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duskamethyst · 4 years ago

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needy.

a/n: as the title suggests.. my head was empty, only pro athlete atsumu.

word count: 1.9k

genre: smut, nsfw

warnings: pwp, daddy kink, breeding kink, mating press, slight degradation, praising, creampie

pairing: pro!atsumu x f!reader

summary: just horny couple things.

“‘tsumuuu.” you whine as you walk to your boyfriend lounging on the sofa, eyes glued on the large screen as he watches one of his favorite action movies. atsumu has no business to look that damn attractive– shorts to reveal his thick thighs as they spread and a shirt that seems to hug his toned body too well. he needs to keep fit after all, especially since he’s a professional athlete but it doesn’t help when your libido is up the roof right now.

“hmm?” he replies, only tearing his eyes away to look at you when you wrap your arms around him from behind. “done showering?” he smiles, taking a whiff of your favorite floral scent from your body wash that lingers on your warm skin.

“mmhmm.” you kiss his temple as your hands squeeze his shoulders to offer a little massage while also hoping for a piece of his attention.

“your hands feel good.” atsumu murmurs, sinking down further into his seat though his lazy eyes remain on the flashing tv screen.

you pout from the lack of attentiveness, “i know something that feels even better.”

“and what’s that?” you’re unsure if he’s acting coy or genuinely curious but you stride in front of him, body wrapped with nothing but just a towel and you sit on his lap and face the unfazed male. you can feel his mid hard cock on your bare pussy and your hips grind a little against the fabric of his shorts.

“baby, i can’t see my show.” his eyebrow quirks up as he looks at you but then he shifts his head to the side to peek over at the screen.

“but i need you now.” you mumble, hips rolling in desperation to soothe the ache from your pussy. his erection grows harder and bigger in just mere seconds and your slick quickly drips down onto his shorts, forming a dark patch as it absorbs into the material.

but atsumu only sneers at your pathetic whimpers. “needy lil’ slut.” he gazes up at you adoringly and tucks away the damp hair behind your ear, “you want my fat cock inside that greedy cunt?”

“please, daddy.” you whimper, knowing the name would get him riled up especially when he loves knowing that your pleasure lays on him, and only him. atsumu lifts up his hips to tug his pants and boxers down to free his throbbing cock. it’s pretty amazing how your boyfriend is still collected despite being a horny little shit himself– him being the one who always jumped on you even when you did nothing that would even try to rouse him.

he smears your juices by dragging the head of his cock up your puffy folds and teases against your clit, sending a shock of pleasure to your core. “tell me how much you want it.” large brown eyes lock with yours as he uses his teeth to pull down your towel and tosses it aside.

“want it so much. want it to fill me up, make me feel good. wanna be so full.” you start to babble out of desperation and a cocky smirk etched on his lips as he observes your display of eagerness for him.

“that’s my good lil’ slut.” atsumu isn’t hard to please and teasing you even further will only cause him more damage than it does to you. so he guides you down by holding your waist and your lips part to a moan at the feeling of his thick cock stretching your sloppy cunt.

“t-thank you, daddy.” you choke before rolling your hips around his cock.

the voices from the movie turn to white noise and atsumu is quick to forget about it. you start to hump on his cock and his head falls back to watch the way your perfect tits bounce in front of his face. his grasps on your waist are loose, giving you absolute control over him as you please yourself.

you lean to his broad chest and your movements become erratic as you found the right angle to fuck yourself deeper.

“that’s it, baby. use my cock.” he grunts over the feeling of your walls clamping down on him as your chorus of moans and whines sings a symphony into his ears, giving him a boost of ego knowing how great his big cock makes you feel.

“mmh– daddy– s-so good!” your hand clutches onto his tight shirt as leverage as you feel the knot in your lower stomach tightening to warn that you’re inching closer to your orgasm. a loud shriek elicits from your throat when a large hand spanks and grabs the meaty flesh of your ass.

“fuck. you’re so tight.” atsumu spanks again and your wall clenches tighter around his cock in response. your slick is already dripping down his balls as your body starts to shake on top of him but atsumu holds you down by the hips to stop you from moving.

“daddy, p-please.” you whine, eyes glassy as if you look like you’re about to cry if you don’t get to find your needed release.

“what is it, baby?” he muses, brushing out the hair from your face as his umber eyes stare into yours in a mixture of familiar admiration and lust.

“wanna cum.” you poke your bottom lip out into a pout which you know atsumu is quick to melt into. he pretends to ponder for a moment, purposely makes you wait as he watches you squirm against him desperately.

“c’mere,” atsumu shifts on his seat and lies down on the sofa. “sit on my face.”

your cheeks warm up a little at the thought of riding your boyfriend’s face. atsumu eagerly waits for you, sticking his tongue out and flat before you crawl up and shove your pussy in his mouth. he quickly latches on your swollen clit, flicking and sucking on the bud to make you squeal. his arms are wrapped around your hips, holding you as you grind onto his face until he’s nose deep into your cunt.

“you taste so fuckin’ good.” he murmurs through your folds before prodding his tongue inside your hole and sucking out your slick like a starved man that craves for what your body spills. “this lil’ clit needs some attention, does it?” he toys the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue and gives a harsh suck.

“hah– daddy! gonna cum!” you sob as you tug a lock of his blonde hair and roll your hips erratically against his face to chase your high.

atsumu slaps your ass as his tongue flicks rapidly against your clit, encouraging you to cum on his tongue. you throw your head back with a loud moan ripping off from your throat when the pressure inside you finally snaps. your legs shake as you try to recollect yourself but atsumu remains to suck and lap off all what your body spills and cause you to shudder from the sensitivity.

“i fuckin’ love it when you cum on my face.” a large hand comes down harshly on your ass, stinging and burning the skin. “you always make such a big mess.”

“lie down, princess.” he directs. “let daddy take good care of you.”

you submissively lie down on the sofa and spread your legs before atsumu crawls on top of you. he caresses your puffy folds with his thumb gently, smearing your slick all over before he grazes his tip with his precum.

a low, guttural sound slips from his throat when he sinks his cock inside you. his brows are knitted together as he pushes deeper, relishing in the feeling of your tight walls clamping around him so well.

“holy fuck. it’s fuckin’ tight.” he growls, rolling his hips just slowly to let your body acclimatize.

“f-feels full, daddy.” you whine, extending your arms to his shoulder which he immediately leans down to the crook of your neck before he starts pounding inside your cunt. it stretches you so nicely that you think you might cum right there and then.

atsumu chuckles in endearment, “what? i haven’t even cummed yet.”

“y-you know you’re big. shut up.”

“damn right. gonna stuff you so full with my cum.” he snaps his hips at a faster pace and your legs quickly find themselves around his waist. “you’d like that, don’t ya?”

“mmhmm!” you squeal, hands clenching on his shirt firmly as you let him use you like a sex doll; like it’s all that you’re good for.

“make you so full with our kids?” he pulls out almost entirely and slams back in. “make your little hole into the shape of my fat cock?”

“yesyesyes!” you moan as you savor the feeling of the veins and ridges on his cock dragging against your walls with each thrust.

“you’re clampin’ down on me, princess.” he bites the supple flesh of your neck, sucking and nibbling until it bruises purple. “suckin’ me in your greedy cunt. you can never have enough of my cock, huh?”

“mmph– feels good!” your mind starts to turn into mush as he continues to fuck you and your toes curl as your second orgasm approaches quickly.

atsumu pulls away from you and unwraps your legs to fold your thighs up to your chest with your legs over his shoulders, putting you in a mating press that provides him the ideal angle to allow him to reach deeper into you. his weight pins you down and your lungs feel like they are crushed, but it isn’t as overwhelming as the tightening pressure in your lower stomach.

“ya like that? your pussy is clenchin’ around me like a fuckin’ slut.” he grins arrogantly as he watches your blissed out expression, tongue lolling out of your parted lips as you chant pretty moans for him.

“g-gonna cum!” you can feel the knot in your lower stomach twisting and threatening to snap.

atsumu chuckles, “already?” he pounds harder, unmindful over the deep dent forming on the sofa. “then cum on daddy’s cock. daddy wants you to cream all around his big cock.”

he rubs tight circles on your swollen clit, edging you closer to your orgasm and your eyes roll back once you finally tip off, pussy fluttering and squeezing around him as you’re sent into a state of euphoria.

“daddy makes you feel good, doesn’t he?” he coos as he fucks you through your high.

“t-thank you, da-ddy.” you gasp, mouth gaping as you pant for air.

the room is filled with the sound of his balls slapping your skin mingling with his throaty grunts. his pace soon turns sporadic, balls tightening as he feels like he’s almost reaching his own orgasm.

“sh-shit. ‘m gonna cum in this pretty pussy.” he growls, thrusting faster until his cock twitches and he grounds his hips as his warm seeds shoot inside your womb. he takes a brief moment to make sure he has emptied out inside you before he pulls out his softening cock. you can feel his load stuffing you full but atsumu presses your tummy and watches as his white cum leaks out from your cunt.

“too much?” he brushes the hair out of your face and plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

you nod meekly, feeling limp and weak all over. “don’t think i’ll be able to walk properly tomorrow.”

atsumu snickers as he gazes into your heavy lidded eyes lovingly, “well, you have to, sweetheart. still need to use your legs when i fuck you in the shower later.”

#atsumu miya #miya atsumu #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #tw; breeding #r; writes

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lixie-lovie · 4 years ago

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{ Rogue princess | skz }

l.felix x f!reader

Genre: ??? fluff, angst ig, royalty au, princess!reader, star child!felix, idk u tell me

Warnings: a bit angsty, bad relationships at the beginning, issues with parents, vague mention of past death, mention of animals, mentions of running away

((If anything needs to be added to warnings, lmk! I’ll fix it asap))

Word Count: 5.2k

Note: did I write this literally to comfort myself today? Yes. Have fun reading this reallllyyy self indulgent fic lolz. Hope anyone reading this has a good day! Ily

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A throne made of gold and satin-like velvet, all tyrian purple. Too large this seat felt, as did the hall full of people standing under gilded light filtering through the large stained glass window. Here you sat, next to your father in an even more ornate throne, in front of a crowd of people who knew your name, your face, but nothing of your soul.

They couldn’t name that green was your favorite color because of the trees you would catch glimpses of through the windows of your tutors room, ever strong through the seasons never having to carry the weight of a kingdom. They would never be able to name why ships made you weary and claustrophobic or that your favorite flowers of springtime are those that bloom away from the castles gardens when eyes aren’t watching. They couldn’t guess your favorite piece of music, the one you never heard at those god forsaken balls. They never could place that instead your favorite would be the one that came ever so gracefully from under your mother’s fingertips at the piano that used to spark so much joy in the hearts of the people, but now sat lonely collecting dust. They didn’t know you longed to reach the stars someday, yearning for their delicate freedom in the inky black sky. They couldn’t tell that you wondered if they felt out of place too.

More so than anything else, they could never guess how much you hated staring at the men kneeling before you now, begging for a wife, a servant to their needs of pleasure, for the sake of “peace.” They would never know the disgust that sent a shiver down your spine at the twisted grin of these men that took your fingers in their too rough grasp and kissed that back of your hand, their sin tainted lips lingering moments too long. Their hands twitching at their sides with their sickening thoughts as they watched you stand from your throne, adjusting the circlet of silver adorning your perfectly crafted hair.

Your father, your king, grinned widely at the propositions made my these men, happy at the prospect of one of them taking your hand, winning your heart. Happy at the prospect of selling you away. A fair trade he’d call it. A duty.

He’d never understand, you came to realize. He was the man who had chosen your mother, the same way these creatures of lust in front of you are now. Readily ridding the world of her happiness and songs, harshly forcing her into a life of servitude, solitude, for the sake of duty.

“None of them would get it”

You’d say to yourself silently as you excused yourself to the washroom, wiping your disgraced palm clean of the suitors that you had been dancing with’s sweat, your nose scrunched in disgust. In the washroom you would stand, hands now pressed to the too warm mirror in that stuffy room, staring at your reflection. Your reflection stared back at you tauntingly, the flushed cheeks and too perfect hair, until your eyes got caught on the thin band gracing your head. The piece of metal that used to be the only thing tying you to your mother’s lineage, now was only an unwelcome reminder of your duties lined up in the other room, waiting for your hand in marriage. You sighed harshly, ripping the despicable band of silver off of your head, ruining the perfect waves your hair was lying in before. You laughed too hard, running your hands harshly over the layers of paint adorning your face. Your breaths became ragged as you tore the cloth sigil from the bodice of your dress, the only thing left showing your status in this deplorable kingdom and soon you realized, the only thing holding you back.

You stared at your own reflection, a haggard appearance of a forgotten princess staring back at you, and you smiled. Quickly, you rushed to the door, checking for footsteps, before finding your way to the nearest maids chambers. Stepping inside you grabbed a few essentials and a cloak as black as the night’s sky. Once you felt satisfied in what you had taken, you steeled your nerves before quickly and cautiously making your way to the stables, now abandoned with everyone attending the event.

Your eyes scanned the area quickly before settling on a horse with hair as white as snow and eyes the color of indigo. Your form slowed, your breaths coming out in soft pants as you made your way towards the creature in awe of its beauty. You reached your hand out slowly, to gain the trust of the majestic beauty. Suddenly and strikingly you heard a voice sounding from behind you.

“My lady! Where do you think you’re going?” A rough, calloused hand gripped your shoulder tightly, startling you. You turned around quickly, your arms raising defensively. As the offending party grabbed your wrists to gain your attention your excitement died down and your breaths came out easier when you took in the features of Changbin, your personal first knight assigned to you. Your expression became one of relief as you took in the worried, curious look resting on his angular features in the low light of the stables.

“I’m leaving, Changbin. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I can’t go through with this. Please don’t try to stop me..” You said gripping his hands in yours, staring into his eyes hoping to portray the feelings pooling in the base of your throat, causing your words to come out choked. “I’ve already made up my mind.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t change your mind if I wanted to, princess. Here, take this.” He said, smiling softly. A gentle sigh left his lips as one hand reached into one of the many holsters on his person, while the other drifted to comfortingly rest on the crown of your head. His large, rough hands pressed a small holstered knife into your palm. “It’s a blade your mother used to use. I was supposed to give it to you tonight at the ball, but this felt like the right time.”

For the first time that night you smiled genuinely, staring into his eyes softly in thanks while turning to prepare the horse for your disappearance. Changbin’s hands found your waist, hoisting you up and onto the back of the horse before he quietly led you out of the stables, checking for prying eyes and quietly uttering you a safe trip. You made simple promises to return safely to him, unsure of how much truth they held, but sure of the comfort filling your chest with the smile gracing his face.

With that, you turned your head to the dark forest ahead and took a deep breath to steady yourself before going on this possibly dangerous adventure. Then, like lightning striking your nervous system, you heard a voice you had hoped to never hear again.

“Y/n!” Your father’s voice rang out over the courtyard causing you to gasp and whip your head in the direction of the sound. Changbin’s worried eyes stayed trained on your face as your indecision bubbled in your chest at your father’s commanding tone. Quickly muttering some words Changbin sent the horse off running in the direction of the forest, your confused mind allowing the actions to happen wordlessly as you watched Changbin draw his sword against his own king to protect you and allow you the freedom you had longed for.

---------

It had been moments, maybe hours, you were unsure. The sky bared no stars as you stared hopelessly heaven bound with your eyes blurred. The chilly air hurt your cheeks now dry from the rivers of tears at your actions. Your steed came to a slow, wearily looking around the dangerous wood. All that was to be heard around you were the low grumbles of the predators and the soft snapping of twigs. In the haze of your misery you were lost and cold, unsure of even your own safety as you whipped your head uneasily in every direction of unknown noises.

It was then that a loud howl sounded from somewhere nearby, a chorus of others following suit. You tried catching sight of the beasts making the horrid sound, but soon it seemed as though the guttural growls were surrounding you, closing in on their next meal. You yelped loudly as the horse became unsteady and afraid, dashing off towards the nearest escape. From your lips feeble shrieks of protest left, but to no avail. The creature’s of the hunt followed suit, a game of cat and mouse. Suddenly, one creature, the largest, leaped out from beyond a too dark clearing in front of your path, baring its fangs and lashing out with its dastardly claws. The horse came to an unsteady halt, rearing back and knocking your frail form harshly to the ground. You inhaled sharply, rolling away, your limbs tucked inward, as fast as possible from the now trampling hooves and paws. You held your breath, covering yourself with your arms and you cried. Tears poured down your face as you waited for the steps of the animals to recede. You heard their noises of primal instinct and found yourself counting the minutes down until they were long gone and satisfied with their hunt.

When your arms went numb and the tip of your nose was sufficiently frozen, you turned over in the dirt, wet with dew, to stare at the empty sky. Your tears came until they could no longer, your breaths uneven with bitter air exhaling harshly from your lungs, and as your eyes stayed trained upwards, you allowed yourself one prayer to any god that would listen.

Please. Just let me see one star. One being from above that would understand.

Abruptly you were taken aback by an unusually chilling wind blowing through the branches of the tall oak trees, causing you to wrap your arms tightly against your grimy, shivering self. Slowly you allowed the exhaustion of the night to take over your features, your eyes closing allowing sleep to take over your dirt ridden form. Finally, you felt some semblance of peace come over you as you drifted off, a prayer still sitting heavy on your pale, chapped lips.

“You’re one weird human.” Your ears suddenly perked as a deep voice suddenly sounded from somewhere nearby. You screamed, scurrying to cover yourself with some kind of protection. Your eyes scanned the surrounding area frantically searching for the source of the voice.

“W-who’s there?” You said with as little confidence as you could muster. You cursed your voice for shaking silently as you continued your frantic search for this possible danger. Your eyes landed on a large branch nearby and your legs moved on their own accord, sliding you harshly against the hard, cold ground to scramble to grip the branch tightly, turning and holding it out in a manner you could only hoped looked more threatening than it felt.

“So silly..” The deep voice chuckled out from somewhere behind you. You yelped, waving the stick in the opposite direction, hoping not to lose your footing against any loose rocks or sturdy tree roots. Your dress was torn and soaked and the gentle breeze now moving in random intervals was jarring and dancing around your cloaked form, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. A sudden snapping sound from a branch above your head caused you to scream, throwing the large branch with all of your feeble might towards the offending sound. A larger breeze blew by, obscuring your vision with your own hair and you scrambled to remove it from your vision. As your finally were able to get a glimpse of a male slinking towards you another breeze blew harshly by causing your to sigh sharply, your hands flying back up to your face to remove the hair blocking your vision yet again. “Your gonna hurt someone throwing those things.” The voice sounded again, humor twinkling off of his lips with smooth curls of laughter.

“Who are you? What do you want with me??” You said, your feet backpedaling as you finally removed your hair from your face again to take in the sight before you. Your eyes scanned the clearing of trees in the dim light unable to find the man you had been questioning and just as you began to question what was even real, you heard him again, your head whipping in the direction of the sound.

“I should be asking you that, considering you called for me..” He said, the humor never leaving his tone. You began to feel embarrassed at the thought of this man laughing at your pitiful state. Your cheeks grew red and your ears felt hot as you began wondering why you didn’t feel as in danger as you had earlier that night, deciding to deem it all on how wild the rest of your night had already been. Instead of answering you simply furrowed your brow, scanning and searching with your eyes still trying to find the source of the inquiry. Out of the blue in the still night, yet another breeze blew by roughly, chilling you to the bone. A branch suddenly creaked above you and you scrambled back to get a view of what could be perched there.

“Looking for me?” What you found, illuminated by the dim white moonlight, was a boy, seemingly about your age, swinging his legs softly to the gentle sway of the winds. His hair was strikingly white, pure as snow. His pale skin shone softly as if covered gingerly in new born stars. His eyes held mirth, much like his cheshire smile, and his whole body was lax with amusement as he stared down at you. In shock you stumbled backwards, falling over yourself and landing harshly on the ground, yet again tonight staring up at the sky. You felt the wind tousle your hair, but you didn’t seem to have the energy to care much as your mind grappled with its own questioning thoughts.

“Uhm..lady? Are..haha..are you okay?” His question, broken with impish laughter, felt comforting in a way as he leaned over your form, searching your face with curious eyes and a interrogative furrowed brow. You turned your head softly, staring into the now shocked eyes of the boy with the angular features and moon like eyes before suddenly your lips twitched, the corners of them quirking before a laugh began to bubble out of your chest. The laugh itself with incredulous and loud, joyous like a little kid finally discovering how something works. The boy looked back at you, tilting his head like a confused puppy as he watched you sit up slightly, leaning on your elbows. He didn’t make a move to back up or give you any space, instead leaning closer to examine you further.

“Did you hit your head or something, funny lady?” He said, his deep voice and boy-like expression of wonder and frustrating confusion only spurring your laughter on further as you grappled for breath. The events of tonight were catching up with your exhausted state and you found yourself wondering if this boy who shone so brightly on this gloomy night was even real.

Once you could finally catch your breath you sat upright and really took in the sight of him. He may have seemed young on the outside, but somehow he held a powerful aura, like he knew more then he let on. His smile was dazzling as he stared up at you with eyes that twinkled with a silent knowledge. You felt as though he was looking past your filthy outward appearance, and instead he was reading through your soul, listening silently to the story you couldn’t find the words to tell.

