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whumpurr · 3 years

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Adrien and Sawdust part 6

cw: pet whump, whump recovery, bodily mutilation, self harm, brief and vague mention of past noncon, dehumanization, conditioned whumpee, unreliable narrator, brief mention of dissociation

masterlist

Sawdust was searching for his bag the second Master was gone. He hopped out of bed, punctuated with a fit of dizziness as he got to his feet, and crawled around the room looking for his duffel bag. The bright blue bag was nowhere to be found, and Sawdust wasn’t great at seeing in the dark either.

He started to wonder, to second guess himself. Did Master put the bag somewhere in the room and Sawdust just isn’t seeing it? Is he overlooking it? Did he even have a bag at all? Did it come with him to this new house, or was it left with his previous master? No, no, he remembered seeing it next to his kennel with those other people.

If he left the room now, Master would surely hear it and question him, or worse, punish him for disturbing his sleep. As much as Sawdust wanted his ears back, he just had to trust that Master would return them in due time.

Sleeping was difficult without the familiar squeeze of his headband around his head, but with a full stomach he managed to eventually fall asleep even if it took a while.

Sunlight came all too soon for Sawdust. The light peeked through the curtains and he couldn’t physically sleep any more. He was dreading going downstairs and having to face his master, having to eat beside him. He could only imagine what his master was going to do to him. Would he record him? Bring his friends over and show him how pathetic and stupid he looked eating out of a bowl on the floor? Sawdust shook himself out of his thoughts; he was just a dog anyways, he shouldn’t have enough of an ego to be embarrassed.

He was getting himself out of bed, going down onto his hands and knees when he heard a soft knock on the door, followed by Master’s quiet voice.

“Sawdust?” Master said from the other side of the heavy wooden door. “Come on, let’s go get some food.”

Sawdust got to the door and opened it with his paw, stepping out and following Master.

Master gave him a bowl of dog food once he was downstairs. Sawdust half contemplated asking Master about his ears, but really, if Master had taken them away then it was because Sawdust did not deserve them any more.

“Master,” Sawdust murmured, “Is- is there anything your pet can- can do? To assist?”

Master looked thoughtful for a moment then laughed, laughed at Sawdust.

“I think my work stuff is a bit advanced for you,” Master took a bite of his own food, “I want you to focus on… recovery, for now. Okay? That means you rest up and come get me if you want anything, food, water, whatever.”

Sawdust nodded, “Yes, Master,” before he continued eating, the hard kibble crunching satisfyingly between his teeth. He couldn’t work up the courage to ask Master about the ears or his bag, or where they’ve gone.

Lunch and dinner went similarly, with Master coming, getting his pet, and taking him downstairs to eat. Each time Sawdust couldn’t work himself up enough to ask Master about his ears. The lack of his ears made Sawdust feel… Wrong. Like he wasn’t a real dog, like he was a subpar pet. He wasn’t good enough to this new Master who had otherwise been so kind to him. What had he done to deserve this?

Night eventually fell, and Sawdust did his best to do as Master said and get to sleep. He curled up in the nest of blankets and pillows that his Master had made in the corner for him, and let himself begin to drift off. As he was doing so, he couldn’t help but wonder why his Master was withholding his belongings from him. Nevertheless, his eyelids grew heavy, and he eventually fell into a deep sleep.

Adrien was still getting accustomed to feeding someone using a dog bowl, with dog food, on the floor. It was a strange experience, and doing it made him feel dirty, but it was all Sawdust was going to accept so if it was between that or making the pet starve again, he would have to go with the former.

He was still very aware of just how lost he was in all of this. He searched the internet and scoured his social media for something that could give him some kind of life preserver in all of this. Finally, finally, he found something. A chatroom for pet owners. From the looks of it, it was heavily moderated and geared more towards pet liberation activists, and pet rehabbers, and people who actually cared for their pets. He requested to join and was accepted within the hour. He immediately sent a message to the ‘help’ section.

Adrien: >> Hey guys, I’m a new owner and I didn’t do as much research as I should have. >> Long story short, I didn’t keep as close an eye on my pet as I should’ve, and he ended up not eating because I wasn’t giving him dog food. Is that a normal thing? How can I help him?

It wasn’t five minutes before one of the other owners responded,

1Y4N4: >> oof, thats no good dude.. definitely watch him harder and probably just stick to feeding him what he wants for now. u said hes new right? let him stay in his comfort zone for a little bit probably

Adrien: >> Thanks. I’ll do that.

1Y4N4: >> np, im a bit more experienced as an owner but i dont think mine were as conditioned as urs >> at least not in that way

Zo: >> Bro wtf? You’re the source of your pet’s whole life and shit, you really should’ve done more research.

Adrien sat and watched as this ‘Zo’ person continued to rip into Adrien for his irresponsibility, though the ‘1Y4N4’ user at least tried to defend Adrien. It wasn’t long before Zo quieted down and 1Y4N4 was able to speak up again,

1Y4N4: >> lots of actual dogs eat things that arent dog chow >> maybe show your pet some videos of people feeding their dogs other stuff, maybe hell be more open then

Adrien thanked the user, and used the rest of his evening compiling some videos and researching, finding the outer bounds of what dogs could eat in hopes that he could convince Sawdust. It was far from exactly what he wanted, but he felt some semblance of satisfaction that there was at least a way to progress forwards.

Sawdust finally came up with a plan when he was coming out of the bathroom the next morning. It was before Adrien had gotten up. As Sawdust was leaving the bathroom, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

His hair was all matted, and the fringe at his forehead was beginning to grow to hide his eyes. He looked lacking without his ears. There were deep circles under his eyes. At least the peaks of his cheeks and his lips were starting to regain some color now that he had a steady supply of food which he undoubtedly did not deserve. The scratched scar across his nose bridge and cheek that one of the other dogs gave him was still there. He looked at that and followed it across his face to his second ears.

His dumb second ears, the ones on either side of his head that his last master hated so much. His previous master had always told him that they made him look less like a dog, less like a pet, when a pet was all Sawdust ever wanted to be. Because if he wasn’t a pet, then he was a toy for both Master and the other dogs, and that was one step above the most reprehensible thing he could be. He had been downgraded to ‘toy’ for a short amount of time previously, and he was eternally grateful that he was never dropped even lower, to being nothing but food for the other dogs.

Master threatened that sometimes, chopping him up and feeding him to the other dogs.

Whenever Sawdust looked at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t help imagine it. Being cut up and thrown to other animals to eat. He found some part of himself that felt that- even if he could never do anything else right- he could do that right. He tried to halt that train of thought as quickly as he could, before his mind shunted him off to some dark, foggy place where he couldn’t think or feel until the bad thoughts went away.

But at the root of those thoughts, he found the problem, as well as the solution. He scrambled down to the kitchen as fast as he could go, wanting to work quickly before he could stop himself.

He got to the kitchen sink, and stood up on trembling, unused legs. They could hardly support his weight, he had to lean onto the granite countertop with his elbows as he reluctantly removed the tape from his paws using his teeth. He would need his fingers for this.

Sawdust’s breath was quick in his throat, the edges of his vision grew blurry as he tried to focus on this and only this. He had one task and he was not going to fail it. He wanted his ears back. He wanted his master to be happy with him again. Maybe this way he could earn his master’s attention and... Maybe even his affection, if a pet was allowed to hope.

Sawdust’s paws were shaky and clumsy as they took out the biggest knife out of the wooden blog. It was heavy and cold in his paw. With one paw he held the tip of one of his second ears and pulled it as far away from his head as he could.

The cold edge of the blade rested on his skin, at the valley between his second ear and his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, he couldn’t break down now, he couldn’t stop now. He took a deep, sharp breath and pressed down on the knife as hard as his feeble paws could.

Adrien shot out of bed to the sound of a piercing, howling scream from downstairs.

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#whump #whump recovery #pet whump #whumpee #whump scenario #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #whump blog #adrien and sawdust #my writing #whump fic #whump story #pet whumpee

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systlinsideblog · 3 years

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Part 8

The mansion of Saphrar of Turia was, in fact, very beautiful. It was also built like a fortress; the merchant was, it seemed, very paranoid in addition to being very rich. Quietly, Systlin approved, but right now it was an annoyance.

“We think we’ve picked off most of his archers,” one of the women said as Systlin arrived. Systlin looked the compound over, narrow eyed. There were bodies draped over a few of the crenelations around the enclosing wall, arrows sticking from them. “But we’ve not siege equipment strong enough to break open the gates.”

“Of course.” Systlin cracked her knuckles and rolled her neck again; fighting for the day, then, was not quite through. She eyed the gates; they were smaller, of course, than the gates of the city.

For good measure, she took out the whole front wall. A few hidden archers did fall screaming with the dust and gravel of the broken wall. As the dust cleared, she spotted the front door of the mansion proper and Broke that as well. A group of horrified mercenaries in the front garden watched the wall crumble, and then quite meekly laid their weapons down and knelt, raising their hands in surrender.

“Finally.” Systlin said. “Some people with a little sense. Bind them, and take them to the Ubara’s mansion.” A pause. “And after this, someone ought to show me to the Ubara’s mansion. I could use a bath, I think.”

That drew a laugh from the warriors around her. She drew her weapons, and led the women into the house.

They were met by some delighted slave girls; when they spotted Systlin they cried out in joy, and one rushed forward and took her by the hand.

“This way!” She tugged. “This way, Mistress! Our master is hiding, but I know where he is!”

Systlin followed. Followed through a hall, down some stairs, down more, her warriors close behind. House slaves parted before them, and some women peeled off to remove their collars and chains. A delighted murmur followed them down to the cellars.

They found Saphrar of Turia hiding in a hidden cubbyhole under a flagstone that moved on a cunning little mechanism. He cringed when Systlin pulled it open; she made a disgusted noised, bent down, grabbed him by the collar of his robe, and hauled him out through mean strength.

“And how well did that work for you?” She said shortly. “Hiding like a rat, behind hired swords?”

Even as she spoke, he twisted, and snapped. Even as she pulled away, his teeth sank into the back of her wrist. She buried her knee in his gut and he let loose, wheezing, but grinning through a mouthful of her blood.

“Well!” He croaked. “Quite well! Because where all of the warriors of the city failed, where the Wagon people failed, I’ve succeeded! Enjoy, she-sleen!”

“Fuck.” Systlin muttered. “Shit.” She slammed an arm out even as her warriors lunged forward. “ALIVE. Keep him alive.”

“So I can give you the antidote?” Saphrar crowed, gleeful. He had, Systlin saw, two false teeth shaped like fangs, gleaming gold. “I won’t! You can torture and kill me, I won’t!”

Systlin licked the blood welling from the marks his hidden fangs had left. There, a bitter note. She rolled it over her tongue as she’d been taught in the Iron Mountain so long ago, opening her mouth slightly to smell as well. Faint subtle scents and tastes, the combinations of them…

“Fuck,” she said again, picking notes out.

“Ubara!” Her warriors had Saphrar by the throat, and Dina was clutching at Systlin’s arm, frantic. “Osk venom! Some merchants use it, fangs like that are popular…a physician! Get a physician! Get the Ubar!

Several women left at a dead sprint.

Systlin gently but insistently shook Dina’s hand off, and she went for her belt pouch. Saphrar was still cackling, even through the arm around his neck.

“Fifteen thousand of the warrior caste, dead!” He said, gleeful. “A whole High Caste gone, failed, and a lowly merchant kills the beast!” He dissolved into more laughter.

“Ubara! If it spreads…”

“It already is.” She could feel the pain beginning as she fished a tiny packet, neatly wrapped in waxed rag paper and tied with thread, out of her pouch. She carefully undid the thread, and opened it to reveal a white powder. She licked the tip of a finger, dipped it into the powder, and then licked the powder off and made a terrible face as she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth; the stuff was terribly bitter as it dissolved through the thin tissues of the mouth. She re-wrapped the powder, and handed the packet to Dina.

“Ubara?” Dina’s voice was near panic.

“That packet,” Systlin said, deliberately calm. “Is my life, Dina. Give it to no one else. Do you understand? No one. This is my life, in this packet, and I’m trusting it to you.”

“I…” A hard swallow. “Yes, Ubara, but…”

“I am a Queen…you call it Ubara here, but I am a Queen on my own world as well, and have enemies. I trained with assassins before that. Listen, no, listen. In the Iron Mountain I have trained to tolerate many poisons and venoms better than most, and that should help, but I am going to be very sick very shortly. I know, I think, what this Osk venom is, or at least what makes it deadly. That,” a nod at the packet, “will counteract the effects enough to keep me alive while it runs its course. I will not be able to give it to myself. If my breathing looks like it is near stopping, give me as much as I just took, no more. What will stick to a single wetted fingertip. Too much will kill me. I do not need to swallow. Place it under my tongue, rub it on my gums, inside my nose. Do you understand?”

Dina was white. All her women were white. But Dina nodded, once, her lips thin and trembling and terror written all over her face.

“Good.” Systlin took a deep breath; sure enough, it was more difficult than it had been minutes ago. “And keep him alive.” She nodded at Saphrar. “I want to see his face when I don’t die.” A beat. “If I do die, give him to Foicatch.”

“Ubara.” Dina’s voice was thin. “Yes.”

“Good.” Systlin said, and then swayed, and quickly sat heavily down on a crate. She could feel the cold sweat breaking out; she doubted that most of her warrior women had seen her sweat before. She was, after all, a fire witch, and the hottest of days was no bother to her.

It was good, though. The symptoms were telling her that she’d been right, and even as her breathing grew more labored she felt the tingling rush of the compounds distilled into the rescue powder hit. Breathing eased slightly. The dizziness did not. There was a roaring in her ears, and vision blurred. She pitched to the side, and hands caught her.

The room swam. Things were happening around her very rapidly; she could hear them, but picking out meaning would have taken too much concentration. Her fingers were tingling, and her wrist was burning. Her breaths came hard and labored, but she kept breathing.

A familiar face, a familiar voice. Foicatch, sounding near panic. She tried to raise a hand to his face, but her limbs weren’t responding. She was lifted onto something…a stretcher?...and moved.

Time passing. Movement; she was being carried somewhere. Nausea, and her vision was just a blur of colors. Movement stopped; she was laid on something soft. Time passing. Hands on her, a prick of pain in her arm, more time passing. Her breaths started to rasp and struggle, and she wondered…but there! The bitterness of the rescue powder in her mouth, and soon breathing eased again. Not by too much, but enough for her to keep forcing air in and out. People speaking, hurried and frantic. Someone else, calmer. She felt hands easing away armor and boots and weapons. She wanted to protest, but hadn’t the strength.

A warm, wet cloth. Someone was cleaning away mud and blood. She knew the hands. Foicatch. Someone else. A woman? Of course a woman…

Sura hadn’t wanted her to go to the Iron Mountain. Systlin, with her father’s murder hanging before her eyes, had disregarded Sura’s advice for the first time, and gone anyway. The Master of Knives had welcomed her, tried to bend her to his will like he’d bent others. His gift for pushing at minds was rare, and terrible, as terrible as Breaking in its own way. She’d managed to shunt aside his power with her own, undoing it before it could bend her to him. She’d pretended that it had taken, and he’d set her to train.

What a prize, she’d heard him say once. A Breaker, at my feet. What a Hand I shall make of you. The world will tremble.

She remembered his blood on her hands, after she’d slit his throat at last. You took the contract for my father, she’d told him, as he bled out on the floor. You sent your Hand. That’s why I came, to kill his killers…

The bitterness of rescue powder in her mouth, again. Her face was numb, and her hands still tingled. Her head was pounding like a drum.

Snake venom in vials, lined up. Tasting each, carefully, picking out what snake it was from by taste and scent alone and reciting how it killed. She’d drunk snake wine before, but tasting the pure venom was another thing entirely…

Bitterness in her mouth. Voices. Her hand was in someone else’s; she would have known Foicatch if she were dead. His voice, worried. She was lying on something soft.

She’d been good at it, though. It had interested her. She’d memorized them, and the plant poisons, and the mineral. She’d memorized which of the little packets they all carried for emergencies could help the body fight each…

Bitter in her mouth. She blinked, slow, and thought that things might be a little more in focus. Her breaths were still coming harsh and difficult, but she tried to move her hands and her fingers twitched. She would have smiled, were her face not still numb.

The weeks of terrible sickness, as each of the poisons was administered in turn, in gradually increasing doses. They each were expected to endure a lethal dose of each poison in time. She’d passed that test, as the others, but she remembered little of it. Just pain, sickness, heaving though her stomach was empty. A headache like her head was pressed in a vice, that had lasted days.

Bitter in her mouth. She could feel her hands again, and this time another dose didn’t come, because her breath, instead of stuttering and slowing, came stronger. Her vision cleared, slowly, and her headache receded. She lay there, eyes closed, concentrating on her breath, until at last she did not have to fight for it any longer. It took what felt like hours.

She opened her eyes.

She was in an enormous bedroom, on a bed. She was nearly naked under the blankets, save for a light wrap robe someone had found. She was clean. Her hair had been combed and washed and re-braided. Ice and her knife and her armor sat next to her; they’d been cleaned as well.

Foicatch was sitting next to her, slumped back in exhaustion in a chair. He’d at least consented to remove his armor; he was wearing a long tunic that was too tight across his shoulders, and had at least scrubbed a wet cloth over his body and through his hair. Dina sat on the floor before the fire, distractedly cleaning her already spotless knife. As Systlin moved, Foicatch’s eyes shot open, and he sat up. The relief in his eyes was almost painful.

“Thank the Lady’s mercy.” He said, quietly and with feeling, and kissed the back of her hand. “You scared me.”

“When we see Sura next,” Systlin said, her voice still raspy from a dry throat. “I’m going to tell her that I was right about going through the training and not just dragging the whole bloody mountain down on his head. How long…”

A watery sort of chuckle. “Oh, she’ll hate it. Two days. Rumors are running wild, but everything’s under control.”

Dina approached warily, and very carefully set the tightly wrapped packet of powder on the bed beside her.

“She wouldn’t give it up even to me.” Foicatch said.

“She was right not to. If you gave me a dose the size of your fingertip, it would have been enough to kill me. Dina’s got smaller hands.” She hauled herself up into a sitting position. Her wrist still hurt, and was still red and swollen, but the worst of it was past.

“You told me it was your life.” Dina whispered.

“It was.” Systlin took it carefully, and set it on top of her neatly piled gear. “I owe you my life, Dina of Turia. If there is anything in my power to give, it’s yours.”

Dina trembled a little, and Systlin realized that she was crying silently. She realized suddenly what it must have been for Dina, for all of her people here, to see her fall. To see hope itself lying like death on a bed, struggling for each breath. To feel the prospect of chains looming again…

No. She’d taught them enough. Even without her now, she did not think any of the slaves she’d freed would ever be forced into them again. She’d started enough; it might take long, without her, but she’d planted the seeds. She saw suddenly, in a dizzying rush, warriors from the plains spreading out, bringing low the fighting men and freeing the slaves from one city-state after another, a steady march clear across Gor, and all done through sweat and courage and blood alone.

Centuries, it might take. But it would have happened, even had she died in this bed.

Though, as she thought on it, she wondered what would happen, should her body expire. And then she realized, quite suddenly, that she’d thought of them as her people.

You already know the answer there, sister. The whisper in her mind was familiar by now. You cannot kill a goddess of death with poison.

“Ubara sana,” Dina said quietly. “There is nothing I would ask that you have not already given me. You owe me nothing; you already gave me back my life.”

“The offer stands.” Systlin said. “If ever there is something in my power to give you, say the word and it is yours.”

Dina gave her a look that was half frightened, half wondering, and quite suddenly she leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth. Systlin froze in surprise, and Dina pulled back as if burned, nearly cringing in a way she’d not done in more than a year.

“I’m sorry!” She gasped, and there were more tears streaming down her face now. Systlin stared, almost bemused; that she hadn’t seen it before was astounding, really. “I’m sorry! Ubar…”

Foicatch was also staring in a rather bemused way. “Well,” he said. “It’s not like I can fault you in your tastes.”

“Dina?” Systlin’s throat was as dry as sand already, and still sore, and it sounded like a croak more than a voice. “I…sorry, water…”

Foicatch picked a cup up from the table beside the bed. A gesture, and water appeared as he pulled moisture out of the air. It trickled into the cup, and she drank greedily.

“You should have said something.” She said at last, handing the wooden cup back. Foicatch filled it again.

Dina was still looking faintly terrified, as if she’d overstepped somehow. “I…but…” she gestured weakly at Foicatch.

“You’d not be the first woman in her bed.” Foicatch shrugged, handing the cup back to Systlin and watching as she drained it as well. “I’ve had other men and women in mine as well.”

“He’s terrible taste in men.” Systlin narrowed her eyes. “Downright awful. That miserable little Cabot man? Really?”

