won't answer, he’s too afraid." The girl looked up at the wall, and began to climb it.

Dean watcher her slip in through the window and get inside, walking over and unlocking the front door for him. He stepped into the Fargas house, stopping when he noticed the girl following him. "You wait here."

The girl obliged.

Dean made his way over to the room full of Victors' books, accidentally stepping on the shattered remains of a glass cup.

Dean took a glass from Victor when it was offered, allowing the old man to pour him some brandy. "What handsome glasses.”

"Yes, my grandson thinks so, too. They're the only ones I have left."

Dean looked into the room of Victors books, walking towards his display from the previous day. "Shit." He cursed, realizing the Fargas copy was missing. Dean turned and saw a strange-looking addition to Fargas' fireplace, creeping over and kneeling down by it.

The Fargas copy.

Dean took it out, inspecting the now-burnt cover and smoking pages. He walked out of the room, and began to call. "Ambrósio? Ambrósio! Ambrósio, it's me, Dean Corso, are you here?" Dean exclaimed, glancing around at the ceilings and by the stairs. "Ambrose, Ambrósio!"

Careful footsteps by the top of the stairs.

Dean let his guard up, cautious. "Ambrósio-?"

"Dean!"

"Ambrósio!"

Ambrósio raced down the stairs, running over to Dean and collapsing into his arms. "Dean, oh my fucking god-" He choked.

Dean wrapped his arms around Ambrósio instinctively, quick to calmly shush him and stroke his hair. "Ambrósio? Are you alright?"

"I was," Ambrósio answered. "One second, my Avô and I were drinking from his pretty blue glasses, the next thing I- I know, he urged me to go upstairs and not let myself be known. I- I- I locked myself in my room and listened by the door, I heard stomping and stuff downstairs, like glass b-breaking."

Dean listened intently, Ambrósio's cologne wafting into his nostrils.

"I heard water, and- and splashing from outside, then a car speeding off. I looked out the window, and- and-" Ambrósio stuttered to a stop, tears welling in his dark eyes.

Dean continued softly shushing him and rubbing his back, noticing that Ambrósio was wearing the same thing from the previous night.

"I wanted to call you, but- but the telephone was broken. I really wanted to, I did-"

"Hey, hey, it's okay" Dean pulled away, hands on Ambrósio's shoulders. "At least you're okay, I'm glad you're still okay."

"Fucking barely, my Avô is dead floating in the f-fucking fountain-!" Ambrósio sobbed, weakly pointing in the direction of the fountain. "I fucking knew something was gonna go bad, and- and- and I knew what to do, I knew I had to call you, 'cause you're a safe zone, but I fucking couldn't, and now the last thing I had to call a fucking family is fucking dead!" He complained.

"You couldn't have done anything, Ambrósio. He told you to go upstairs."

"Avô ushered me upstairs to keep me safe, I could fight for my damned self better than he could, Dean!" Ambrósio pointed out. He exhaled shakily, raking a tatted hand through his hair. "God, fuck-" Ambrósio cursed.

Dean gulped, eyes trailing the floor as he thought of something else. "Do you have anywhere else to go? I'm sure you feel far from safe here, now. You could, come with me, maybe-?"

"Are you kidding?" Ambrósio pulled away from Dean's touch, looking at him with wide eyes. "The little books you and him liked so much are the reason he's fucking gone!"

"That's true, very true."

Ambrósio groaned. "Thanks, but no thanks. I-I'm sure my friends could let me waver with them until this home feels like home, again. God." He shook his head, clutching handfuls of his black hair.

Dean looked as sympathetic as he could. "You're gonna be okay? By yourself, I mean. Once it feels more safer to get back in here."

Ambrósio hummed in an unreadable tone. "I got no choice." He admitted, shrugging. “This is my home, Dean.” Ambrósio sniffled, wiping his eyes. "Fucking Avô, man, with his little demonic baloney books" Ambrósio choked out, shoulders shaking.

Dean glanced behind himself, then back over at Ambrósio. "Listen, is there a friend you definitely know for sure that you can crash with?"

"Uh..." Ambrósio sniffed, wiping his eyes again. "Carmen, she definitely will, she's a real giver. Her and her boyfriend Jeronimo, they'll let me. I guess." He stared down at the floor, grief consuming him.

Dean softly cupped Ambrósio's neck, thumb stroking gently. "Lend me their number, then. I'll make sure I can check in on you every once in a while."