He stood suddenly, as if he found the answer to the question that had been dancing around like the winds, curling through each of your minds. His smile became softer and more genuine as he looked down at your still seated self and slowly outstretched his hand. It was a gesture you were unfamiliar with. It wasn’t a sudden, demanding grasp of your non-consenting hand. It wasn’t rough and calloused, with a predator-like grin gracing his features, but, instead, as you slid your hand over his palm in a silent proclamation of trust you found yourself reveling in how silky smooth his larger, more slender hand felt wrapping around yours in a protective gesture. He glanced at you, a playful smirk playing on his cherry red lips.

“Do you trust me?” He said, his deep voice breathy and patient, allowing you whatever amount of time you felt like you needed before you nodded slowly, hesitantly. He tilted his head in a munificent gesture, encouraging you to verbalize your thoughts. You felt the minuscule inkling of a curl to your lips forming, your eyes catching on how he seemed to be emitting light in this dim forest. The wind blew softly, ruffling your hair and caressing your now heated cheeks. He watched your features carefully as you bowed your head and giggled to yourself at the sensation of the winds dancing around the both of you. The chilly night felt warm as you turned your head slowly and methodically towards him again, your eyes glistening with an unreadable emotion and you breathed in deeply in a more relaxed manner.

“I do.” You said, beaming up at him now, your small, frail hand squeezing his a little tighter. He smiled fully now and to you it felt like sunshine. He watched your face, entranced in your beauty taking not of how grateful he was to have answered your call tonight, vowing to bring that smile back whenever he could. Your expression grew concerned as the look in his eye changed and he suddenly pulled you towards him, wrapping one arm around your shoulders before taking off in a sprint.

You tried to match his pace with a yelp, the wind now pushing you around forcefully. Your cries of protest were drowned out with his hysterical giggling. He forced you forward for a few more minutes as you began to question his strange motives before suddenly he came to a stop. His landing was much more graceful then your sudden stumbling forward, but as you gained your footing your objections died in your throat as you took in the sights around you. The forest behind you now, you stood in a clearing with grasses tickling your ankles, but the most impressive thing about this sight was the flowers. In full bloom, covering the surrounding area as far as your eyes could see were twinkling white flowers. Some stayed small and subdued, while others were larger, demanding more attention, but all of them shown with outstanding luminescence. Your breath caught in your throat as you stood completely rigid, taking in the sight.

You then felt a soft breeze, pulling your out of your shock with a shiver before you felt an unexpected heat radiating from behind you. You felt a soft hand trace your jaw from somewhere behind as you held your breath expectantly. His hand moved from your jaw to trace the outline of your neck, gathering your hair lying there and tying it tenderly away from your face. Your sudden inhale as his fingers tickled the nape of your neck caused him to chuckle, his close proximity allowing you to feel his warm breath fanning over your shoulders. You suddenly felt balmy as he leaned his face closer, his breaths coming out in an intoxicating manner, dancing around the area where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Look up.” He said, his voice coming out in a heady whisper. You gasped as you complied, your head whipping up too quickly, causing the male to snicker behind you. You couldn’t seem to care as you took in the sight before you. The once empty sky was now covered in brilliant gleaming stars, all feeling as though they were staring right at the two of you, encouragingly. You weren’t sure what they were encouraging, but just the silly thought itself had you laughing softly, your eyes slowly trailing over everything in front of you yet again. If it weren’t for the questioning hum the man had released you may not have even noticed the sturdy arms wrapped loosely around your waist or the cool skin of his cheek now resting on your exposed shoulder. You may not have even taken note of the breath now fanning comfortingly over your own blushing cheek of the look in his eyes as you turned slightly in his arms to get a better view of this new expression.

He took in your overwhelmed face as you tried to form words for the thoughts racing through your mind and he laughed, his head tilted back and chuckles racking his toned chest. You took in the movement behind his green tunic, complimenting his pale skin and you blushed again, turning your face away sharply. He gripped your shoulder with one hand softly, making sure not to startle you, while his other hand outstretched softly to point towards the cushiony grass beside of you. You took the hint and made a move to sit and take in the view before you.

He giggled as he helped move the layers of your dress away so you could sit comfortably before taking his seat beside you. You found yourself becoming encumbered with exhaustion and slowly with the gentle breeze swaying the twinkling lights, you let your head pull to the side to rest easily on his shoulder. He moved slowly as to not jostle you allowing more comfort for your tired form.

“You know, lady. I never caught your name..” He said, a hint of gentle humor lacing his deep baritone.

“I’m sorry..” You hummed out, “I’m y/n. Supposed princess of this kingdom.” You said, your tone sounding harsh even to your own ears. “I’m not sure I’d like to even ask who you are.” You said, laughing to help lighten the mood.

“Hmm.. I don’t think I was ever given a name where I am from.” Your brow furrowed at his response as you moved your head from its resting perch to look up at his questioningly. He laughed again, his body folding as he chuckled at your expression. “A story for another time, y/n.” You accepted his response begrudgingly, distracted by the way your name sounded on his lips.

“So what are you going to do when morning comes, little one?” He said, no malice in his tone. You sighed harshly flopping backwards to lay in the soft grass fully, surrounding yourself in the perfumed scent of the fluttering flowers. He took that as an answer in itself as he watched you, amused.

“You need to go back.” You groaned loudly as these words left his lips and he laughed as he shushed you, pushing you softly causing you to dramatically roll over laying your head on his thigh, a noise of protest leaving your bemused lips. “Let me finish would you!” He continued, annoyance playfully covering the syllables while he ran his fingers gently through your messy hair. You smiled, appeased for a moment while staring longingly towards the stars above. The sky was lightening and you felt your smile slipping at the realization that they would be gone again soon.

He frowned watching your face grow frantic with concern before softly resting his cools fingertips on the bottom of your chin, non-forcefully turning your face in his lap to look at his own passionate expression. He tilted his head to match the angle of your, his silliness making you giggle softly before continuing.

“You may have to go back, but you can always come back here, it’s all for you.” He let his eyes slowly trail over you, landing on your hand twisting anxiously tearing up small strands of the grass without realizing. He slid one of his hands comfortingly down your arm, trailing his fingertips lightly over the back of your hands. It felt as if getting a sunburn, getting too close to the beauty of something terrifying. “Look to the stars, I’ll always be there, watching and waiting.” He finished, his voice getting deeper with each second he stared at your animated expression staring up at him expectantly.

You felt your eyes welling up with tears at the peace being here brought to you, knowing it would be ending soon. You tried forming words, prayers, but your lips were too wobbly and my voice was too weak.

“When will I see you again? Wh-what should I even call you??” You finally managed to squeak out, the thick, hot tears you felt curling down your cheeks didn’t sting nearly as much as the thought of leaving him here, only to return to the torturous duties lined up for you at your home. He smiled sadly at you, blurring your senses with how ethereal he looked. His hands twitched against your wrist as he continued his comforting path, avoiding your eyes as he furrowed his brow in thought. Without thinking, out of desperation for an answer, you swiftly intertwined your own fingers with his, your palms slotting together as if fitting missing puzzle pieces together.

“You’ll see me when you need me.. but I’ll always be there.” You pursed your lips in a pout and he smiled again, taking his hand once tangled in your hair and running it slowly, methodically over your furrowed brow, smoothing the skin there and allowing your features to find solace again. “and why don’t you give me a name that you like, y/n.” He offered, his voice softer than you had heard it before, no amusement, only timid hope.

A name. Something so uniquely human. Something lovingly crafted for an individual. Something that holds meaning and myth. Something totally your own. You frowned in thought for a moment and he watched as your eyes glazed over patiently. Suddenly, you sat up rigidly, turning to face him, leaning closer then you had ever been previously. The sudden movement startled him, causing him to laugh awkwardly, his eyes blown wide while staring at your expectant and excited face.

“I’ve got it! I’m going to call you Felix!” You exclaimed. He furrowed his brow, tilting his head and repeating the syllables slowly, testing the way they tasted on his lips. Then he smiled at you teasingly, taking your breath away briefly. You rushed to find some way to explain yourself before the heat fighting it’s way up your neck found your cheeks. You stared into his eyes determined before explaining. “It means happiness. I found happiness tonight, here with you, when I couldn’t back there. They may not ever make me happy, but I have you. My happiness. My Felix.” You finished, grinning widely, appeased.

His grin couldn’t be contained as he laughed softly at how cute you could be. As he let his grin take over his features he let his eyes drift over your close proximity. His fingers began to unfold from between yours, drifting their way up your wrist, feeling your rushing heart beat. They slowly danced over your shoulder making you shiver slightly, as he noticed his teeth took purchase in his bottom lip, the movement catching your eye. His fingertips barely tickled the skin of your neck, causing goosebumps to break out over your skin. Once his hand pushed your hair back, tucking it behind your ear you could hear your own breathing, practically panting at his gentle actions. The longing in your eyes causing his eyes to become hooded with a guarded emotion.

Slowly, his hand found its place on your cheek, his cool palm was in great contrast to your too warm skin. You reveled in the feeling, yearning to remember the way this solace felt in this moment. He smiled softly, a flash of teeth all you could see before he was leaning in tenderly. He allowed you to make the moves on your own as well, only continuing forward when you would and only you were both nearly touching, so close you were breathing the same air, he allowed himself a glance at your pink lips. His tongue darted out to wet his own lips before he pulled back slightly a serious expression on his face.

“Can I?” His voice came out breathy, heavy with something you couldn’t name. You smiled softly, pleased with his ability to ask, always thinking of your feelings first. You couldn’t even resist long enough to answer before you were wrapping some of your fingers around his larger wrist, tangling the others in his too pretty hair, pulling his face towards yours and connecting your lips together passionately.

This kiss was unlike anything you had ever heard of, instead of sparks and passion it was butterflies and subtle hints of laughter you could feel bubbling in your chest. The kiss was lingering and slightly bittersweet. You could taste the saltiness on your lips from your tears mixing with the sweetness of his lips on yours. It was perfectly melancholy and grossly beautiful. Tragedy in the form of serendipity.

As you parted Felix’s hands soothed your cheeks and wiped your tears, a smile playing jokingly on his lips. He poked your nose and leaned forward to kiss your forehead lovingly. You smiled through the onslaught of tears and gasped at the dawning sky above you now. Your eyes frantically searched for stars you knew you wouldn’t be able to see anymore, until they fell on Felix’s sad expression. He tried to smile softly for your sake as he stroked your cheek gently.

He then removed himself from you, before standing and helping you up as well. Once you were both standing, staring at each other with eyes full of unspoken words he breathed in deeply before leaning in to plant another swift, stolen kiss on your lips. You smiled as he pulled away, staring at the way his handsome features curled in amusement at your shocked form. He then, without your noticing, had moved his hand to the back of your head and with a soft mutter of words he knew you wouldn’t understand, you were suddenly unconscious in his arms. He lifted you, bridal style, and began walking back towards the forest where you had first met.

——

Once you all were back to the castle, a gentle breeze swaying the curtains, he laid you tenderly on your bed, smoothing your hair out around you and covering you with your own cushion-like blankets.

“Forgive me, princess. I usually would have asked.” He laughed quietly as you stirred in your sleep, as stubborn as you would have been awake. “I won’t be here when you awaken, but I’ll be back for you. You never have to be alone.” He slowly leaned forward, delicately placing a feathery light kiss on your lips. He made his way back to the window, tiptoeing as to not wake you, before turning to get one final glance at you.

“I’ll stay for you, y/n. Always.” He said, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips as a singular tear, the color of moonlight fell from his eye before all that was left in the room was a lonely princess and a gentle, light air dancing through the window like laughter and stolen kisses on a night only two will remember.

——————

#lee Felix #Felix x reader #lee Felix x reader #reader insert #skz #stray kids #straykids x reader #rogue princess #royalty!au #princess!reader #moonchild!felix #star!felix #fluff #angst #self indulgence at its finest #one shot #ill edit this later

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seoulsides · 4 years ago

Text

satisfaction brought it back (m)

⇒ asmodeus x fem!mc/reader

⇒ 1.9k+

⇒ warnings: nsfw, 18+ content, explicit sexual content, slight BDSM, dom/sub themes, dirty talk, edgeplay, degradation, spanking, pussy whipping, choking, hair-pulling, creampie, come inflation, cock warming

⇒ additional tags: established relationship, asmodeus has a tail, dom!asmodeus, sub!reader

⇒ summary: “Hm? You really need to speak up, sweetheart~” Asmodeus’ honeyed voice gently chides you, a small laugh bubbling from his throat, “Good girls know better than to mumble, after all…”

He trails off into silence and before you can utter a word, your head is roughly yanked back off the pillow, throat bared and back arched as a perfectly manicured hand tugs on your scalp, making you yelp, “You’re my good girl, right?”

curiosity killed the cat... and satisfaction brought it back. when you ask asmodeus how he uses his tail, things take an unexpected albeit not unwelcome turn.

⇒ a/n: i had to write this because i firmly believe that we were ROBBED of getting asmodeus with a tail (and YES it has a heart-shaped tip). please let me know what you guys think because this is my first proper attempt at smut and i would really like to improve as much as i can. tagging @asmodeusbby as per request uwu

“What was that, baby?”

The soft croon is almost drowned out by your heavy pants and the loud slick sounds of flesh slapping together echoing throughout the room. You were truly a sight; cheeks flushed with mussed hair and bitten lips, barely able to hold your trembling form on your hands and knees as your demon boyfriend fucked you into the satin sheets of his mattress.

To think this had all started with an innocent question about his tail. You both had been in his room, chatting idly as you tried some new Majolish products Asmodeus had ordered for the both of you. He had bought himself an expensive moisturising balm for his wings, explaining how important it was to regularly care for them especially since he used them to fly while in his demon form, even turning into his demon form to demonstrate the use of the product. Ever the curious human, you had asked him about how he used his tail, eyes glued to the long appendage with unabashed interest. It resembled a scorpion’s tail, although much longer and narrower. Despite looking hard, especially with the textured ridges, it was softer to touch and a lot more flexible than it seemed, evident from the way it curled around his frame. Perhaps, the most striking thing about his tail was that there was a soft heart-shaped stinger that seemed to develop a hardened shell exterior whenever Asmodeus got angry whilst in his demon form — something you only witnessed whenever Mammon seemed to cross a line with the Avatar of Lust. When he noticed the shameless attention on him, Asmodeus smirked at you, flicking his ridged tail with interest, “How about a live demonstration, hm?”

And that is how you ended up, sprawled across your boyfriend’s bed, the aforementioned appendage in question coiled firmly around your waist, pulling your shuddering form onto his throbbing cock, as the heart-shaped tapered head dipped in between your legs, furiously rubbing your clit. You had been torturously edged for the last half an hour, torn away from the sweet precipice of release three times, leaving you a trembling, teary-eyed, sensitive mess.

You are pulled out of your reverie, a violent shiver skirting down your spine as you felt the sting of sharp nails digging into your hips, followed by a brutal thrust. Another moan rips from your throat and you fist the satin sheets as the coil in your belly tightens and the pleasure starts to climb higher and higher. Just as you think you will finally be granted the relief of release, it is ripped from your greedy hands when Asmodeus’ ministrations come to a complete halt, and you let out a cry of protest.

“A-Asmo,” you let out a broken whimper, eyes watering with unshed tears of sensitivity and desperation, “Please!” The demon behind you chuckles leisurely as he resumes rolling his hips into yours at a languid pace, “Please, what?” he ponders coyly, a devilish grin dancing on his lips. Just as you try to answer, he rears back and gives a harsh thrust that makes you arms give out beneath you, your face slamming into a pillow, managing to muffle the cry that rips from your throat, “Nnghh!”

“Hm? You really need to speak up, sweetheart~” Asmodeus’ honeyed voice gently chides you, a small laugh bubbling from his throat, “Good girls know better than to mumble, after all…”

With a firm grip in your hair, he has the perfect leverage to roughly jackhammer into you and the stinger returns to your swollen clit, rubbing your sensitive nub unforgivingly. You let out a loud keen, tears of sensitivity clinging to your lashes. The new angle allows him to thrust even deeper and you practically feel his cock in your throat. Your mouth lolls open, drool dribbling from the corner of your lips as your whiny pants grow louder with the increasing intensity of his thrusts.

A loud smack reverberates throughout the entire bedroom and you let out a strangled cry as you jolt forward from the blow, your scalp stinging from jerking your head at the sudden sensation. Your ass cheek throbs after smarting a swatting, and you shiver when a hand comes down to pat your sore flesh soothingly. The pain and pleasure intermingle deliciously and you feel your head spin from the intensity of it.

“I asked you a question, baby,” Asmodeus tuts, clicking his tongue, giving the reddening flesh another soft pat. Before you even register his hand leaving your flesh, another harsh swat comes down on your other ass cheek and you let out another yelp. He gently kneads the flesh, shushing your cries.

“Yes,” you sob, “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Yes, what?” he taunts you, once again slowing down to a languorous pace, pulling out almost all the way and to give drawn-out shallow thrusts, while his tail loosens its grip from your form and pulls away, prompting you to let out a cry of protest.

“Yes, I’m your good girl!” you mewl lewdly, fighting the urge to ground your hips back to get back some of the mouth-watering friction, letting out desperate pants while wanting nothing more than to build up the pace your sadistic boyfriend had abandoned.

“I’m good, so so good,” you slurred, eyes burning with tears, “So good, just for you!”

Asmodeus lets out a delighted giggle, raising his free hand and trailing his index finger from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine, your skin breaking into gooseflesh as you panted, “And such a well-behaved girl knows how to ask kindly for what she wants, right?”

“Please, please!” you hiccup, thighs beginning to shake from the effort of holding you weak form up.

“Please what, sweetheart?” Asmodeus airily hums, hand coming down to pat your rump, “Come on, darling, use your big girl words~”

“Please let me cum” you sob, “Asmo, sir, please, please let me cum, please!”

“That’s my good little slut,” Asmodeus croons darkly, voice dripping with satisfaction. Immediately, his tail wraps around your throat, lightly pressing down on your jugular and restricting your airflow, while the familiar heart-shaped tip dips down between your legs, rubbing teasingly against your arousal-slickened inner thighs. You let out a choked gasp, breath hitching as you start to feel slightly lightheaded. With no warning, he slams himself all the way in, every ridge of his thick engorged cock rubbing against your sensitive walls, heavy balls smacking lewdly against your swollen pussy lips and you gurgle, drool dribbling out of your mouth from feeling so fucking full.

Asmodeus giggles at the fucked-out look on your face, simpering while he continues to violently batter his cock into your aching pussy, “And such good sluts get rewarded.”

Thwap!

The very moment the words leave his lips, the heart-shaped tip strikes down viciously on your clit, a loud slick smacking noise resounding throughout the room and you let a loud choked cry rip from your throat, hot tears stinging your eyes. You barely have time to recover before another harsh strike lands on your engorged clit, followed by a ferocious thrust, and then another hit.

Thwap! Thwap!

“Cum, my sweet little petal,” he growls, tugging hard on your scalp, tightening his tail’s grip around your throat to plough his cock even deeper into your sopping cunt, while his free hand snakes to your front to roughly pinch one of your nipples, “Be a good girl and cum all over my cock.”

Every nerve in your body burns like a live-wire and the pleasure crests and crests until the coil in your lower belly snaps and your vision goes white. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, a high-pitched shriek tearing from your raw throat while your greedy cunt clamps down viciously on his cock and tries to milk it for all its worth, soaking him with your slick juices as he fucks you through your orgasm. Asmodeus lets out a guttural groan, cheeks burning, his thrusts turning sloppy as the sensation of your tight pussy clenching down on his cock finally triggers his own orgasm.

“Hnngh! ____! That’s it, petal!” He grunts, fucking his thick load into your creaming pussy, loud squelching noises filling the air along with your shuddering cries, “Take it. Take all my cum.”

Finally, Asmodeus snaps his hips one last time and hilts himself in one fluid motion, the bulbous head of his meaty cock rubbing against the entrance of your cervix, and you whimper at the slight sting of pain, sucking in desperate breaths as your cunt is filled to the brim with cum. The sensation of his hot load shooting against your sensitive walls sets off yet another orgasm within you. You let out a feeble cry as your pussy weakly contracts around his pulsing cock, your spasming cunt flooding with never-ending torrents of jizz and violent tremors wrack your frame as copious amounts of cum swirls around in your womb.

After the last few weak spurts, you feel him begin to soften inside you and then the grip in your hair slackens. Asmodeus grips your hips firmly and bends his form over yours, tail unravelling from around your throat to delicately wrap shoulders and secure your back to his chest. He carefully moves the both of you into an upright position and sits up with his back propped against the headboard, his cock still seated deep within you. You sat there astride his lap, your quivering form practically impaled on his cock as your lower belly bulges from the ridiculous amount of cum plugged up in your pussy. Once you are settled, you slump back against Asmodeus’ chest, completely spent, and the demon looks down at you affectionately. “You took it so well, baby,” he coos, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple, “You did so good, just how I knew my precious little petal would~”

You giggle softly at his affection and press a kiss to his bare chest, eyes glimmering with mischief, “I think I like the way you use your tail way more than your wings.” A mellifluous laugh rumbles from his throat and Asmodeus smirks down at you, “I suppose curiosity didn’t kill the cat, hm? I can’t say I’m surprised, after all, I know how to keep my little kitten satisfied~”

Before you can quip back, a gasp rips from your throat when you feel him grind up into you. You whip your head up to playfully glare at Asmodeus, while he only chuckles, “Sorry, baby, I can’t help it when you’re sitting all pretty on my cock.” Suddenly, his eyes light up as though he realised something, “Ah, yes! After round two, we can test out our new bath salts!~”

You raise an arched brow at your boyfriend, “And just what makes you think there will be a round two?” Immediately, your boyfriend’s demeanour does a one-eighty and a coy smirk graces his face. “Oh, my precious petal,” he firmly cups your chin and presses his forehead against yours, eyes darkening with lust, “I can tell just from the way your greedy little pussy is squeezing my cock.”