“He’s attractive. And it’s been amusing to watch him panic over things.” He filled the cup a third time. “Sucks a mean cock, once he finally works past all the nonsense about shame and his manliness, but then goes maudlin and sulks for a week. Still, a fun enough diversion.”

“Sounds dreadful. This is what I mean. Awful taste in men.”

“I don’t…” Dina looked slightly faint. “I don’t understand.”

Foicatch shrugged. “Few people do, to be fair.”

“What it means, is that this,” Systlin caught Dina’s hand and pulled her back. She watched the other woman’s lovely face slowly go from confusion to hope to disbelief as she kissed the inside of one of Dina’s wrists. “Will not anger him. The fact that he takes other lovers now and then does not anger me. Though,” She sat up too fast, and her head was spinning again. She grimaced and lay back again. “It may have to wait.”

“Ubara sana,” Dina said, even more faintly. “I think that I can wait.”

“Good.” Systlin took a breath, and hauled herself upright again. Her head spun still; she gritted her teeth and rode it out, and the lingering nausea. “For now, I need clothes.”

“Ubara!”

“I need to be seen.” Systlin said simply, and got her feet under her. Foicatch offered an arm; she leaned on it. “I’m all right, Dina. I’m a tough bitch to kill.”

“I…”

The door opened then, and a woman in green robes swept in. She had olive skin and very black hair, braided and pinned up in a coil on top of her head. She carried a case, and when she saw Systlin on her feet her face lightened from its cool professionalism.

“Oh, excellent.” She said. “You’re back with us.”

“This is Zephra.” Foicatch said. “A physician. She’s been checking on you. Dina?”

“Of course.” Dina hurried out.

“You really shouldn’t be on your feet.” The woman said, severely. Systlin was reminded instantly of Myssa, the royal True Healer and Physik. “Though I suppose you must be seen as soon as possible. Sit for a moment.”

Systlin did. It never did any good to argue with physicians or healers. Zephra laid a hand on her forehead, checked her pulse, listened to her breathing, and at last made a sound of approval. She drew a stylus and pad out of her bag, and began making notes.

“You’ll live.” She said. “That powder of yours is ingenious; I managed to get a tiny bit from your devoted guard to analyze. It is, in truth, very similar to what I would have given you, and I did not wish to cause an interaction with what you had already taken, so I thought it best to leave your girl to it. If it had truly come to it, I did have an apparatus ready to breathe for you.” She nodded to the corner; Systlin looked, and saw a great cylinder of glass and copper and leather. “But you did not react so strongly to the Osk venom as most would. I am glad to see you recovering.” She examined Systlin thoughtfully, tapping the stylus against her lips. “You’ve survived other things that you should not have, judging from your scars.”

Systlin touched the scar under her right breast with a wince. A spear had transfixed her there once, long ago, piercing clean through. “True enough.”

“The physicians of your world are skilled indeed, if they can mend such injuries.” Zephra said bluntly. “I could not do it. Neither could a doctor of Earth.”

“True-healers.” Foicatch said. “They can repair flesh with a touch, as I can command water and Systlin can command fire and Break.”

Zephra’s eyebrows rose. “That,” she said softly. “Would be a gift worth having.”

“It’s rare. Those who have it are held in high regard.”

“I was lucky.” Systlin touched the scar again. “It was a spear. I should have died there, but there was a True-Healer nearby. I got very lucky.”

Foicatch’s hand tightened on her shoulder for a moment.

“Well.” Zephra hummed quietly. “I suspect that this will only add to the growing legends that are being spread around. Before you arrived at the city, we had heard that you were a terrible spirit who ate the flesh of men.” A spark of humor in her dark eyes.

Systlin made a face. “Only half true.”

A laugh. “I have never seen,” she said. “Men so frightened as they are now. Not all of them, of course; there are good ones to be found.” She tapped her stylus against her lips again. “It does my heart good.” The smile turned bitter. “If you’ll have my service, Ubara, I would give it, wherever you go.”

Foicatch and Systlin both looked at her oddly.

“Ah, yes. You likely do not know…I am a free woman, of a high caste. I was able to study, and am able to ply my trade. Most free women are not allowed such, did you know? A free woman of the metalworker caste does not work at the forge; a woman of the scribe caste may be illiterate.” The smile grew more bitter still. “Our options are to inherit wealth to live well, or to Companion a man of means and bear his children. I was lucky, Ubara Sana, in that I showed aptitude as a physician and was accepted into the caste. Even still, I was not allowed to do the work I studied and trained for. Not until I had Companioned a man of the physician caste and borne him two children.”

Systlin stared. Foicatch said, flatly, “What.”

“My daughters,” Zaphra continued, “Are dear to me. But I did not renew my Companionship with their father, and had I a choice I would not have taken their father to bed or borne them. I wished only to work as I had trained to do. I am what is called ‘frigid’ by the men of Gor; I have never felt desire for anyone. Unlike what many suppose, this is not an affliction. Many people are born thus, and forced to conceal it. My male colleagues scoff at the idea, and insist that it is an aberration that could be remedied by a proper man, and perhaps some slave chains.” She put her stylus and pad away, businesslike. “As if the only ones born thus are women. Free women of Gor are not free, not truly, even if a collar is never set on us. I think that with you that may change, and my daughters may taste freedom in truth. It is at the least a better chance than any we’ve had before.”

“Ah.” Systlin tested her balance again; it was better. She gently eased off of leaning on Foicatch, even as Dina reappeared with robes. “I see.”

“I thought you might, given what I had heard of you from your women.”

“If you wish it, I accept your offer.” Systlin let Dina help her shrug into the robes. The other woman also wrapped Systlin’s braid around her head like a crown and deftly pinned it into place.

“I am honored, Ubara sana.” Zaphra inclined her head.

“Right.” Systlin took up her sword belt, and buckled it into place over her silken robes. “Dina, where are the warriors?”

“Many are in the camp. More have taken over the guard houses. Many have bedded down on the lower floors of this mansion.” Dina looked at her. “They’re taking turns here, because not all of us could fit in the Ubara’s mansion. Your honor guard stays, of course, but the rest have set up rotating shifts, so that they could all guard you for a time.”

Systlin blinked, and felt her throat tighten and heat in her eyes. “Have they.”

“I’ve told you many times.” Foicatch said, softly. “You’ve never had any idea what it’s like, from the outside.”

“You are the Whip-Burner.” Dina said, as if it were simple and obvious. “The Chain-Striker. They’ve been burning slave couches in bonfires for two days, in your name. The courts have already been set up, and the judging has already begun. Those sentenced to die are being burnt on the couches they chained us to.”

Systlin closed her eyes, and that other power she did not like to think of or acknowledge stirred. And for a moment she could taste it on the air, like honeyed wine. Justice.

For a moment, just a moment, she could feel rather than hear twenty thousand mentions of her name, and it ran through her like ice and fire at once.

“Good.” She managed. “Well done.”

“The next time you wonder why any of us,” Systlin knew Foicatch was not talking about the people of Gor, but of their true home. “Are willing to follow you to the death, I’m reminding you of this.”

“Smug prick,” she muttered, because the last time she’d said that aloud and he’d looked at her funny and told her that she’d earned it, she’d laughed.

“Yes.” He agreed easily. “Now, here.”

He opened the drawer on the bedside table, and drew out a golden hairpin. At the top glimmered a red stone. Systlin took it, and looked; it was a star ruby, larger than her thumbnail. She looked up at him, stunned, and he smiled.

“There’s a great deal of wealth in the vaults of the Ubara of Turia.” He said. “Aside from that in the chests of the Ubara Sana of the plains. I set a few people to combing through with orders as to what to find.”

He took it back and slid it into place in her hair, so that the ruby gleamed just above the center of her forehead. “It might not be the Fallen’s Blood, but I thought it fitting.”

“I take it back. You’re not a prick.”

“Still smug?”

“Yes, but I like that about you.” She touched the stone to make sure it was secure. “Come now. People need to know I’m not dead.”

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grumpyhedgehogs · 3 years

Text

this tired old elegy

Summary: CC-5052 and a company of other clones bound for decommissioning are instead auctioned off to slavers on Tatooine. Or they would be, if someone mysterious didn't intervene. The resulting chaos stirs up memories Bly craves; CC-5052 thinks they might be best forgotten. Or: In which Bly is This Close to breaking out of the chip's control by himself and Obi-Wan shows up to give him that extra push. AO3.

Notes: A scene that's been kicking around in my head for a while, of two ships passing in the night. Hinted Codywan and Blyla.

Warnings: Mild violence, seizures, slavery, mind control, grief.

The clones of Kamino are dying out.

They’ve known this for a long time now. The Empire used them, wiped out the last of the Old Republic with them, and shunted them off, thrown out with yesterday’s trash when they weren’t useful anymore. CC-5052 has heard the horror stories, the ones the admirals always shut down if they heard them spreading among the ranks. Clones decommissioned before their time. Clones going missing, or going against orders in the field. Clones found with a single blaster shot to the head and no explanation for their deaths given. Clones pushed from active duty, given menial jobs or guard posts. CC-5052 heard CC-2224 has a teaching position now.

Disgrace is a clone’s lot, and it tastes sour in the mouth.

This though? CC-5052’s stomach turns over when the doors to the spaceport he and three of his brothers three other clones have been held in for days on end finally open. The air that buffets him is arid, dry and hot against his skin. Sand flings itself, clawing, searching, into his eyes, and CC-5052 coughs against the assault. It does little to help. He never thought for a second that he’d come to this end. It’s poetic in a way his Jedi the Traitor he served under would have found poignant once upon a time. Enslavement is how the clones of Kamino came into this world, so enslavement should be the way they go out, shouldn’t it?

Tatooine is a wretched planet, CC-5052 decides as he and his vode his family the rest of his company are led onto the calling block. The Empire has no use for him, and so it sends him to a useless place.

“One hundred credits,” the auctioneer offers, gesturing at one of the three other clones to CC-5052’s left. A hand raises in the air before them, and the auctioneer dispassionately raises the price by another hundred credits. And so it begins. Is this all there is for him?

I’m going to die on this dust-ball.

The crowd around them is sparse; the midday suns beat down on them all, slave and free sentient alike, and no one is immune to their rays. Most attendants are covered from head to toe in brown, black or white fabrics, wrapped up like mummified remains. Sunlight reflects off of any and all surfaces. A mother carrying a child’s metal cradle passes by on the edge of the crowded marketplace, and the shine off of the basket pierces directly into CC-5052’s brain. He hisses, air whistling between his teeth, eyes clenching. The pain rockets through his skull--it seems to be doing that a lot lately, random headaches plaguing his sleep. Migraines are not uncommon in the vode the clones, but he doesn’t want to examine what they mean. They’re far too often accompanied by a wave of grief that threatens to swallow CC-5052 whole.

His attention has wandered too far; the price has gone up five times since he last checked, and the auctioneer is getting excited now. They bounce on their toes, rattling off higher and higher numbers with a growing grin. As if this is just a good day at the market for them. As if it simply does not matter. As if they don’t matter.

What he thinks now is treason, of course. They are Empire property, were Republic property before that. If the Emperor saw fit to sell him off, who is CC-5052 to argue?

I hate him.

The thought nearly rattles every bone in CC-5052’s body with its intensity--but there is no time for him to examine its implications, because three things happen in very rapid succession.

First, an explosion goes off somewhere nearby and behind CC-5052; debris and sand sail through the air, pelting down on the crowd before the slave auction. The ground rolls beneath their feet, and CC-5052 has to stumble to keep his balance. The auctioneer does not have his luck, and trips right off of the platform, facedown in the dust. It startles a laugh out of CC-5052--Bly--but then he inhales more ash and coughs instead.

Second, the chains around his wrists loosen unexpectedly before falling away completely. His arms aren’t quite as burly as they used to be, from inactivity before the auction and from years of being shoved to the sidelines before that, so Bly’s CC-5052’s wrists slip easily between his manacles. Above the roar of growing fires and screaming citizens, he can just make out three identical thumps as the clones beside him rub raw skin that mirrors his own.

Third, through the confusion and panic setting into the crowd, the fleeing forms and those who have fallen prone and lain still, through the smoke and fire and noise, CC--Bly looks up and sees a hooded person beckoning to him. He can’t see their eyes, can’t see anything but brown fabric and smoke and a hand lifted in greeting, which turns its palm away after a second and crooks its fingers. There’s a tickle at the back of his mind, and, his migraine raging so badly that his vision wavers as he jumps down, Bly follows. His brothers are right behind him.

The stranger ducks and weaves through the enraged crowds, avoiding fire and danger deftly. There’s something almost comforting about slipping into their shadow, something familiar and warm that Bly almost doesn’t recognize. For a moment, Bly thinks wildly that the stranger probably has blue skin, but the thought evades him when he tries to examine it more closely.

They are outside of the city limits within fifteen minutes. The figure stops and waits for the clones to approach, never turning to look at them. Bly CC-5052 (Bly?) stops a few feet away, outside of arm’s reach. Just in case. Their head turns, but the hood obscures anything defining.

“Who are you?”

They shake their head. Fair enough.

Why did you save us?”

His brothers--clones--brothers shift on their feet behind him, anxious for the answer. The figure shakes their head again.

“Will you answer any of my questions?” Their shoulders hitch minutely and he gets the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at. For once, it doesn’t seem malicious. It’s refreshing, even if it does intensify the stinging behind Bly’s eyes. “Fine. What do we do now?”

At this, the figure finally reacts. They turn and point into the distance; Bly raises his eyes to the horizon, where a tiny homestead sits beyond the wavy hot air. Then the figure jerks their fingers towards the spaceport that lies in ruin behind them, then points to the sky, and clenches their fist, bringing it to rest in their flat palm. Then they flatten their fist and mime a ship's take-off.

“Lay low out in the Wastes and come back to steal a ship later.” Bly translates. The stranger nods.

Good enough for Bly.

The stranger lets them into what can be generously described as a hovel. There are four rooms in total, and the larder underground is nearly empty. It’s completely bare when he and his brothers are finished with it. There are no beds, only a slab of rock in the corner of one room with a threadbare blanket on it. It makes CC-5052’s heart twist in his chest. It makes Bly’s migraine even worse, so bad he has to sit down or trip over his own feet. Grief overwhelms him. He comes to with the stranger’s hand on his shoulder, and a clone--his name was Gardener, he was a Coruscant Guard, he was just a shiny when they blew it all to pieces--counting his breaths for him.

One thing at a time.

“You got anything to hunt with out here?” Bly asks when his lungs don’t feel like they’re the size of straws. The stranger hands him what amounts to a wooden spear.

Killing womprats takes all day and into the evening. Bly and his brothers--Gardener and Ink and Database, he knew them once--prowl back through the early twilight and drop them at the stranger’s doorstep. He tries not to feel like a cat bringing home a trophy.

“Body heat would keep you warmer than those rags,” Bly says as they settle in for the night. The stranger, who has not dropped one ounce of cloth from their figure the entire time, shakes their head and turns away. They leave the blanket for Ink to use.

The wind howls around them the entire night.

Taking the ship is easy; it’s small, privately owned. The slaver driving it won’t be missed. Bly wonders where the auctioneer got off to and how long it might take to find him.

CC-5052 wonders if he shouldn’t report back to the Empire for decommissioning. Bly rejects it. The migraine gets worse, howling in his mind like the wind does out in the Wastes.

The stranger freezes beside him where they’ve been keeping an eye out for any more crew the clones need to take down. A soft palm clasps Bly’s shoulder and the pain recedes.

He tries not to shake them off too harshly, but the last time someone did that, touched him like that--

She’s not here anymore.

Bly resolves not to go back. There’s nothing left in the Empire for him anyway.

They killed everything I ever loved.

He gets sick from the pain in his head. He wonders how long he’ll last on the outside. Something tells him, not long.

“We’re taking off soon.”

The stranger nods. Their shoulders are a stiff, hard line against the backdrop of the Tatooine horizon. Bly finds himself at a loss for words, and filled with a sudden desperation to speak.

He finds his voice, choking, hoarse. As the wind howls across the dunes, he has to raise his volume to be heard. “You could come with us.”

It has the opposite effect than he wants; they jerk back, settling into a more defensive posture. Bly raises his hands in submission, but can’t help taking a step forward. “We’re not going back to the Empire, if you’re worried. We--things happened to us there. Because of the Empire--we’re not who we used to be. But we’re free now, and we wouldn’t hurt--”

Sandstorms and windstorms happen quickly on this planet, and a huge gust nearly takes them both off their feet. Sand flies into his face for the second time in as many days, and, coughing, Bly reaches out and blindly finds his savior’s hand. He tugs relentlessly, fumbling his way through the sudden gusts and dust to the overhang where they’ve stashed the ship. He’s thankful his brothers are already on the ship; no one else needs to be caught up in this mess.

“Are you alright?” His gloves are covered in grime and it takes three or four swipes at his eyes before Bly gets his sight clear. He reaches out, catching hold of the stranger's arm as they cough and bend to spit out dirt a few feet away, face hidden by the low light here. Their headscarf has fallen from the wind, their hood flipped down for the first time. His hand brushes their shoulder, fingertips catching against the only exposed skin they have at the base of their throat, and the stranger flinches back instinctively--and then they turn to look at him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi looks older now. His voice is softer. “Commander Bly?”

“Jedi.” The death sentence falls from Bly’s lips without his knowledge and his vision wavers again. The next time the black spots clear away, Bly’s hands are wrapped around Kenobi’s throat and squeezing. The Jedi’s eyes bulge grotesquely, but then Bly’s hands loosen without his consent, flying down to pin themselves by his sides. He topples over and only Kenobi’s quick reflexes stop him from burning his face against the sun warmed sand beneath their feet. The force holding his hands down relents, as if surprised, and Bly scrambles back, his head pounding. CC-5052, who had been receding for days, weeks, maybe even years, surges against him and Bly retches as he lunges again.

Kenobi was always known for his keen battle sense, though, so Bly is hardly surprised when he’s sidestepped. He throws his weight towards the Traitor (Jedi-General-friend) again only to have his outstretched arm caught and folded around his own back. Kenobi lets CC-5052’s weight fall against his own chest, allowing them both to fold gently to the ground. Another arm wraps firmly across CC-5052’s chest, pinning his other arm to his side. Spittle and froth foam at his lips, choking him, but Kenobi does not let go.

It feels as if a rusted spike has been driven through CC-5052’s skull. Adrenaline is making him shake, as if he’ll fall apart.

“No, my friend,” Kenobi says, almost too quiet over the animal sounds caught in CC-5052’s throat. “You’re having a seizure. You’re ill. Whatever has been done to you--it’s breaking down.”

Bly jerks and spits and gasps his way out from under CC-5052’s influence in fits and starts.

“I--I didn’t--I didn’t mean to attack--”

“I can sense that, Commander.” When Bly fails to strain against his hold any longer, Kenobi’s fingers raise to tentatively touch his temple. “You’ve got pain, here, all the time. It intensified when you attacked, and your presence slipped away. Faded, like a radio signal from far off. Like--like Cody’s did.”

Bly doesn’t have to ask what Kenobi means.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then something snaps and he can’t seem to stop. Years of torment, too built up to be pushed back. “I’m--I’m so sorry. I--I never wanted--we never meant to--I’m sorry.”

“You need not apologize, Bly.” Kenobi’s touch is soothing, as much as it prompts his migraine to rekindle. “You need not be sorry. It was not you.”

Her face drifts before his eyes, overlapping Kenobi’s when he meets the man’s eyes. She loved Bly, he knows she did. Bly loved her too. Suddenly, it’s all-important to tell Kenobi of this, for someone to know, for a Jedi to know.

“I loved her.”

“She knew.”

It feels like absolution.

“We loved you all.” Bly says, the final, most agonizing confession. “We loved the Jedi.”

“We loved the Vode.” Kenobi assures gently. Then his fingers find Bly’s temple again and the world goes a pleasant, fuzzy white. “We loved you all too.”

It feels like a gift.

Bly wakes up with three of his brothers, a stolen ship, and only the memory of a stranger with a fading smile to account for his time on Tatooine.

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

Text

Black lace and property damage

Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.

A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

The porch light above the front door is out.

Was he supposed to change that before he left?

“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”

“Spiders don’t have rabies.”

“No one’s ever proven that.”

Dammit. Yeah, he was.

Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.

Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.

“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”

Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.

An empty echo returns.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.

Figures.

Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.

One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.

Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.

He flips it open.

“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”

Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.

“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.

Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.

Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).

And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.

Is that asking too much?

“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”

Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.

Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.

Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.

Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.

Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.

Staying awake. Piece of cake.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.

*****

When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.

Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.

Asleep.

Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.

God. Dammit.

Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.

Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.

But lately? This is life.

With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.

Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.

He grins.

It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.

“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”

“Spit it out babe.”

“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”

An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.

He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.

Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.

Sam always knocks now.

But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.

Sometimes he just needs you.

Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.