"Why? What do you want with me?" Ambrósio grew grumpy, but perhaps his sudden, impactful loss can make up for it.

Dean shrugged back at him. "I'm worried about you, to say the least. C'mon, Ambrósio, a number for a number." He explained, offering Ambrósio a slip of paper and a pen.

Ambrósio glanced between Dean and the two objects. He gave in, writing down Carmen's number. "Here."

"Thank you." Dean smiled slightly, but it couldn't hide his concern. "Get outta here quick, okay? Hope you don't have too many Hendrix or Foreigner vinyls to pack."

Ambrósio chortled. "I don't only listen to Hendrix and Foreigner, Dean, Jesus Christ."

"Who else do you listen to?"

Ambrósio stepped back, towards his staircase. "I could listen to you. You sound like you could do a number on people if you sing."

Dean knowingly shook his head, looking down to hide his smile. "I don't sing, but...thanks."

Ambrósio scratched his jaw, as if slacking to ask Dean something.

Dean read him like a kids book, and opened his arms. "Do it before I regret it."

Ambrósio broke out into a wide smile, enveloping Dean into a tight hug. "Thank you. Thank you." He whispered, feeling safe for the first time all day.

"No problem, Ambrose. Can I call you 'chico', yet?"

"Only if you beg like you wanted to." Ambrósio flirted.

Dean turned back around, seeing Ambrósio holding onto the opened gate. "What is it, chico? Can I call you ‘chico’?"

“If you ask nicely.”

Dean rolled his eyes knowingly, “save either one of us begging for something from the other for another time.” He finally flirted back.

Dean chuckled, pulling away from the hug. "Never lose the attitude, man."

"Would never dream of it."

The two stood in comfortable silence, gazing at one another.

Then reality took its hold on Dean, who regained his focus. "I should...get going. You'll be fine until your little friends get here?"

"Carmen picks up the phone fast, and Jeronimo drives fast. I can manage in due time...Thank you, again."

"No problem. I'll keep in touch" Dean held up the slip of paper before pocketing it, allowing Ambrósio to escort him out. "Stay safe, Ambrósio."

"No safer than you, Dean." Ambrósio replied, closing and locking the front door.

#the ninth gate #the ninth gate 1999 #the ninth gate oc #ZAYN oc #zayn malik oc #dean corso x oc #dean corso x male #dean corso #dean corso x male!oc #oc #male oc #oc x male #oc x canon #canon x oc #canon x male #male x male #male x canon #male x oc

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taako-yknowfromtv · 7 years

Text

I ____ you

an OC oneshot!!!

constructive criticism would be 👌

Electricity fizzed through Chaitu’s veins as he paced around the small dressing room. His suit suddenly felt suffocating, choking him, depriving him of air.

“Dude, relax.” Chaitu’s best friend and best woman, McKenna, laughed. She was wearing a turquoise dress that went down to her ankles, with a decent sweetheart neckline. The wedding theme was blues and greens, mimicking the ocean, so it fit the theme nicely.

“I can’t just relax, Ken!” Chaitu began to pace again. “What is something goes wrong? What if I forget my vows? What if-”

McKenna tossed a pillow from the couch at his head to get him to shut up. “You two are couple goals. Everything will go smoothly, I promise. I’ll even pinky promise.”

Chaitu laughed at that, and then stuck out his pinky. “I’m trusting you, McKenna.” He faked a stern glance, sending them both into laughter.

There was a quiet knock on the door. “Chaitu?” His mom called. “Can I come in-?”

“Yeah, of course anne.” Chaitu replied, using the Turkish word for mother. The door opened and a dark-skinned woman walked in and hugged Chaitu tightly.

“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” She smiled, hugging Chaitu even tighter.

“Anne- can’t- breathe-” Chaitu gasped, and his mother pulled back. The woman ruffled Chaitu’s brown hair with a laugh, kissing his cheek.

Chaitu’s mute father came in after her, a short, pale man with green eyes and little to no grey hair. Chaitu bent over and hugged him tightly, letting actions convey the words that couldn’t be said.

Pulling back from the hug, Chaitu checked the clock. “Oh shit- I need to get going, I need to be there in two minutes-”

McKenna jumped up from her seat. “Let’s go. See you soon, Mr. and Mrs. Gallen!” She waved a quick goodbye and then raced out of the door - somehow not falling over in her stiletto heels - with Chaitu right behind her.