Heat stirs in your lower belly at his words and you already feel his gradually hardening cock twitch against your walls. You just pout at him, “You’re so insatiable,” you mutter, nonetheless needily pressing your lips against his. Asmodeus grins cheekily into your kiss, “Ah, petal, you wouldn’t have it any other way!~” And he’s right. Not that you’d ever admit it to his face.

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agoodgoddamnshot · 5 years ago

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Lovely Bitter Water [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account - Rated E

Based on THIS post from @g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r

Word of it doesn’t even reach his ears. A crowd of farmhands gathered around a neighbouring booth in the tavern talk about it, just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire pit and the dozens of other conversations swirling around him.

Geralt tends not to listen to tavern talk. Most of the time, the gossip is mundane and bring and not of much use to anyone – especially to him. He doesn’t care for whose husband was cuckolded by who, or what the nearest royal family’s scandal is.

But his ears do prick at the mention of a bard; a quite famous bard, one that had ridden with the White Wolf. One of the farmers sniggers into his tankard. “Ridden in more ways than one, apparently.” It earns a raucous laugh out of the others.

Geralt tries not to crush his own cup with how pale his knuckles turn.

“Bard wandered right through the next town over,” a farmer says, scratching a patchy beard. "You know what folk are like over there. They don’t particularly like Witchers. Hate them, in fact.”

Geralt turns his head. The group hasn’t seen him. He made sure to pick a booth in the darkest and furthest corner in the tavern, content to just drink until the sun went down; and then he could get some sleep.

But now, ale and sleep are the last things on his mind.

“They’ve been trying to get their hands on a Witcher for years,” another farmer joins in, picking at some leftover food on his plate.

The first man shrugs, lifting his tankard to his mouth. “If you can’t go about killing an actual Witcher, do the next best thing: kill it’s bed-warmer.”

It’s like he wasn’t there at all. Geralt makes quick work of leaving, making sure not to storm out of the place, leaving as much destruction as he can in his wake. But with a town like that so close, he can’t bring any attention to himself. And tearing up an inn that was more than willing to feed and shelter him for the night isn’t worth doing. But something heavy churns around in his stomach; as if he needs to be sick but can’t.

He half-expects Roach to huff at being pulled away from her freshly bedded stall and full oat bucket. But Roach, the old girl, always seemed to have this connection with her rider. Whatever crossed Geralt’s mind often did the same with her. As soon as he gathers and slips on her tack, and lifts himself up on to her, the mare takes off at a gallop. The main road cuts through fallowed fields. This is crop country: and most of the crop has been taken in for the winter. That, and there are whisperings of Nilfgaard soldiers starting to march further into the continent. People who depend on the land are keen to reap their crops now.

Roach keeps galloping. She lets out an occasional sharp huff and a chesty cough, but even when Geralt tries to slow her down into a more manageable canter, she keeps galloping. She isn’t a filly anymore. Truthfully, Geralt can’t even remember how old the mare is. But despite all of that, she keeps going.

The town is nearer than he thought. It’s a market town, straddling a junction of a crossroads. Getting inside is easy enough, even when one of his hands drifts to the pommel of his sword. He expected someone to be standing guard at the gates. But as Roach slows into a trot as they enter the town, it chills Geralt’s skin to see how empty the streets and houses are. The layout of the town is easy enough to navigate; four main roads running through it, with smaller alleys branching off of them. The roads meet in a large open space: the town’s square. It’s nothing elaborate, mainly lined with market stalls and the fronts of shops.

Roach knickers as she slides into a walk. She shakes her head, distressed by something. Geralt sets his hand against her neck. But he’s just as riled up as her. The blood running through him is hot. The thoughts that flickered through his head on the ride over weren’t kind. It has to be Jaskier – he doesn’t know of any other bards who would journey with Witchers. He doesn’t know of any Witchers who would allow their company to be with a bard.

What in the names of the gods is he doing this far away from the main cities? Was he by himself?

And memories of the mountain all those years ago nip at his nape.

Everyone in the town, and possibly others from somewhere else, gather in the square. A sea, swarming around a single wooden pole in the centre of the square, Geralt can barely make out what people are gathered around. He cranes his neck. Even on his horse, he can’t see much.

Then he hears it. A sharp crack rips through the air. Quickly followed by a hoarse cry.

The people standing just in front of him jeer. Roach tosses her head, taking a few tentative steps back. The onslaught of noise even makes Geralt wince. He leans forward and swings his leg over Roach’s back, sliding down off of the mare. He lifts a finger. “Stay nearby,” he says stiffly.

Wandering through the crowd is almost like wading into the sea. The back rows have a scattering of people, and they easily part as he stalks through. Mothers grab their children and yank them back to their chests, sheltering them from looking at the Witcher. Geralt swallows a growl. But they have no problem with them cheering on a whipping.

Husbands try and shove at him, moving him back from the square. Geralt anchors his feet to the ground, unmoving. When hands slap against his chest, trying to push him back, he doesn’t’ flinch. Wives or lovers or even sisters pull them away, but curse Geralt as he continues past.

The whip cracks through the air. More pained and agonised cries follow.

Geralt’s fists ball by his side. He’ll boil over – he can feel it. It isn’t often that Geralt gets angry. He learned to douse that fire a long time ago, before it ever has a chance to swallow him whole.

But he isn’t angry now: he’s fucking furious.

It isn’t until a guttural yell of Witcher! thunders over the crowd does a hush fall over the entire town.

The rest of the crowd parts, letting him stalk through. A few people spit and hiss as he passes: noise that is blocked out. They aren’t the first to hate his kind. They certainly won’t be the last. But something is boiling his blood, and it isn’t these monsters cursing him.

When the last of the people step to the side, and he sets his sights on what they’ve gathered to watch, Geralt’s hands fist at his sides. It would be easy to draw his sword. It’s what some primal part of him wants to do. It’s been whispering into his ear ever since he and Roach set out from the tavern. But he ran a sword through a town once before, and he promised that he wouldn’t do it again.

But this particular town is really starting to test that promise.

In the centre of the square, there’s a small platform. Rooted in the middle is a pole. A man stands nearby, dressed in black leather garb, a cowl covering some of his face. A whip is coiled in one hand. Droplets of blood splatter on to the ground. Geralt looks at the pole. It is wood, but you could only tell so by the top of it – birchwood that hasn’t been stained red. Crumpled on the ground, hunched over, is a half-naked form. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

He clenches his jaw. “I heard that you have something that belongs to me,” he says lowly, lifting his eyes back to the man with the whip.

The man glowers back at him. He spares a quick glance down at the body by his feet. “We were hoping that you would come,” he says a bit too airily.

The body coils in on itself. Shuffling around on the ground, blue eyes suddenly glance up at him. Geralt’s breath is punched out of him. “Jaskier?”

The bard winces as he moves. Geralt tries not to look, but with so much of the ground already wet with blood, how could he not. Long open lashes mar his back. When Jaskier uncoils further, Geralt spots more lines on his chest and stomach. Geralt schools his expression. He could give into the fire. Every fibre of him wants to. But he won’t. He can’t. Rage won’t help him.

The man holding the whip steps forward, and Jaskier flinches. Something flickers through his eyes; and it only feeds the fire brewing inside Geralt. “You’ve been running ragged through our country for too long, Witcher. Surrender to us to stand trial, and we’ll release your harlot back into the wilds.”

The shriek of his unsheathing sword sets the crowd back. One of them, a more well-dressed man, calls out. “The Butcher of Blaviken,” he snarls. “What now, Witcher? Are you going to cut through another town? Put a blade to women and children?”

A rumble of chatter laps over the crowd.

A small voice grabs his attention, though. “Geralt?”

He looks down. Blue bleary eyes blink up at him. One side of Jaskier’s haw is purple and swollen. He swallows thickly. “Don’t,” he rasps.

Geralt sets his jaw. A moment passes before he growls, sliding his sword back into its sheath. He stalks forward. The crowd still moves back; but the man, who Geralt has a sneaking suspicion is the mayor, holds firm. Leaning into the man’s space, Geralt growls. “Listen to me, you spineless rat. This shithole of a town is not even on the maps. The Continent won’t care if it loses some of its people: especially if it’s people like you.”

The man lifts his chin. “Word will spread, Witcher,” he says as firmly as he can. But Geralt can hear the slightest of tremor in his voice. “They’ll know you went on another rampage.”

“Word will spread,” Geralt agrees. “They’ll know that you falsely imprisoned and tortured a bard on your own prejudices. And when that word spreads, I imagine it’ll reach the bigger cities: where that very bard once sang in their royals’ courts.”

His hands twitch by his sides, a finger brushing the pommel of his sword.

“I imagine that those particular cities won’t be very happy,” Geralt says lowly, leaning down to speak directly into the man’s ear. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch away. But the creature does tremble slightly. There’s a sharp stench of fear coming off of him. “Your town relies on trading, doesn’t it? Think of what will happen when cities who appreciated my bard’s services will do once they find out what you did to him.”

He keeps his voice low. The mayor keeps his gaze forward, over Geralt’s shoulder.

“Trading lines will avoid your town altogether. Everyone in this rat’s nest of a town will starve,” Geralt snarls. “Most of them will try and move somewhere else; but everywhere in this province seems to appreciate what I have done for them too. So I think your people will have quite a hard time trying to find somewhere else to live.”

People towards the back of the crowd start to slip away. Mostly, it’s mothers and their children. Geralt reaches out, putting a hand on the mayor’s shoulder. He can feel a slight jolt underneath his hand. “You will let me and the bard leave this shithole of a town,” Geralt says, squeezing his hand around the man’s shoulder. “You won’t follow us. You won’t try and find us. You’ll leave us alone. Understood?”

The man’s jaw bulges. But he nods stiffly. The people behind him lower their eyes, soft snarls still pulling at their lips. Hatred won’t leave a place like this: but he can shut it up. They’ll curse his name as soon as he’s gone. It doesn’t bother him. Fuck it, they can try can cast as many stones as they like.

When he turns his back to the man, he waits for the blade. He stalks over to the pole, slipping a knife out of his belt and cutting Jaskier’s arms free. The skin on his wrists is bruised and rubbed raw, but it’s the least of his worries at the minute. Geralt takes a quick glance at the bard’s back.

He unclasps his cloak. Jaskier flinches at the first touch of the cloth against his skin. “It’s alright,” Geralt grunts, holding up his hands. Jaskier’s eyes run all over him. Some soft sight of recognition flickers over his eyes. Geralt wraps as much of his cloak as he can around Jaskier. He tries his best to avoid the wounds, but there’s so many, that it’s hard not to graze one. Jaskier tries to wriggle away, the wool scratching against gaping wounds, but Geralt wraps his arms around him. “Hold on to me, if you can,” he says lowly, helping Jaskier get an arm over the Witcher’s shoulders. Geralt picks him up and whistles sharply. Roach whinnies. People part for the mare. Even those that are too slow to move out of the way, she merely trots straight through, bumping them away with her ears flat against her head.

Roach stands stock-still as Geralt puts Jaskier on her back. The crowd seeps out of the main square, but spit and hiss at him as they pass. Roach snaps her tail. Geralt sets a hand against her neck. “Take us back,” he says quietly, before hoisting himself up on to her. Jaskier slumps back against his chest, his head lolling on to his shoulder. Faint breath huffs against his bared neck. “Stay with me,” Geralt grunts, tightening his hold on Roach’s reins.

The mare wants to run. He can feel it in the way she tugs at her own reins, wanting to gallop back to the tavern. But Geralt knows that the movement will only other Jaskier’s injuries even more. That being said, Geralt sets on putting them as much distance as he can between them and that rat’s nest of a town. For their entire walk back along the main road, he glances over his shoulder. No one follows them. No mounted townsfolk with pickaxes and torches come galloping up the road.

Geralt keeps his arms firm, making sure Jaskier doesn’t slip off of Roach. He’s careful to avoid the bard’s abdomen and chest, but he can feel wetness against his chest. Red still stains his mind. The ground of the town’s square was more blood than gravel. How Jaskier is still alive is a wonder in itself. But peering down at the bard, feeling faint breath struggle out of him, he’ll need to be seen too.

He made sure not to cancel his room with the tavern by the roadside. Though, when he returns, half-handing Roach off to a stableboy, he’s still surprised to see that the room was actually kept for him. Or, more specifically, for Jaskier.

Geralt barely sets foot in the tavern before a woman with greying hair waves them over to a flight of stairs. Geralt vaguely recognises her as the innkeep. “If he’s injured, he’ll need a bed,” she says gravely, watching him carry the bard inside. Jaskier lies in his arms as if he weighed nothing. Curled slightly into Geralt’s chest, his breathing is faint and quick. One of his arms splays out to the side, bobbing with every quick but cautious step that Geralt takes. Streams of blood trickle down along his arm. When one drop drips off of Jaskier’s finger, splattering on to a step of the stairs, Geralt barely swallows a growl.

He wants to turn around and go back to the town.

He wants to light their small, insignificant town on fire.

But what’s coursing through him is hatred, and he’s learned in his many years of wandering the Continent to not act on hatred alone.

The woman’s face tightens. “Do you need a healer, lad?” she rushes up the stairs before Geralt, showing him to the saved room. “A farmer who lives nearby has this daughter – Marta. She went to some fancy school in the capital. She’s the best healer around.”

Geralt sets Jaskier down on to one side of the bed. The bard’s face screws up, a groan wrenching out of his throat. Geralt glances down. His cloak, even though black, is starting to soak red. He looks over to the woman, still standing at the door. “How soon could she be here?” he asks stiffly.

“The house is across the road. She’ll be quick,” the woman says before rushing off down the hall. Distantly, Geralt can hear her barking some orders at another maid to keep an eye on the tavern until she’s back.

Jaskier’s eyes are open and looking around; but they’re clouded and not entirely focusing on anything specific. Geralt tries to unwrap his cloak from the bard. The heavy scent of blood hits him, coating the roof of his mouth. It’s a familiar smell. He’s earned his own fair share of injuries out in the wilds. Too much of his own blood has soaked the ground of the Continent. But this is different. This is Jaskier’s blood staining his cloak and hands. Geralt sets the cloak to the side. His own pack has salves and potions – all too powerful for a human. All he can do is wait: and he fucking hates it.

The room is warm. A hearth is lit nearby, amply fed with coal and wood. Geralt has half a mind to stoke it, keep the fire going, but he finds himself still at Jaskier’s bedside. Mumbled ramblings leave the bard’s lips. Words barely strung together, not meaning anything at all. Geralt takes a chair from the other side of the room and sets it by the bedside.

Jaskier whimpers, turning his head to the side. His eyes narrow slightly, taking in the somewhat hunched form of the Witcher. “Geralt?” he mumbles.

“It’s me,” Geralt nods, reaching up to push some hair back from Jaskier’s face. For a terrible moment when he first laid eyes on the bard, he didn’t recognise him. His hair has grown long. Some of it is matted from drying blood mixing with dirt. A smattering of a beard covers his jaw. Geralt’s fingers linger in Jaskier’s hair, trying to undo a small knot. Jaskier’s eyelids flicker shut. Underneath his fingers, Geralt can feel how warm Jaskier’s skin is. The whipping didn’t seem to stretch on for long – but Geralt has to wonder if Jaskier was even placed into a cell, with a roof over his head, or left tied in the middle of the square.

He remembers the rainstorm that almost flooded the roads yesterday. Fire returns to his veins.

“Is this a dream?” the words are so faint, Geralt almost doesn’t hear them. Jaskier’s lips barely move as he mumbles them.

Geralt shakes his head. “No, Jaskier. This isn’t a dream.” The room is quiet. There’s a slight wheeze to the bard’s breathing – probably from being out in the cold for so long. Without Geralt’s cloak covering him, Jaskier shakes. Gooseflesh bubbles along his skin. But with every slight movement he does, Jaskier winces and cries out. Geralt glances down to his middle. Lines mar his skin. None too deep, cutting muscle. But the lines aren’t even, and they bleed. Some of them run over each other. Geralt tries rubbing at Jaskier’s arm, trying to heat up his skin. “A healer is on her way. You’ll be fine.”

The innkeep returns with the healer within a few minutes. Both of the women gasp for breath as they scramble into the room. The healer – Marta, Geralt remembers – sets a worn-leather bag down at the foot of the bed. Geralt takes himself and his chair out of the way, letting the woman in to see the extent of the injuries.

But he still stays within an arm’s reach. He’s out of it, teetering on the edge of consciousness: but Geralt won’t have him be alone.

“What happened to him?” Marta frowns.

Geralt folds his arms. “Townspeople in the next town over whipped him.”

Marta rolls her eyes. “Those fuckers,” she grunts. The innkeep still stands by the door, either watching Marta examine the bard or the bard himself. She grimaces at every cut-off groan Jaskier lets out at being touched. She worries her hands together.

Geralt grunts. “There are more cuts on his back.”

Marta gestures. “Turn him on his side.”

Geralt moves to the other side of the bed, kneeling on to the free space. He tries his best to get his arms underneath and around the bard, hoping to whatever gods sit among the clouds that Jaskier won’t be in pain for much longer. But he cries out at being moved. Geralt winces, letting Jaskier bury his face into the hollow of his neck. He can feel wetness against his skin. One of the bard’s arms lands heavily over his shoulder, holding on. It’s been a long time since Geralt was bothered by blood staining his clothes.

Marta clicks her tongue at what she finds. Even with the sun starting to fade outside, she can still make out the wounds. “They aren’t deep,” she says, placing gentled fingers over the ridges of the cuts. “But I’m worried about infection and blood loss.”

Jaskier mumbles something into Geralt’s neck. He turns his head slightly. “What?”

There’s another mumble, but nothing he can make out.

“He’s been talking like this since we left,” Geralt tells Marta.

The woman nods stiffly. “He’s in shock.” She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows. Marta turns to the innkeep. “Could you get me warm water and clean strips of cloth?” The innkeep rushes away. Marta turns back to the bed. Ruffling through her bag, she pulls out clear glass vials and sets them on to the mattress. Even without opening them, Geralt can scent the echinacea in the salves.

She gathers handfuls of a clear gel and bastes most of it over the open wounds along Jaskier’s back. Jaskier’s light hold on him turns tighter. A hoarse groan is buried into Geralt’s neck. Marta clicks her tongue. “It stings, I know.” She says to Jaskier. “But it’ll help kill any infection that might be there.”

Geralt finds some unmarked strip of skin along Jaskier’s back, just underneath his shoulder blade. He sets a hand against it, hoping that some warmth in him will just transfer over. “You’ll be okay,” he says quietly. Whether it’s to him or Jaskier, he isn’t sure.

The innkeep returns with everything Marta asked for. “I have to tend to things downstairs,” she says, wringing her hands together. “Will you be alright up here?”

Marta nods. “We can manage. Thank you, Lora.”

Geralt glances up at the woman. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The innkeep nods firmly.

Marta works silently, coating most of the open wounds with the salve. She tells him about what needs to happen: it’ll have to sit over the cuts for a moment before she can start washing out the cuts. The infection needs to be killed first. As they wait for the salve to dry up slightly, Geralt’s fingers draw patterns along Jaskier’s unmarred skin. After the salve is washed off and the wounds are flushed, Marta picks up a needle and a long string of wire. Glancing up at Geralt, her eyes harden. “This might hurt him,” she says simply, threading the needle.

Jaskier’s arms tighten around him again. He smells of blood and echinacea and sweat. If Jaskier’s usual self was present, Geralt imagines that he wouldn’t be too pleased with the state of his body now. He can almost hear his voice over his shoulder. The Jaskier in his arms, trying to muffle cries and groans into his neck, is so far from the Jaskier he knows.

Knew.

The correction makes him pause. He remembers the mountain. Of course he does. He isn’t going to sit here and say that he doesn’t remember it. It’s not like the words of what he said whisper to him almost every day, reminding him why it is that people believe so firmly that Witchers don’t have emotions.

Marta looks up from her work. “Could you hand me that cloth?”

And they work like that for almost an hour. Most of the cloth is red by the time Marta stands. She wipes her forehead with her arm. Her hands are stained too, but she doesn’t seem bothered by that at all. “I can give him something to help him sleep,” she says, wandering over to a nearby washbasin. “If the bandages seep, change them. The wounds have to be kept dry.”

She glances over her shoulder. “I trust that you can look after all of that?”

Geralt looks down at the bed. He lies on his side, one leg brought up and propped slightly, easing the pressure on his back and stomach. “I can watch him,” Geralt says almost as an afterthought.

Marta hums, wiping the last of the blood and salve from her hands.