So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.

He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.

He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.

In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.

But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.

Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.

Love is weird.

Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.

And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.

It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).

Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.

Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.

In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.

The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.

He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.

That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.

The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.

Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.

There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.

So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.

The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.

“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”

His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.

Black high heels.

Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.

Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.

“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “

Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.

The words die on his lips.

Black high heels, yes.

And.

Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.

Gorgeous, devilish smile.

Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.

“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.

“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”

Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.

“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”

“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”

Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.

“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.

“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?

Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.

Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.

Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.

“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”

Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.

From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.

He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).

But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.

Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.

Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -

No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.

Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.

So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -

He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -

“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.

Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.

The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.

“Ow,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”

Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”

“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.

“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”

“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”

Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.

“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”

“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.

“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”

Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.

“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”

“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.

“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”

Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -

“Cold!”

Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.

Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.

Bucky’s nose twitches.

In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.

In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?

Is porn a lie?

Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.

For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“

Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.

“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”

“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”

Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.

A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.

The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?

This is definitely happening more often.

He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“

Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“

He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.

Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.

Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.

“Feel good?” you murmur.

“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”

He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.

“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”

Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.

“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.

“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.

And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.

“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”

“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.

“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”

“Sorry…sir.”

Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.

He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?

Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.

“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”

How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -

“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.

Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.

“Bucky, come on -”

And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.

With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.

Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.

“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.

“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“

Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.

Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“So I broke your car.”

He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”

“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.

Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”

Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.

“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.

“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”

He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.

“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”

“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”

“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”

Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.

Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.

Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.

“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”

He boops your nose and you grin.

“Deal.”

“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”

“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.

“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bitsmasterlist

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 3 years

Text

Poison: Part Four

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill, fluff and angst

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there is any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated.

Feedback is gold, and it’s the only currency I take

The hospital isn’t a good place for you to be in because of all the patients coming in and pretending to be sick, but it’s a lot better than the police station only because Spencer isn’t there. He’s here with you, so you’re able to focus on him instead of all the panic. You need to figure out which cases are real so you can determine just where they were poisoned and how to stop it from happening again.

“I really can't talk right now. We just got hammered,” the nurse sighs.

“Listen, most of these food poisonings are probably psychosomatic,” you reveal.

“What makes you think that?”

“A news broadcast just reported a local restaurant was poisoned. Now, it would be a huge coincidence if there was another poisoning right after that aired,” JJ explains for you.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Help us find out which cases, if any, are real,” Spencer answers.

“People are coming in with all kinds of complaints. But, there's at least one case that isn't psychosomatic. Lynn Dempsey. She's barely breathing.”

“Can you take us to the doctor that's treating that patient?”

“I'll call Hotch,” JJ says and takes out her phone.

The doctor comes almost immediately just as soon as JJ is done updating your boss. The doctor escorts you to the woman who has a hard time breathing, and you can tell this is a real case based on what the doctor says as well as the vibes you’re getting from the woman.

“When the patient got here, she didn't remember anything about her day. Her speech was so slurred, I could barely understand her,” the doctor reveals.

“It sounds like Rohypnol. Did you test her?” Spencer wonders.

“She was positive for Rohypnol, negative for LSD. But we're running more tests because Rohypnol alone doesn't explain her symptoms. She presented with nausea, difficulty swallowing, and labored breathing. She was also having trouble moving her legs.”

“How long had she been sick?” you ask.

“She didn't know. I could barely understand her when she first got here. Now, she can't speak at all.”

“Do you know any biological agents that have similar symptoms: ricin or sarin gas?” Spencer asks.

“You think this is a biological attack?”

“We can't rule anything out.”

“I'll order a few more tests,” he sighs and leaves you three alone with the woman.

The poor woman is coughing and having a hard time breathing into her oxygen mask. She whimpers in pain, tosses and turns, and just looks like she isn’t having that much fun.

“I’ll take a look at her. Let me see if I can get anything out of her,” you offer.

“She can’t speak,” JJ says.

“I don’t need that to communicate with her,” you say and walks over to the woman.

Lynn barely opens her eyes to look at you, and you give her the kindest eyes you can muster up.

“Hi, my name is Y/N Y/L/N. I am only here to help. May I take your hand?” you ask and hold out your own.

She seems too eager to do so, and she grabs your hand as if it will cure her. Almost immediately upon contact, you get visions of her past right before she was poisoned. Your eyes close as the images transmit to you. Lynn is at the bank. She’s in line waiting to get some money taken out of her account. She grabs some candy out of a bowl as she waits and decides to cut her wait time in half by grabbing an envelope and writing her information down on it. She takes a step forward when the man in front of her does, and that’s where the vision ends. There is nothing out of the ordinary that is going on, so you’re not sure why you got that specific scene.

You open your eyes and look at Spencer and JJ. They half-expected you to get a definitive clue or something to lead them down a path, but you just shake your head. Your hand slips from Lynn’s, but as soon as you lose contact, she reaches up and grips your hand tightly. You look back at her to see her eyes open wide. She stopped coughing long enough to want to tell you something.

“JJ, Spencer, I think she’s trying to say something,” you say.

“The end…” Lynn barely gets out before having a coughing fit.

“The end…?” JJ questions.

You close your eyes once more in hopes that whatever she’s trying to tell you will show up in the visions you get. All you’re getting, however, is her picking up an envelope from the bank so she can use it for her money purposes.

“She may be incoherent from the lack of oxygen,” Spencer states.

Lynn pulls away hastily and turns on her side to let out a coughing fit. You take one step back and look at Spencer with a sad look.

“Doctor!” JJ calls. Once he’s inside Lynn’s room, she continues. “So, what are the chances that she's not poisoned, that maybe she just got some bad food?”

“Highly improbable. Chances are basically nil.”

“What is the rate of survival?” you ask.

“With this dose and without anti-toxin... zero.”

Lynn suddenly goes into V-Fib, and Spencer grips your shoulders to gently move you out of the way. You step back into his body to let the doctor and nurses through, but you don’t move once they do pass. You’re basically watching Lynn slowly die right in front of your eyes, and there is nothing you can do to help her. All you got is her at the bank, touching some candy, and writing on an envelope. How the hell is that going to help anyone?

“Doctor, her BP is dropping rapidly,” the nurse states.

Lynn’s heart can't hold out any longer, and you turn away so you don’t have to watch her die. You shrug out of Spencer’s arms and leave the hospital room. Him and JJ aren’t that far behind you. If you have even one more soul on your consciousness, there’s no telling what kind of nightmares you’ll have or if you can even handle another soul.

While you were with Lynn and experiencing her last few moments on Earth, Elle and Derek were at the bank looking through the security footage to see if they could spot a common denominator with all the victims. Every single person that was infected came into this bank, so it has to be the key to figuring out where this substance came from and who put it there—most importantly, who is the targeted audience. It’s why experts are testing the candy to see if what she touched is actually poisoned or not.

“Lynn Dempsey was an executive assistant. She has no expertise with chemicals. She doesn't fit the profile of the unsub,” Gideon notes.

“But the CDC found both LSD and Rohypnol in the candy she was replacing at the bank,” Derek says.

“She must have been an accomplice, and when the unsub finished using her to further his attack, he killed her with Botulism.”

“So, what does that tell us about the unsub?” Gideon asks the group.

“He's far more sophisticated than we realized,” you answer.

“Why is that?”

“The Botulism toxin is the deadliest substance known to man. It blocks Acetylcholine receptors, paralyzing its victims until, basically, choking you to death. Without an antitoxin, a lethal dose will kill you in thirty-six hours,” you try to explain, knowing only Spencer will truly understand what you’re saying.

“How many people have access to this stuff?” Elle wonders.

“In New Jersey, quite a few. It's actually the pharmaceutical and chemical capital of the US. So, that the toxin can be ordered in the form of Botox through any chemical or biological lab or Botox clinic. It has to be purified, but any chemist or lab assistant has that capability,” Spencer answers.

“So, we're looking for chemists and sophisticated lab assistants?”

“Basically,” you and Spencer say at the same time.

“Okay, wait a minute. If the unsub is a chemist with access to the toxin, what'd he need Dempsey for?” Derek wonders.

“Well, we don't know yet. But she worked for a company, called, uh... Hichcock Pharmaceuticals. I think there's a good chance the unsub worked there, too,” Gideon reads off his notes.

“Let's start with people who fit the profile who've had a recent stressor.”

“Like, anybody fired from Hichcock in the past six months.”

“Yeah, or demoted. Not recognized for their hard work. Anyone who seems under appreciated. Let me call Penelope,” you state and take out your phone.

You call her, and once you get her over the line, you quickly explain what is going on and what you need her raw talent. You place her on speakerphone for all to hear so you don’t have to repeat what she says.

“Hichcock's a giant company, Sugar Shack, and there were over a hundred people fired just this past year.”

“And so far, none of them fit the profile?”

“No. But, I do have thirty names of people who were downsized and shunted off to other lame companies with a cut in pay and benefits.”

“That’ll work,” you nod.

“Alright, send us the names. We'll cross-reference them with civil and criminal complaints filed with local PD. But I want you to keep digging, and while you're at it, look for any connection to the First New Jersey Federal Bank,” Derek asks ever so nicely.

“I'm on it, Angel,” she says, and you hang up.

“Our guys acting like a workplace mass murderer. He'd stay close—seething—and he'd plan his revenge,” Hotch points out.

“Well, if he is a workplace killer, what else does that tell us about him?”

“For one, they don't give themselves up. He's lost his empathy and his moral compass. He's capable of anything.”

“All those innocent people at the bank,” you mutter regretfully.

“They meant nothing to him. He'll take out anybody to forward his cause,” Gideon says.

“Like Dempsey.”

“Correct, and eventually, even himself. Not until he finishes taking out his primary targets.”

“We have no idea where he's going to strike next. For all we know, he could poison the local reservoir,” Derek groans.

“Well, the local cops haven't gotten any leads out of Dempsey. Why don't you go to Hichcock and see if you have any luck,” Hotch says to Elle who is already out of her chair.

“You got it,” she states and leaves.

Elle didn’t really get anything out of Lynn’s desk. Her assistant told her that Lynn wasn’t the best at holding high self-esteem and was a very quiet person in general. Most assistants and their bosses talk about what goes on in their personal life and are basically friends, but not Lynn and her assistant. She barely knew one thing about Lynn. It came up as a dead end, so you, Derek, and Gideon are researching who got laid off at Hichcock and if it was brutal enough to warrant deadly actions to get revenge.

Derek is sitting at the computer with you looming over his shoulder so you can read what he has up. Gideon is looking at the town’s map to see if he can come up with a geological profile. There haven't been a lot of people who were brutally laid off, but there are some that make you so sad to think that after all the time they spent in the company, it’s wasted.

“Gideon, some of these lay-offs were brutal. This one chemical engineer, he'd been at Hichcock for nineteen years when he was downsized,” Derek notes.

“Damn, that’s harsh,” you mutter.

“Yeah, that could certainly inspire homicidal rage, huh?”

“The guy was in his late forties and the head of his department. He definitely had a generous severance package,” you read.

“A lot of these guys don't have enough pension. They may not be happy about it, but I don't see them killing anyone,” Gideon states.

Derek’s phone rings, and you see that it’s Penelope calling with hopefully some good news. He answers it and puts it on speakerphone.

“Talk to me, Hot Stuff.”

“Get this, Cochise. I found a chemist who works at a company that was bought by Hichcock called Palmay Cosmetics. Now, here's the thing. Lynn Dempsey applied for a loan at New Jersey Federal Bank around the same time this chemist applied for a patent on this anti-aging, breakthrough technology thing called PCO-99.”

“So, you’re saying he applied for a loan in her name to make his product?” you ask.

“That's what I thought, but both the loan and the patent were rejected because Hichcock had already applied for the patent and the patent deal had gone through, drumroll please, at New Jersey Federal Bank. I'm tracking his cell phone and it won't be long before I have his location.”

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#poison #series rewrite #criminal minds series rewrite #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #cm #cm fanfiction #season 1 episode 13 #s1e13

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bloodstainedashes · 3 years

Text

Chapter 03

It turned out that they wouldn’t be staying in the town for very long. The next morning, before the sun had even finished rising, the pirates woke the two of them.

Much to the displeasure of Sir Gentleman Mr. Waters.

“Make me sit in a ship cell for weeks, then move me to a dusty inn without a decent bed, and now you have the gall to wake me up before the sun! You pirates have no decency. Are we even going to be allowed a proper breakfast for once, or are you just going to shunt us to another disreputable place to wait even longer?”

He would have continued, but the guard who had sat at the door spun around, his sword drawn and pointed at Mr. Waters’ throat.

“We are pirates. We aren’t MEANT to be ‘decent’. And if you ever want to see your home and family again, and sleep in your own bed, or have whatever foods you desire, YOU WILL SILENCE YOUR INSIPID YAMMERING.”

A profound silence fell on the room, Mr. Waters’ mouth hanging open in shock. Ace felt like applauding.

Once he was certain that he had gotten his point across, the pirate sheathed his sword and nodded at the others. They moved forward, nudging the two prisoners out of the room and back down the outside stairs.

A wagon hooked to a team of black horses stood waiting in the narrow street. The captain was sitting in the seat, holding the reins as he waited for them. He glanced at Mr. Waters’ sullen, but silent, face and then at the lead guard. The pirate shrugged at him and he smirked before facing forward again.

They all climbed onto the wagon and they had barely sat down before the captain clicked to the horses and they set off. They rode in silence two miles out of town before they stopped. The captain reined the horses in and turned around.

“Alright. This is where the two of you get off. If you keep following this road east, you’ll come to Enderston. Your people have been notified that they can find you there. Have a safe trip.”

Ace eyed the man. They certainly had this whole kidnapping and ransom thing figured out. He hopped down to the ground and stretched. Mr. Waters was clearly aghast at the impudence of them, leaving him stranded in the middle of nowhere, on foot. But one glance at the lead guard and he kept his mouth shut.

At least until the wagon had faded into the distance back towards the port town.

“Do they expect me to walk?” he asked. “A man of my importance, walking! On a backwoods dirt road no less!”

Ace rolled his eyes and set off towards Enderston. It took the other man a moment before he realized he was being left behind and he hurried to catch up.

“The minute I get back, we’ll see about those impudent pirates. I’ll have the whole navy after them! They’ll rue the day they ever crossed my path!”

Ace walked faster, hoping to lose the man, silently wishing the one pirate were still there to put Mr. Waters in his place.

For hating the idea of walking though, the man could certainly hold a good pace. Especially since he was raging the entire time.

It was with great relief that he viewed the silhouette of Enderston several hours later. Mr. Waters had finally fallen quiet in an effort to keep breathing, and as they topped a hill, they finally saw the town in the late afternoon light. Even better than that, he saw a hay cart not far ahead, turning onto the main road.

He set off even faster, hearing a surprised huff from Mr. Waters. He waved to the man on the back of the cart, who waved back and turned his head to speak to the driver. The cart stopped and waited.

“Am I ever glad to see you fellows,” Ace panted as he caught up. “Here we are, walking all day to reach Enderston. Don’t suppose you fellows would be willing to give us a lift the last part of the way?”

“Of course,” the driver answered. He was a large burly man. A man to whom an honest days labor was a force of habit. “Climb on. Where are you coming from?”

“Port Forrest. Been walking since this morning.” Ace clambered up the side of the cart, before looking back at his companion. Mr. Waters was eying the hay dubiously. “Uh, do you have room on the seat for the gentleman there? He might get lost in the hay back here.”

The driver was watching Mr. Waters with a look that spoke his feelings on soft city men. But he shrugged. “Sure. Doesn’t look like he’ll take too much room. Ralph, help the man up here.”

The driver’s helper hopped down and boosted Mr. Waters up to the seat, a little rougher than that gentleman would have liked. But for once, he managed to keep his thoughts to himself.

Exhaustion will do a lot to keep a man from sticking his foot in his mouth, Ace thought. He stretched out on the top of the hay and watched the sky as the cart lurched into motion. Ralph finished climbing up and plopped down beside him.

“How come you guys is walkin’ from the Port?” he asked. “Most folks drive or ride.”

Ace smiled. “We couldn’t afford the price of a horse,” he answered. “Plumb ran out of funds too soon. But we should be meeting friends and family in Enderston, so we just have to get there. Without a horse or cart, well, we just had to walk.”

Ralph nodded sagely, his teenage face scrunched up. “Yup. ‘Spose you gotta do with what ya got sometimes.”

“Indeed.” Ace hid a smile. “Though I can’t tell you how thankful I am that you appeared. I thought my feet were about to fall off.”

The rest of the ride was passed in silence. Ralph sat with his arms wrapped loosely around his knees, chewing on a bit of hay. Ace closed his eyes and enjoyed the sunlight and quiet. Mr. Waters sat pressed against the arm rest, trying not to touch the man who slouched comfortably beside him.

They entered the city and took a left into the stable area of town. A long street of stables and farm goods stores met their eyes and the driver pulled the cart to a stop.

“Well, imagine this is where you’ll want to get out,” he said. “If you head down the main road, you’ll find the hotel, bank, stores. Whatever you may need.” He waited while the two dismounted. “Good luck meeting up with your friends.”

“Thanks,” Ace said. He smiled and shook the man’s outstretched hand. “And thanks for the ride too. It was greatly appreciated.”

“Not a problem,” the man assured him. He shook the reins and the horses started out again.

Ace turned to Mr. Waters. “I suppose we should try and find someone who might have come to meet us,” he said. “I guess your family would be at the hotel?”

“The hotel, yes,” Mr. Waters retorted. “But my family, surely not. They would have sent a butler or valet for me.”

“Of course. How could I have been so wrong.” Ace started down the street. “I suppose the hotel is the logical place to go though. No idea who they would have sent for me really.”

Sure enough, a manservant was waiting in the hotel lobby for Mr. Waters. He handed the gentleman a key to his room and followed him as Mr. Waters started spouting orders for a bath and dinner. Ace rolled his eyes and turned away. At least that’s over now.

“Mr. Flynn.”

He turned to find a dapper young man standing behind him, a pair of spectacles on his face. He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“I have orders to escort you to the office in Enderston for an account of your,” he hesitated. “Trip.”

“Of course,” Ace answered. Dinner and a wash would have been nice first, but when the boss calls, the boss calls. He waved a hand. “Lead the way.”

More walking. The young man led him down a side street and then down another. He turned in at a plain and inconspicuous office building. They went upstairs and then into a waiting room.

“Please wait here,” he said. “I’ll inform them that you have arrived.”

“Sure.” Ace watched him cross the room and knock on the office door. The man entered without waiting for a reply and Ace took the time to look around. It was a typical waiting room. A few semi comfortable chairs, a small table with newspapers on it, and a window overlooking the alley.

Dapper came back out a moment later. “They are ready to see you now, Mr. Flynn. You may go in.”

The first thing that greeted him, was the boss. Not just his immediate supervisor, though Mr. Yang was there as well. But the big boss. The head man himself. General Ian MacGregor.

“Sir,” Ace said, coming to attention. “I didn’t think you would be here.”

“My best agent is kidnapped by pirates, ransomed back, and you think I wouldn’t want to hear the story?” The General waved a hand. “Have a seat, Agent Flynn. Tell me exactly what happened. And how you managed to keep your cover.”

Ace sat as ordered, stiffly. “It wasn’t that difficult, sir. I was a passenger on a merchant ship whose captain decided to take a ill advised route. We were boarded, the cargo was taken, along with the only two people on the ship that seemed likely to be worth ransoming. We weren’t questioned by the pirates. They just kept us locked up until the ransom could be arranged.”

“That’s all?” Mr. Yang asked.

“Yes sir.”

He sat back, a thoughtful look on his face. “And you are certain that your identity wasn’t compromised?”

“As certain as I can be, sir.” Ace shrugged. “If they suspected me of being any more than what the log book said I was, they didn’t give any indication. We only had contact with one member of the crew for almost the entire time, and he didn’t talk very much.”

“When The Sugarcoat finally reached port, the captain gave a very different report,” General MacGregor said. “He said that they were sailing along the usual trade route and were set upon by a pirate ship. He goes on to say that though he and his men tried to fight back, the pirates out manned and out gunned them. When the pirates took control of the vessel, he states that his men were treated roughly, while a multitude of questions were asked and his cargo was destroyed and two of his passengers were abducted and press-ganged into joining the pirate crew. Does any of this sound like what may have occurred, Agent Flynn?”

Ace made a disgusted grunt. “Usual trade route? Hardly. He took us through the Sound Straights. Known pirate territory. He and his men didn’t even know the pirate ship was there until we were fired upon. No way anyone could even try to get a cannon run out on that ship fast enough to fight back. It was the fastest and cleanest takeover I’ve ever seen. The crew wasn’t treated too roughly, more like gathered up and held under guard on deck. His cargo was stolen, not destroyed. And myself and one other passenger were merely kidnapped for ransoming.” He waved his hand and shook his head. “Captain Swiftkey is merely a bloody idiot who had to make himself look good to the authorities when he returned.”