Soon enough, Chaitu was standing at the altar. The decorations and outfits were in specific shades of blues and greens - a reminder of the first day they met, on the beach. They would’ve done a beach wedding, except it was the middle of winter. And neither of them was willing to wait.

The wedding march began to play, and Chaitu held his breath. Anikka, his little niece, skipped down the aisle in a darling little flowergirl dress. A blue and green flower crown donned her fair blonde hair, her brown eyes bright with excitement.

Chaitu’s nephew, Anikka’s fraternal twin Anton, was next as the ring bearer. His usually curly hair was nicely slicked back, grinning with a gap-toothed smile.

And then Chaitu found his gaze snapped upwards, on a figure dressed in an elegant wedding dress. The dress had a sweetheart neckline, with jewels circling the waist and the end of the dress coming almost to the floor. Almost. The tips of white high-heels were still able to peek out from under the lacy gown.

Beckett.

His breathtaking fiancé, walking down the aisle with that same goofy grin that had made Chaitu’s heart melt since day one. His floppy brown hair was styled just for the occasion, his warm brown eyes flecked with gold focused entirely on Chaitu.

Soon, Beckett was standing right by him. Their eyes locked, and neither of them looked away as the preacher led the ceremony. As they said their vows. As they slid the matching rings on each other’s fingers. As the preacher said with a soft smile, “You may now kiss the groom.”

And then their lips connected, and it was like their first kiss all over again, powerful and passionate and beautiful. They both pulled back as confetti showered over their heads, and the people in the pews stood up and applauded with loud cheers and whistles.

The cake was brought out, a gorgeous masterpiece with seagulls made out of icing and sand made out of sugar. The cake was cut and the newlyweds did the traditional ‘feed each other the first bite of cake’, ending up with icing smeared all over Beckett’s dress and sugar-sand spilled all over Chaitu’s suit. But neither of them cared, they were having such a good time.

The rest of the night flew by far too quickly. Dancing around to pop tunes, being flung from one partner to the next because it seemed like everyone wanted a dance with Chaitu, to murmur their congratulations for the happy couple, to give them tips on a happy marriage.

Chaitu ended up with Beckett as his partner for one final dance, a slow song. Beckett put his hand on Chaitu’s shoulder, Chaitu’s on Beckett’s waist. And they danced together.

“This is a dream come true, Chaitu. . We’re finally married. . How do I know I’m not just dreaming?”

Chaitu laughed, leaning in and kissing Beckett slowly. “That’s how,” He said after pulling back, and his husband laughed.

“Chaitu. . I love you. .”

Chaitu grasped the empty bedsheets next to him, his eyes fluttering open with a groan. He recalled the dream he had just had, of his and Beckett’s wedding. A spike of pain shot through the blue-eyed boy’s heart, and he couldn’t help but follow his gaze to the ring on his finger.

Why did he have to wake up?

After realizing any attempts to fall back asleep were pointless, Chaitu swung his legs out of bed. He tried to hold on to the details of the dream, but they were already slipping away, like water tricking through his fingers.

He showered and dressed, walking downstairs. Chaitu walked outside, the spring sunlight warming his face. He knelt down in the little garden in front of the house, looking at the colorful blooms. He carefully picked a small, white daisy and a purple hyacinth. Holding them gently, he began his daily walk down the road.

As brightly as the sun shone, as sweetly as the birds sang, the world still felt bleak and empty. Despair dragged at Chaitu’s every movement. But he still pushed on.

He turned off of the sidewalk, swinging open the rusty gate with a loud creak. The birds had fallen silent as if they, too, could sense an air of grieving around the cemetery.

Chaitu walked down the side, carefully counting the rows. He turned when he reached the ninth one, walking towards a large, stone headstone with a smaller one right next to it.

Tears blurring his vision, Chaitu knelt down and wiped the dirt off of the words on the large headstone.

'Beckett Gallen. Loving son, husband, father and friend.’

Tears slid down Chaitu’s face, landing in the dirt below him. He quickly wiped away his tears, moving into the smaller headstone that marked the final resting place of their adopted daughter, who had died in the same car crash that had claimed Becket’s life.

Chaitu carefully laid the daisy in front of the smaller headstone, tears falling freely now. His sniffles grew into sobs as he set the hyacinths down on Beckett’s grave.

He wept. He wept for all that he had lost, all that had been taken from Beckett, for the life that had been robbed from their beautiful daughter. He wept until he had no more tears to weep. Chaitu wiped his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath as he read the headstone again.

“Beckett. . I miss you. .”

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