The tavern downstairs still breathes. There’s a faint hum of conversation that floats up through the floorboards. Every couple of minutes there’s a chorus of raucous laughter or a shout. A minstrel strikes up a lyre, and people sing along. Geralt’s chest tightens. He takes his chair back to Jaskier’s bedside.

The healer watches out of the corner of her eye. “Is it true, then?” she asks quietly, scrubbing at her hands. “What they say about you and him?”

Geralt sits back in the chair. He’s quiet for a moment. Not answering her is answering her all the same. “What do they say about me and him?”

Marta sighs. “It’s alright. You won’t find much hatred for that sort of thing here,” she says, “despite those fuckers in Falkmor.”

Well, at least he knows what the shithole is called now.

Marta dries her hands, wandering back over to the bed. “I heard a few of his songs, you know.” He never even took in her face. Looking at her now, in the soft light of the hearth and candles dotted throughout the room, she looks far too young to have spent several years at a healer’s school. But he’s heard of incredibly bright people graduating early. It leaves him with the question of why is she back at a roadside village like this. She folds her arms over her chest. “I always wanted to see who the bard’s muse was. I’ve heard of those kinds of ballads before from other bards. They all started to sound the same after a while. But writing songs like those, it takes a special talent.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Geralt grunts, “his head is big enough as it is.”

Marta snorts. She packs away her things, leaving Geralt with vials of nightshades and poppy’s milk: one is for sleep, the other is for pain. Give him a drop of each, and no more. When she leaves, he’s struck with how quiet the room turns. It seemed quiet as soon as Jaskier fell asleep. But now, he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

His watch last throughout the night. He changes bandages that either speckle or soak with blood, and feeds Jaskier drops of medicine when he starts to surface, wincing slightly at the pull of stitches.

Jaskier, thankfully, does sleep throughout the night. Geralt nods off every so often, slumped slightly in his chair. But he always catches himself, not wading too far into sleep. The other side of the bed is available, largely untouched by blood or anything else. But he doesn’t want to risk it: rolling over in the night, seeking Jaskier out, and causing him even more pain.

He doesn’t even know if Jaskier will let him lie next to him.

The thought makes him sit up a bit straighter. It chills the fire still licking at his veins.

Geralt will talk to him. When the last of the poppy milk and nightshade has left him, when Jaskier has his mind back again, Geralt will talk to him. About the mountain, about what he’s been doing in the years since their leaving of each other.

He thinks idly about asking Lora to bring up some ale. It won’t do anything, of course. Witchers can’t get drunk: well, drunk enough to forget things. All it’ll bring him is a hazed mind and a loosened tongue.

The innkeep, Lora, leaves them with two plates of food when the morning comes around. “For when he wakes up,” she explained, casting a quick glance over to the bed where Jaskier still slept. Geralt nods a firm thanks and sets the plates on a nearby table.

Sleep pulls at him. He’s gone longer without it. If his body starts to slow, he’ll just meditate for an hour. But even though sleep reaches out for him, he can’t find it in himself to follow it down. Jaskier’s wounds need to be treated. And he won’t have the bard’s life slip away just because Geralt was sleeping.

He wanders over to the window every so often. The room is one of the few ones that look out on to the main road. Vendors pass with wagons laden with wares. Passing soldiers from the capital march through, checking everything is in order.

Geralt’s hands curl into fists. He has half a mind to call out: tell them to go to the next town and look at the square, ask why in the gods’ names townspeople would take out their hatred of a Witcher onto a bard. It’s one of his oldest promises – not to meddle in the affairs of men. It’s a promise he made to Vesemir. It’s a Witcher’s promise.

His ears prick at the sound of a soft groan. Looking over his shoulder, Geralt blinks when familiar blue eyes blearily stare back at him. “Geralt?” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt turns. He crosses the room in a matter of strides, sliding back on to his chair. “Are you in pain?” he asks. “There’s some poppy milk here if you need it.”

Jaskier sighs into the pillow. “I’m alright,” he rasps. His voice sounds so strained and cracked. It’s enough to make him wince. Jaskier always drank teas that smelt too sweet and spiced in the name of protecting his voice. Hearing it now only makes Geralt wince.

“Do you want anything to eat? Lora, the innkeep, left a plate of food for you. It’s just bread and stock, but I can ask her for something else if you want-”

Words stop rushing out at him when a soft huff of a laugh leaves Jaskier. “I’m alright,” he repeats. “I’m just tired.”

It’s midday. Or, he thinks it’s midday. He watched the night drag on for what seemed like years, and then suddenly, watery winter morning light finally found its way through the window. How long the sun has been up, he doesn’t know. But with winter now settling over the Continent, days don’t last long – nights come quickly yet drag on for hours. Some part of him wants to keep Jaskier awake. The room is so quiet, he can’t fucking bear it. The tavern breathes underneath him. He kept a fire on, and it’s occasional snapping and hiss breaks the silence every couple of minutes. Lora has been up a handful of times, informing him that his horse is being looked after – even though she did try to kick a stablehand in the shin for walking up to her a bit too quickly.

Jaskier’s eyelids have slipped closed. His breathing has improved. It’s deep now, even. What Geralt remembers from having him sleep an arm’s reach away all those years ago. Jaskier’s eyelids flicker open again. He spends almost a minute just looking at Geralt – at the change of clothes Lora’s husband gladly gave to him while his were being washed, at how he’s almost slumped in the chair. At how dark circles are starting to settle underneath his eyes.

“I thought I was dreaming,” Jaskier says softly. “When I looked up and saw you. I thought you were part of a dream.”

Is this a dream? he remembers the bard asking, desperately trying to hang on to wakefulness by the tips of his fingers.

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Get some sleep,” Geralt relents, leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be right here.”

Jaskier’s blink is slow – like a cat warming itself on a cobblestone road during the summer. He tries to stay awake. Geralt recognises the struggle all too well. He tilts his head. “Do you want something to help you sleep? Some nightshade?”

A long, slow sigh leaves Jaskier. Within seconds, sleep has washed over him again. Propped on his side, he’s been in the same position for a long time. It’s to take the strain off of his abdomen and back, but it can’t be comfortable. He’s spent the night mostly uncovered, too. A thin sheet is slung over his waist, mostly there to keep him covered. Whatever clothes had survived being torn off and whipped were soaked in blood and crusting with dirt. What could be saved, Lora took to a nearby woman who can sew. But small beads of sweat dampen his forehead.

Geralt dips a piece of cloth into a basin of clean water. He wrings it out, dabbing it lightly over Jaskier’s forehead. It’ll wrangle the slight fever out of him. It’ll make him stop trembling like a leaf. Ever since the last of shock left Jaskier, he’s just been so tired and cold. Geralt’s fingers brush against his forehead, feeling briefly how warm his skin is. It’s not as bad as the hours before, but still not great. Marta said she’d come back with more salves at some point during the day. Until then, he’s content to just sit here, watching over the bard.

The combination of poppy milk and nightshade in him keeps him under. A soft snore leaves Jaskier every couple of breaths; and it isn’t until then does Geralt realises how much he’s missed Jaskier’s sounds. He missed the incessant chattering on the road, the rhythm of a heartbeat underneath his cheek. Ever since Jaskier left – ever since Geralt sent him away, he corrects himself – it’s been so fucking quiet. Taverns and inns, full of speech and laughter and music doesn’t settle with him. The voices talking don’t belong to Jaskier. A bard making a shoddy rendition of Jaskier’s ballads isn’t him.

Geralt shuffles his chair closer. One of Jaskier’s arms is splayed out over the edge of the bed. As gently as he can, though he doubts anything could wake the bard from the concoction of drugs in his system, he moves Jaskier’s arm to rest over one of his thighs.

“I am so sorry,” Geralt says to Jaskier’s sleeping form. “I’m sorry for what I said on that mountain. I was angry and took that anger out on you. And you didn’t deserve that.”

The body doesn’t move much. Jaskier’s back barely lifts with each breath he takes. Half of his face is mashed into his pillow, some strands of hair skewing over his face. One of his hands twitches. As gently as he can, he reaches out: brushing the strands away. Looking at Jaskier now, with long hair and a beard, the bard doesn’t look like himself. He’s pretty sure that he has a tie somewhere for when Jaskier wakes up: if he doesn’t want to cut his hair straight away.

Geralt sighs. “I’m sorry that this has been done to you.” He lets his eyes drift lower. The wounds will heal, and Jaskier will return to being his usual self. But faint white lines will forever mar his skin: all because of Geralt.

The thought of it makes him wince. His own skin is damaged: despite the efforts of potions and oils he’s taking trying to make them fade. But he’s a Witcher. He’s supposed to be scarred. He has a vague image of Eskel in his mind, a terrible scar running over half of the man’s face.

But his bard is different. Someone who regarded their looks so highly will have to wake up to the fact that his skin will be damaged. All because of Geralt.

Geralt sniffs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The hand resting on his thigh twitches.

As Marta cuts and re-sews Jaskier’s stitches, Geralt slips out and walks down to the stables just behind the tavern. Roach knickers, bumping her head into Geralt’s shoulder as soon as he’s close. Geralt gathers her head in his arms, scratching along her cheek. “I’m sorry I haven’t been out to see you,” he says lowly, mindful of stablehands nearby. He glances to her feed bucket: filled for the afternoon, as is her water trough. A hay net hangs from the edge of the stall. He’ll make sure to pay off their extra stay with Lora – and extra for taking care of his horse.

Content that Roach has been fed, watered, and groomed, Geralt wanders back into the tavern. None of the people inside pay him much mind – but he does know that they watch him out of the corner of his mind. Word spreads like wildfire over a dry field.

The maids clearing tables offer him soft greetings. One young girl, Lora’s daughter, asks him how his friend is. The girl barely stands up to his shoulder. Geralt’s usual stony expression softens slightly. “He’s sleeping,” he says simply.

Lora appears from a backroom, shooing the girl away. She gives him an apologetic look before being called to the other side of the tavern.

When he gets back to the room, he finds Jaskier a bit more awake – he’s able to string together sentences that last longer than four words. Marta smiles at his ramblings about something or other. She presses against the dressing, hushing his abrupt yelp. “Oh stop,” she rolls her eyes. “You have enough poppy milk in your blood to knock out a bull.”

Geralt steps into the room. One of the floorboards creaks ever so slightly, giving him away. Marta sets the last of the clean bandages against Jaskier’s wounds. “They still need a couple of more days for the skin to join together again, but I think you’ll be alright to travel after that.”

Geralt stiffens. Glancing down at Jaskier, the bard’s face is unreadable. Marta gathers her stuff and leaves. A silence falls over the room. It’s the first time where Jaskier can look at him, and nightshade doesn’t cloud his eyes. Pain is still being tempered by poppy milk, but he’s sure that the bard will be able to stay awake.

“I can take you wherever you want,” Geralt fits in quickly and firmly. “If you need to get somewhere safe, I can get you there. The capital is a couple of days of a ride away from here, but it has main roads that lead back to the centre of the Continent.” Geralt rubs the back of his neck.

A quiet moment settles over the both of them. It’s one that he’s desperate to fill with words. The silence isn’t entirely comfortable.

“I was on my own when they captured me,” Jaskier says slowly. He looks off to a corner of the room, looking at nothing in particular. Geralt can see how his jaw tightens slightly.

Geralt winces. He doesn’t want to think about it. Terrible things have whispered to him throughout the night – thoughts about the bard being attacked and dragged away from the road. Did they know who he was straight away?

But he flinches at his hand being caught. “I heard you last night,” Jaskier mumbles. “When you apologised for the mountain: I heard you.”

Geralt stares down at their joined hands. Jaskier’s hold is slightly limp, muscles loose from opiates and nightshade potions. But he makes a go of squeezing Geralt’s hand. “I want us to talk about it,” he says after a time. “But I don’t think now is a good time.”

Geralt nods. A lump claws up his throat, trying to lodge and block words coming out.

Jaskier frowns. “Did you sleep on that chair?” he nods blearily to the item of furniture.

Geralt blinks. “Yes? Well, no. I sat in the chair. All night. I didn’t sleep.”

Jaskier sighs and waves his hand tiredly. “That won’t do.” He gestures vaguely to the other side of the bed. “Get some sleep. I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

The comment sits with him for a moment. But watching Jaskier drift back down into sleep with a long and drawn-out sigh, his body twitches. He sits down in his chair, taking up his post again for the next few hours while Jaskier sleeps off the last few drops of the potions.

He doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s forgiveness. All the bard ever had for him was goodness. He was a companion when others didn’t so much as glance in his direction – and when they did, it was with so much disdain and revulsion that he just ended up thickening his skin. He made his life a lot easier in the grand scheme of things. Jobs fell into his lap, threw at him by those very people who once hated him, and now revered him for what he would be able to do to help.

He owes Jaskier a lot: more than he can ever repay.

And he had the nerve to take the bard’s heart and throw it off of that mountain.

It’s another two days before Marta assures them both that Jaskier can sit up without doing a great deal of damage to himself.

“Thank the fucking gods,” Jaskier sighs under his breath. “I can draw the left side of the room from memory.”

The movements pull at the stitches, and Geralt catches every time the bard winces, but eventually, he’s able to help Jaskier back on to a soft mound of pillows pushed up against the headboard of the bed. With the bard propped up, he takes a second to take a quick surveying glance around the room. His clothes – re-sewn and washed – hang on the back of a nearby chair. A couple of empty glass vials sit on the desk.

Marta takes one last look at Jaskier’s wounds. “The stitches can come out tomorrow if the healed skin is strong enough,” she says, binding the bandages to Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier offers a small smile. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

Marta shrugs a shoulder. “You aren’t the first victim of Falkmor I’ve treated,” she says with a slight tightness to her voice.

Geralt watches from the other side of the room, arms folded tightly over his chest. He lifts his chin. “Has the capital ever done anything about them?”

Marta washes and dries her hands. She bites her lip. “It’s an important town for trade, sitting on an important junction. The capital has given all of the warnings it can give, but ultimately it can’t do anything. What can they do? Send in their soldiers and upend the place?”

Jaskier glances over to Geralt. A small frown shadows his face. Words that Geralt hissed into a man’s face still come to him like afterimages. They’re in Geralt’s mind too. Rage like it doesn’t just fade away. Even almost three days later, he has to catch himself from marching back to the town and lighting the place on fire.

Marta packs up the last of her things, offering both of them a small smile before leaving. Geralt locks the door behind her. A plate of food sits on the nearby table. Lora has brought up something for Jaskier at every meal of the day – regardless of whether or not the bard is actually awake for it or not.

Geralt brings it over, handing it to Jaskier. He fights the urge to snatch his hand back when their fingers briefly brush.

It’s nothing substantial: a bone broth and a slice of bread. But it’s enough to keep his energy up. Jaskier picks at the bread, tearing it into manageable pieces. “You said that you would bring me somewhere,” he says suddenly, looking up from his food. “What did you mean by that?”

Geralt’s hands fidget by his side. “I meant that if you need to go somewhere, I can bring you there.” He tilts his head slightly. “There aren’t many other ways I can say it.”

A heavy silence falls over them for a moment. “And if I did,” Jaskier fiddles with the bread, dipping some of it into the broth, “and you...escorted me...there, what would you do once I was settled?”

“That’s up to you.”

Jaskier stares at him for a minute. “That’s up to me,” he repeats, mulling the words over.

“If you wanted me to go, I would go.”

“Why would I want you to go?”

“I imagined that,” Geralt takes in a steady breath, “that you wouldn’t want to be in my presence after...”

Jaskier nods to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

Geralt’s feet act before his brain can catch up. He crosses back through the room in a matter of strides, perching down on the edge of the bed. Jaskier takes a couple more bites of food before setting it on to the bedside table. A small grimace flashes over his face, but Jaskier quickly schools it away. “I’m adequately sober from Marta’s potions,” he says, sitting back into the mound of pillows with a small sigh. “So I think we should talk now.”

And Geralt has faced all sorts of creatures that would have frightened him at one point. He was afraid of Kaer Morhen as it towered over him when he barely stood as high as Vesemir’s chest. He was afraid of the first time he was led into a room by people with leather aprons and metal tools. He was afraid every single time he faced off against a new monster in the flesh: it was so much different than reading about them. But he eventually learned to temper that fear. Or get rid of it entirely.

But now, his hands shake: and he can’t make them stop.

Jaskier bites his lip. “I heard you before,” he says after a time. “When you said that you were sorry for what happened on the mountain. I told myself, when I reached the foot of it, that if you came down after me, I would let it go. I knew you could get angry and fed up with things: and that entire dragon hunt was one shit show after another. I knew what you could be like when you were annoyed. You say things that you don’t mean. But the way you looked at me...” A wince flashes over Jaskier’s face. “I wanted to believe that you would come down after me. But I kept walking, and by the time I hit the next village, and saw no sign of you, I knew that you weren’t just being angry. You must have meant what you said.”

Geralt lowers his gaze. He can’t hold Jaskier’s eyes while he speaks. His words hit harder than any whip.

Jaskier sniffs. “But I heard you apologise. And I don’t know whether it was the nightshade or the poppy milk, or whether it was something else entirely, but I heard how sad you sounded.” Their hands barely brush against the top of the sheets. The bard has this otherworldly ability to make him gravitate towards him, wherever they are. Geralt looks down at their hands. Both of the tips of their little fingers hover close to each other. “I tried to stay awake, but whatever Marta gave me was too much. But when I slept, I had dreams about you. I’ve always had dreams about you, one way or another. Whether they were memories of what we used to be, or fantasies I had about tracking you down and beating you with your own sword.”

Geralt huffs a breath. It’s not an entire laugh, but not a sigh either. When he looks up, he swallows. Jaskier’s eyes are red, with tears brimming, threatening to fall. “I heard you and you sounded so sad. And I knew that I heard that before, because that was me. I knew then that maybe you really were sorry.”

His voice trembles. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Geralt breathes. He gestures to the wraps holding Jaskier’s skin together. “I’ve caused you so much pain and torment. How could you ever forgive me?”

The bard tilts his head back, blinking. A tear escapes, streaming down his face. He loosens a harsh sigh. “Because some part of me is just as stubborn as you are: and it keeps reminding me that I still love you.”

And it does nothing to stop his heart from hammering in his chest. It might just break through his ribcage and fall on to the mattress with them. He does loosen a breath though, one he didn’t even know that he was holding.

He flinches at warmth spreading on one side of his face. Jaskier’s hand cups his cheek, his thumb gently brushing over the arch of his cheekbone. Geralt’s eyelids flicker shut. Memories come to him like afterimages – their old life together just an arm’s reach away, blurred from the years of separation. Jaskier sighs. “I thought that you hated me,” he mutters, “I thought that you had always hated me. But when I looked up and saw you standing there, facing down a village for me...”

“I never hated you,” Geralt breathes.

Jaskier’s lips flatten into a thin line. “I know that now,” he amends.

It’s only then does Geralt realise how close he’s sitting to the other man. He could have perched at the end of the bed, or a bit further down. But he’s close – Jaskier was able to reach for him so easily. His eyes flicker down to the bard’s mouth. Seeing him with a beard is still so odd. He imagines that he’ll want it gone, as well as his hair tidied, before they set off.

Together? The question floats aimlessly around Geralt’s mind. He doesn’t want to hope. Hope is so fleeting in the world nowadays that he doesn’t want to put stock in it.

His brain and the rest of his body aren’t connected. Before he knows truly what he’s doing, he leans forward, setting his forehead against Jaskier’s. He doesn’t put much into it. If Jaskier wants to lean back, separating them, he can. But he doesn’t. A sigh leaves the bard. Moving slightly, their noses brush. A shared breath swirls between them.

It’s him who leans forward. The first touch of their lips sends him back to those years before the mountain: the days spent wandering through villages and towns, following contracts; the nights curled around each other in the beds of taverns.

A groan crawls up his throat when Jaskier kisses back, tilting his head slightly. The hand against Geralt’s cheek holds there. His thumb moving in a gentle caress.

He wants to do more: he wants to reach for Jaskier’s legs, pull him closer, and mould him around himself. He wants to lean over and shield Jaskier entirely from the outside world. He wants to pepper nicks and bruises into the length of the bard’s neck. He wants to rediscover all of the freckles speckled throughout his skin, scattered over his entire body.

But a sharp hiss from Jaskier reminds him that the bard is injured. Geralt pulls away, but keeps their foreheads touching, noses brushing against each other. He puts some space between their chests. The harsh, sharp medicinal scent of echinacea and herbs that coat Jaskier’s cuts floats up towards him.

Geralt reaches out, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s long hair. He tucks some of it behind his ear. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he repeats, his voice nothing more than a rumble.

Jaskier brushes their noses together. “My forgiveness is mine to give. And I give it to you.”

Jaskier catches his lips again. Gods, it’s so familiar. Like the years that separated him didn’t even happen. The scratch of a beard against his own is different, but Jaskier sometimes had stubble in the mornings he rose a little too late.

When another muffled gasp leaves the bard, when one of them leans a bit too close to the other, Geralt pulls away again. “We’ll leave when Marta says that you’re able for the road,” Geralt promises. “We can go wherever you like. Together.”

#geralt #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #henry cavill #joey batey #geralt of rivia #dandelion #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt x dandelion #geralt/dandelion #geralt of rivia x jaskier #geralt of rivia/jaskier #geralt of rivia x dandelion #geralt of rivia/dandelion #yourqueenforayear #agoodgoddamnshot

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scribbling-stiks · 4 years ago

Text

Retrievers - V - Bloodbath

Russia finds himself counting water bottles, trying to distract himself from his churning emotions. He mutters the strange English numbers under his breath, and though he couldn't hear how loud he is, he gets no complaints.