The General stared at him long and hard. He stared back. No way was he going to let the dishonest word of a third rate merchant captain get him in trouble. Finally the General smiled and sat back.

“I had a feeling Captain Swiftkey was making himself look better. Very well.” He stood up. “I’m sure you are tired and hungry. Probably need a good hot bath too. So I won’t keep you any longer today.”

Ace rose to his feet. “Thank you sir.”

Mr. Yang also stood up. “Get as much rest as you can, Agent Flynn. Meet us here tomorrow at noon for your next assignment.”

Ace raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Another? Already, sir?”

“It’s of the highest priority, Agent Flynn,” the General said. “And I need you on it. You’ll have a partner on this one, but I’m counting on you. We’ll discuss the details tomorrow. Go get some rest.”

“Yes sir.” Ace looked at them for a moment, but then turned and left. Dapper handed him a money pouch as he passed into the waiting room.

“Funds for a hotel room and meals. And whatever else you may need for now.”

He nodded his thanks and left.

An hour later in his hotel room, relaxing in a hot bath, he couldn’t help but wonder. What job could be so important that it brought the General himself here to brief him?

#adventure #serial novel #national novel writing month #nanowrimo #serial story #bloodstained ashes #writing #seafaring story #spy story #original story #novel #pirates

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thomasthetankengine · 3 years

Text

MGAU - Rosie’s Element

Characters: Rosie, Daisy, Nia, Mavis, Rebecca, Emily, Thomas (Minor), Henry (Mention), Sir Topham Hatt (Mention)

take some LORE! theres more to the magical girl squad than just weapons :0000

Rosie and Daisy were sitting together in Daisy’s garden, watching the frogs hop past and the stream babble along and the leaves sway in the breeze. Everything was a magnificent green; flowers offered splashes of color and illuminated the bright landscape.

“Something you get with being a magical girl,” said Daisy, “is powers.”

“What kind of powers?” asked Rosie.

“Oh, y’know, powers.” Daisy laughed at her lack of explanation. “But for real, you find your element and that element enhances your physical abilities. Ever wonder how Emily can do all those flips and jumps without breaking a sweat?”

Rosie nodded.

“Her element is Wind. Air’s manipulated to give her boosts when moving.” Daisy plucked a flower from a nearby bush, cradling it in her hands. “Mine is Life. It’s honestly the only reason this garden isn’t dead yet.”

Rosie laughed too, leaning over to look at the flower. “What can you do with your element? Besides, well, gardening.”

“Good question, mon amie.” Daisy poked Rosie’s nose playfully as she spoke. “And the answer is, you never know. Magic manifests itself in mysterious, fickle, uncontrollable ways.”

“What does that even mean?” Rosie asked.

“Well...hm…” Daisy thought for a moment as she began to think her answer through. “Magic decides what it wants, when it wants, and how it wants. It’s just hard to control and will act on its own.”

“Oh.” Rosie was quiet for a few moments. “That sounds difficult.”

“Oui, it’s frustrating at first, but you get used to it. You adapt.” Daisy removed the petal from the flower, and another one grew in its place only seconds after. “You just have to think how your magic thinks.”

“...magic thinks?”

“For lack of better words,” said Daisy. “It chooses what it wants to do, rather than you. I’m not sure why, but Nia said she’s been studying it.” She paused, then gave Rosie another boop on the nose with a smile. “Something tells me you haven’t figured out what your element is.”

Rosie smiled back at her. “How so?”

“You’d know at least some of this, then.”

“Alright, alright, you got me,” Rosie said with a laugh. “How do I figure out my element though?”

Daisy put her hand to her chin in thought. “I found out mine through meditation. Why don’t we try that?”

Rosie nodded and crossed her legs and shut her eyes. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. Rosie concentrated long and hard on finding her element--or, her element finding her--but didn’t have much luck.

“I don’t think this is working,” Rosie said, finally.

Daisy shrugged. “Why don’t you ask Nia then? She’s been researching magic.”

Rosie nodded and stood up. She bid farewell to her friend and went on her way to find Nia.

~~~

“Yeah, and then she told me to ask you, since you’ve been looking into magic,” said Rosie to Nia. Nia was hard at work repainting her engine, while Rosie sat upon the loosely constructed fence. “So...what is your element?”

“Fire,” Nia answered. She kept her focus on her work, choosing not to demonstrate her power.

“I thought you had Wind too. Since, like, you and Emily both were good at all those acrobatics,” said Rosie.

Nia perked up. She loved explaining this aspect of her ability. “Well, it all begins with how hot air is less dense than cold air, causing it to rise. I heat the air to give me a boost! Well, my magic does, hehe.”

“Makes sense, makes sense.” Rosie nodded. She did not understand at all. “So...you and magic are separate, yes? How does that work?”

“Think of magic like...a dog. It’s its own being, y’know? But you can teach dogs tricks, like how you can teach magic to help you,” Nia explained.

“Oh, that sounds easy!” Rosie smiled.

“Mhm, it’s pretty quick to get the hang of. Our powers are granted by Lady, so, y’know, they like to do good things.” Nia turned around. Her overalls were stained with orange paint, but she didn’t mind. “What’s your element, then?”

“I’m...not sure, actually.” Rosie rubbed the back of her head. “That meditation session with Daisy didn’t really tell me anything, hehe.”

Nia put her hands on her hips and thought for a moment. “Maybe you were forcing it. Magic is fickle.”

“So, how would you recommend I find my element?” Rosie asked.

“I found my element while working. I was having trouble getting my engine’s fire started, and boom, there it was,” said Nia. “So, maybe you’ll find yours when working on the railway. After all, Lady is a goddess of the railroad…”

“You’re right,” Rosie said, and she bid her friend farewell in order to get ready for her next shift and continued on her quest to discover her element and master her magic.

~~~

The next day, Rosie worked long and hard on the railway. She shunted trucks and passenger cars. She brought empty trucks to the Ffarquhar Quarry, where she stopped to have a chat with Mavis while she had spare time.

“Element?” Mavis raised an eyebrow as she took a sip of her cola. “Yeah, that came pretty easy to me, I guess. But I wasn’t working when it happened, nah.”

“So...how did you find it?” Rosie asked.

Mavis hummed to herself as she thought. “Well, I was arguing with my brother, and uh, well, the ground started shaking. Guess I got so pissed my magic took note.”

Rosie blinked.

“Yeah, it was weird.” Mavis then laughed. “I had to lie and say Sodor is on a faultline so that’s why it happened.”

Rosie laughed too, but she wasn’t quite sure why it was funny. “If I get really mad, maybe I’ll find my element,” she said.

Mavis shrugged. “Try me. Get pissed.”

Rosie scrunched up her fists and face and thought very angry thoughts. She thought about the magical beasts threatening life on Sodor. She thought about Ska and how her physical form was taken from her. She thought about how Sir Topham Hatt was a capitalist. Her thoughts were very angry.

Mavis laughed. “Sorry, sorry, you look like you’re taking a shit.”

Rosie stopped and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Mavis was right.

“Hm, maybe you should try asking Rebecca,” Mavis suggested. “She found her element in the middle of a fight with my dad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! Big guy came home telling me how cool it looked,” Mavis said.

And once their break was over, Rosie entered the driver’s cab of her engine and went on the search for Rebecca.

~~~

Rosie met with Rebecca at the end of the work day back at Tidmouth Sheds. The sun was setting over the sheds, reflecting off the murky brown pond water nearby.

“Roro!” Rebecca smiled and greeted Rosie with a hug. “Do you need something?”

Rebecca hugged too tight, causing Rosie to let out a quiet squeak. Nonetheless, she hugged back. “I’m trying to find my element, and Mavis said you might be able to help.”

“Oh, really?” Rebecca let go and tilted her head to the side. “I don’t think I’ll be of much help with this.”

“C’mon, every little bit helps!” Rosie took Rebecca by the shoulders and playfully shook her back and forth.

“Alright, alright-!” Rebecca put her hands over Rosie’s to stop her from continuing to shake her.

Rosie stopped and listened to Rebecca’s story.

“Alright, so I was in a fight with Dayton, yeah?” Rebecca leaned back against the wall of the sheds. “By the beach. And he retreated into the water since, oh, let’s be honest, Daisy would’ve killed me if I got my dress wet.”

“Hehe, she would’ve.”

Rebecca kept speaking. “That was when my magic kicked in. The sea split, and Dayton was so in shock I could just walk up and whack him!”

“It was that easy?” Rosie asked.

Rebecca nodded.

“Can we try?” Rosie added.

“I think I’ll kick your ass,” said Rebecca, “But I don’t mind a spar.”

That was when Thomas, their coworker, walked by. “A spar?” he asked.

“I’ve been taking fencing lessons,” Rebecca lied. “I was going to show Roro a thing or two about the basics.”

“Woah! That sounds sick!” Thomas said. “Can I watch too?”

Rebecca could only laugh and nod, though she really didn’t know much about fencing. She only knew the swordplay Nia had shown her, and she hadn’t practiced that at all. Nonetheless, she tried her best, and her best was enough to convince Thomas that she knew how to fence.

The sun then set over Tidmouth Sheds, and Rosie and Rebecca each returned to their own home to rest the night and begin tomorrow’s day.

~~~

On her way to work the next morning, Rosie stopped to chat with Emily. Emily lived down the lane, in a neat little apartment, and over tea they spoke. Emily brewed better tea than Henry, Rosie noted. Both brewed bitter teas, but Henry’s always had a salty taste.

“So you’re looking for your element,” Emily said with a sip of her tea. No sugar, no milk, just pure black. “I think I was the first to find mine.”

“And how did you find it?” Rosie asked.

“Hmm…” Emily paused for a moment in thought. “I sneezed. Silly, I know, but that was when I first noticed it showed up.”

“That’s weird. So, it was just random?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Sneezed, then accidentally made a small tornado,” Emily explained. “If you’re looking for your magic, I suggest you take it slowly. You can’t really force it.”

“I know…” Rosie sighed. “It’s just, it all sounds so cool, y’know? Nia’s fire, your wind, Rebecca’s water, Daisy’s life, Mavis’ earth...I just am pumped to see what I wound up with.”

“And you’ll find out soon, don’t you worry. It’ll come with time,” said Emily. She gave Rosie a pat on the shoulder.

“Waiting is boring.”

Emily laughed. “I’m sure it is. Why don’t we go cause some confusion and delay to take your mind off of it?”

Rosie could only laugh too, and she nodded.

That day at work, Rosie shunted slower than usual and mixed up the order of Henry’s passenger cars and trucks. Henry and Emily thought it was very funny, but Sir Topham Hatt was cross. However, Rosie was in the union, so there was nothing Sir Topham Hatt could do about her minor mixups on the rails.

~~~

That evening, Rosie curled up in her bed after turning off the room light. She had enjoyed the past few days. She got a joke fencing lesson from Rebecca, had a meditation session with Daisy, learned about magic and elements with Nia, shared drinks and jokes with Mavis, and had fun causing confusion and delay with Emily. She didn’t know her element, but she was happy.

She turned over in bed to turn on the lamp on her bedstand. Perhaps she’d finish reading that book Henry loaned her that night. However, just before her hand hit the switch, the lamp turned on.

This was her magic. Electricity. With an excited grin, she picked up the book and began to read, illuminated not by the work of a power station but her own power.

~~~

#jik.text #our writing #magical girl au #ttte rosie #ttte daisy #ttte nia #ttte mavis #ttte rebecca #ttte emily

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thethistlegirlwrites · 3 years

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Faebruary/Febuwhump Day 20

Prompt: Betrayal

Robin lays out the required gear on the locker room table, checking all of it before the field training class begins. All around him, his classmates are doing the same thing. No one is paying any attention to him, which is a good thing.

He’s done pretty well so far. Aside from the cereal incident (he checks the boxes for iron content now if he absolutely has to eat cold cereal in the cafeteria) and the bloody nose O’Connor gave him in training last week (He was able to glamour the color of it fast enough but it almost got him sent to the nurses’ station anyway) he’s more or less slid through his first few weeks at the Silver Blade academy with relative ease. No one knows he’s fae, and he’s getting better at keeping it that way. Once he joins a field team, he’ll be good at this.

He ignores the little voice that tells him statistically he can expect to experience a major injury in his first year on the job, the kind that will unequivocally land him in the infirmary and get him outed. Maybe by then he’ll have found and killed the vamp who took his dad, and this will all be over.

An even crueller little voice asks him what he’ll do if he finds his father at the end of all this. If he’s been turned, like everyone seems to believe...will I be able to stake him?

He honestly can’t answer that. And right now he doesn’t need the distraction. He can’t afford to get hurt in training, nothing that will draw blood. The field ops instructor has praised his quick thinking and his ability to dodge any attack someone aims at him. The woman doesn’t know that Robin is as desperate to stay safe as he would be in an actual fight. The other kids here, the humans, they can afford to make mistakes and learn from them. Robin can’t.

But today, when he and his classmates step out into the training room, Robin can’t see Wheeler, with her red-grey braid and her scarred cheek. Instead, the person standing in the instructor’s area is a tall man with black hair and a black jacket.

Beside him is the Academy (and the agency)’s director, Marcus Jamison. Silver Blade, as a small agency, rolls the administration of its field work and its training into one role.

“Class, there’s been a change of instructor. Linsey Wheeler has been transferred to active duty with a field team, and Garret Roman is your new instructor for the rest of this class.”

It’s not an unusual situation. Two other teachers were recalled to active work and replaced with field hunters who have been put on injury leave. Jefferson, Robin’s new vampire biology teacher, has his right arm in a sling and his left-handed chalkboard writing is atrocious, and in tactics class, Halloway walks with a heavy limp.

But Robin can’t see anything physically wrong with this new instructor. Still, Silver Blade is known for shunting its problems off to the Academy, or at least that’s what Robin’s heard. Wheeler herself was waiting until she passed a psych eval after a hunt gone bad. Robin wonders if this guy’s in the same boat.

But there’s nothing in his eyes like he saw in Wheeler’s. Like he saw in Mom’s. Or sees sometimes in his own in the mirror. There’s no buried pain. Just a sort of steely, cold determination. Robin can’t imagine this guy being put at the Academy instead of in the field.

“Hope Wheeler ran a tight ship because I won’t cut any of you any slack,” Roman says sharply. “Discipline can save your life in the field. And you’re gonna learn it here. There will be no less than a hundred percent given in this room, and if that’s not what you’re used to, get it through your head that it will be now.”

He’s abrasive, and it makes Robin feel tense. He’s uncomfortable with people who act like this. People like this are dangerous. But Robin’s good at giving whatever he can already. He’ll be okay. He’ll keep himself invisible just like he was before. It’ll be alright.

Director Jamison leaves, and Roman picks up the clipboard that holds the class roster, reading down the line. When he reaches Kennedy Greene, who’s not in the room but also doesn’t have a notation next to her name explaining she’s out for injury, he scoffs.

“If Ms. Greene thinks she’s going to be given a free pass on skipping class because of who her mother is, she has another thing coming. If any of you know her, please inform her that she will be receiving a recorded demerit and has effectively used her one excused absence in this class.”

Robin can feel the tension in the room. Everyone is wondering who’s going to be the next target of the man’s ire and glad for now it’s not them. Roman continues working his way down the list, scanning the room as if he’s daring anyone else to be missing.

"Robinson, Angus." There's a small giggle of laughter through the assembled class, despite the fact that they've heard his name every day for weeks.

He wishes he hadn't had to give over his name, but the fae prohibition against lying extends to the written word. When the form required his first name, he had to give it. And it's not the oddest name in this business anyway. Hunters have a fondness for the anachronistic.

As long as no one knows he's fae, it doesn't matter. They can't command him in Seelie. He just has to deal with the discomfort of hearing his true name in someone else's mouth.

“Was your father a hunter?”

Robin nods, feeling a little sick. Roman doesn’t seem overly fond of kids with family legacies. He hopes he’s not about to get singled out like Greene. I don’t think I can slack because of a parent who had the same job. I’m not entitled. But he’s not sure he could convince Roman, and worse, he’s afraid of being someone the man regularly keeps an eye on to make sure of that.

“Adam Robinson’s kid, huh?” The man glances over Robin with a quick but skeptical stare, and something like curiosity. Does he know something about what happened to my dad?

“Yes.” Robin tries not to sound as eager for any scrap of information as he feels. He has to know. This guy came from the same agency as his dad, the black wolf design that was recently picked out of the leather left behind an unfaded and still clearly legible mark.

For a moment he wonders why the embroidery was removed rather than simply struck through with a line of red thread, there’s something skittering around the back of his mind, something Dad said once.

About the time he remembers that’s the mark of a hunter who left an agency in disgrace, barred from wearing their emblems ever again, the man speaks up.

“Didn’t he marry some Seelie girl?”

It feels like the temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. Robin can’t breathe, he can’t think, and everything is slowly tilting. No, no, no, no.

“Doesn’t say you’re fae on the record,” Roman is still talking like he hasn’t just upended Robin’s whole world, his whole life. He can feel the stares. “You wouldn’t be trying to pass yourself off as human, now would you?”

Robin knows if he opens his mouth he’s doomed. But his silence is just as damning.

“You’re coming with me, fae.” A hand slams down on his shoulder. “The rest of you, hit the physical training room. I have a problem to take up with the Director.”

He turns to Robin. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, they’re standing in Director Jamison’s office. He’s still at the Academy, probably finalizing some of the paperwork for the personnel change, and looks upset at being disturbed. But when Roman pushes Robin in front of him and snaps, “this one’s been hiding the fact that he’s Seelie”, the man takes notice.

He looks from the class roster to Robin, who’s struggling not to stare at the floor.

“Angus. Are you in any way eligible to be classified as fae?”

Robin swallows. He can’t get around that question. If they’d said ‘Are you fae’ he could have honestly said no, because he’s not fully fae. He’s part human. But this...humans have learned the fae’s loopholes and systematically closed them.

He takes a deep breath and wonders how it can feel so empty and numb to watch your whole life collapse around you.

“Yes. I’m fae.”

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#febuwhump #febuwhump2021 #febuwhump day 20 #faebruary #magic & silver #robin #angus robinson #my oc #original character #original work

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a-flickering-soul · 3 years

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do kylux for the ask meme 😳 you + me = mental illness

i love you so much for sending this in this truly is the mortifying ordeal of being known

putting this under a readmore because it is LITCHERALLY 1.2k words because i am literally clawing at the walls of my enclosure about these two

ANYWAYS go ahead and send me a character and i’ll give you some headcanons bc im having fun doing these!!!

Kylo Ren

Sexuality Headcanon: ambiguously queer. Don’t make me think about him having sex he makes me so angry

Gender Headcanon: he Must be a cis man. He has so much mommy issues. He is such an incel. He is so full of toxic masculinity. He must be a cis man.

A ship I have with said character: Kylux. Every single angle you take this ship from it’s funny and good. Canon—they hate each other and want each other dead. AU—they still hate each other but they’re (probably) less fascist and genocidal. It’s just so funny. They are so obsessed with each other. They gaslight each other into love confessions. It’s unreal. I’ve been thinking about Kylux for the past month and I feel like an entire geological age has passed. You can tell I’m a Kylux shipper and a R*ylo anti because I almost exclusively refer to him as Ren instead of Kylo. The gay angel went to superhell for Kylux to go canon in Lego Star Wars (twice) and a kids’ comic book. God mocks me to my face.

A BROTP I have with said character: This got literally shot to shit but post-TFA when a bunch of people headcanoned Rey as Luke’s kid and she and Ren were cousins and he reluctantly babysat her because he was literally ten years older than her (hhhhh.) and they had this weird mildly-contentious relationship as adults where they grudgingly acknowledge they are both the most powerful Force users in the galaxy and are the only ones who mutually understand the legacy they bear and care about each other but also cannot be in the same room together and hold a civil conversation for more than five minutes before resorting to uncomfortable silence. Like when you’re at a family reunion and you’re automatically shunted with the only other kid around your age so you have to make conversation but you are just so fundamentally different there’s nothing to talk about. Unreal.

A NOTP I have with said character: Hhh. R*ylo. I’m one of those evil lesbians who hate that ship viciously and one of my dreams is to be one of the mean antis that that bully a shipper in a story that’s clearly exaggerated or made up and then get cancelled for having good taste.

A random headcanon: I think he and Phasma used to spar a lot. I keep thinking about the five years he spent on the Finalizer pre-canon and I can’t reasonably justify the Knights of Ren hanging out with him for the entire time on a literal military ship and I like the idea of them being the only people that are reasonably on par physically (I also like how Phasma is an inch taller than him because....whew).

General Opinion over said character: God. He drives me wild. I have a lot of thoughts about him and how good he was in TFA and the pre-canon comics/novels as a really fucking good example of a morally-conflicted villain (especially the comics where it made it really clear that he was very much manipulated and gaslit since like…ten years old). Like! The way he could flip at will from drawing strength from both the light AND dark side of the Force is just!! So cool! The way his strength literally derives from moral conflict is just really interesting to me but….idk the way post-TFA he was thrown into a redemption (Rendemption) arc that hinged on Rey being a literal genuine fascist sympathizer made me just really disappointed. He had a lot of amazing potential to be either a really interesting semi-redeemed Byronic antihero OR a full on unhinged animalistic power-mad villain that Rey has to mercy-kill like a rabid dog. And then. Well. Yeah. I like him a lot in very specific contexts and flat out hate him in most others.

Armitage Hux

Sexuality Headcanon: gay! He is gay! I have an entire list of reasons why he’s gay and it grows daily! Without a doubt a homosexual! Gay and repressed!

Gender Headcanon: Also a cis guy even though I still do have a lot of half-formed thoughts about gender in the First Order/post-collapse of the Empire society.

A ship I have with said character: Kylux! Again! I’m obsessed with how obsessed Hux is with Ren. He hates him so much it’s unreal. I keep reading the novelizations and thinking so fucking hard about how consumed Hux is with hatred for this one man. He’s so repressed. He’s so damaged. It’s unreal. The brainworms in my head have metamorphosed into moths and they’re flapping their wings so hard they’re disintegrating my grey matter. I think near-daily about how he personally went down to retrieve Ren from the collapse of Starkiller Base and yet would not touch him to drag him to shelter in the Hux graphic novel. Would you take off your glove to check his pulse or would you attempt to feel it through the leather and touch something’s dead skin rather than his living warmth. I’m so deeply unwell.

A BROTP I have with said character: Him and Phasma!!! The way they are on first-name terms with each other….the way one of the few times in the graphic novels you see him smile is when Phasma comes back onto the base…..the way they plotted to kill Brendol together….truly evil mlm/wlw solidarity you simply love to see it

A NOTP I have with said character: Oof I see a lil bit of shipping him with Resistance members (I think I’ve seen him with Rose and also Poe??) and I know TROS made the decision to have him defect from the First Order (out of. again. his obsessive hatred with another man. writing choices.) but it makes me INSANELY uncomfortable seeing people of color being shipped with a literal fascist parody of British colonialism and imperialism lmao like….just ship Kylux bro they’re mutually bad people AND a power couple

A random headcanon: Frankly at this point I joke so much about how much like a sick Victorian orphan he looks like that I could write an entire fake medical file for him but I’ll spare you all and simply say that I am incredibly partial to the headcanon that Hux is a freak that bites string cheese instead of peeling it like a normal person. Also…the implications that he Personally placed the tracker in Ren’s belt rather than someone else, so that he alone could keep tabs on him…..I’m unwell. Enough.

General Opinion over said character: If Ren is a character I love to hate, Hux is a character I hate that I love. I just. I can’t stop thinking about this gay little war criminal. It truly, genuinely baffles the mind how much information there is about him. It triggers that same little part of my brain that goes wild over like. ARGs and stuff. There’s just so much lore. With every new piece of canon or semi-canon information I learn about him I can feel my grip on sanity slipping. He owns a black robe. He has a personal hitman in the First Order ranks to poison people he doesn’t like. He drinks tea. He’s a bastard son. He’s great with kids. He was in charge of a squad of feral orphan child soldiers at five years old. I just. I just don’t get it. I’m enamored with him. His compulsive attention to grooming. His hubris. His ambition. How literally unhinged he is (the “rabid cur” line genuinely lives in my head rent free). The way he systemically killed every single person who saw him weak and abused as a child. There’s just so much to talk about with him. He’s so evil. He’s so fucked up. I love him so deeply. He is such a horrible person and he is so fun to make fun of and he is so fun to think about. God wants there to be a bullet in my head so badly.

#im so unwell this is SO LONG #sam you did NOT sign up for this king im so so fucking sorry #star wars #huxposting #answered #i literally love you for sending this in im so sorry this is incoherent im in hell #tsukkimutual #kylux

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midnight1990 · 3 years

Text

Good Raven Chapter 1. Cofio — Remembering

July, 1995

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead. I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the babanod grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients — poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell — they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too, well, dark in this alley. Ninety nine percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I go into the smaller room across the hall where the boys sleep and of course Llon’s trunk is sitting wide open on the bed he and Afon, who’s only three, share. I see his rumpled up belongings and I know he scrambled to find his wand as soon as he got up here; I hid it in his trunk as soon we boarded the train to come back for his first summer holiday (and the rest of my life) so he wouldn’t try any last minute jinxes. Sometimes I’m amazed at how easily he obeys me, then again his most vivid experience with a female relative other than me is of Mam throwing him outside at night — all night — so she could drink and have a shag with that big warlock she came home with. He was nine, I was 15 and we were all lucky that it was spring holiday so’s I was home. I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

Professor Snape was my head of house — good ol’ Slytherins looking out for each other — and I distinctly recall the feeling I had when I greeted him and McGonagall at the door that he’d been waiting for something like this to occur. You get that feeling when he looks at you sometimes - that he knows things about you.

I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam, “Eira, what have you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like cariad — love — which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and calon which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all): Branda — brân dda — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though; Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my Tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ostentatious is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision: I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as one: Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two: I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating — if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

The look on Professor Snape’s face suggested this was meant to be unspoken. I’ve never had problems with Snape; he’s certainly a terror to many (okay, most) students, but he’s only ever had clipped praises or short orders for me to teach the first years how to behave without their parents around to guide them and comfort them and all that. A lot of the prefects were shite at that kind of thing.

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile — could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.

***

“Oi, girl! Come down here now! I need you for something!”

Calm down old man, I haven’t finished folding my jumpers yet. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already got a task for me, even though I’ve only been off the train for two hours. Sunset’s nearly come, and I don’t want to be outside in Knockturn Alley after dark, which ought to spur me faster down the stairs to see what he wants. Making him wait can feel too good though - not that he’s not willing to stomp his way up here which, as I put my last woolen top away, I can hear him doing. Thump, creak; thump creak; the ancient wooden steps groaning loudly as always. Has he still not fallen through them?!

“Are you going deaf?!”

I turn my head to look at him there, his reedy frame silhouetted from the dim light of the hallway. He hasn’t changed in the ten months since I’ve last seen him, and he hasn’t since we arrived here three years ago; grey hair slicked back, his aging face freakishly smooth without a hint of stubble (does he shave, or did he magic the hairs off?).

Before I can say anything he’s stepped into the room to stand over me.

“Get down there, now!”

He points his finger so forcefully that it’s curving up towards the ceiling, and I have to keep myself from glancing up to see if it’ll confuse him. He follows me out of the bedroom and down to the back of the shop, where Llon and the other two kids are on the floor playing with Mouser, the cranky black cat we keep to eat any mice or cockroaches in the the building.

Gwenyn is nine and has long blonde hair like Mam, round hazel eyes and a pink mischievous face. Next to her is five year-old Ffionwyn, who’s brown hair will turn nearly black like Tad’s and mine someday. For now, her head’s as shiny as a chestnut, with a pale face and a shifty quietness about her - probably because she’s been growing up in this dark hole of a place.

“Here”. A small roll of parchment is pressed into my hand.

“Take this to Aunt Onyxia, she’s been expecting it all day.”

He nods his head towards the children - “You can bring back the other one, as well.”

Of course, he’s talking about Afon, the youngest of the family. Three, dark haired and quiet like Ffionwyn, he had to come here when he was just four months old! Unwilling to keep a baby where his customers could hear him crying, Uncle struck a deal with the ministry officials who’d arranged for his guardianship — he would have to remain the legal guardian of Afon, but would be allowed to shunt him off to another adult so long as they were nearby and had no criminal record — a relative preferred. Enter Aunt Onyxia, Uncle Donius’s first cousin.

Onyxia Burke runs a “gift” shop right at the end of Knockturn Alley where she sells candles, cheap jewelry and clothing items, all of which are enchanted for various purposes; making someone fall in love with you; manipulating another’s dreams; even changing their moods or emotions. I hope she’s been keeping Afon away from her shit.

As I step through the door of my uncle’s shop into the balmy night air, I glance up at the old wooden sign hanging above the door: “Apothecary” it reads, surrounded by engraved bats, spiders and toads. I force a heavy breath through my nose as memories come creeping up again, for we used to sell those things — well, Mam ‘n Tad did - before everything went to Hell.

Mam ‘n Tad were gatherers and procurers of potion ingredients. Magical plants and animals, of course, some of which you must have a special permit to collect, but also things that are not so magical — bats, rats and adders; green things that grow in your back garden like nettles and dandelions; even farm animals like chickens and goats, the latter of which produce bezoars —hard stones that form in their gut and which counteract poisons.

Things that could not be grown or raised near our home (a dragon in the barn might’ve been a bit troublesome) we would search for. This was the best part of my family’s livelihood. Tad would research where things could be found, and we would gather our equipment and head off to some chosen spot ready to work.

He taught me to do many things without magic, which I never knew was unusual for our kind —until I went to Hogwarts. Nobody else knew how to butcher a chicken or start a fire without a wand (except maybe a few muggleborns, but even most of them didn’t know how, either)! My classmates didn’t seem to know what to make of me until the incident with Hagrid’s giant chicken.

One of Hagrid’s roosters had grown to a rather impressive size, comparable to that of a Shetland pony (he had to have charmed it somehow). Well, one day it managed to escape the coop and terrorize the courtyard where all of us first years were learning broom maintenance. Madam Hooch was knocked over before she even saw it, and a boy called Derrick attempted to scare it by kicking it away, his robed arms flapping all around him whilst yelling at it to go away. Unfortunately, Drumsticks now thought Derrick was trying to start a real cock-fight — chest to chest, wings flapping and spurs kicking!

Before it finished its little war-dance with his head bobbing low, neck-feathers puffed out trembling, I’d managed to grab one of the brooms off the work table; as soon as Drumsticks began to step towards Derrick I ran towards that overgrown alarm-clock and jabbed it as hard as I could with that broomstick!

I won’t say it was a smart idea, but the frustration I’d felt over those first weeks at school — people giggling behind their hands when I spoke in my Welsh accent; discovering that students in other houses whom I’d wanted to befriend would scoff at the idea of hanging around with a Slytherin — seemed to take hold of me. It felt good when the broom’s handle hit Drumsticks’ chest, shocking him backwards and confusing him so. It’s likely a good thing that Hooch had finally recovered herself enough to properly stun that scaly-footed bastard before I’d lost my mind completely — that broomstick was starting to feel like a skewer.

Dinner that evening consisted of a hearty chicken soup, platters of little chicken pies, mashed potatoes, boiled peas and fresh, steamy bread rolls on the side.

Oh, and most everyone in my year stopped calling me “Spleens”.

Tad had been bi— Tad had been given the boot by Mam by the the time I’d started school, and in the summers I’d been the one to continue most of the hunting work while Mam settled herself with tending the garden and foraging for plants. Mam knew the work alright, but she’d mainly been the one to keep records of what was brought home; researching the markets and packaging items properly. Didn’t take long for Tad’s absence to start its work on her though, did it? A little kid can only hunt so many kinds of creatures, and of course I couldn’t have a permit to collect things like doxy venom or dragon eggshells, nor could I travel more than a few miles from home.

Soon the goats were sold to another ingredi-wizard, then any magical plants in our garden that required consistent tending died. I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened, not at the time anyway. Mam was good at hiding her drinking back then. Since we were no longer able to provide the great amount of products as before, businesses started abandoning us for more reliable resources.

Sometimes — just every once in awhile — Tad would show up for a visit.

“Only a few days” I imagine Mam whispering harshly, fearfully, her eyes darting ‘round as though expecting whatever forces demanded they keep apart to come bursting out of her cottage’s walls.

He always went out to try and gather more for us to sell, did Tad. He didn’t take me anywhere with him that was outside of the county, though. The last time I went with him was at the beginning of summer after my third year at Hogwarts. He looked so much older than I’d remembered, or perhaps I hadn’t paid enough attention during his previous visits? Grey streaks were beginning to shoot through his thick black hair, which hadn’t been cut in years. He walked slower than I was used to, moving like his body had turned all sore and stiff; his head constantly swiveled around as we worked, as though the very land that surrounded us could not be trusted.

“Don’t let your sisters and your brother stay inside all day. Teach them how to look after themselves, better than your mam or I have done for ourselves”.

Until he said that, it hadn’t really occurred to me just how reckless my parents were compared to those of my classmates. Before Tad had been forced to leave, he and Mam had thought little of hauling me, toddling Llon and squalling Gwenyn to all kinds of strange and exciting places — places I now know where most parents wouldn’t allow their children to set foot. When they needed to collect dragon eggshells from high up in the mountains, us kids sometimes went along.

I learned where to find snakes before I was seven; how to untangle wire snares without slicing my wrist open when I was eight. I nearly drowned in a lake searching for plimpys — round little creatures with long legs you can tie together — Tad said that’s how Merpeople deal with them because they consider them pests.

My parents also enjoyed firewhiskey. Many times after we’d spent a long day trekking through bracken for mokes and doxy eggs, or slogging around in muddy ditches for flobberworms, Mam ‘n Tad would build up a fire. We would toast sausages, slices of bread and even apples for supper, while two of them added the throat-burning drink to their meal. I can’t recall the bottle ever not being empty the next morning.

The drinking didn’t interfere with much until after Tad was gone.

It’s a wonder all of us kids have lived to see three.

I worry Afon won’t recognize me, after I’ve stayed all year at Hogwarts instead of returning to the Alley during holidays. I know I have a responsibility to my siblings, but the Triwizard tournament and its accompanying delights were hard to resist. Uncle was furious when I refused to return to work at Christmas, while Onyxia wrote that I should try and catch a wealthy boy from Beauxbatons, though a Durmstranger would do.

By the time I make it to Onyxia’s front door the few glass street lamps holding charmed candles have sprung to life, casting faint and eerie shadows. I’ve only just touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open from behind.

“It’s about time - oh, Patreva! I hadn’t realized you’d returned already!”

I curl my lips into the sparest of smiles — it’s often a struggle to remain polite with this woman. Patreva is my middle name, not my real name. I don’t even know what it means, and Mam ‘n Tad always avoided using it.

“Noswaith dda, Modryb. Sut ydych chi?”

The pleasure I feel when I speak Welsh at Onyxia is the same as ever: sweet but all too bloody short.

“Patreva Burke! You know far better than to speak that way, to me!”

As if she understood a word I’ve just said?! She’s convinced that any language other than French or Latin is used to disparage her.

“Llon and I came back a few hours ago, Auntie. Uncle Donius sent me to give you this” - I hand her the roll of parchment - “and to take Afon back with me”.

Onyxia stares at the parchment in her hand, eyes narrowing in obvious displeasure.

“Did he send me no money, girl?”

Uh-oh

“I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Her eyes have gotten even narrower, if that’s possible.

“No, no girl. I suppose...I should’ve expected as much...this time.”

She isn’t looking at me as she says this, rather she’s gazing nowhere in particular at the space behind me, as if suddenly lost in thought...

“Well, wait here a moment, then. Here’s the boy’s belongings.” Before shuffling down her entryway she reaches down and hands me a midsized bag filled with clothes, children’s medicines and very few toys. No tea to be had in her house, apparently. Rude sow.

“Here you are, girl.” Onyxia appears at the door with my youngest brother in tow, his eyes widening at the sight of me and his fist going to his mouth in an image of absolute preciousness.

“Oooh fy mach i! Fy mrawd cy-“

“Speak English to him!” Shrieks the old hag I am forced to respect. “I had to teach him prop—“

But I’m not staying for her xenophobic rant tonight, and neither is fy mrawd bach — my little brother. He’s had enough, and I’ve had enough.

“Goodnight Auntie! Thank you for taking care of him, we need to go back!”

And with that, Afon and I are trotting up the alleyway and into the warm summer night.

Well, I’m trotting; Afon’s on my back.

#harry potter fic #death eaters #order of the phoenix #hp fanfic #lucius malfoy #slytherin #knockturn alley #dark fanfiction #my coping mechanism

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wonderful-writer · 4 years

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15 - Great Escape

Summary: Tensions run high as Clarke and Y/n still don’t trust Mount Weather. Upon the reveal that an officer with severe radiation burns is nearly healed less than a day later, the girls make a break for it and discover a secret that Mount Weather has been hiding for years.

Word Count: 3.43k

Based Off: 02x02, “Inclement Weather” & 02x03, “Reapercussions”

The next day, you and Clarke sat on her bed, trying to figure out the map. “It just doesn’t make sense. No exits, no emergency plan, nothing.”

Jasper looked over the rail of her bed and said, “It’s not bad. Maybe they’ll hang it up on the walls here one day.”

You smiled at your brother and he smiled back, turning his attention to the door as Miller and Maya walked through.

“Miller,” Clarke said, sitting up on the bed with you. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You gave a short wave to him, which he returned. “Yeah. It only took, what, 3 surgeries?”

“I hear you guys are fitting right in.” His tone seemed upset, puzzling you. Clarke looked to Maya and she looked away bashfully before handing a bottle of pills to Miller.

“Twice a day, don’t forget. You’ll be okay in a few days.” She slipped the duffel bag off of her shoulder and handed it to him, turning to Jasper and walking away, while Miller put his bag on the bunk next to Clarke’s.

Not long after, alarms startled you and the other delinquents as maya turned and made her way out of the room. Clarke stopped her and you got to them in time to find out that the alarms meant that someone from the patrols had returned injured.

You and Clarke turned to follow her, but Jasper grabbed you by the wrist and spun you both around.

“Hey, Y/n, what are you doing?”

“Maybe they found survivors. If our people are hurt, we have a right to know.”

“I’m pretty sure we shouldn’t just go wandering around.”

You both had left before he could properly finish his sentence, following after Maya. Jasper ran to catch up with you.

“Who attacked them?” Clarke asked the man who was briefing Maya.

“What are they doing here?” He asked the girl.

Clarke turned and took the keycard from the man behind her, pressing it to the keypad beside the door.

“Stop! It’s not safe!”

“It is for us.” You said, walking through the door with Jasper.

You ran down the long hall with Clarke, passing paintings as you went. She stopped as the hallway ended and split off into two directions.

“Guys, slow down!” Jasper called after you. You ignored him and followed Clarke into the first door on the right. “Stop pushing so hard, these people are--”

He stopped himself as he saw the body on the table, covered by a clear plastic sheet. You and Clarke looked at the wound, before she continued Jasper’s sentence.

“Are lying to us. That’s a bullet wound. Grounders don’t use guns.”

“Unless the grounders got the guns from us,” Jasper tried.

“I don’t think so.” You stepped in. “I think our people are alive out there.”

You turned around with Clarke to see what Jasper was looking at, when Dr. Tsing and two other men, all in hazmat suits, brought in a man covered in blood and burns from the radiation. Another man in a hazmat suit led the three of you out of the room and the quarantine ward, back into the regular halls of Mount Weather.

Jasper went back to the 48’s living quarters, while you and Clarke went to the dining hall to confront Dante.

“We need to talk.” Clarke demanded.

“Sure. Let’s talk over breakfast.” The man agreed.

“Who shot that soldier?” You asked abruptly.

Dante guided you and Clarke to the corner of the room to talk privately. “The patrol that was looking for your people was attacked by what you call grounders.”

“We’ve fought grounders. They don’t use guns.” You explained.

“I never mentioned guns.” Dante defended. “Sergeant Shaw was shot by an arrow.”

“That’s not true. I-I saw the wound.” Clarke countered.

“Sometimes, we feel so strongly about our people we see things that aren’t there,” Dante told you.

“We’d like to see the body.” You asked.

“Of course,” Dante smiled and went to put his plate away. You looked at Clarke with suspicion about the situation, her looking at you the same way. Both of you knew something was going on and were determined to figure it out.

“Come with me.” He directed you back to the quarantine ward and you waited in an empty room for Dr. Tsing to bring in the body.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” She said as she wheeled in the gurney. “We had to finish decontamination.”

She stood next to Dante as you and Clarke stood beside one another on the other side of the gurney.

“Thank you, Dr. Tsing.”

“The man with the burns,” Clarke brought up. “How is he?”

“He’s improving,” Dr. Tsing told her with a little bit of hesitation.

“We would like to talk to him,” You mentioned.

“Sir,” She addressed the President. “Only patients are allowed in medical.”

“We can arrange that,” Dante told you. Dr. Tsing pulled down the sheet to Sergeant Shaw’s waist as Clarke pointed to the round object sticking out of his chest.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a dialysis shunt,” Dr. Tsing replied. “We all have them in case of exposure.”

“Would you like to see the exit wound?” She asked you. You and Clarke nodded and she began to pull Sergeant Shaw's arm to get his body on it’s side, showing you the exit wound.