Thuds against the door to the hideout pull him violently from his daydreams of kisses and heroism.

Russia stands and walks briskly up to the door. He listens and hears the gurgling from earlier. He stiffens.

'S***.'

Russia readies himself to fend off whatever it is and he steps back. He holds out his hand and herds the states and providences back.

"Shhh!" Russia demands.

The group falls quiet.

America pushes his way to the front and takes a place next to Russia. America wipes his face on last time with the back of his hand before his expression stiffens into a harsh glare directed at the door.

America summons his scythe, and Massachusetts, Connecticut, Arizona, and a few others summon their respective weapons, ready for a fight.

Russia snarls.

'I am not letting whatever that thing is to get near any of them.'

Russia bares his teeth and listens to whatever it was wrestling with the door. It gurgles and gasps from behind the metal plate.

Then it begins to sound like human hands scratching at the door. Russia's heart sinks into his stomach.

Even with Dixie fighting against it, the thing yanks the door out of the wall.

It screams victoriously.

America charges at it before Russia fully registered what had happened, with Russia and Texas on his tail. Russia fights to push its tentacles away from the entrance.

The monster is several meters tall and looks like it came from a sailor's tale of misfortune.

It crawls on its tentacles and thrashes about, gnashing its beak at them.

Around it are dozens of huge insects that skitter around, each one as big as Russia's face. The bugs look like armed, slimy beetles. Their shells shine with distorted reflections of the lights above.

Russia's attention rockets to the kids screaming in fear from what used to be the safe room. Countries race out and begin trying to kick and throw the bugs aside. Canada sends them flying with a hockey stick, though where he got it, Russia will never know.

The thing screeches as America swings at it, cutting open its face. America back peddles and hacks at the larger groups of the swarm.

Russia tries to keep an eye on the squid while Finland and Egypt fight it back, but he loses track of it while beating back the beetles from the entrance, trying to block any of them from getting to the states and providences.

Russia turns around for a split second to dispose of a larger group when it strikes.

A hiss. And a woosh of quick movement.

Russia knows he couldn't turn around fast enough to block it, but he also knows he has to try.

Russia spins around and gets ready to take a hit to the chest, onto to see America being snatched up right in front of him.

Russia feels his heart stop.

"AMERICA!" Russia screams, reaching out fruitlessly into thin air.

The monster screeches and dangles a screaming America up by its beak. Then it slams America into the ground hard enough to leave a crater.

America goes silent.

The monster whips America around before flinging him into a wall.

America flies back and lands with a sickening crack and thump, but nothing more, not even a whimper.

Children and teens shriek in horror.

Russia stares in terror.

He's stuck, and the sounds around him blend together. Colors mix and he stares at the only thing clear in his vision, a broken America, whose body is splayed out, unnatural and broken, against broken wooden planks.

Fear turns to grief.

And grief turns to anger.

Red hot flames roar within him.

They lick away at his patience and self-control, eating them away in moments.

Russia's vision turns blood red.

Russia whips around, snarling like a rabid animal.

He opens his mouth in a wordless scream that rings through the air before he charges.

Russia slams into the creature with his shoulder and knocks it off balance. He wrangles up its limbs and scratches it as deeply as his hands can manage, staining his fingers dark red with its blood.

Russia swings it up and hurls it into the floor.

Touching its skin makes his hands and arms burn, but Russia finds that he doesn't care at all.

'Must. DESTROY,' his mind roars.

He zeros in on the smaller monsters racing toward the kids.

Russia bounds off the wall and lands in between them and the screaming states.

He snatches the smaller creatures and tosses them like styrofoam models.

They splatter onto the walls like dark brown jello.

Then, his attention returns to the largest of the group and he charges it again.

Rage coats his throat in rust.

Russia screams, his hands curled into fists. He swings, breaking the beak of the monstrosity in front of him.

The squid creature roars in pain before lashing out at him, using its tentacles to gouge deep wounds into Russia's legs.

Russia finds he can't feel a thing.

Russia grabs a tentacle. With one quick yank, he rips it off the creature's body.

Dark red coats the hallway and ceiling.

Russia lets out a guttural growl. His teeth are stained with the creature's blood.

The thing shrieks and tries to retreat.

"No," Russia snarls, grabbing it and slinging it into the wall.

It scrambles away from him. Russia stares it down and it flees far too quickly for Russia to catch it.

Russia runs after it, following the bloody, gore-filled trail it leaves behind.

The only reason he lets it get away into the trees is a shriek from behind him. Russia spins around at the noise and races back inside.

Russia's clothes are dripping with dark red blood. It seeps into his skin, but the sensation has nothing on the anger boiling beneath his eyes.

He wordlessly crushes the beetles, cracking their shells, and his feet sink into their organs.

The red begins to fade a little, and he blinks a few times.

Russia looks around at the carnage. He looks like he'd exploded a butcher's shop, he notes. It smells like rotten fish.

Russia takes his breaths in shallow gasps, his chest heaving. The foul taste in his mouth finally registers, and he nearly vomits.

The paint on the walls is no longer visible, and the wood floors have been splintered apart in some places, though Russia finds that he can't remember the original color of the wood.

'Where is America?'

Russia spins around, searching. He spots America limp against a back wall.

Russia runs over, leaping over the holes in the floor, and ignoring the burning coating him. He slides to a stop in front of him, but can't get too close with the states surrounding him. He towers over them, and nausea hits him again.

America lays, lifeless, against the bloody wall. Blood pouring from wounds that cover him, bruises, and gaping holes.

California and New York work with Texas to reset America's leg and put it into a splint. It cracks back into place, and America doesn't even flinch.

Russia stands frozen, thoughts swirling violently in his mind. The color fades from his face.

'I pushed him away. He apologized, and I dismissed it.'

'That should've been me.'

The world starts to spin and Russia stumbles into the wall, his eyes like saucers.

"We should get that stuff off of you," Tenessee comments.

She and Georgia start to pull him away.

"No! Wait! Please!" Russia begs, trying to pull away.

The rest of the states surround America, blocking Russia's view of anything that was going on. The dizziness, nausea, and pain render him too weak to fully fight back anymore. They take him outside and Georgia blasts him with cold water from the hose.

Russia doesn't flinch.

'To think he didn't care at all.'

'I'm out here, and I don't even know if he's okay.'

The mud under his feet turns red, and Russia stares into it, wishing things had been different, but knowing he might not get the chance.

Tears and tap water rinse his face.

Table of Contents

#rusame #ch russia #ch america #statehumans #countryhumans

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imjeralee · 4 years ago

Text

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 13 - Edward Rose

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

WARNINGS: For blood, gore, vomit, disturbing and graphical scenes. This is really a horrific chapter. If you like this stuff, that’s great, if not I promise it will get better :’)

@marydragneell - here is the latest update

Edward Rose

…

[Ezra’s Notes on Exorcism Tools:

1. The Odd Keystone. A peculiar stone bestowed to me by the diocese. Quintessential in capturing evil spirits that cannot find salvation and are cursed to wander the earth for eternity (I’m surprised they didn’t ask for it back). It is 'activated' by latin exorcism prayers. If the number of contained spirits reach one hundred and eight, a pokemon will form, ie, Spiritomb.

2. The Khira Dagger. This small, hand-held dagger was used in rituals and sacrificial ceremonies, with roots dating back to the 8th century. It has absorbed so much blood that its power transcends any other. It kills spirits, evil or good. Try to refrain from using this unless you’re dealing with a powerful adversary (again, I’m surprised they didn’t ask for it back).]

…

The sound of rapid footsteps approaching can be heard echoing along the dark hall and you and Jace both turn to the source only to be greeted with an ashen-faced Cole.

“Help! I need help!” he exclaims, clearly in distress. He comes to a grinding halt before you and puts his hands on his knees with his head low, panting.

“Are you alright?” Jace asks, as Cole struggles to regain his breath.

You give him a moment or so until his face finally returns to its normal colour and he squeezes his eyes shut before he cries out, “Tan is missing!”

You’ve never seen a grown man look so panicky and hysterical before. “Calm down, tell us what happened.”

“He went to the bathroom and several minutes passed, and he didn’t come out so I went in to check in on him and he tried to scare me but then there was this loud noise outside and he left to check. When I went out, he was gone – there’s no way he could’ve just vanished into thin air so quickly like that, you know? And I was calling his name and saw this shadow run past, I followed it-“

As Cole rambles, he becomes increasingly louder.

“But then I heard footsteps behind me and between these two displays, I saw this face-“

“A face?”

Cole nods and Jace throws you an alarmed glance. “I saw it in the pictures we took. It was following us!”

“Show me these pictures,” you say, and Cole switches on his bulky digital camera, fumbling with a few buttons and switching to view mode where he mutters and mumbles under his breath until he finds the designated pictures. “Here.”

You scoop the camera out of his grip and go through the snapshots under Cole’s instruction; you see an array of photos of Tanner taken when they were on their way to leave the gallery via the right wing. There are a couple of so photos of Tanner striking funny poses in the taxidermy section.

Cole does not fail to point out the grinning face in the darkness that he’d noticed appear in numerous photos he had taken of Tanner after capturing Runerigus.

You peer curiously at each of these photos where you see the face that appears in every picture. Whether it’s above Tanner’s shoulder, head, on his left or right, it is always there.

“And you noticed this after you found us in the basement and after Tanner captured Runerigus,” you reaffirm, and he nods again. You hand him the camera wordlessly.

“The damn asshole won’t pick up his phone either,” Cole growls.

“What should we do?” Jace asks.

“Call Horace. Get all the lights switched back on so we can start looking for Tanner.”

“O-okay, I can do that…” Cole utters, before he fishes out the walkie talkie and pushes on the button; it fizzes weakly before it goes silent and he takes this as an indication to speak. “Hello? Horace? Are you there, over?”

He lifts his finger off the button and waits, but there’s no response.

Cole tries again. “Horace? Can you hear me, over. Can you switch all the lights back on, please?”

Still no response.

“…I’ll go find him,” Cole says with a sigh, “I’ll go through the left wing, it’s quicker that way. There’s no use just hanging around here. I’ll keep in contact with you through my walkie.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, and he nods.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Cole replies, “You guys gonna stay here?”

“We’re going to investigate a bit more,” you say whilst Jace looks unsure.

“Okay, see you in a bit. Arceus…Tan, you better be okay…”

You watch Cole’s retreating back as he disappears towards the direction of the left wing and it’s just yourself and Jace once more.

“Where do you think Tanner is?” Jace asks.

“He could be hiding somewhere.”

“Yeah, he must’ve seen the ghost and bolted for it!”

“Possibly,” you mutter, before you unzip your bag and rifle through, picking up the Odd Keystone you had received from Leon earlier.

How is this going to work, you think to yourself, as you return the Odd Keystone safely back inside; you opt for a small and dirty gold dagger with a thin blade the length of your hand that is engraved all over with strange symbols. You carefully place it into your inner jacket pocket to conceal it but Jace sees it anyway.

“A knife!?”

“No, a khira dagger,” you say quickly, revealing the small blade, “It doesn’t hurt humans, only spirits. Watch.”

You proceed to stab the blade into your awaiting palm but nothing happens, the sharp blade doesn’t penetrate your flesh and skin at all even when you bring the blade down again and again and Jace gawks in bewilderment as you lift your intact hand, wiggling your fingers.

“See?” you say, “I don’t really want to use it, but I’m concerned. If Graves found out about this though, he’d confiscate it so don’t tell anyone.”

Jace chuckles. “Your secret’s safe with me!”

“Thanks, Jace-“

You are both briefly stopped in your actions when you hear the distinct sounds of clanging metal above your heads which makes you look up.

The noise continues, identical to someone with a rod and banging on metal, and you shine the torch at the ceiling. It’s coming from the ventilation and the noises are heading towards the direction of the left wing.

“…Do you think Cole made it out okay?” Jace asks, and you purse your lips.

“I’ll go check,” you say, “Jace, stay here.”

“No way! I’m coming with you.”

“…Alright fine, let’s go,” and you both begin to follow the sounds which are heading towards the direction of the left wing where up ahead, you hear a loud cry of pain.

Hastening your pace, you and Jace rush to the scene as quickly as your feet can carry you until you see Cole a short distance away. He is lying on the floor, though he is not alone for a figure can be seen squatting over his body, emitting guttural and choked croaks and grunts.

You and Jace go to a skidding halt on your heels, shining the torch on the figure who whips round with a feral hiss.

It’s Tanner, yet his eyes are wild and crazed, with lips pulled backwards so tightly they appear to reach his ears. His teeth are clenched together into a grisly and never-ending, distorted grin of malice, his nostrils and mouth drenched with blood. Hot tears stream profusely down from the corners of his eyes and over his cheeks, mingling together with the blood.

“H…help muh…” he manages to grunt out, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second.

Rising to stand, his body jerks and twitches fiercely. He takes a step forwards, then immediately doubles over, groaning and heaving before he proceeds to vomit, large splashes staining the pristine floor before he begins plodding towards your direction with his arms stretched out, fingers bent into claws.

You’re seized by Jace before you can react; he mutters a string of obscenities whilst the possessed man rampages after you, shrieking and screaming unintelligibly.

“This way!” Jace yells, as he drags you down the hall.

Your heartbeat begins speeding up as Tanner’s hysterical, gnarled screams of agony assaults your ears, along with the violent thudding sounds of hands and feet meeting the floor. Too disturbed to look over your shoulders, Jace reaches for Joltik’s capsule and releases his pokemon.

“Joltik, use Electroweb!!” Jace commands, and the little yellow bug glows brightly before shooting a large spiderweb filled with crackling electricity towards Tanner’s direction.

You throw a quick glance to see the web ensnaring the man but it does little to stop him. He has made no effort to evade and drops to the ground as the web tangles him up and he begins crawling whilst snarling and gnashing his teeth ferociously, dragging himself towards you, reaching with outstretched arms.

“Good job, Joltik,” Jace says, as the little bug trills in response.

You run aimlessly through the gallery, listening to the horrendous noises which are still growing closer and closer until Jace suddenly lets out a yelp. You turn briefly to see he’s been grabbed; you cannot believe your eyes - Tanner has rid himself of the electroweb and he has caught up so quickly – and Jace is promptly tossed high in the air with Joltik stuck to his shoulder and you watch helplessly as he slams against the wall of one of the taxidermy displays and drops to the ground, unconscious.

“Jace!”

As Tanner proceeds to lunge at you, he’s quickly fended off by a dark beam of energy.

Gengar floats in the air, grinning wickedly before he glances at you and nods; he’s got your back.

The possessed Tanner rolls upright, hisses and scrabbles away, disappearing into the darkness.

Your legs tremble as you scan the surrounding area with your torch but he has vanished; all that is left of him is a bloodied trail which vanishes in one corner.

A loud clunk from above grabs your attention and you shine the torch to the source to see that the iron vent on the ceiling has been pried open.

Gengar returns to your side and you exhale shakily.

“…Thanks Gengar, can you check up on Jace and Joltik, please?”

Fumbling for Mimikyu’s capsule, you release her and she looks up at you expectantly.

“Mimi, can you check up on Cole, please? And please return to the entrance and ask Horace to turn on all the lights.”

“Leave it to…mi.” Mimikyu says, imitating a salute motion with one shadowy tendril from its mouth.

You smile at your pokemon; though they are rather reluctant to leave your side, you confirm your instruction with a firm nod.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing. Meet me in the basement once you’re done.”

Gengar and Mimikyu acknowledges your commands and everyone parts way; Gengar floats away to where Jace and Joltik were tossed, Mimikyu heads for the direction of the left wing whilst you make your way towards the door that will lead to the basement.

You’re going to destroy the damn thing.

Along the way, you check for any airducts and vent shafts and you remain on high alert for any strange noises and signs of Tanner, using your torch to sweep the area before proceeding.

The path is clear and the basement door lies ahead and when you shine the torch on the ceiling to the air duct nearby, you see it is closed.

Without further hesitation, you head over until a brutal force from behind rams into your back and you’re shoved away from the door and to the wall, your head smacks hard against the concrete and you drop to the floor, your torch clattering out of your hand. Your mind reels as your vision slowly grows black and your eyes slide to a close.

Drifting between consciousness, a wet and cold grip seizes your ankle and you’re slowly pulled out of your spot.

You slump over the uninviting floor and as you groan and mumble and mutter, the grip tugs on your ankle again.

You slide forwards and stop briefly.

Then you slide again.

And stop.

You’re being dragged.

Groaning, you muster the strength to open your eyes and stare groggily at the ceiling above you before you lift a hand to the side of your head and press your fingertips over your skin. You are bleeding.

You see Tanner with his back to you and his hand curled around your ankle which is lifted in the air, pulling you towards the direction of the basement. You struggle but you’re wracked with pain, your head throbbing.

Your eyes slide to a close…

…and you wake up by a searing hot stab of pain and you begin screaming uncontrollably, your eyes darting around your surroundings.

It’s the room with the fans and the easel and the accursed canvas and the sounds of flesh squelching and blood gurgling forces you to whip your head to the side where you see Tanner bent over you, biting down ravenously on the flesh of your forearm. As you scream and flail, he looks up, his crazed and possessed eyes meeting yours.

With a mouthful of blood, he slowly shuffles up and away from you, and you gape as he drags himself to stand limply in front of the easel with his shoulders slumped.

The incomplete painting awaits; he regards it for a moment before he begins to dab his fingers into his bloodied mouth and slaps his fingers and palms onto the canvas, smearing your blood over the surface.

You stare at the scene in horror and shock, your eyes widening as he begins to paint.

Slowly, you begin to inch yourself away towards the direction of the closed door as quietly as possible so not to alert the possessed man. Gengar and Mimikyu haven’t come to find you, so you doubt you’ve been unconscious for long. As you drag yourself across the floor, your arm is a bloom of red, brimming with pain and discomfort and bleeding abundantly from where he’s bitten into you.

He stops, having run out of blood and turns round, his crazed eyes pinned on your helpless form on the ground and you inch backwards as fast as you can, struggling away on your elbows.

“Edward Rose, I know it’s you,” you hiss. Lifting yourself off the floor to stand, you cradle your bleeding arm, panting heavily, “You want to finish your painting, right?”

“….Need more blood…not enough blood…” Tanner utters but it’s not his voice, it’s deep and darker.

Without a second to spare, he lunges at you but you reveal the small dagger that you’ve managed to keep safe and thrust the sharpened tip towards his chest but one huge fist grabs your arm and the other seizes your throat and proceeds to squeeze down on your windpipe. You grunt as he slams you against the wall and lifts you high into the air.

You struggle violently as his hand closes around your neck and wrist firmly; with your remaining hand, you clench your fist tightly and begin beating against his shoulder.

Struggling for breath, Tanner’s manic gaze meets yours; his distorted grin is incessant, his pupils are dilated as he hisses and rasps unintelligibly, your ears ringing with discomfort from the grating noise.

You shake and flail as much as you can, your ravaged arm sweltering with pain.

The pressure on your neck increases, the howling grows more and more deafening, your mind grows dark and dreary, your clenched hand on his coat is growing loose.

This must be it, you think to yourself, and you wonder how sad it is that this is how you will meet your end because you didn't think this would how it would end until Tanner abruptly jerks backwards and you are freed from his clutches. You drop to the ground, coughing and choking and gasping for precious air.

You didn’t hear the door open.

Glancing up, you see it is none other than Leon holding the man back. Charizard is by his side, too.

“Leon!!” you cry breathlessly with widened eyes, “Charizard!”

“Are you okay?!” he exclaims, and you force a nod. “Arceus, what’s wrong with him? Has he gone mad?”

“No, he’s just possessed,” is your reply.

As Leon holds Tanner back, having successfully wrenched the possessed man off you, Charizard waddles to your side to inspect you.

However, there’s no time to waste. As Charizard helps you off the ground, you grab your dagger with renewed grip and lunge forwards as Tanner fights and resists Leon thoroughly, screaming and flailing viciously in his hold. You quickly swing your arm forwards with the dagger and Leon’s eyes widens at your action.

He’s never seen you like this. You must look deranged, you think; your eyes must rival the possessed Tanner – wild, manic and desperate. You’re completely soaked in blood, your teeth clenched together firmly as adrenaline pumps furiously through your veins.

But you want to finish this.

An estranged cry of distress erupts from Tanner’s throat.

“Stop!”

And you pause, the tip of the dagger an inch from his chest.

“Please….no….” he croaks out, his voice strained and heavy and belonging to none other than Edward Rose, “H…he….help me…I want to…finish the painting…”

Leon is baffled by the entirety of it all but you cannot spare the time to explain; he looks at you incredulously as you stare at the sobbing man in his grip with widened eyes. Your shaking arm slowly lowers, the dagger returning to your side.

“….Please…please…” he begs, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears leak uncontrollably from the corners of his clenched eyes. A mixture of Tanner’s and Edward Rose. “It is almost…finished…just a few strokes…please...”

An unsettling silence fills the room as Leon throws you another alarmed glance, then at the man in his grip.

“What is it?” you ask, panting heavily and sucking in noisy breaths, pointing a shaking finger to the painting. Your heart beats furiously, your knees trembling. “What is that meant to be?”