“Sergeant Langston was forced to push the arrow out in the field.” She and Dante, who helped hold the body, let go as she went to the cupboard behind her to retrieve the arrowhead.

She showed it to you and Clarke, who seemed to begin to believe the fact that she only thought she saw a bullet wound, but you didn’t. If Sergeant Langston was forced to push the arrow out on the field, why would they still have the arrowhead? Why would he keep in to give to the medical staff instead of leaving it where they put it after it was out?

After that, you went back to the living quarters, which were much less lively than this morning. Jasper approached you and fell in line with your walk.

“What did President Wallace say?” He asked.

“He showed us Shaw’s body.” Clarke told him. “It looked like an arrow wound.”

“Maybe because it is an arrow wound?”

“Or that’s what they want us to think.” You suggested. “What? They could have doctored it.”

“Y/n, you sound like a crazy person. Why do you want to screw this up for us?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not. The arrowhead was still bloody when they showed it to us and they said they had to push out the arrow in the field. No one keeps the arrowhead of an arrow if they’ve already removed it from a body.”

“And we don’t even know what this is.” Clarke said.

“This is… safe. This is food, a real bed, clothes, and my personal favourite-- not getting speared by grounders. How long do you think they’ll let us stay here if you two keep this up?”

“Did someone threaten you?” Clarke asked him.

“Heh, no. No. It’s common sense. Look, we’re guests here. Not prisoners. What would you do with a guest who kept calling you a liar and generally acted like an ungrateful ass?” Jasper asked.

“Kick their ungrateful ass out.” Miller responded from his bed without looking up from his book.

“Right now, our biggest threat to us is you guys.” With that, Jasper walked away and left you and Clarke standing there. You didn’t feel like a threat. You knew these people were lying to all of you. You and Clarke just had to prove it to everyone.

Later that night, the 48 were all hanging around in the dining hall, doing their own things. Music played and everyone chatted while you and Clarke sat in chairs near the entrance, her holding the map she drew. Frustrated, she balled it up and threw it in the trash.

“Langston,” One of the guards said, catching your attention. “Where are you going man? Tonight’s movie night.”

“I gotta pass. Doc says I got one more treatment.” He replied. Just a few hours ago he was red and covered in burns, how had he looked almost untouched by the radiation now?

You looked at Clarke, wondering if she saw the same thing. She followed Langston and you followed her, watching as he got in the elevator to go to medical before heading back to the living quarters.

“Only patients are allowed in medical,” She muttered, looking at the sharp corner of the bunk bed. You nodded at her from the other side and she removed the bandage from her arm as you did with yours, running your arm across the corner, cutting your stitches as Clarke did.

You could’ve reopened your stab wound, but cutting it with the edge of the bed would have been really hard to do and you couldn’t have reached it by yourself. However, the cut on your arm proved to be enough as Clarke collapsed soon after she cut herself. You weren’t bleeding as much as her, but you extended the cut further than it was, passing out a couple of minutes after.

After the bandages were placed on your arms, you and Clarke woke up, watching as Dr. Tsing walked to the door at the other end of the room and scanned her keycard to go into the restricted room.

Clarke got out of her bed and you followed, watching her try to wake up Langston, but to no avail. The burns on his hands and face were no longer as bad as before, also noticing that his dialysis shunt was in use, pumping blood into his system.

Your eyes followed the tube from the machine and into a pipe, following said pipe along the wall, until it disappeared. Clarke tried opening the door that led to the other room, but it was keycard activated. You took a step back and noticed a vent, just beside the door.

“Clarke,” You whispered, pointing to the vent once she turned around. You opened it, using all of your upper body strength to climb into the vent, Clarke following after. You crawled the length of it, pushing the opening on the other side until it clattered to the floor, allowing you to get through.

The first thing you heard was the mechanical whirring and a ventilator hissing, realizing what it was for when you looked around. Two people hung from their feet, monitors and wires connected to them as they were unconscious. You noticed a tattoo on one of their bodies, marking them as a grounder.

Tubes were taking their blood and circulating more back in, bringing you and Clarke to the same realization: They were using grounders for their blood.

You turned after Clarke called your name, seeing even more grounders in cages, moaning in pain. They reached out to the two of you as you passed their cages, watching Clarke bend down to one of them. You did the same, recognizing who was in it as you bent down.

“Anya?” You and Clarke asked.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Clarke assured the woman as she struggled with the lock. After she couldn’t get it open with ehr bare hands, you and her walked away to find something to open the cage with.

Clarke found an electrical pipe and ripped it from the wall, using it to break the lock open. You opened the cage door while Clarke started helping Anya out of the cage. Dr. Tsing came into the room and caused you to panic, Clarke pulling herself into Anya’s cage with her while you hid at the end of the cages, praying she wouldn’t see you.

As soon as she was there, she was gone, and You moved from your hiding spot to meet Clarke and Anya and help support Anya by putting her other arm around your shoulder like Clarke had done. You made it over to one of the doors that said it was the end of the containment area, entering a room with no other doors. The doors behind you slid closed and you began to panic as Clarke attempted to pry them open.

An alarm similar to the one from when you tried to leave started to blare and Clarke stepped away from the door, back to where you and Anya stood.

“What is that?” She asked.

“I don’t know,” Clarke responded. The floor gave out beneath you and all three of you began to fall, sliding down some sort of chute. You landed among more bodies, most of them still breathing. Barely alive, but alive nonetheless.

You three began to panic, getting out of the body ridden cart, while Anya stayed sitting, checking to see if the boy in front of you was still alive.

“Anya, take my hand!” Clarke yelled. Anya accepted and pulled her out of the cart, landing on a railroad.

“We’re out.” Clarke said, noting the door that would lead us back into the mountain. You looked around and saw what looked like a pile of clothes, moving towards it.

“Hey. Come on, get dressed.” You said, kneeling down and picking up the clothes. “We’re not going to cover any ground dressed like this.”

Clarke followed, picking up some boots and sorting through the clothes as Anya still rested on the cart.

“I won’t leave my people behind.” She said.

“Anya, listen to me. My people are still inside that place, too, but they have guards. They have weapons. Once we get out of here, we can find help. We can come back.” Clarke assured her.

“There is no ‘we’.” Anya snipped. You heard voices come from the other end of the tunnel and Anya noted that someone was coming.

“Not just someone. Reapers.” Clarke said. Anya went to pick up a boulder to fight, but Clarke argued that she could barely stand.

“I have a better idea, come on.” You got into the empty cart on the tracks, helping Anya get in while Clarke threw the clothes into it. She hopped in and you all closed your eyes as the reapers approached the cart, tossing the bodies from the cart you fell into along with you three.

The cart began to move, wheels creaking as they moved along the tracks. You tried your best to stay still and keep yourself covered as the reapers hauled one of the bodies from the cart and away from you. You heard him scream and Clarke got up to check if the reapers were distracted, which they were.

“Okay, come on.”

You and Anya sat up, but she went over to the other person laying in the cart.

“What are you doing? Let’s go.” Clarke asked, keeping her voice low.

“Yu gonplei este odon.” Anya whispered, snapping the man’s neck and saving him the misery of being torn apart by reapers.

You moved to get the clothes out of the cart with Clarke, jumping out and moving back down the tunnel without being seen. You got dressed as you ran, Clarke cursing as you couldn’t find your way out.

“Damn it! This place is a maze.”

Anya coughed and stopped running for a few moments, giving you time to shrug on the jacket you found. “What are they doing to us?”

“They’re using your blood.” You responded. “We saw a soldier come in with radiation burns; hours later, he was fine.”

“It’s like your blood is healing them somehow.” Clarke told her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Come on, this way.” You and Clarke started walking again and Anya went the other way. You turned around to catch up with her. “Hey, what are you doing? That’s the way back to the reapers.”

“You go your way, I’ll go mine.” Anya said.

“Anya, we need to stick together,” You told the woman.

“I told you, there is no ‘we’.”

“I saved your life.” Clarke rebutted.

“You saved my life because you need me.” Anya corrected her. “I know the way back to your people. I know where the traps are hidden. You’d never make it alone.”

“We don’t have time for this.” Clarke decided, turning back around with you. “Our best chance of making it out of here alive is together. All we need to do is keep moving and hope—“

She turned and saw no traces of Anya, causing the both of you to whisper her name and go the way she went. You turned around once more and started running when you saw firelight, indicating that the reapers were coming.

You kept running through the tunnels, pausing every little bit to catch your breath and check to see if reapers were behind you. You stopped abruptly when a reaper started towards you both from the direction you were running in. You went to the natural light on another pathway, but another reaper stopped you, and you turned around and saw even more coming from that direction.

It was safe to say you were trapped, and likely going to die. You backed yourselves up to the tunnel wall as the reapers closed in on you, but as a high-pitched ringing filled your ears, the reapers cowered away and covered their own. You and Clarke looked to your left to see two guards in hazmat suits. One with a flashlight, and the other holding the device that caused the sound.

“Get the hell away from them! Now!” The reapers started to run away and the one holding the flashlight turned to you.

“Clarke Griffin and Y/n Kane, you’re coming with us.”

The guards led you back to the door and as you approached it, Clarke began to speak. “I saw everything. I know what you’re doing to them.”

“That’s why you’re both going in the harvest chamber with them.” The guard told you.

“Alpha-Delta 2, we’ve reached the intake. Two prisoners in custody.” He spoke into the intercom.

“Your mission was to bring back three. The outsider cannot be allowed to leave this mountain. Alpha-Delta 1 is coming out now.” A voice came from the intercom.

To your surprise, Anya jumped down from somewhere you couldn’t see and attacked the guard that held you. Clarke grabbed the mask from the man who was at the intercom, leaving him to the radiation.

“His mask!” You shouted.

Anya pulled the mask off of the other guard and told you she found a way out. You both followed her back down the tunnel, but not before Clarke grabbed the discarded gun. You ran just as more guards came through the door.

You both ran with Anya, stopping at an opening that led to a very far drop into water.

“Wait, there has to be another way!” Clarke yelled over the rushing water.

“There isn’t,” Anya shouted back.

“Just give up, girls. You have no place else to go.” The guards shouted as they aimed at the three of you.

Anya looked between the two of you and jumped down into the water, Clarke calling her name as she went.

“We don’t have to kill you two. Do you hear me? It doesn’t have to end like this.” The guard told you. “Just surrender.”

You and Clarke kept looking from the guards to the lake below, weighing your options. Clarke dropped her weapon and you put your hands up, walking towards the guards. As they looked away you turned and ran, jumping into the water with Clarke, when everything went black.

You woke up again on rocky terrain, coughing up the water that had entered your lungs. Clarke was beside you doing the same thing, and Anya beside her, waiting for you to finish. You rolled over and sat up, hearing Clarke thank Anya for saving her.

“I think we should go back to the dropship first.” Clarke suggested. “So I can see who my people--” Anya smashed a rock over Clarke’s head and straddled her.

“We’re not going back to your dropship. You killed 300 of my warriors. I can’t show my face without a prize.” She tied Clarke’s hands together with rope and then did yours, you putting up no struggle to void getting hurt any further.

She hauled you both up and tied a longer rope to both of your bound hands, dragging you along like you were her pet. You didn’t know that this was what was going to happen when you escaped Mount Weather, and now you had to try and fight your way out of another bad situation and try to get home.

#bellamy blake #bellamy blake imagine #bellamy blake series #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake x you #bellamy blake x y/n #this is war series

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blitzturtles · 3 years

Text

Title: Heatwave

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): MeloGhia / GhiaMelo

Summary: To say that Ghiaccio hates the heat would be something of an understatement. He can’t stand it. Can’t exist in it.

Notes: I read that Ghiaccio having problems with/hating the heat is a bit of a fan favorite in terms of headcanons, and, since I am heat intolerant, I thought I'd inflict something called dysautonomia on him.

Dysautonomia basically means the autonomic nervous system (heartbeat, breathing, etc...) doesn't functioning correctly. And one type of dysautonomia is POTS, or Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. This can cause an increase in heart rate, lowered blood pressure, orthostatic intolerance (difficulty with standing, which is usually caused by an abrupt drop of blood pressure and a significantly elevated heart rate), heat intolerance, etc...

To say that Ghiaccio hates the heat would be something of an understatement. He can’t stand it. Can’t exist in it. Because the heat hates him just as much. It builds under his skin, while his blood collects in all the wrong places, apparently he’s too weak against gravity for his body to continue to circulate properly.

Every attempt at moving brings about a response wherein his heart pounds away painfully in his chest. It’s an attempt, on its part, to try to correct the problem, but it’s really only making it worse. The inner chambers of his heart squeeze too hard, and the bounding of his pulse can be felt through his clothes-- not that he’s wearing much more than a tank top and a pair of boxers at this point.

He’s tried to use White Album to keep the worst of it at bay, but he’s running out of energy. Partly because this particular wave of too-hot days has stretched on for nearly a week, and partly because his body is exhausting itself in its effort to recapture homeostasis.

Nausea bubbles up on his guts for the umpteenth time; a sure sign that all the blood in his body is being shunted away from anything deemed non-vital. He hasn’t eaten much of anything in days simply to avoid the repercussions of an underactive digestive system, and that certainly isn’t helping.

He knows he isn’t drinking enough water, either. Knows that it’s vital for someone like him, but he can’t bring himself to care when he’s splayed out on the cold floor of his bedroom with limbs spread in every direction. Every time the floor warms, he simply scoots to a new spot or rolls himself over until it becomes necessary to repeat the process all over again.

Being on the floor has the added bonus of reducing the amount of energy that goes into his body fighting gravity. If he were to try to stand right now, the dizziness would hit him so severely that he might not be able to catch himself before blacking out. All of his blood would rush down into his legs, and his brain would momentarily blip out on him. The last thing he needs is a concussion.

He’s too caught in his own thoughts to notice someone popping the door open (it should be locked anyways, but when has that ever stopped anyone in this godforsaken house?)

“Ah,” Melone says when he looks into the room and sets his eyes on Ghiaccio. He makes his way over to the sprawled man and peers down at him through a curtain of lavender hair, “Body being a bitch today?”

“You’re being a bitch today,” Ghiaccio snaps back, but there’s no heat to it.

“Aw,” Melone juts out his lower lip, “Now is that any way to talk to the one that brought you presents?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Mel, go away,” the nickname is the only thing that betrays his attempt at sound pissed. He isn’t really. Not at Melone, but he’s miserable and sick to his stomach and overheated and kind of over the whole living thing.

Melone pretends to consider the request-- it’s not one-- before grinning, “No. Don’t think so. Up with you! Wait, no. Don’t move.” He disappears out the door, though only just outside of it. He comes back a few seconds later with a massive duffel bag that only makes Ghiaccio groan. He has no idea what Melone is up to, but he can tell when Melone’s scheming, and that doesn’t always bode well for Ghiaccio.

Without asking, Melone settles down next to Ghiaccio on the floor, right in his next cold spot, and that gets Melone a glare that he, of course, ignores. “Relax, the internet said this’ll help.”

“The internet says all kinds of bullshit,” Ghiaccio mumbles with a roll of his eyes, but there’s no stopping Melone now.

At least not until he pulls a needle, and Ghiaccio suddenly finds the energy (adrenaline) to quickly sit up in an attempt to escape. His vision rapidly fades out, and it’s only Melone’s hands that stop him from hitting the ground.

“Have a little faith, Ghia!” Melone whines, but he’s still grinning.

Bastard.

“Whatever,” now Ghiaccio is losing patience with the man.

“The science is sound! You’re low on blood volume, and I’ve got a pretty easy fix for that. Plus some ice packs,” Melone resumes digging into the bag and pulls out several, soft freezer packs. Ghiaccio takes them with a little more eagerness than he means to let on, but Melone only smiles in response. A softer, more genuine thing that makes Ghiaccio’s heart flutter for an entirely different reason.

“How are you going to ‘fix’ my blood volume?”

“You’ll see,” Melone answers, earning himself a roll of the eyes from Ghiaccio.

It takes Melone awhile to set up whatever he’s doing, and Ghiaccio gives up figuring it out only a few minutes in. He’s gathered that it has to do with some sort of injection. Possibly more than one, given the tourniquet, but he doesn’t know enough about medical supplies to put any of the other pieces together. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of the freezing sensation against his skin from where he’s stuck the packs against his stomach and legs. It’s both a relief and a comfort. Cold is an old, reliable friend and his only solace in times like these.

Eventually, Melone breaks him out of his daze to ask, “Ready?”

Melone wraps the tourniquet around Ghiaccio’s upper arm as he speaks, and Ghiaccio simply shrugs with his other shoulder. He doesn’t think he actually has much say in this. When Melone sets his mind to something, he’s going to follow it through, and that goes double for medical experiments. It’s not the first time Ghiaccio is on the receiving end, and he has to admit that it hasn’t ever gone too horribly for him in the past.

“Okay,” Melone grabs the needle again. He pops the cap off and holds it up to his good eye for a moment before he lowers it toward Ghiaccio’s elbow. “On three. One, two-”

“OW! Fuck you!”

“Three,” Melone smiles at him with a feigned sweetness, like he doesn’t know why Ghiaccio might want to pull the needle right back out of his arm and stick it between Melone’s eyes.

Melone doesn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention as he slides the needle out and leaves behind a small catheter. He screws something into the end of it and slaps tape over it. It’s then that Ghiaccio notices the bag of fluids already hung up on the nearest surface, which just happens to be his dresser.

“There,” Melone says when he finishes setting up everything to his liking, “That should do it.” He taps the bag with his pointer finger, “Saline. An easy and safe way to up your volume.”

Ghiaccio doesn’t particularly like the implication that there’s an unsafe way.

“Well, mostly. Technically this isn’t the most sterile environment, so you could get an infection, but I’ve done worse on the kitchen table on Pesci’s day to do dishes, sooo.” And there it is.

“Please stop talking,” Ghiaccio says with a groan and tries to push away the anxiety that’s building at the mere thought of sepsis.

“Aww, have a little faith. You’ll be fine, and this should make you feel a lot better. For at least a day or two, and maybe the heatwave will finally go away,” Melone beams at him before he starts to clean up his mess. He gathers it all up in a trash bag he must have brought with him, though that doesn’t exactly answer why the duffel bag is so large.

“What else do you have in there?” Ghiaccio asks against his better judgement. He still isn’t so sure about this saline thing, but his curiosity has always been a bit of a problem.

“Oh, more fluids, in case you need them, and some uh- well, let’s just say a snack for our resident pseudo-vampire. It has to stay cold until it’s… used, so I’ve got it in a cooler.”

Ghiaccio hums and as he processes the words. Seems he isn’t the only one suffering through the heat, though he has a feeling Risotto’s situation is more of a repercussion from his most recent hit. Then again, maybe the heat is getting to the man. It’s not often that Risotto’s left in a bad enough state where he needs Melone’s help. He usually has Prosciutto for that.

“I’m going to go take care of that, actually. You should be fine here for a bit. That bag will finish in about forty-five minutes, so just stay put,” Melone says like Ghiaccio has any intention of going anywhere, regardless of the ice and saline. He stands with the bag slung over his shoulder and glances between the door and Ghiaccio, obviously not wanting to leave, but knowing that he’s needed elsewhere.

“Go take care of Ris,” Ghiaccio mumbles in lieu of a thanks. He’ll repay Melone for his efforts later. When he’s feeling more human.

“Yes, sir!”

Ghiaccio groans and rolls his eyes, “Get the fuck out.”

Melone laughs and dashes for the door before Ghiaccio can hurtle a pointed chunk of ice directly at his head.

It’s barely twenty minutes-- and only half a bag later-- when Ghiaccio finds himself able to sit up without the world spinning.

“Huh,” is all he can say into the empty room. Leave it to Melone.

#meloghia #ghiamelo #ghiaccio #melone #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #vento aureo #golden wind #blitzwrites #blitz

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ikesenhell · 4 years

Text

Into the Deep

GLITTER & GOLD, CHAPTER 7. You can find all other IkeSen/IkeVamp works of mine on my page. NOTES: HOLY SHIT. It’s been a minute. Admittedly, I’m more or less finishing this for @chezzkaa (because you asked about it and were really invested) and @velociraptor-detective (because I know you like post-apoc). But I’m going to finish the goddamn thing. Here you go. I’m doing it. We’re almost there. TRIGGER WARNINGS: drowning, panic-inducing scenario, sickness, some talk of mental illness, implied death.

---

Masamune didn't have his hands free to brace. The road ran roughshod, the ancient truck they were bound in barely hanging on by the hinges. No doubt whatever shocks it had were long gone. The way their captors drove didn't help. One of them had an arm hanging out the back slat window, eyes never leaving them. The cold moonlight pooled in the truck bed and glimmered on faded red paint.

Kicking out his feet, Masamune stretched enough to brace his body between the short sides of the truck bed and stop her from banging into the back. He fixed him with a grateful glance. They couldn’t talk--even if they weren’t gagged, they had an audience--but he could read the muted question in her dark eyes. What now?

What now indeed? The projector they’d rescued from the turbine was somewhere in the truck. They’d disabled it, but no doubt the cultists could just pop it back. And that was assuming that it was their ghost ship’s source in the first place. The other knew they’d gone to the turbine field, but after that? Their tracks were muddy and difficult. Mitsuhide was good at his job, and Hideyoshi excellent with the land, but given enough time…

Well, time was not on their side if this ‘Messenger’ was as bad news as Masamune assumed.

They turned down another dirt road. In the distance, he could see the faint lights of Waŋblí Hoȟpi flickering. So close! And yet…

These corn fields were familiar. Weren’t these the ones they’d run through those days ago, shot a flare gun by the well and made an escape? That figured. They’d come pretty close to their source, then. Masamune stilled his beating heart as best he could. They’d get out of this. They had to. He’d get her free, or one of the others would track them down…

(Or they wouldn’t. And that was not the end Masamune was willing to entertain. If it took him fighting til the end, at the very least, she would get out of this. He swore it to himself on his father’s grave.)

At last, the truck pulled into the driveway. The same ramshackle house as before, weathered white siding and the screened porch, THE GODS COME FOR FAITHFUL spray painted on the side in bright green. This was it. Masamune wriggled one of his bound hands to her, just close enough for them to link pinkies. She squeezed tight.

One of their captors opened the cab door and motioned with a shotgun. “Come on.”

It was awkward, but they both wriggled themselves out of the flatbed. Bugs battered against the porch light, their impact of bodies a quiet thud in the still night. Where was the wind? A near supernatural calm lay over the plains, as if it held its breath for the next step. Someone jabbed a gun hard into his back.

“Move.”

What choice did they have? Masamune kept his eyes open, senses peeled for anything to change the tide of their fate. Maybe this ‘Messenger’ was more amenable to reason. Onward they walked in the night, through the narrow corn pathways. He could hear her behind him. That was the only thing keeping his pulse calm. Breathe. He had to breathe for her.

Finally, they came into the same clearing as before. The eerie green light spilled from the missile silo-turned-well, pouring over the grass. They had one of these in Waŋblí Hoȟpi--one missile had ejected in the old War, so it was empty and safe for storing water. This one? This one, he had no idea. Insofar as he knew, the other one had never gone off. Was this even drinkable? It looked like it was in use...

Just like that, it clicked.

Masamune had seen radiation poisoning before. It was usually obvious. In the south and the far east, the ground was so polluted that the headaches came on within miles of the containment border. Anxiety, tremors, convulsions, nausea, vomiting--he’d seen it all. There were some brave souls that ventured beyond the concrete walls to try and repair the last and greatest ecological disaster, but it was so dangerous that they either spent mere minutes or never came back.

But those were the large-scale examples. Once he’d had a companion on the delivery road, a man named Sampson. An odd, jittery fellow with a solid fifty years on him, he would pace circles around the campfire until exhaustion finally took him, hallucinating ghosts and talking to trees he swore moved. That was just him. At the time, Masamune didn't think too much into it. He knew Sampson was from back east, but the radiation meter never clocked the man too badly.

Now he thought twice. What if that was what became of those who ate off irradiated ground? Did it pass through you like water? What if--for example--the water from a still-active missile silo was your drinking and crop water? Masamune stared around him at the wide eyed, stretched faces. Thin hair, gaunt frames, shaky hands…

One of their captors--the eldest present, maybe fourty--approached the well and lifted his hands to the black sky. “We return to you, Messenger. We bring you those you have claimed. You have blessed them. They are chosen in your eyes, and so we shall give them to you!”

Hands wrestled him and her forward, shunting them to the edge of the well. The light was blinding bright from this angle, impossible to see beyond the lip. Someone dragged cinderblocks and rope into view, and she shuddered.

Oh no. Oh hell no.

Masamune--acting more on reflex than sense, in retrospect--slammed his forehead into the man next to him, wrenching his arms around for freedom. Six more men piled onto him; he collided hard with the dirt, his eyepatch grinding into his cheek. She released a muted scream and something silenced her. No! Masamune fought savagely and it meant nothing. There were just too many of them. He could feel his captors binding his ankles with rope, lashing them to the cinderblock, dragging him toward the well--

No. She couldn’t die. Not like this. Hang him--he wouldn’t let her, he’d promised, he’d promised, he’d promised--

In the corner of his good eye he caught sight of her, her dark hair emerald in the light. Two of the men were carrying her; she’d put up enough of a fight that a third was still writhing on the ground. No good. They were shunted back to back, wrists tied firmly together. He grabbed onto her hand with his, holding tight.

I’m never letting go. I’m never, never, never letting go.

She squeezed back, her grip so tight it burned. Masamune rolled his head back to rest on hers. It was the only solace he could give. Someone was chanting. The words made no sense, spiraling in his mind. They didn't even matter. She inhaled hard behind him, bracing.

And then--with no ceremony--one of the men placed a booted foot on their shoulders and shoved them in.

Masamune considered himself fortunate that he was used to shock. The water was so frigid that it nearly knocked his senses clean. Somehow he held his breath. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. Fight. Fight for her. He could feel her body struggling, the cinderblocks dragging them down, everything pressing around them. The light was so bright that he squeezed his eye shut to spare it.

Plan. Plan. Plan. Need a plan.

What could he remember of the other missile silo, the one they’d gutted for the well? He was a child then. Distant memories of his father with the others down at the sight filled his mind, their bronze shoulders in the sun as they hefted down timber frames and bags of concrete. They’d blocked something.

Blocked what blocked what what was there--

Masamune flexed his wrists hard, then contracted them. The rope loosened. Going up wouldn’t save them. They’d just be back in the belly of the beast, even if they got the cinder blocks off, but--struggling one hand free, he grabbed tight onto her wrist and swam blindly forward, searching his hand along the wall. Rusted metal scraped against his fingertips. His lungs burned and his chest screamed and his mind wailed against the pressure--

There was a divet in the wall. Desperately, he hammered his fist against it.

A deafening rush greeted him--and they were jerked like ragdolls and slammed onto a hard floor. Masamune scrabbled to his feet. No time to absorb his surroundings! If this were a room (it looked like it to his water-logged brain), then he had to stop the incoming water before it was too late. Weighing himself against the pouring tide with the cinder block, he slammed his fist into the rusted wall until the sliding door crashed back down.

They were safe. She heaved from the sodden floor, coughing up a lungful of water, and he collapsed by her.

“Kitten,” he gasped hard. “Kitten, slow down. Inhale slowly.”

She clutched at his wrist, pressing her face into her arm. He stroked her soaked braid, rubbed his thumb along the curve of her neck, and finally absorbed their surroundings. It looked like a control room. Of course--missile silos once had rooms. It wasn’t just a tube. Mechanics and engineers needed access. The walls were sheet metal in varying stages of rust, peeling away at corners to allow faint drips into the foot of water on the tile floor. A thin ripple by the sealed door behind them let him know that their sanctuary wasn’t water tight--not completely--but it was good enough for now. At the moment, they were safe.

“Masamune,” she gagged. “Masamune--”

“I’m right here, Kitten--”

They were alive. He pressed a hand against her neck and felt her pulse hammering there. They were alive. She whimpered, and he dragged her into his arms and kissed her forehead like he could drag her inside of his chest and burn alive in his love for her.

“I love you,” he breathed. “I love you. I love you. I love you--”

Had she let him, he would’ve said it a million times. She didn't. Instead she wrapped herself around him, her body pressed so tight that it hurt, her lips like the crash of a tidal wave. He gripped her hair tight and shoved his tongue savagely inside of her mouth, soaking in all the heat of her body. Her nails were in his shoulder and her moan echoed in his pulse and her heart one with his and he tasted water and blood and the faintest hint of her lavender soap.

How had he ever left her?

At last she pulled away from him. Her desperation was still in her eyes, but her hands gripping his conveyed that instead.

“I love you,” she answered him, and his heart surged so hard and loud in his throat he wondered if it would burst. “I love you, too. You’re alive.”

Masamune conjured up some of his bravado to reassure her. “I promised you. What do you say we work on getting out of this mess?”

For the first time in hours, she smiled at him. All of the fear and panic of the last minutes ebbed away. How could he be afraid, looking in her eyes? “Let’s do this.”

---

The silo wasn’t in bad shape, all things considered. Some hallways were too flooded to manage further up, so they descended instead.

“Maybe we can drain it,” she mused aloud. “Do you think there’s a mechanism for that? I would think someone must’ve considered that as a possibility.”

“Maybe,” Masamune allowed. “I gotta be honest, I don’t know enough about these things to know that. Besides, I’d be concerned if we did.”

“Why’s that?”

He tested the latch to another room, pressing the ‘open’ button briefly as a test. It slid into another dry room, the water from the previous room rushing in to fill the gap around their feet. They sloshed into what looked like an observation room. A broad pane of glass looked out onto the center of the flooded silo, and there--leaning awkwardly in the water, barely latched in place--was the missile itself.

“Think I’ve figured out what’s happening here,” he mused. “I think it’s the water.”

She fixed him with a quizzical stare. “What do you mean?”

“Radiation poisoning I’ve only seen in large doses.” Masamune inspected the edges of the window. It seemed water-tight enough. They had time, at least. “So I didn't really think about it, if I’m honest. Ain’t a lot of radiation out here. But this missile has been just sitting here with this nuclear core for however long, and then the water in this silo has been absorbing everything else inside here, and then they drink it and use it for their crops…”

“Oh.” She paused. “Oh. Do you--”

“I mean…” He hesitated, investigating the console for any clues of what to do. “I’m no expert on it, Kitten. But I’ve seen radiation make a few people go cooky. There’s some of the classic signs: can’t keep food down, thin hair, shaking, anxiety. Combine that with an illusion of a ghost ship, maybe someone that’s already got a few screws jostled, and you might just get something a little… out there. No ghosts, no hauntings, no curses--just radiation and mental illness.”

She leaned over the console, pressing her face to the glass. Masamune followed her gaze down. It wasn’t so far from the bottom now. He could see the edges of the silo floor. In the faint glow of green work lights, the skeletons of less fortunate victims glittered. There they were, no doubt, all the kidnapped people of the plains.

“Well,” she breathed. “We have to end this here, don’t we?”

The lights got fainter the further they descended. Boiler rooms and old storage closets were the only things left. Masamune was close to backtracking when she yanked on his hand.

“What do you think our coordinates right now are?”

“Coordinates?” He repeated dimly. “I dunno, Kitkat. Why?”

She pointed at the floor. It took him a moment, but at long last, what caught her attention swam into view. Once upon a time, someone had spray painted the floor. It barely showed anymore; apparently they’d used glow-in-the-dark paint, and its half life only lasted so long before it stopped fluorescing. It was little more than a gray smear on the tile. In the terrible light, he could barely make out the letters, a smudged arrow pointing at the nearest locked door: ARK.

#Ikesen Masamune #Ikemen Sengoku #glitter and gold #glitter & gold #G&G #Into The Deep #My writing #Ikesen Fanfic #Ikesen post-apocalypse #post-apocalyptic

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prince-dongju · 5 years

Text

Runaway Prince

Prince! Seonghwa x Reader

Words: 7.1k (I got a little carried away)

Fluff, a lil angst but a happy ending. The ending gets cheesy, like really cheesy

Summary: When a handsome stranger shows up at your house, you take him in out of the kindness of your heart. What you didn’t know was how big of a turn your life would take as you grow closer.

@shikyus… I finally posted it!!

It was a Thursday when he showed up, a tumultuous night filled with wailing wind and scattered thunderstorms. Claps of thunder and pouring rain caused a massive power outage, shunting the warmth from your apartment. Curling deeper into the sheets on your bed, you burrowed further into your hoodie. A sudden knocking at your door nearly made you jump out of your skin. Reluctantly, you left your warm cocoon to check who was at the door. Peeking through the peephole, you saw a man who you judged to be in his early twenties. His hair stuck in every direction, and his suit had probably seen better days. Shrugging your shoulders, you decided he looked pretty non threatening (and cute). Grabbing the handle, you opened the door.

“Hello.” He sounded confused, like he was fully expecting you to not answer.

“How can I help you?” You tried your best to keep your breathing steady, realizing that helping a complete stranger may not be such a good idea.

“I… um…,” He stuttered, looking at the floor nervously. “This is going to sound insane.”

“Try me.” Great. He’d probably been stalking you for months and had finally decided to talk to you.

“I need a place to stay for a week or two, just so I can get back on my feet.” You weren’t expecting this. Judging by his appearance, you thought he would be some playboy millionaire’s son living off of his father’s money. Why would he be knocking on doors looking for a place to stay?

You thought about his request for a moment. If he was looking to rob you, nothing you owned was of much worth. Why not? You made your decision.

“You’re just in luck. I’ve been looking for a roommate for a while now.” Okay, that was far from the truth, there was no way you could squash another person into your tiny studio apartment. “On one condition. You help out around the apartment.”

“Deal.” He smiled. A smile so bright and charming with teeth so bright he could outshine the sun. You almost forgot what you were talking about. “Can I um, come in then?”

“Oh, uh yeah.” You mentally slapped yourself for getting caught up in his smile and his deep, warm eyes.... Pushing the door open further, you let him step inside. The tour of your apartment only lasted about a minute, long enough to show him around the miniscule space.

“Would it be okay if I took a shower?” He seemed nervous with his request, like you would reject the possibility of him cleaning up.

“Of course. Let me find you something to wear.” Rifling through your closet, you found some clothes left by your ex. They seemed like they would fit so you decided to let him take them.

“Here.” Giving him the bundle of clothes, your hands brushed his and you pulled back immediately. “Take as long as you need.”

As the water rumbled through the pipes to fuel his shower, you plopped down on the couch. In a moment your life had turned around completely. You lived an average life, maybe partied with one or two friends on the weekend, nothing outrageous. Now you suddenly had an unidentified guest who would be sharing your living space. Your ex did tell you to be a little more spontaneous though, claiming that your inability to surprise him ultimately brought an end to your relationship. Pushing the thoughts from your head, you noticed the water had stopped running. When the man stepped through the door, he looked extremely uncomfortable. As if he had never worn sweatpants before.

“If you’re uncomfortable, I’m sure I could find you something else,” you said, turning to look for something else in your room.

“No no, It’s fine.” He smiled to show you he was okay. “Thank you for accommodating me. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

How proper. Shaking it off, you nodded and smiled back. Now… where should he sleep? Looking around, you decided the couch would be the best option. The couch also happened to be only thirty feet away from your bed. You sure hoped your gut feeling about him was right, or you might end up with a knife in your chest. After setting up the couch for him to sleep on, you realized you had never asked for his name. Upon asking, you learned his name was Seonhwa. A fine name, elegant like the man himself. Once he was all settled, you turned off the lights and crawled back into bed.

“Goodnight, Seonghwa,” you whispered before falling into sleep’s comforting embrace.

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Opening your eyes, you took in the light filtering through the curtains. Stretching your arms above your head, you looked around. Last night felt so long ago. As if it was a distant memory. You would have chalked it up to a wild dream if not for the mop of blonde hair curled up on your couch. Rolling out of bed, you got to work on breakfast. Although you were trying to be quiet, the banging of pots and pans eventually brought your guest back to consciousness. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he yawned deeply and sat up. Even though his hair looked like it had gone through a wind storm, you had to admit he was still extremely handsome. His posture was extremely straight, his back as stiff as a board. When you told him breakfast was ready, he stood and walked elegantly to the table. Never had you seen someone move with such grace in their step. Now you were starting to wonder just where he came from. Maybe he spent some time in a boarding school for elite children? One of those places where they teach snobby kids how to be even snobbier. He thanked you profusely for the meal, even if it was just a piece of toast with some bacon and scrambled eggs.

While you were finishing up your food, you decided to get some things out of the way.

“I work until seven tonight. I have Netflix on the television if you get bored. It would be nice if you could clean the place for me, though.”

His face lit up and he nodded eagerly before stopping himself and smiling a little. “I can do that. I am quite good at tidying up.”

“Okay…” You’d never seen someone so eager to clean. “Tomorrow I’m off, so I can take you to get some new clothes.”

He gave a slight nod. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for me. You are truly the kindest person I have ever met.”

You thanked him for the compliment, but something about it made you think deeper on it. The kindest person he had ever met? He surely was just saying that. If this was the kindest someone had ever been to him, that was a little heartbreaking. From the few hours you had spent with him, he had been nothing but polite, to think that people were unkind to him made you feel a little sad. Shaking your head, you chastised yourself for thinking so deeply about a man you just met.

Checking the clock, you realized you were running a little late. “Crap! I’m going to be late.” You exclaimed, hopping up to quickly wash the dishes.

“Leave this. I can take care of it.” Looking up from the sink, you notice Seonghwa standing right beside you. Looking into your eyes with his comforting chocolate gaze, he gave a slight nod before motioning for you to head off to work.

“Thank you Seonghwa.” You muttered before sprinting out the door as fast as you could.

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Work was a little hard to sit though. Your mind kept wandering back home to where Seonghwa was, doing heaven knows what in your apartment. Maybe leaving him alone was a bad idea. Mentally running through your apartment, you were confident you had hidden your important items. After hours of questioning just who this mysterious man was, the clock struck seven. Driving home was extremely nerve wracking. When you got home would your apartment be in one piece? Had he cleaned like you asked him to, or did he make a mess of the place? Turning your key in the lock was the scariest moment of your life. Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you pushed the door open and prayed for the best. The apartment was definitely not a mess. In fact, it was far from it. The windows were spotless, the counters sparkling, and… had the fan been dusted? You couldn’t remember the last time you had put so much effort into cleaning.

“What do you think?” Seonghwa quickly stood from his perch on the couch, looking at you like he was nervous of what you would say.

“Seonghwa! It’s amazing! You really are good at tidying up.” He smiled, his bright teeth glowing in the light of the room. “Thank you! Everyone at the pal- at home says I’m good at it. Come sit down. You’ve had a long day.” Guiding you to your own couch, he was ready to get you anything you needed. After draping a blanket across your legs, you offered to share it with him, smiling as he pressed closer to you. While watching an awfully cheesy comedy, you felt your eyelids growing droopy. Swaying back and forth on the couch, you tried to keep yourself awake. But it was no use. The day had taken a toll on you, leaving you exhausted. Noticing you were about to fall off the couch, Seonghwa gently directed you to lean back on the couch so you wouldn’t fall off and hurt yourself. When your head lolled to the side and landed on his shoulder he froze for a moment, unsure if he should let you stay or wake you up. He decided that you needed your sleep and let you be. Halfway through the second movie he caught the time on the clock and decided he should probably wake you up. Ever so gently, he shook your shoulder. When you yawned, he thought it might be the cutest yawn he had ever witnessed.

“You should get to bed.” He looked at the floor, a little shy at the thoughts running through his head.

“You’re right. Gotta get up early so we can go shopping before it gets too busy.” While you were waiting for your turn in the bathroom, you stared at the floor, deep in thought. A day ago you didn’t even know this man. Now you were falling asleep on his shoulder? What had come over you? One thing was certain, you felt really comfortable with him considering the fact that you had just met. Your thoughts were interrupted by Seonghwa softly calling your name.

“y/n?” looking up, you took in his appearance. His hair was perfectly styled, as if he was going out rather than to bed. Skin glowing, and eyebrows shaped beautifully, his visuals were perfect. Even the clothes you gave him last night fit him better than they did your ex who actually owned them. “I’m done.” his words knocked you out of your trance, and you turned your head to hide your blush.

In the morning you woke to the sound of the sink running. Looking over to the kitchen, you saw Seonghwa standing at the sink washing a few dishes. He noticed you were awake and gave you a warm smile. “I made breakfast for us.” His cooking was definitely better than you expected. Better than your own if you were being completely honest. Maybe letting him stay was a good thing. If he cooked like this all the time, you should keep him around. Conversation flowed easily as you walked down the street to the mall. It felt like you were talking to an old friend, making the time pass twice as fast.

He looked a little uncomfortable going out of the house in the outfit you had given him, but you promised him that you’d find him something better to wear in no time. You noticed he was extremely cautious, eyes flitting around as if he was afraid of someone seeing him.

You chalked it up to him just being embarrassed about the clothes and continued on your way. The first store you entered had a few clothes you suggested he try on. He seemed content with the clothing you picked out, thankful for something to wear. After a few stores you told him to pick out an outfit, telling him you’d buy it so he could wear it out of the store. Waiting for him to change, you were curious as to what he would pick out for himself. When he stepped out of the changing room, you were floored. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a Vogue photo shoot. Models couldn’t pull off the look as good as he did. A white star speckled blazer rested atop a plain black turtleneck. The pants,which were complete with holes in the knees, were also black and matched the shoes he wore.