“A map…I hid something…a treasure…”

As Tanner continues to sob, you step backwards as you sweep your hand through your messy hair in disbelief. Leon waits for your response as you pace the floor momentarily before you nod weakly.

“…Fine,” you reply, “But you have to vacate this body at once…I’ll allow you to use mine instead.”

“What?” Leon exclaims.

“It’s okay, Leon. Trust me.”

Whilst the Champion gawks at you, Tanner nods, grateful.

“Oh…thank…you…”

Clearly confused by this entire ordeal, Leon cannot help but watch; you’re relieved he doesn’t attempt to step in, nor does he waste time by questioning everything that’s happening.

Tanner emits another anguished moan and as he convulses violently under Leon’s hold, a murky, dark mist expels from his body, rising from his shoulders and chest in tangled wisps.

He croaks with pain and Leon eventually releases him as the man continues choking and grunting excruciatingly. His throat rattling loudly, Tanner dips to the side with his arms taut and retches, mouth stretching wide open to violently regurgitate another mixture of vomit, blood and a strange, yellowish-white substance that resembles phlegm.

Then he drops to the ground, eyes closed. He is out cold.

“…Ectoplasm,” you mutter, as Leon stares with widened eyes and Charizard snorts loudly with disgust. “Think of it like….ghost residue.”

Despite your explanation, Leon and Charizard look incredibly baffled as you drag yourself to stand properly, hopping on one leg and throwing a glance to the unconscious Tanner before you glance at the awaiting shadow that hovers in mid-air before you.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell the Champion as the shadow slinks forwards.

“Wait!” Leon yells, but the shadow proceeds to envelope you.

He watches as you sway on the spot with your eyes closed before he murmurs your name anxiously.

Your eyes re-open slowly a few seconds later although your gaze, now empty and not belonging to you, sweeps past Leon. You hardly bat an eyelid to his presence and proceed to plod towards the direction of the easel, staring lopsidedly at the canvas before you throw your glance to your bleeding arm. You start to sink your fingers into your torn flesh and once they’re soaked, you begin to apply your bloodied fingertips over the canvas.

Leon calls your name again but you don’t respond.

He observes you painting for a few minutes, your eyes empty as you drag your fingers over the board in a hypnotic but expert fashion.

The stench of blood is strong in the air, the metallic, coppery smell assaulting his nose and Leon grows concerned as continuous drops of blood stain the ground from the tips of your twitching fingers. Charizard growls lightly to elicit some form of response from you but there’s not much the pokemon can do.

When you’re finished, the painting has taken form and has become clearly distinguishable to resemble a monument which Leon is quite certain he has seen somewhere in Rose’s manor.

With the painting completed, Leon watches you carefully. The atmosphere in the room is tense, as he waits for your next move; however, he was not expecting your body to abruptly jerk violently and he takes a cautious step forwards, reaching for you as you shudder on the spot, eyes twitching.

You throw your arm out, halting him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Mustering a minute shake of your head, your eyes squeeze shut and you emit a low groan.

"What is it?" he tries again.

You merely groan.

Leon says your name and what he perhaps feared finally happens: your face contorts, your expression turning dark.

“He won’t leave. Shut up, you fell for it and willingly let me in, swine, and now you shall suffer; they shall all suffer. Arceus, I should’ve known-”

Erupting into boisterous, mocking laughter, you suddenly throw your head back and howl until tears form in your eyes; you drop to your knees with your arms out, facing the ceiling, chin raised in the air, before you wildly scrub your face with your bleeding wound, smothering the dank liquid over your eyes, nose, lips furiously.

"Stop!" Leon yells in response to the macabre display, calling your name again.

You whip your head to him sharply, your chilling eyes wide and glinting under the dim light.

“Do not call me that! Get away from me, Leon – My name is Edward Rose! Leon, get away from me, now!"

“I won’t,” he says sternly, shaking his head.

"This body is mine!" you scream next, before you bite down on your arm, hard, and draw more blood.

Leon abruptly tackles you to the ground, apologising profusely for his manhandling of you despite your aggressive attempts to throw him off; he successfully pulls your arm free from your mouth and you begin convulsing helplessly, eyes rolled to the back of your head, mumbling and muttering incoherently. Your head bends to one side, your shoulders hunching up and arms going stiff, fingers twisting into curled claws before your back arches off the ground and you begin to grunt with pain.

"Leon-"

“I’m still here. I won’t leave you, I can’t-”

“Futile! I'll tear you apart!”

And you yelp and yell, your clinched fingers creeping into the sides of your head and hair. A few strands are torn cleanly from your head from your maniacal clawing, your fingernails desperately raking over your cheeks and temples.

In response to your distress, Leon grabs your wrists and pins you to the floor before you can hurt yourself further.

“Focus on my voice,” he says, remaining as calm as possible, “Please.”

Your eyes clench shut firmly and hot tears stream down your face. Leon continues, asking you to focus on his voice, on him, on yourself, that you're still there and in control and after an ear-splitting shriek, a black shadow is forcibly expelled from your body and shoots into the atmosphere and your body grows weak under Leon’s grip.

Leon moves to wrap his arm around you as your weary body lies limply in his hold, your head rolling to the crook of his elbow as you pant uncontrollably. Leon and Charizard exchange quick glimpses to each other before he carefully shakes you.

Your eyes gradually flutter open and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“....Leon?” you whimper.

He blinks slowly before he responds with a relieved and reassuring, kind smile which thoroughly warms your heart.

“…Hey,” he says gently, before he finds your bloodied hand and holds it tightly, “you’re back. You did it.”

You scan his features briefly before you return his smile with a thin and weak one of your own. You find you have become incredibly languid and drained and tears begin forming in the corner of your eyes once more and your lip trembles.

"Oh god...I'm so sorry. Did I frighten you?"

"It's okay."

You emit a meek sniff and Leon squeezes your hand tightly.

Having successfully expelled Edward Rose from your body, you cannot afford to let precious time go to waste; the shadow bobs up and down in the air listlessly, seemingly stunned from your forceful expulsion and so you indicate to Leon that there is no time to dither and you must get up. He helps, wrapping an arm around your shoulder whilst clutching your hand tightly though your hands occasionally slip due to the blood on your palms.

With Leon’s help, you lean on him as he keeps you hoisted whilst you hastily grasp the Odd Keystone from your bag which you proceed to hold up.

“Adjure te, spiritus nequissime, per Deum omnipotentem,” you croak, your throat burning.

Despite the weakness of your voice, the keystone is activated and the shadow, having realised its incoming demise, rapidly attempts to escape by flitting across the room, darting to and fro but the brilliant light encompasses it and the Odd Keystone, with a power that surpasses like any other, continues to reel and drag it in. Screeching and convulsing viciously, the shadow stretches and morphs aggressively as it is dragged inside.

Edward Rose's agonising howls and screeches bathe the room and stings your ears until the Keystone sucks him inside, the fissure glowing brightly as it claims another evil soul for itself. The room grows dark and not a sound can be heard.

You’re aware it’s far from over; Ezra’s words echo in your mind and the keystone begins to glimmer and tremble violently in your grip; heat spreads across the base of your palm, something which the stone has not done before and you have no choice but to drop it.

It does not hit the ground; instead, it zooms back into the air, hovering before you and Leon whilst shining brightly.

“What’s going on?” Leon asks.

“It’s the creation of a Spiritomb,” you reply; the stone begins rapidly spinning in an anti-clockwise fashion in the air, the fissure of the keystone resembling a blur yet it continues to glow brilliantly under the dimness of the room. As the stone whirls, the stillness of the room is penetrated by a thunderous sound.

A purple miasma unravels from the center of the spinning stone as the glowing light fades away and you and Leon watch in silence as the stone spins faster and the strange purple cloud grows larger and larger before the stone comes to an abrupt stop and the creature that has formed finally manifests before you.

It’s Spiritomb, and the stone slowly returns to wobble on the ground; ragged green lines and specks form on its body, its expression contorting into a sinister sneer before unleashing a powerful shockwave that takes everyone off guard.

Leon’s instinct is to protect you, so you find him throwing himself in front of you in a split second, shielding you with his body.

A bright light encompasses the entire room and you’re forced to shield your eyes; when you re-open them, Spiritomb is nowhere to be seen.

Unable to muster the energy to chase after it, you slump against Leon’s chest, your body growing light again. He mutters your name and slowly uses a hand to sweep some of your hair from the frames of your face and tuck it neatly behind your ears before he slides his hand over yours once again. There are ugly bruises on your neck. You are still bleeding from your head and arm.

Though you have the strength to squeeze his hand, he helps prop you up against the wall where you sigh and groan under your breath with agony and exhaustion.

There must be a way to stop the bleeding and his t-shirt seems to be a good way to do so he tears several inches of the hem off and uses it to wrap your tarnished arm, looping it around and around your wound.

“Leon, don’t,” you croak; you receive a sneaky and quick peek of his abs but only just for a second or so, “Your champion shirt…don’t ruin it…”

He merely grins at you reassuringly. “Don’t worry.”

You really do not want Leon to see you like this.

This is the side of your work which you didn’t want him to see.

The ugly side, the dark side.

As Leon finishes tying his shirt around your wound, there is a gentle tug on your arm and you see Gengar; he stands to your left whilst Mimikyu perches herself in your lap. You smile at them weakly as Gengar glances at you worriedly and Mimikyu, rather reluctantly and awkwardly, releases a tendril to pat you on the head.

“Mi mi?” she asks, before she slides her gaze to your bandaged arm, the bruises on your neck and your injuries.

“I’m okay…” you murmur as your eyelids flutter to a close.

With a shuddering exhale, you slowly turn your head to the side, your eyes closing as your breathing grows shallow.

As Leon reaches for you, you are far too fatigued to move anymore; he brushes some loose strands of hair from your face and uses his thumb to brush a tear from the corner of your eye. The warmth from his hand on your cheek is comforting and you sigh again.

“Leon…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m tired…”

Retreating from the side of your cheek, he scoops your hand with his and holds you tightly. Your hand is limp in his hold as he sweeps his thumb over your cold knuckles.

“I’ll get you outta here,” you hear him murmur.

You nod wearily.

Removing his cloak, Leon carefully wraps it around your body despite your protests. He tucks it around you and pulls at the collar to ensure you're warm and covered and once you're completely bundled up, he effortlessly picks you up and off the ground, easing you into his arms. He slides one arm underneath the bend of your knees and the other around the small of your back, ensuring you’re comfortable before he rises to stand.

With you safely in his arms, Leon carries you out of the basement as the lights go on one by one.

…

Rose enters the basement, assessing the damage.

Whilst Leon, the pokemon researcher, her assistant and the Ghostbunkers team have been escorted to hospital, Rose slips into his gallery before the night is over. He calls his cleaning staff to make haste and tidy up the mess they made.

He glances at the completed painting and smiles. Oleana stands behind him with a large black case which she proceeds to open.

“What does this look like to you, Oleana?” he asks.

“It looks like one of the dormers of Rose Manor, perhaps the drawing room. East wing.” Oleana replies stoically.

“My thoughts exactly. And that’s where Edward Rose hid it,” Rose replies. “We couldn’t have done it without her.”

“Agreed, sir,” is Oleana’s remark.

Rose lifts the canvas off the easel and deposits it carefully into the case, closing the lid shut.

Then they leave the basement silently.

…

#leon #dande #Leon x you #pkmn #pokemon #pokemon shield #pokemon sword #pokemon shield and sword #fanfic #fic #reader #reader insert #jeralee #Comfort in Despair #archive of our own

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salt-warrior · 4 years ago

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WHEN EARTH TURNS TO ASHES

Masterlist

Chapter Fourteen: Dangers of Death

"Slow it down, right now, missy!" Iko yelled from behind Cinder, heels clicking loudly on the white linoleum tile. It wasn't as if Cinder were moving fast— she had tripped multiple times and a turtle could probably out-run her— but Iko's foot attire made her mobility rate even worse than Cinder's.

"I said that I didn't want to see you," Cinder hissed between her teeth, but slowed down all the same. Anger bubbled from within her chest. She was furious at Kai. She was enraged to see Cress, her tormentor and betrayer. But most of all, she was livid with herself for letting anyone get close to her. They didn't deserve the kind of consequences that came with simply existing near Cinder.

Iko came to an elegant stop beside Cinder, her breathing slightly heavy. "Oh please, everyone wants to see me." Iko grinned. "I'm gorgeous!"

Cinder let out a huff, but smiled all the same. No matter how much she hated Kai and Cress, there was no part of her that could ever hate Iko; she was too much like Peony. She spoke with a certain confidence in herself. She loved people, no matter the circumstances. She was good and kind and oh so boy-crazy. But most of all, she didn't care that Cinder was broken or haunted or different.

"So," Iko cut across Cinder's thoughts. "Where do you plan on going, seeing that everyone you want to kill is currently occupying your home."

This caused Cinder to pause. "I hadn't thought that far ahead,” she admitted. Her anger had gotten the better of her, and her only thoughts had been to get away from those who loved her before they all got hurt. No one was safe while Cress and Cinder were together. Not with Cress knowing Cinder's past and secrets. She wouldn't let anyone else die. "Maybe I'll go back to the hospital. They'll let me stay there, right?"

Cinder hated the idea of going back to the place of white fluorescence and sterile air. She didn't want to lay in a bed all day with nothing to keep her hands occupied. She longed for her own space without people monitoring her every move. But if it kept everyone safe, it was the only place she belonged.

Iko bit her lip, but nodded. The duo began to walk again, this time in silence as both their steps came at a more lethargic cadence. "I'm sure they would..." Iko looked into Cinder's face, her expression not that of a nurse, but of a friend who cared deeply for her counterpart's behalf. "But I think it would be better if you stayed with me," Iko said, nonchalant.

"Iko, I couldn't possibly. I could–"

"I wasn't asking, I was telling." Iko smirked, her nose quirked upwards. "I have a guest bedroom, and could really use some company. It's kind of lonely." Iko admitted. "Besides, it's nearly Christmas, and no one deserves to spend Christmas at a Hospital."

"You're gonna be at the Hospital, Iko." Cinder retorted, though with more affection than acerbity.

A laugh shot out of Iko, and it was like the sound of a classical piano: high, clear, and beautiful. "Yeah, but I only have an eight-hour shift, and then I get to come home to my cat. And you, too, I guess. Thank goodness you're not as hairy."

"You have a cat?" Cinder questioned, her mind trying and failing to imagine Iko with a cat.

"No, I'm allergic. But you thought I did." Iko teased. They were now on the first floor, stepping outside and into the cold winter air. Iko shivered in her glamorous, but rather revealing dress. It was only then that Cinder realized that she was still wearing Kai's gray-hoodie. His scent hit her in that moment, and she hated herself for loving the way it enveloped her.

Cinder hated the idea of putting Iko— a girl who could've been Peony's personality doppelgänger— in any sort of danger; but Cinder was terribly lonely. She had shut everyone one out for so long that she had nearly forgotten how it felt to have human companionship. Now that she had grown re-accustomed to it, the withdrawals were nearly too painful to bear.

"Are you sure it's okay if I stay with you?" Cinder asked nervously. Half of her wanted Iko to change her mind, but the other half, the one starving, wanted desperately for Iko to make true on her promise.

Iko hooked a warm arm around Cinder's neck, careful not to hurt her. "Absolutely."

***

"What do you mean you 'know why Selene left'?" Thorne blurted at the same moment Kai said: "How could it be your fault?"

Cress covered her face with her hands and let out a sob. Her soft curling locks of blonde hair cloaked her head like a halo. Her entire frame was shaking with grief, setting both boys into a panic.

Kai looked at Thorne, his eyes full with worry and terror. He was generally good at handling crying women, but he was clueless as how to help Cress; she appeared devastated. Thorne, on the other hand, looked confused. Both made a multitude of facial expressions, having their own silent argument while the small girl cried in enemy territory. Finally, Kai jerked his chin forcefully, indicating that he would not be touching the sobbing Cress. Thorne glared and rolled his eyes with resentment, but relented to move towards Cress.

Thorne placed a gentle hand on Cress' back, going for comforting, but only making her flinch. "Hey, hey, calm down," Thorne crooned, and Kai goggled at him. Thorne shrugged his shoulders as if to say: I don't know what else to do.

"You need to tell us what happened," Thorne whispered softly into Cress's ear. "Otherwise we can't help you or Cin– Selene."

Kai knew that Thorne had meant to be a calming influence, but he only seemed to be making Cress' crying worse. Cress sobbed pathetically, muttering words incoherently. Kai held both of his hands out in a question, and Thorne glared murderously at him.

"Cress," Kai tried. "We have to know what happened between you and Cinder. We can't help her if you won't tell us what you did."

At his words, Cress hiccuped, and her crying seemed to slow. She turned her face up to gaze at Kai with blood-shot eyes, still the color of crystal. Tears still traced down her cheeks, but a determined glint sparkled radiantly in her cobalt-blue eyes.

"Please," Thorne muttered. "Do it for Selene."

Cress exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging as all the tension went out of her body. Thorne led her to the chair that sat at Cinder's desk, and Cress crumpled into is gratefully. Kai and Thorne remained standing in front of her, but Cress didn't seem to mind them towering over her.

"Do you want to know why Selene freaked out when she saw me tonight?" Cress croaked, placing her trembling hands across her stomach. Kai knew it was rhetorical, but nodded his head all the same, Thorne mirroring his action.

"We were... friends. Back in high school. Selene was always an outsider, but so was I," Cress said. Her voice was soft and vulnerable, and if the circumstances were different, Kai would have given her a hug and told her that she didn't need to talk about it. But she did. This was about Cinder, and for some reason, all other worries seemed to vanish from Kai's mind wherever Cinder was concerned.

"We became close, and we shared our secrets. She... she told me about her past. She told me about her mom. She told me everything, and asked me to help her to..." Cress bit down on her lip, the words seeming to cost her every ounce of courage. "She asked me to help her fight Her."

"I told her I would; and I did. I devoted all my time to researching how to make Her stop, but I just couldn't find anything. I– I tried so hard–" Cress's voice broke, and a guttural noise escaped her throat like an animal being run over. "But we didn't save Peony. We— I failed her."

Thorne looked at Kai with alarm, but Kai still didn't understand what was going on. Was someone after Cinder, or were things much darker than he could imagine?

"Selene told me what happened, that day that Peony died." Cress wrung her hands together, her red face pinched and full of pain. "I believed her. Until I found something— something that fit the tragedy completely, but made Selene, well, a liar." Cress glanced at the floor, unable to maintain eye-contact. Kai knew what Cress had been about to say about Cinder, but hated the idea of it. He could never believe Cinder a murderer, no matter how much all the facts pointed towards that cruel fate.

"But I got it all wrong. I told everyone that Selene had killed Peony, because I thought she had... had... had..." Cress lost it completely then, curling her entire body in on itself. She looked so pathetic, that even Kai couldn't stand questioning her any more.

"Hey there," Kai rushed forward at the same time as Thorne. Both of them knelt down in front of her, touching her shuddering form as if her were a fragile bird. "Cress, we're going to talk to Selene. We'll set things right once again."

"Yeah," Thorne chimed in. "She'll forgive you, I'm sure of it. If you tell her the truth, I'm sure she'll understand."

Cress moaned as if in agony. "That's not the problem!" She shrieked. "No, no, no, no! You don't understand!"

Kai retracted his hand in shock. "What don't we understand?"

"Aside from girls and this entire conversation?" Thorne mumbled just loud enough for Kai to hear. He chose to ignore him.

"I c-can't see Selene," Cress stuttered miserably. "I don't know what I was possibly thinking coming here. It's too dangerous."

"What's too dangerous, Cress?" Kai asked urgently. "Why can't you see Selene?"

Cress kept her face pressed between her palms for a moment before looking straight into Kai's eyes. Her entire demeanor was that of complete and utter agony. Her skin was sallow and pale, and her eyes held shear terror.

"Because if I do, someone could die. We could all die."

#when earth turns to ashes #wetta #a burning world #marissa meyer #tlc #the lunar chronicles #lunar chronicles #linh cinder #selene blackburn #prince kai #emperor kai #carswell thorne #cress darnel #iko #channary blackburn #kaider fanfiction #tlc fanfiction #salt warrior stories

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years ago

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A Place to Belong Chapter 7:

A Sister’s Heart

Chapter 6

Read on AO3

About another week passed by of peaceful uneventfulness. Breakfast that morning had been quiet aside from Rabbie and wee Jamie chattering away to each other. There was a solemnity in all of the adults present, and even in Fergus.

It had been almost a month since they’d inquired about retrieving Jamie’s remains from Culloden. They’d heard whispers of people sneaking past the barriers the British had put up and retrieving loved ones themselves. Ian had mentioned it many times, but Jenny had insisted they do things properly. Claire was in enough danger as it was being Red Jamie’s wife. They couldn’t afford to do anything foolish to draw attention to her.

Jenny and Claire were sitting on the sofa in the parlor. Kitty was sitting on the floor, Bran laying dutifully, and quite patiently beside her as the toddler patted his head, and picked up his ears and paws over and over again, giggling madly when they dropped back into place. Jenny was attempting to teach Claire knit. Transitioning from stitching up skin to stitching fabric hadn’t been too difficult to manage, but knitting was an entirely different animal. She was failing miserably, and Jenny had taken the yarn and needles from her about three times now to correct something.

“Just tell me the truth,” Claire said, falling into the back of the couch and laughing. “I’m hopeless.”

“Yer not a lost cause until I say ye are,” Jenny insisted. “Come over here, watch how I fix this…again.”

Sighing, Claire sat up again and leaned over to watch Jenny fix yet another one of her mistakes, but something else caught her eye.

“Jenny!” she whispered excitedly. “Look.”

Jenny looked up and followed Claire’s gaze. Kitty was standing, still right next to Bran, having not used any furniture to get up. Jenny gasped in excitement. She threw the knitting down on the sofa and scrambled to her feet, grasping Claire’s hands. They silently crept several feet away from her, not wanting to startle her into falling back down before she attempted to walk.

“Kitty!” Jenny called, crouching down. Claire stood behind her, beaming. “Come on, Kitty. Walk to me, mo chridhe!”

Kitty stared for a moment, gaping at her. She made a little grunting noise, causing Jenny and Claire to laugh.

“Come on Kitty!” Claire joined. “Come on, sweetheart, you can do it!”

Jenny began egging her on in Gaelic, and she finally took a step toward them.

“Good girl!” Claire cried joyously, and Jenny stammered affectionately in Gaelic.

Katherine took two more steps, causing the woman to squeal. They continued to cheer her on, to praise her, until she finally took six, continuous steps into Jenny’s arms, smiling triumphantly. Jenny laughed joyously and scooped her up, standing and throwing her over her head.

“You did it!” Claire said. “What a clever girl!”

“She finally did it!” Jenny exclaimed. “I was worried, I was but…oh, mo chridhe..." Jenny kissed her yellow head, and Kitty laughed gleefully.

“I told you she was fine, just a late bloomer.” Claire cupped her little head and kissed her cheek. “Auntie Claire is so proud of you,” she said, and Kitty latched her clumsy hands into Claire’s curls, causing Claire to laugh out loud. Babies always had a tendency to latch onto hair, but there was something about Claire’s curly mop that was much more intriguing to her than her own mother’s hair.

Kitty made quite an indignant noise as Claire and Jenny worked to detangle her hands. They laughed and fussed over her; they couldn’t wait to tell Ian.

Suddenly, Fergus burst into the room.

“Fergus!” Claire said joyously. “You’ll never guess what wee Kitty just did!”

“I am sorry to interrupt,” Fergus said. “There are English soldiers coming up the road.”

Claire and Jenny’s smiles disappeared.

“Go fetch Milord,” Jenny instructed. Fergus nodded and scampered off. Claire went to follow after him, but Jenny grabbed her arm. “Ye’ll be staying inside.”

Claire burned a white hot stare into Jenny, but she did not release her. “I ken what ye must be feeling right now, but we canna afford for ye to make scene wi’ the British. I wouldna blame ye if ye did, but we canna take the chance. Ye’ll stay inside while Ian speaks wi’ them.”

“It’s my husband’s body they’re discussing,” Claire spat.

“Aye, and his child yer carrying. Would ye like it to be born in prison?” Jenny challenged. Claire’s jaw hardened, but she had nothing to say in response to that.

With a frustrated sigh Claire pulled her arm free of Jenny’s grip and dropped back onto the sofa. Kitty made another noise, sounding troubled, as if she could sense the change of mood in the room.

Jenny bounced her and kissed her head. “Mrs. Crook!” Jenny called. Before long the woman entered the room. “Take her please.” She handed her off to Mrs. Crook’s outstretched arms. “She just took her first steps,” Jenny said, smiling proudly despite the anxiety in her chest.

“Ah, what a braw wee lassie!” Mrs. Crook said, giving Kitty a tickle. “I’ll keep her occupied fer ye, Mistress.”

Jenny thanked her and called for Bran, who snapped into a standing position and trotted after Mrs. Crook, leaving Jenny and Claire alone in the parlor.

Jenny sat down beside Claire, putting a comforting, steadying hand on her knee. “Nothing so pure as a child’s laughter, no?” Jenny said in attempt to lighten the mood.

Despite her own anxiety, Claire smiled. “Yes…it’s a beautiful thing.”

“Won’t be long before — ”

The front door slammed shut, causing them both to jump. They both listened with bated breath as Ian’s uneven steps came closer and closer to the parlor.

Ian entered the room, his face solemn. “That was a British courier responding to our inquiry.”

Jenny sighed, not waiting for him to say it. “They won’t give him back to us.”

Ian shook his head. “They don’t even know where he is.” Jenny scoffed, disgusted. She buried her face in her hands as Ian continued. “They buried the dead in mass graves right on the moor. Hundreds and hundreds of them.”

“Fucking bastards,” Claire spat, abruptly standing up. She began pacing. “They slaughter him like an animal on that field and they don’t have the decency to give us a body to bury? It’s barbaric! I could fucking throttle him.” Claire made for the front door, intending to follow that courier to the ends of the earth and kill him with her bare hands. Ian stopped her, gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

“Let go of me.” she said through gritted teeth, but Ian only tightened his grip.

“It’s no use Claire. There are hundreds of other wives without bodies to bury. I’m sorry, lass.”

“I refuse to accept that,” Claire said firmly. “Now let me go!”

“Claire.”

She writhed in his grip, to the point where he had to wrap his arms around her entire frame. “Let me go! You fucking bastard!” She was screaming now, unintelligibly, trying to throw punches, to knee him in the groin, but unable.

“Jamie!” she shrieked, long and drawn out, his name tearing through her throat in an agonizing, blood curdling scream. She cried out his name again, but this time her knees gave out beneath her, and she dissolved into uncontrollable sobs. Ian, holding her up under her arms, glanced up helplessly at Jenny, who hurried off the sofa.

“Let her down,” Jenny instructed, and Ian gently lowered her to her knees. Jenny dropped to the floor and caught her in her arms. She held her tightly and rocked her back and forth as guttural cries wracked her body.

Wee Jamie appeared in the entryway to the parlor. “Mam?” His voice was small and scared.

“Ian,” Jenny said exhaustedly.

“It’s alright lad.” Ian hurried to scoop him into his arms. “Dinna fash. Let’s see if we can bother Mrs. Crook for some biscuits, aye?”

They disappeared to the kitchen, leaving the two women alone.

“Claire…oh, Claire…” Jenny stroked her hair, rubbed her back, cupped her cheek. “I ken it’s no’ fair. It’s downright sacrilegious. I ken it’s no’ fair…” Jenny kissed the top of her head. “Try to calm down, mo ghràidh…I ken it hurts, and I ken ye need to scream and cry…but it’s no’ good fer the bairn, ye told me yerself.” Claire seemed to not hear her at all. She was inconsolable. She hadn’t even been this upset when they’d first been told of his death. Perhaps she’d expected him to die; she’d been prepared to hear it. But being deprived of a body to part with him properly was another matter entirely.

It wasn’t long before her lungs couldn’t keep up with her anymore, and she began breathing heavily, her back heaving. She very suddenly and abruptly vomited on the rug, startling Jenny. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before; she’d been spit up on by all three of her bairns. She got her onto her hands and knees and soothingly rubbed her back until she was dry heaving, nothing coming up.

“It’s alright, breathe deep now. That’s it.”

Claire was silent, breathing deeply and staring at her own sick. “I…” she stammered, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, I…I completely lost it…”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t.” She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand “My behavior was abhorrent…I’ve soiled the carpet like a bloody child…”

“Grief makes us all fools, Claire. I ken I’d be wailing like that if the British took my husband and buried him in an unmarked grave. And didnae care to remember where.” Her voice wavered, stroking Claire’s hair.

“But I feel selfish acting this way. I’m not the only one that lost him.”

“Oh, I ken that, too,” Jenny said, taking a deep shuddering breath. “But he’s yer man. It’s different. And the two of you…ye were like two halves of each other. Drove me to drink to watch the two of ye,” she attempted to tease, and it worked, even if only slightly, bringing a tiny, tearful smile to Claire’s face. “It’s just…different.”

Claire forced down the urge to burst into more tears. “I’ll clean this.”

“Ye’ll do no such thing,” Jenny said firmly. “Let’s get you cleaned up. The servants can see to this.”

Jenny helped her to her feet, which was admittedly more difficult than either of them thought it would be. Claire was quite dizzy after the ordeal, and the pregnancy surely wasn't helping matters. They made their way slowly up the stairs, and then into Claire’s bedroom. Jenny helped Claire strip down to her shift and then sat her in front of the mirror. Claire absently stared at her reflection as Jenny wiped her mouth, face, neck, chest, and shoulders. She was vaguely aware of how pale she was, how gaunt her face had become. Was her flesh rotting away like Jamie’s was at this very moment, in his unmarked grave? Were they so inextricably linked that she was wasting away with him even as she lived?

“Ye’ll start showing soon,” Jenny’s voice interrupted her morbid thoughts. “Nearly been four months, has it no’?”

“Yes,” Claire said, her hands absently resting on her abdomen. “It has.”

“Are you happy to be wi’ child again?” Jenny said, dipping the rag again, then dabbing at Claire’s hairline. “I ken it’s different wi’out Jamie this time. But how does it feel to be carrying a bairn again?”

Claire smiled. “It doesn’t feel like much yet,” she said. “I admit, I haven't given it much thought, with everything else going on.”

“Give it some thought now.” Jenny put the rag aside and began pulling pins out of Claire’s hair.

“I feel…swollen, already.” They both chuckled. “And it’s only just begun. My breasts are sore, I’m exhausted…but,” she paused to look down at her abdomen. “When I really think about it, it’s…it’s a miracle.”

“How’s that?” Jenny put down the final pin and started gently combing through Claire’s curls with her fingers.

“I’ve heard of women who deliver…stillborn children, and they can never get pregnant again. I thought, perhaps, after how horrible it had been for us that I’d never…”

“Every child is a gift,” Jenny said, picking up the hairbrush. “But this one especially is a treasure.”

“I know. He’s the last thing Jamie will ever give me.”

“The greatest gift yer man can give ye.”

Claire smiled in agreement in spite of her urge to cry. “And when I really think about it…I’m also terrified.” Jenny didn’t have to ask. “I’ve also heard of women who’ve miscarried three, four, five times, or delivered stillborn after stillborn. After the first one they just…can’t bring a child into the world.”

“That’s always a risk, ye ken that.”

“I know but…it…it was horrible enough the first time. But to lose another one of Jamie’s children…I couldn't bear it. Not after all of this. I couldn't bear to…to lose the last thing he ever gave me.” Claire quickly swiped away her tears, not wanting to give into hysterics again.

“I understand.” Jenny laid down the brush and rested her hands on Claire’s shoulders. “I canna imagine how that feels, the usual fears piled on all the rest. Tell ye the truth, I dinna think I could bear losing Jamie’s child either. Not after all this. Like ye said.”

Claire sighed shakily. “It’s the only thing keeping me from wasting away.”

“I know.”

“I’d have died on that moor with him if I didn’t know I was carrying his child.”

“I know.”

Claire felt a heavy burden on her chest, one that she needed to relieve. “Remember I said that I…I never told him.”

“About the bairn?” Claire nodded. “Ye knew before ye left for Lallybroch?” She nodded again.

“I feel horrid for not telling him. I think about it every day. I could have given him one last thing…and I didn’t. He gave me the child itself, and to bring him that news, I could have returned the favor. It would have made him so happy.”

“Then why’d ye no’ tell him?” There was no judgment in her tone, just genuine curiosity.

Claire thought carefully about what to say. She’d thought time and time again about telling Jenny everything, especially now that they’d likely be spending the rest of their lives together.

She would eventually, but now didn’t seem like the right time.

“I…I promised him something. Something that would have had to come to fruition if I was with child…a promise I knew I couldn’t keep. So I…couldn’t tell him.”

“The guilt’s eating ye alive, is it?”

“Some days it does,” Claire said.

“Ye don’t have to tell me. I ken that husbands and wives make promises and keep secrets,” Jenny said, and Claire briefly wondered if there was more behind her saying it; if she was inferring that she knew she and Jamie had been hiding something from her. “But what I do know, is that Jamie is quite aware that yer carrying his child now.” Jenny wrapped her arms around Claire’s shoulders from behind and rested her chin on the crown of her head. “He’s smiling down on ye both, and he’s smirking to himself because he knows if it’s a boy or a girl before we will.” This made Claire chuckle. “Ye didna have to tell him then. It might have made it all the harder. He knows now, either way.”

“I’m sure he does.” Claire smiled through her tears, covering Jenny’s hands, which were clasped above Claire’s chest, with her own. “You know, we hardly talked about names for Faith. There was so much going on and then she…she came too soon for us to make a decision and then I…I didn’t name her.” Jenny tilted her head so her cheek was resting on Claire’s head. “But then, later on, months after, back in Scotland, here in Lallybroch actually, we were talking about your father. What a good man he was.”

“Aye, he was.”

“I told him I wanted to name our son Brian. When we had one. It…it made him very happy.” Claire briefly became lost in the memory. “So I promised him then that our next child would be Brian.”

“Father’d be honored,” Jenny said. “Ye know, when I first heard my brother married a sassenach I was red in the face, screaming at Ian that father was burling in his grave.” Claire chuckled. “But I’ve no doubt now that he’d have blessed the match a thousand times over if he could.” Jenny picked her head up again, returning her chin atop Claire’s head. “He’d be proud to have a second daughter in you. Just as I am proud to have ye as my sister.”

Claire beamed at Jenny through the mirror, touched beyond description. “Sister…I’ve never had one before. Or a brother for that matter.”

“Trust me, yer not missing much. Having a brother I mean.” They both laughed. “But I never had a sister either. And I didna ken what I was missing until ye waltzed yer proper English self onto my porch.”

“Yes, when you called me a trollop.”

Jenny tossed her head back in a loud guffaw. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Indeed you did,” Claire said, laughing nearly as hard.

“Oh…” Jenny gave Claire a brief squeeze and kissed the crown of her head before finally releasing her grip. She crossed the room to the armoire. “Let’s get some clothes on you, ye wee trollop.”

Claire bit her lip and reached for the wet rag. Not bothering to ring it out first, she hurled it across the room, hitting Jenny square in the back with a loud, wet slap. Jenny let out an undignified yelp, the likes of which Claire had never heard from her. Claire giggled uncontrollably, and Jenny whirled around, hands on her hips.

“Well, I never — !”

Claire could not stop laughing, and it was made all the worse by the face Jenny was pulling. Jenny shook her head, laughing in spite of the giant wet spot on her back.

“Jenny?” Claire said, finally able to abate her laughter. “You’re the best sister a trollop could ask for.”

“Aye, I am.” She bent down and retrieved the rag from the floor. “I’d have to be to put up wi’ this.” She hurled the rag back at Claire, who caught it, not without a little splash to the face. She laughed again, returning the rag to the bowl and standing to let her sister help her get dressed.

#outlander #outlander au #outlander fanfic #claire fraser #jamie fraser #jenny fraser murray #jenny murray #lallybroch #fergus fraser

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obliviscii-a · 4 years ago

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He never meant for it to happen. For any of it to happen. It was all an accident. A tragic accident, but an accident all the same. A town plagued with death, thanks to him. Yveltal thought he’d had his powers under control, but he was wrong. Any life around him was snatched away over time, and those who he made contact were instantaneously turned nothing more than dust. Young, old, it didn’t matter. He should have known better than to stay in the town, among the people, but he convinced himself it’d be okay.

It was anything but.

Another person he’d watch wither away into nothing, tears streaming down his face as he held his hands close to him. It was an accident, he didn’t mean to do it. The people he’d been spending time with were even starting to wither. Once healthy, they were reduced to skin and bones, hardly able to do much of anything anymore. He foolishly thought he could be someone else for once, to walk among people and learn from them. To be seen as Thantos, and not Yveltal. But there were already whispers in the town wherever he walked. People glaring at him from across the square, parents rushing their children inside, not wanting them to associate with the ‘demon child’, as he was called.

He decided to spend one final night in the town, before he’d leave for good. The moon was blotted out by heavy clouds as he lay in the corner of a dark alley atop some straw. There was a kind woman who’d let him stay with her, but she had long since passed, because of him. No one else would take him in, which was fine. He could survive.

Through closed eyes, he noticed light. Flickering light, that bounced off the stone walls around him. He’d crack an eye open, seeing several people there. Not quite an angry mob, but enough people to make him feel a sense of dread. He’d sit up slowly, before getting to his feet. The people in the back held torches, while those in the front gave him the same look they always had. A look of contempt, and hatred.

Bad omen, they’d say, pointing fingers at him. A devil child, bringing such a curse to their town. Harbinger of death, harbinger of despair, pain, and agony. A demon masquerading as a child, to fool them. No more, no more death. Tonight, they would put an end to this curse brought upon them by Thanatos.

In the flickering light of the fire, he’d catch a glimpse of a blade after it was too late. The dagger tore across his chest, leaving a searing pain in its wake. A guttural scream left his throat, and the assailant moved for another swipe. This time, he managed to move back and out of the way. This cut was a lot less worse, but still stung all the same.

Red quickly bloomed across his white shirt like a rose, the color matching his fearful eyes. He wanted to say something, but the only noise leaving his throat was a gargling sound as blood poured over his lips. For anyone else, such an attack would put them on the ground, but he was the god of death.

Those who showed up to try and kill him looked on in horror as their brutal attack did nothing to perturb him. A horrible noise left Yveltal as a purple orb burst forth from his chest, beam sweeping across his attackers and turning them to stone. Red tears pooled over his eyes and down his face as he watched each stone statue crumble to dust, trembling like a leaf at his own actions.

I’m sorry. Are you? I’m so sorry. But it felt good, didn’t it? I didn’t want this to happen. Then why did you stay for so long? I wish I could take it back. No, you don’t.

There was a loud shriek as a few more of the townspeople had awoken and come to see what the noise was about, only to see the last stone statue crumble to dust. Yveltal put a hand over his wound as he dashed out of the alley, bumping into one of the women there by mistake. The unrest grew louder as she collapsed into dust and ash. People shouted at the boy, trying to stop him, but knowing that coming into contact with him meant death.

He ran through the town square, the commotion awakening the entire town. People with torches spilled out of their homes, some holding knives, pitchforks, and other weaponry. It was easy to follow the harbinger of death with the trail of blood he was leaving behind, and to his horror, the exit of the town was totally blocked off.

Blood pooled around his fingers as he pressed his hands tighter to his wound. With rising emotions, his powers only grew more and more volatile. The trees lining the walkway of the town quickly lost their leaves, and the bark and branches twisted into a horrific mass before crumpling into dust. Those within a certain radius to him also had the same fate befall them.

Oh god, please, please stop. He’d beg, and he’d plead, but such thoughts fell on deaf ears. He hated this, he hated himself for bringing ruin to such a beautiful town full of such kind people. All he wanted was to live among people and grow by their side, and he had damned them all.

The shadows around the town were pulled towards him as he transformed, wings already carrying him away from the town. Those who were left alive watched as Yveltal flew away, the grass and trees beneath him crumbling away, leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake.

#💀 drabble.#💀 headcanon.#blood tw #violence tw #death tw #when ppl ask him why he hates himself he thinks back to this moment and this moment only #yveltal getting the ring from zygarde after this: oh my god finally i can stop killing people #yveltal a few years later: starts his hibernation phase and kills everything and everyone around him #he's been having some happy moments so i feel less mean about writing some sad #long post #also he never introduced himself as yveltal to humans but as thanatos #those humans only figured out he was yveltal after he transformed obviously so that was Not a good look for him

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dyscrasia-eucrasia · 5 years ago

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Content Warning: This chapter depicts a brief scene of attempted assault

Part 9

"What's up Claykids, welcome back to my second channel, new vlogs every single day," Clayton Howard shouted at the Go Pro he held at arm's length from his face. Angel knew he was loud based on his videos, but hadn't been prepared for just how loud he really was. It took a lot of restraint not to cringe away.

"We're here with AngelVinh96, go follow him on Insta," Clayton continued, wrapping an arm around Angel's shoulders and pulling him into frame. Angel flashed a bright smile at the camera. "Angel's here to show us how they party in West Virginia!"

"Hiiii," Angel cooed, holding up a peace sign for the camera.

"Okay, and cut," Clayton said, and he lowered the camera, his huge smile instantly disappearing. He released his hold on Angel's shoulders. "That's good for the intro, we'll start filming again when we actually get to the club."

The conversation had been like that since they'd met up. Clayton had been all business, talking about shots and directing not only his friends, but Angel as well. Angel couldn't help but feel disappointed. This was sort of what he'd expected talking to Demie to go like when he'd approached him after the concert - awkward and parasocial. But Demie had been easy to talk to. Clayton, on the other hand, was the worst kind of influencer, the kind that was purely a performance.

And he'd looked so relatable on Youtube, too.

"Alright, so where are we headed?" Clayton asked, turning to Angel. His face was so devoid of joy that it was eerie.

"Alright, so, Broadway is the big gay nightclub," Angel said. "There's Atmosphere, but they don't have a dance floor."

"Aw man, we're going to a gay club?" One of Clayton's crew moaned. Angel thought that that one was Jason Ransom, but he could've been Miller High. It was hard to tell, they were both blonde Californian white guys.

"Man, shut the fuck up," Clayton said. "You can deal with gay guys hitting on you for one night."