Your jaw dropped before you could stop it, shaken over how effortlessly he pulled off the look.

“How do I look?” He asked. Upon seeing your reaction, he smiled a little, gaining some confidence.

“You look… you look good.” You managed to choke out.

He noticed a blush spreading across your face and smirked a bit. Where was this sudden confidence coming from? He had been extremely shy and reserved up until this point. “Let me pick out something for you.” Snapping your head up to look at him, you got a little shy. There’s no way you’d look as good as he did in whatever he picked out for you. He could easily obtain a spot in any modeling agency, but you… not so much.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Please y/n. It’ll be fun” He took your hand and pulled you around the store, stopping at a rack of dresses. “This one.” He said, pointing to a tan and blue striped dress. Taking it off the rack, he placed it in your hands and gently guided you to the dressing rooms. After kicking off your clothes and reluctantly putting it on, you had to admit it looked kinda good on you. Taking a deep breath, you steadied yourself and pulled back the curtain to the room. His eyes flickered to you immediately and he straightened up from the counter he was resting on.

“Y/n…. you look. Wow.” The last word came out a little breathless as he stared at you, taking in your appearance. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. Not when you looked that good. Now it was his turn to blush. Chuckling, you give him a bright smile. You thanked him for picking it out for you, amazed at his fashion sense.

Once you had paid for the clothing, you decided to take him around the town. You learned that he wasn’t from around the area, he was just passing through. Conversation flowed easily again, and before long it was sunset. The whole day had passed so quickly, and you got a little sad at the thought of returning home. You suddenly became curious. Where was home for Seonghwa?

“Seonghwa. Where are you from?” His eyes left the sunset to rest on your face. Taking a moment to trace your features, he thought to himself.

His eyes held a sadness at the thought of the town he once called his own. “Somewhere special.”

Puzzled at his response, you let it go and watched the final swatch of pink fade from the sky.

“Do you want to go home? Maybe watch a movie or something?” You wanted to take the last few moments of the day to relax before you had to return to real life the next day. He agreed, and you took off towards your apartment complex.

“You sure do watch a lot of movies.” He teased with a grin.

“Hey. Movies take you places, to foreign lands and galaxies. Don’t judge me for wanting to escape reality every once in a while.” Your tone was light, but the smile fell from his face.

“Believe me. I can relate.”

Walking the rest of the way in an awkward silence, you thought about the sadness held in his words about his hometown. Now you were curious, but you didn't want to press him about it.

Turning on a cheesy chick flick, you tried to forget about all the questions running in your mind. One thing was for sure, Seonghwa made a pretty good friend and you were actually hoping that he would stick around in the city so you could see him after he left your place. Eventually, you drifted off to sleep. Watching movies late at night always had this effect on you. You could hardly stay awake once you pressed play.

Seonghwa smiled softly as your head found its way to his shoulder again. Carefully, he brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Looking at your resting face, he whispered to your sleeping form, “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you about me yet. I promise you I will tell you before I leave.” He didn’t bother to wake you this time, slipping his arm under your knees and the other behind your back. Carrying you bridal style to the bed, he placed you under the soft covers. Pulling the covers over your body, he whispered a soft ‘goodnight’ before turning off the light and making his way to the couch.

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Seonghwa had been with you for a week now. You had grown closer to him every day he was with you. It concerned you a little, knowing his stay was gradually progressing to the end. As the days went by, you learned more about him, his likes and dislikes. You learned he hated messy rooms and loved to clean. His cooking was phenomenal, and he always blushed a little when you complimented him on his cuisine. When you asked him to teach you how to be as good as him, he was so patient. Coaxing you along, he’d tell you which spices would work the best in each dish and gave you endless compliments till the end. You now knew he loved the color blue and when asked why, he said it reminded him of home. Then he’d stare off with that sad look in his eyes that always broke your heart a little.

Life had become a routine at this point, coming home to find him on the couch. Usually he prepared dinner or ordered take out, always having something ready for you when you arrived at home. You’d watch a movie or two with him, always falling asleep before it was finished. You had often pondered on why you couldn’t finish a movie. Maybe it was because you hated endings. If you were asleep you’d never have to witness the fantasy of the movie coming to an end. In the morning you either found yourself in your bed, or on the couch with your head on Seonghwa’s shoulder. When you found yourself in the later position, he would chuckle as you both awoke, brushing the hair away from your face as you helped him do the same.

With each passing day you found yourself falling for him a little more. At first you chalked it up to friendship. But the way he smiled at you had your heart pounding. It was also the little things he did for you, cleaning the apartment and picking up things from the local market that reminded him of you. All you could do was hope he felt the same, or pray that the feelings would leave quickly if he didn’t.

A few nights before a big evaluation at work, he’d offered to help take your mind off the stressful event. You were sure you’d never forget the way he made you laugh, eliminating your stress completely. Wrapping your fingers around a bottle of cheap liquor, you gazed at him through hooded eyes.

“Why are you staring at me?” Seonghwa playfully shoved your leg, giggling a little as he teased you.

A few sips later with your senses clouded further, you told him, “Nothing. You’re just gorgeous.” Resting your chin on your hand, you let out a long sigh. “It’s really unfair.”

Your admission brought a few chuckles from the male. “Me?” He scoffed a bit. “You’re the gorgeous one.” He may have slurred his words a bit, but he meant every one of them. And he hoped you understood that no matter what.

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Coming home after work the next night, you were greeted by the familiar blonde headed boy. He led you to the little dining area and showed you the meal he had prepared for you. It looked as if he had gone all out, digging the packed up wine glasses out of your cupboard. He even lit a few candles and placed them around the table. You told him that you had received a promotion at work and it seemed like this was his way of congratulating you.

Pulling out your chair, he helped you get seated before he walked to the other side of the table and sat himself.

“Congratulations on the promotion y/n.” He smiled brightly across the table at you.

Feeling your heart flip flop at his action, you smiled back. “Thank you Seonghwa.”

Dinner passed with casual conversation, but there was a heaviness evident between you. A tension in the room that was almost palpable. After the other night, something had changed between you two. Admitting to each other that you found the other very attractive could understandably change the relationship a bit.

Reaching across to wipe something from the corner of your mouth, he paused and looked in your eyes. Electricity crackled and the world stopped for a minute before your phone buzzed and you looked away. Shakily, you continued the conversation until it was time to clean up, avoiding the intensity of his gaze as you got up. You took to washing the dishes, trying to clear your head from whatever had happened earlier. To your surprise, a pair of arms encircled you, spinning you around in their embrace. Your hands came to grip his forearms, steadying yourself from the sudden action. Dazed, you looked up into Seonghwa’s eyes, the eyes you had grown to love after gazing at them for so many days. They were filled with something deeper now, a sense of desperation. The familiar scent of whatever cologne he wore invaded your senses, making your knees weak and voiding your head of all thoughts but those of him. Pushing even closer, his hands gripped at the edge of the counter behind you. Eyes flickering towards your lips, he moved his head even closer to yours. Noticing the way you froze up at his actions, he pulled back in embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry y/n. I thought you felt the same way. I guess I was wrong.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes as he pulled away in embarrassment.

“Seonghwa, wait.” You brought your arms around his neck and pulled him back to you. “It’s just… I’m scared.” You confessed, looking into his eyes which were now laced with confusion.

“How so? Are you afraid of me?” The thought of you being fearful of him seemed to pain him.

“It’s not you, Hwa.” Letting out a soft sigh, you tried to calm the frantic pounding of your heart. “I’m afraid of how fast I’m falling.” The words were nothing more than a whisper, falling from your parted lips like a faint breeze.

Tilting your chin to maintain eye contact, his forehead gently met yours. “I feel the same way. But I don’t want to stop.” He moved forward now, wrapping his hands around your waist delicately as he tilted his head to the side. Lips pressing against yours softly, he let out a sigh of relief. As if he had been waiting for this moment. Tightening the grip you had on his neck, you pulled him closer, losing yourself in the feeling of his lips burning against yours. His mouth moved against yours slowly, savoring the way your lips felt on his. The way he kissed you left you breathless, somehow filling you up yet leaving you for want of more. After a few moments, he pulled back to leave a gentle kiss to the side of your jaw. Your eyes remained shut even after the loss of contact, trying to hold onto the way he made you feel for a moment more.

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Sitting on the couch the next night, you couldn’t help but feel that everything was right. You had never been so happy as you had been since Seonghwa came into your life a week ago. Had it really been that short? It felt like an eternity had passed.

It felt good to be in his arms, and he told you just the same. With one of his hands around your waist and the other carding through your hair, you had never felt so safe.

“y/n.” He looked you in the eyes. “I think I should tell you where I’m from now.”

You braced for the worst, waiting for him to tell you he grew up in prison.

“I’m actually not from around here. I grew up far away from here in a small country. But none of that matters anymore. All that matters is that I can never go back.” The familiar sadness upon mentioning his hometown was back. You wished you could take this pain from him and tell him that everything would be okay. On top of that, you were curious as to why he could never return home.

“Why is that Seonghwa? Why can’t you go back?” He turned to face you a little and looked you in the eyes.

“This may come as a bit of a shock, but I’m… I’m a prince. Or, I was”

Immediately after the words left his mouth, your jaw dropped wide open. No way. He was kidding you right? Princes only existed in fairytales and ancient monarchies, not in drabby one room apartments.

“I’m sorry… what?” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and continued with his explanation.

“My stepmother married my father when I was just a little boy. He was so blinded by his love for her that he didn’t notice how she truly was. She slowly took control of the country and by the time he realized, it was too late. I was never enough for her. One of the reasons she resented me so much was because I was not her own child. In the end, she… she killed him. She murdered her own husband and banished me for crimes I never committed.” A single tear rolled down his cheek, falling upon your intertwined fingers. “If only I was fast enough. I could have stopped it. I could have stopped it all. And I-I-” His words cut off as sobs wracked his body. Pulling his head to your chest, you held him close and rubbed his back as he cried. The pain he was experiencing sounded unimaginable. Whispering words of comfort, you felt your heart break for him, wishing you could carry some of his pain.

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You awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the windows. Acutely aware of something tickling at your collar bones, you turned your head to view Seonghwa’s head buried in your neck. You had fallen asleep on the couch. His body was pressed upon yours, one of his arms draped over your waist while his other hand held yours tightly, as if he was afraid you would leave him. Letting out a sigh, you leaned forward to press gentle kisses along his forehead. He stirred a little at the feeling, snuggling deeper into your embrace. Grateful that you had the day off, you decided that a little more sleep couldn’t hurt.

The next time you awoke, Seonghwa was gone. Opening your eyes wider, you looked around for him. Only once you located him were you able to breathe easily. He stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back. Standing from your place on the couch, you carefully approached him, admiring how the sun’s rays illuminated his features.

“Seonghwa.” You called to him softly, catching his attention. Reaching for your hand, he gave you a sad smile. The pair of you stood in silence, gazing upon the awakening city. You felt his uncertainty, his fear of the future. Pulling him closer, you wrapped your arms around him in a comforting embrace. Closing his eyes, he sighed and leaned down to rest his forehead against yours. You stood there for a while, feeling his beaten heart pulse against your skin.

The next two days were especially hard. Seonghwa was uncharacteristically down, the remembrance of his past taking a toll on his mood. You tried your hardest to get him out of his slump, even offering to help him clean. Even if nothing helped, you would always be there for him, a shoulder to cry on when the world felt like it was caving in. He told you once that he had never felt so at peace than when he was with you, all his worries slowly slipping away. It would take some time to heal, like every loss does, but having you with him made it feel a little easier. Although, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt. You had given him so much and what had he done for you in return? Ever since he had shown up, he’d flipped your whole life around. The added expenses of keeping him here must be taking a toll on you. When he showed up he asked for two weeks, which were quickly coming to a close. Although it would be hard, he knew he should leave.

That night, the power went out again. Another storm thundered outside of your apartment, knocking over a telephone pole. No power meant no heat, and you could see Seonghwa trembling under his single blanket on the couch. Cautiously, you spoke up. “S-Seonghwa. You can join me. If you want.” You told yourself that you’d offered a spot under your covers because he was cold. But maybe it meant more than that. Memories of the night you spent on the couch constantly flooded your brain, the feeling of his arms around you felt even better than you imagined it would be. You would be lying if you said you didn’t want him to hold you again.

Oh so slowly, Seonghwa stood from the couch and cautiously made his way over to you. Standing over the bed, he looked at you with a nervous expression. “Are you sure?” Although he had slept with you before, doing so in your bed felt so...intimate.

Nodding your head and giving him a shy smile, you scooted over and patted the mattress as an invitation. Carefully, he peeled back the covers and slipped beneath them. He had the overwhelming urge to reach out and pull you to him, to hold you so tight that there was no space between you. The idea of brushing your hair from your face and whispering sweet nothings in your ear sent his heart racing. But he held himself back. Leaving would be much harder the closer he got to you. Laying on his back, he stared at the ceiling, listening to your breathing. He could tell that you weren’t asleep quite yet, and when your hand reached out to grasp his own, he couldn’t take it anymore. Turning to face you, he wrapped his arms around your middle and pulled your body flush against his. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he breathed in your now familiar scent.. He felt your fingers rub across his back gently, sending sparks of electricity down his spine. His lips trailed the expanse of your collar bones, each kiss confirming his adoration for you. Your fingers stuttered along his back when you felt his teeth reach to nip at your earlobe fondly. “Thank you for everything,” he whispered. It was a little hard to process the words when his fingers were running along your arms. His mere presence was intoxicating, sending your head spinning in ways you thought were impossible. When he dipped his head to give your neck some attention, you tangled your legs with his and slid your hands up his chest to wind your arms around his neck. Pulling back, he gazed into your eyes with a loving expression, studying every detail of your sparkling irises. “Seonghwa,” you whispered. Gosh, he loved the way you said his name. When you whispered to him again your voice was quiet, but it sent his heart into overdrive. “I think I love you.” Watching him nervously, you searched for any sign that he didn’t feel the same. His response was to crash his lips onto yours, eliciting a gasp from your pretty pink lips which he greedily swallowed with his own. Your words echoed in his head, driving him to press his lips to yours over and over again, making up for every time he’d wanted to kiss you yet refrained. He could swear his heart almost melted when he felt your fingers tug at his platinum locks, applying the perfect amount of pressure. “You’re so gorgeous,” He mumbled on your swollen lips, dipping his head to share a final tender kiss. Once the passion induced haze cleared from his eyes, he noticed how red and puffy your lips had become. Feeling a sudden surge of pride at being the cause of this, he swiped his thumb along your bottom lip and laughed gently. Looking into your eyes, he was captured by the intensity of your gaze. Becoming shy, he hid his face in your neck once again. He knew he should go soon, and continuing this would only bring you more pain. But how could this be so wrong when holding you in his arms felt so right?

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Three days later, you decided to take him around the town again.

Stepping from the apartment, you felt his hand reach over to intertwine with yours. You felt a surge of emotion flood you, completely enraptured by this gorgeous man. His fingers were long and slim, completely enveloping your own in his warmth. Turning his head, he gave you a soft smile. You blushed at his sweet gesture and quickly looked away, missing the way his smile turned into a smirk. When you were with him time seemed to slow down. All your worries and fears slipped away in his presence, calming you like nothing else. Looking at the sky, you silently blessed whatever force brought Seonghwa into your life, for whom you were eternally grateful.

Everything about him could truly be described as princely. The way he held himself was so elegant, you had once wondered if you were even good enough for him. Those fears plagued you often, dragging you down until he assured you that if anything, you were too good for him.

You walked around the city, content with each others presence. Stopping at an ice cream shop, you picked up a portion of the sweet treat for the pair of you. A small trek led you to the pier where you shared the desert. Reaching up, you moved a spoonful of ice cream into his open mouth. You couldn't look him in the eyes for too long, his gaze far too heavy for your heart to take. Moving your eyes to the water, you ate a spoonful of ice cream, deep in thought. Seonghwa felt distant lately. When he spoke to you he rarely made eye contact and when he did his eyes were sad. Adding to that, he had been particularly quiet this morning. You couldn't help but wonder if something was wrong.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by two fingers tilting your chin towards him. Before you could ask why, Seonghwa leaned down and captured your lips in a sweet kiss. You barely had time to trail your hands through his hair before he pulled away and gave you a sheepish smile.

"You had ice cream on your lips."

Although it wasn't deep, there was a sense of urgency to the kiss. Something was definitely wrong.

"Seongie. What's wrong?" Cupping his face, you forced him to look at you. He avoided your eyes as best as he could, trying to make a decision. Letting out a sigh, he finally met your gaze.

"I've been thinking." You waited for him to continue. "About leaving."

"What?" He couldn't possibly be serious. Not when things were going so well. "Why?" You couldn't stop your voice from shaking.

His eyes softened upon hearing the emotion behind your question. "It's time for me to go. I've burdened you enough already. You deserve so much better y/n. Not someone marked as a traitor." Looking up to your face, he paused when he saw a tear trailing down your cheek. Bringing his hands to your face, he wiped your cheek, aching internally for the pain he would have to put you through.

"No. You can't." You knew this was coming, but you didn’t want to accept the reality of his words. Thinking about your life without him left an ache in your chest. "Please don't." Tears fell from your eyes and dripped to the pavement like rain in the spring. He wiped away every tear, eventually pulling you forward to bury your head in his chest.

"If they found you with me, I couldn't bear the terrible things they'd do to you." He had informed you of the cruelty his people were known for. Although his punishment of banishment felt bad enough, those he once held so dear would not hesitate to harm a man who had supposedly betrayed his country. If it was discovered that you were housing him, you would be targeted as well.

Running his hands over your back in a soothing manner, he shed tears of his own, hating the decision he'd been forced to make.

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That night Seonghwa slept in your bed again. Although you felt his breathing steady and his body grow heavy, you could hardly calm your brain. He was leaving in the morning. Nothing would be the same once he walked out that door. His presence was like a heavy blanket, something that takes getting used to, but its absence felt so deeply. Twisting in his arms, you took a moment to trace his features one last time. Once the morning came your vision would be too blurry to take it all in. Brushing his hair back, you traced the smooth line of his eyebrows, trailing to slide along his delicate nose. With one final look around his face, your eyes came to settle upon his lips. The lips that told you things that words couldn’t possibly express when they met yours. Lips that poured out praises when he thought you looked particularly good. Your own lips moved forward to brush over his cheek and press a sweet kiss to the soft skin one last time.

When the morning came you ate a quick breakfast and helped him pack up the last of his stuff. As you moved to lay a sweater in the bag he was taking, a tear fell to land on the soft fabric. You didn’t even know you were crying. Seonghwa noticed and wiped away the tear streaks on your face. When he gave you a small smile, the dam broke and the tears came flooding back once again. You remembered your hatred for endings. It seemed like the world was playing a dirty trick on you, handing you the hardest ending of them all. He pulled you into his arms and held you tight, taking in the feeling of you in his arms for one last time. It would be hard, but he knew it would be better for you in the end. He couldn’t put you in danger because of his selfish desires any longer.

Pressing a farewell kiss to your forehead, he said the words you had longed to hear from him all along, “I love you.” Turning to open the door, he grabbed his small bag and walked out of your arms, and your life for what could be forever.

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Two weeks had passed since you last saw him. Although you hadn’t known him for long, that didn’t stop you from missing him deeply. You had spent every free minute you’d had with him. His absence would take some time to recover from.

You spent that night on the couch, falling asleep after watching some mindless show to get your mind off of things. When a knock sounded at your door early the next morning, you were jostled into consciousness. Opening the door, you gasped in shock. There he was. The man you had tried so hard to get out of your mind.

“Seonghwa.” you whispered, overjoyed to finally be in his presence again.

“I can’t do this y/n. Every thought that runs through my head begins and ends with you. I know it's selfish of me. So damn selfish. But please tell me you’ll take me back again.”

Did you even have to think about it? “Of course. This place is just as much yours as it is mine.” Pulling him into the comfort of your apartment, you barely had time to shut the door before he pressed your back to the door and captured your mouth in a heated kiss. His lips crashed onto yours continuously, beginning to pay you back for all the days you spent without them on yours. “I love you so much,” he whispered against your lips, wrapping his arms around your waist and cradling you as close to him as possible. His kisses turned gentle, dripping with emotions you had never felt before. As you ran your fingers through his faded blonde locks, he pulled back to look into your eyes. “A prince should never leave his princess,” His forehead met yours as he spoke. “I never expected to you to open the door that night. You took me in when I had nothing. I’m so grateful for that night. It gave me you.”

Everything would be okay now. Seonghwa was back in your life, right where he belonged. It looked like this wasn’t an ending after all, but a new beginning. One you were extremely grateful for.

"Oh how I've missed you, my prince."

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