That was the saving grace of all this, at least. Clayton was openly bi, and even if he was just as image-obsessed as the rest of Youtube, Angel might still be able to get a hookup out of this. Plus the exposure on Youtube would really help his Instagram follower count.

"So how long have you been a dancer?" Clayton asked as they walked down the sidewalk towards the club. Angel fought back a sigh of relief. Clayton was asking him about himself, so the guy couldn't be that self-absorbed, right?

"Like four years?"

"Wow, so you're like a veteran, huh? How'd you get into it?"

"It was in college - I really, really needed money, and I mean, I did theater in high school so I already knew how to dance, just not on a pole, y'know? And then it wound up being more fun than school, so I just sort of stuck with it."

"That's dope. So, this the place?" He nodded to a two story plantation-style house, complete with columns, with rainbow flags flying from the second story balcony.

"Yep, this is Broadway."

"Cool, cool, let me get some shots."

Clayton pulled out his Go Pro again, and turned it on. As soon as he did, his face light up with a smile and he started shouting. It was eerie, like he'd flipped a switch and become a totally different person.

"Yoooo, check it out guys, this place is DOPE!"

"Look at this Colonel Sanders looking place, fam!" One of his crew shouted behind him.

"Let's go inside!" Clayton said as he ascended the porch steps. Angel followed after him, flashing his ID to the bouncer.

It was a Thursday night, so the place wasn't jam-packed, and there weren't any drag shows scheduled, but the bar still thumped with dance music and there was a decently sized crowd.

"Yo, this place is so fuckin' country, I love it," Clayton shouted over the noise as Angel led him to the bar.

"Okay, so, my tradition here is to always start out with a shot of Fireball," Angel shouted, smiling as Clayton shoved the camera in his face.

"Alright, yeah, show us how country kids party," Clayton shouted back.

Angel ordered, and within a minute the bartender produced enough shots for the entire filming crew, who had gathered around the bar. Clayton took a minute to hand off his camera to one of the guys and coordinate camera angles, then picked up a shot glass.

"Alright, on three," he shouted. "One, two, THREE!" He knocked back the shot with ease, and Angel followed suit.

Clayton's entire body shuddered, and he yelped. "Oh shit man, that's fire!" He shouted. He looked over at Angel, who hadn't had a reaction to the shot at all. "Dude, look at this fucker, look how fucking calm he is!" Clayton grabbed the camera back and shoved it in Angel's face again. "That shit was spicy as fuck, how are you not even affected?"

"That wasn't spicy!" Angel laughed. "That was like, white-people-spicy! It's not actually spicy!"

"Check this guy out," Clayton shouted, "balls of fucking steel over here!"

"C'mon, let's dance!" Angel shouted, grabbing Clayton by the strap of his tank top and pulling him towards the dance floor.

"You heard the man," Clayton shouted into the camera, before tossing it back to one of his crew.

Angel quickly learned that Clayton had no rhythm to speak of. He moved jankily; gyrating, but not in time to the music. He couldn't really keep up with Angel. Still, it was fun. Or at least that was what Angel told himself. He would've preferred someone who could actually dance, but it wasn't like Clayton was known for dancing or anything. It wasn't like he could really be disappointed.

They stayed on the dance floor for a few songs, always shadowed by one of Clayton's crew, before Angel dragged Clayton back to the bar. "Okay, we gotta get more drinks!" He shouted.

After downing another drink, they headed back to the dance floor. Clayton loosened up some, but he was still way off rhythm.

"I gotta go take a leak," he shouted after a couple more songs.

"Sure, bathroom's over there," Angel shouted, pointing.

Before he could tell what was going on, Clayton grabbed the sides of his face and brought him in for a sloppy kiss. His crew hooted in drunken frat boy-style approval.

Angel had no time to react before Clayton stumbled off the dance floor. He just stood there, stunned. Sure, he had had a crush on Clayton for ages, but this wasn't how he wanted the hookup to go down. He didn't necessarily need anything romantic, but he wanted it to at least feel like… something. Like it meant something, even if the meaning was just that they were both horny. Instead, all it felt like was that Clayton was doing it for the camera.

He walked off the dance floor, going to lean against a wall. Clayton's cameraman followed him, and Angel hated it. He wanted a chance to think, but he had to smile for the camera.

Clayton emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, and spotted Angel. He grabbed Angel's hand and practically dragged him over to a bench.

"Hey, you should dance for us," Clayton said, almost collapsing onto the bench.

"I've been dancing!" Angel laughed.

"No, like, you should give me a lapdance or something!" Clayton shouted.

"Um… I don't really do that outside of work," Angel said, laughing again, though this time it was tinged with anxiety.

"C'mon, it'll be good content!" Clayton said.

"Strip! Strip! Strip!" His cameraman started chanting.

"C'mere," Clayton yanked on Angel's hand. Angel lost his balance and stumbled, almost falling on Clayton's lap.

"Take it off!" The cameraman shouted as Clayton grabbed at Angel's shirt.

"Stop," Angel said, shoving Clayton's hand away.

"C'mon, one little lapdance," Clayton slurred, sticking a hand on Angel's crotch.

"Fuck OFF!" Angel shouted, pushing Clayton hard and standing up.

"Uh oh, made him mad," the cameraman jeered, coming in close with the Go Pro.

"Get that out of my fucking face!" Angel shouted, swatting it out of the cameraman's hand. It hit the floor with an audible crack.

"Hey, you're gonna break my camera," Clayton whined.

"Good!" Angel shouted, kicking the camera across the floor. He didn't wait for Clayton to react. He wanted out of the bar, now. He stumbled towards the door, and out into the muggy night air. He stomped down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction from where they'd all parked to get to the bar.

He accidentally hip-checked a public trash can, which wobbled, and then spilled. He let out a guttural shriek of frustration, walking away from it before anyone on the street could say anything. He rounded a corner and spotted a bus stop bench, collapsing onto it.

He bent over, his head between his knees. He felt like he was going to puke, but it never came. There was nothing in his stomach to puke up. He'd starved himself all day, hoping that he'd get to hook up.

Well, that definitely wasn't going to happen.

He fought back tears. He didn't want to cry on a public street. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He knew he should get an uber, but he couldn't stop himself from opening up Instagram. There, right at the top of his feed, was a picture of himself at Broadway. Clayton had posted it, and tagged him in the post. His notifications were going crazy as people began to follow his account.

He closed the app, pressing the top edge of his phone against his forehead. He wanted to throw the thing across the street, but knew better.

He felt betrayed. Not like he'd ever had any trust in Clayton - they didn't even know each other - but he'd at least figured Clayton for a good person. He guessed that was why people always said you should never meet your heroes.

He needed to talk to someone. He needed to vent. He needed someone to tell him that it would be alright, that he was more than what he made himself out to be online.

There was only one person he could think of that would do that. Or at least had the potential to do that.

He opened up the phone app and dialed a number. As always, the phone rang for a long time before it was finally picked up.

"Demie?" He asked in a shaking voice.

#writing #writers on tumblr #original fiction #gay fiction #lgbt fiction #original characters #wright's writing #w:demie and angel

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starculler · 5 years ago

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For You, Anything

This was one of the last things I wrote in 2019, and now I can put it up since the event’s over. I want to expand on it eventually, but I still like how it came out.

Read it on AO3

Shouta’s heart hammered a painful rhythm against his chest, bile burning in his throat as he watched Present Mic thrash in the villain’s grip. His eyes darted back to his battered students, to the other pros with their own classes to protect, to the scant few villains left standing after the ambush, and back. Back across the beach, to the shallow, lapping waves and foam moving to and fro across the soaked sand, where the villain stood. Big. Tall. Menacing with a strength enhancing quirk and Present Mic’s throat in his hands as if it were no more than a toothpick.

Duty and logic dictated that he stay put. That he defend his students and assist his colleagues to take down what villains still remained. He clenched his jaw, ground his teeth, hands balled into tight, shaking fists. The pins-and-needles feeling in his legs slammed into the forefront of his mind, a numbing static that once would have, once, sent him crashing to his knees. He watched Present Mic － Hizashi, his friend, his colleague, his － kick out, scream stuck and strangled in his throat as the villain’s fingers squeezed and

“Stay with Vlad King’s class,” he threw over his shoulder, feet already digging forward into the loose sand underfoot. “And do what you’re told!”

He pushed hard against the sand, slogging forward as easily as if he were running through mud, deaf to any complaints his students or colleagues may have voiced. He tuned all of it out, eyes trained on his friend’s face, gasping-reaching-begging for air that wouldn’t come. Couldn’t come. Shouta growled, a low and guttural noise, hand pulled up to his capture weapon, and pushed harder. Faster. More and more and more until his legs burned with the effort.

The villain’s eyes skirted over the newest surge of shallow water and foam over the shore, sliding up to meet Shouta’s with a kind of manic glee that set him on edge. A pit formed in his stomach, a yawning hole that threatened to rip him apart from the inside out. The villain grinned. Hizashi scrabbled weakly at their wrist. Shouta’s eyes widened and he scrambled to activate his quirk between the sea-spray and sand, but he wasn’t fast enough.

One second.

Two.

Three.

His eyes burned with the activation of his quirk. The villain dropped Hizashi into the shallows, the tide’s ebb and flow nudging him forward and back at the villain’s feet. Threatening to drag him out to sea the longer he remained there. Unmoving. Limp.

Dead.

Too late. Too slow. Too incompetent. Shouta bared his teeth, felt the pinch of something sharp against his cheek, and lunged. The world tilted. Blurred. Sped past too fast for him to register what, exactly was happening. His hands fisted in fabric. Nails raked over skin. His knuckles split. His eyes ached. Icy water soaked his clothes, burning like fire on his skin. He pushed. Shoved. Bit and struggled against the body thrashing in the water alongside him until there was stillness. Silence except for the sharp, skull-splitting ring in his ears and his own heavy, harsh panting.

The iron taste of blood lingered on his tongue as he trembled in the shallow water, shoving the unconscious villain away and further up the shore before turning. Hizashi’s body lay, half sunk in the surf, barely a few feet from him. All he had to do was move. Just. Move.

“－zashi.” His voice faltered and cracked, hardly audible between the ringing in his ears and the ocean’s distant roar. “Hizashi,” he tried again, clawing his way slowly forward, voice still so small and broken. So unlike him.

His arms ached and the static, buzzing feeling in his legs worsened enough that he doubted he’d be able to stand even if he wanted to, but it didn’t matter. Only him. Hizashi. Present Mic. His friend. His－

“My name’s Yamada Hizashi. What’s yours?” The blond kid says, too loud for Shouta’s sensitive ears. He flinches, ducking half of his face back into the water with a brief glare. “Oops.” Yamda has the decency to look sorry, softening his voice enough that Shouta feels comfortable coming back up, scarlet scales catching in the fading afternoon light as he claws his way up and partly onto the rock Yamada is leaning on.

“Aizawa. Aizawa Shouta,” he says, still not quite liking the way the sounds come out around his fangs. It’s not right, not really, but it's better than before. More accurate a counterpart to the sounds that make up his actual name. He spent hours practicing, listening to the humans passing by on the beach and, of course, to Yamada who never seems to shut up.

“Nice to meet ya!” Yamada’s grin is bright, nearly blinding, and Shouta finds himself transfixed.

“Yeah,” Shouta murmurs and, for the first time, wonders what it’d be like to follow this boy out onto land. To be smiled at like this forever.

Shouta’s nails hooked into Hizashi’s sea-soaked leather jacket, pulling him further up the bank until the spikes on his jacket's shoulders snagged on muck and sand and seaweed. Desperation clawed at Shouta’s throat as he struggled to free his friend’s body from where it had gotten stuck, but it was no use. Burning, icy water pushed up through his sleeves as he kneeled there, sand shifting with every pull and push of the tide.

He knew, somewhere beyond the numbness, horror, and ringing in his ears, that he should get up. Get out of the water and off the beach. That his life depended on his ability to avoid the ocean like the plague. But he couldn’t. He was stuck. Cast adrift in the sudden surge of grief and bile and blood. Because what was the point?

What was the point when the reason he’d left his home behind was gone?

His aunt’s white, blank-eyed stare sends shivers down his spine. For a long while she does nothing. Says nothing. Her long, coiling, tattered and scarred tail-fin shifts along the seafloor, pulling up clouds of sand that block out what little light reaches her lair. Shouta’s eyes strain to see her, alabaster skin and scales illuminated only by the softly glowing patterns trailing down the length of her body.

“Is this truly what you desire?” she asks, thin lips peeling back to reveal rows of needle-thin fangs.

The fins framing her face flare when he nods, her glow growing suddenly brighter before dimming back down into something less blinding. His own scarlet scales catch the pale light of her glow as she looms closer, his darker patterns just starting to peak through. She reaches out a clawed hand, bigger than he is long, and runs a delicate thumb over his face and hair as she lets out an affectionate, chittering, coo.

“You would lose all of this, nephew. Your scales. Your magic. Me.” Her voice stirs a current just above his head and he’s momentarily glad for her hand at his back, keeping him steady. Still.

“I know,” he says, serious. She blinks once. Twice. And then she nods, scooping him up in the palm of her hand as she moves.

“The price for my magic is steep, but we shall see what these old scales of mine can do.”

“Eraser.” Shouta startled at Midnight’s voice. He hadn’t noticed her approach until she was there, standing in the shallow, pooling water at her ankles, shoes discarded further back. He didn’t look up when she laid a hand on his shoulder, voice carefully composed. Neutral as she said, “ We have to move him. We have to…”

He heard the way her voice cracked. Felt her fingers squeeze the damp fabric of his shirt. He didn’t answer, still clinging to his friend. Still sitting in the water, letting the tide pull at Hizashi’s hair and clothes. Hoping that somehow, someway, this was a dream. A nightmare. Any moment now he would shoot up in bed, fumble for his phone and find Hizashi, alive and well, on the other end of the line.

His eyes burned with unshed tears. His body shivered in the cold. His head pounded and his chest felt hollowed out, but still he refused to move. Midnight － Kayama － lingered a moment more before pulling back with one final squeeze of his shoulder.

“I’m going to help Kan with the students,” she said, the implication that she’d return going unsaid.

“Please,” he croaked, the first sound he'd made since reaching Hizashi, and she paused. “Please,” he whispered again, but the plea was not for her ears. He pressed the palm of his hand into the sand and begged, knowing that it was wrong. Knowing he was further breaking the contract he'd made, but hoping she'd answer.

His answer came in the form of a spark in his fingertips. A jolt of electricity skittering over his skin. The touch of deep-sea magic was unforgettable, old and cold and turbulent. It sent shivers down his spine and fire through the nerves in his hand. He hissed at the pain, but didn’t move. His eyes, still stinging, tracked over the suddenly still waters and found a ripple of movement out in the distance.

He stood, fast and sudden, unsteady on his feet. He didn’t think as the ringing in his ears pitched up into a shriek, horrible and melodious all at once. It called him forward, urging him on. Just a step. A reach. A plunge down into the sea. Into the depths. Into her arms.

His aunt’s song was as terrifying as it was familiar. A siren’s call unique to the leviathan sea-witch living on the ocean’s floor. A song she’d begun teaching him before he’d asked her to let him follow the loud-mouthed blond boy up onto shore.

His mouth and body moved faster than he could think.

“Save him! I’ll pay any price just,” his voice hitched and broke, left him choking on a sob. “Just save him. Please, I can’t lose anyone else. Please.”

It takes him nearly a year to find Yamada again, but by then he has legs and dreams of being a hero and the last remnants of his magic concentrated in a burning, scarlet gaze that can stop humans from activating their quirks. He’s a second year at U.A. and Yamada doesn’t recognize him, but they make friends regardless. They’re a trio with another boy in their class who picked up the kitten when Shouta hesitated and for a while he’s happy.

Then, they’re a duo again and the rain stings his skin as they stand in front of the rubble and mourn. It’s the first time he regrets coming up to shore, but Yamada stands by his side and he thinks maybe that’s enough. They push themselves after that, and Shouta is never quite so close. He wonders if, even without his song, a siren can still bring death to humans. He wonders if, maybe, he called Shirakumo to his death so he keeps himself at just enough of a distance because humans are fragile and maybe, just maybe, Yamada will be safer if he just watches from a little further away.

But Yamada doesn’t give him space and soon enough they’re working together at UA and Shouta thinks it’s okay. It’s okay to stay close because this is him. This is the boy he left his world behind for, whether he knows it or not. And Shouta will do anything to keep this human safe.

“Any price, nephew?” Shouta’s breath caught when he heard his aunt’s voice carried in on the breeze. He saw the top of her head in the distance, hair spread out like foam on the water’s surface, her blank eyes staring at him. Through him.

“Any,” he said, voice like steel. He didn’t look away. Didn’t look back. Not at Hizashi. Not at his colleagues or students, frozen on the beach where his aunt’s magic kept them suspended. She had never liked human eyes on her, and the alternative to the collective migraines they’ll experience afterward is having them drowned, so any protest he could have made died before it touched his tongue.

She blinked once before disappearing back under the water, and Shouta could do nothing but hold his breath as he waited. When she surfaced again, it was closer. She washed up as close to him on the shore as she cared to, towering over him much as she’d done the first time he’d struck a deal with her. His spine stiffened under her gaze, forcing his to any place except her face. The patterns and scars on her skin and scales, he noticed, were starker under direct sunlight compared to the way they looked in her lair in the ocean’s murky depths. He wondered, briefly, if his own would have looked like hers.

The shells and bones strung about her neck and chest rattled noisily as she moved, shifting to lean on one arm while the other drew up close to him. Her claws skittered lightly over his frame, pushing through a few locks of his hair, dripping wet and clinging to his skin, before coming up under his chin to tip it back. When his eyes met hers once more, she grinned her needle-toothed smile.

“I am pleased to see you well, present circumstances aside. But you have not broken your pact with me merely for a visit, have you?” She waited until Shouta shook his head before continuing. “Is that him?” she asked, gaze flitting over to Hizashi’s body. “The human you gave up everything to follow?”

“Yes,” he said, voice wavering only slightly.

“You wish to revive him.” It wasn’t a question, but

“Yes.”

“You love him,” she said, voice soft. Almost a whisper.

“I－” He hesitated, the words stuck in his throat. His aunt shifted, tail slapping the water as she pushed in closer.

“Very well.”

As she had done often when he was young, she scooped him up into her palm and pulled him out of the water, close to her face. No longer bracing herself on one arm, she plucked two pearls from her hair with her free hand, so tiny that she held them in the crook of one curled claw before depositing them in the palm of his hand.

“Soak one pearl in your blood and the other in his for two days and two nights, then gift him the one soaked in your blood while you keep the one soaked in his. Wear them for two weeks to let the magic take root, and be sure not to remove them even a minute beforehand or my spell won’t take. Do you understand?” Shouta nodded, clutching the pair of pearls close to his chest.

“Thank you,” he breathed as she curled one of her fingers to caress his cheek with her knuckle. She hummed in response before drawing his attention back with a throaty click.

“If you follow my instructions, it will bind your life to his. Your price will be paid in the years you lose as a result and the blood you sacrifice when you soak your pearl. You will live a human’s life now, more so than you were before. You will age as they do rather than as you were meant to. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And,” she started and Shouta felt dread curdle in his gut. “You will return here, to this beach once the spell has set after the two weeks have passed.” Her skin was cold where it pressed against his face, the edge of her knuckle brushing just under his right eye. “The remaining price and the consequences you are due for breaking your contract by setting foot in the ocean will be paid in the partial loss of your remaining magic.”

Shouta paled as soon as the words left her mouth. He dragged one hand up to touch his eye, jaw clenched as understanding flooded through him. He would lose it. One eye, half of what little magic he still had － the source of what the humans called his quirk － in exchange for Hizashi’s life. It was unnerving. Terrifying, but.

“I understand. I’ll－I’ll come back.”

She smiled once more, tilting her head forward enough to press the juncture between eyes and mouth, where her nose would have been had she been human, against his side. Her affectionate nuzzling was brief, giving him only enough time to press his own forehead against her clammy skin before she pulled back and set him down, back into the burning water. He moved back toward the shore, relieved when the surf lapped at his ankles rather than his knees, some the pain fading with the tide even if the numbing-static side effect of being too close to the ocean remained.

He watched his aunt lean forward, mouth so close to Hizashi’s body that she could have snapped him up between her jaws as easily as if he were food. Her breath puffed out over Hizashi’s face, into his mouth and expanding his chest before pulling it out and breathing more back in. She repeated the process three times before finally drawing back, sliding down along the shallows and back into the ocean’s embrace, sparing Shouta one last glance before sinking down.

Life resumed on the beach the moment the last of her dim glow faded under the tide, and Hizashi breathed. Shouta shoved the pair of pearls still in his palm into a pocket, set his jaw, and got to work dragging Hizashi higher up onto dry sand, calling out to Kan and Kayama as he did.

Grim determination settled in his chest. In his limbs, muscles, all the way down to his bones. There was no way in hell Shouta was going to lose him now. Not after this. He would not lose another friend.

#bnha #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #erasermic #boku no hero academia #angst #angst with a hopeful ending #death #death isn't permanent #mermaid au #siren au #my fanfic

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i-will-physically-fight-you · 6 years ago

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Not Quite Imaginary Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: Logan and Roman hear a wail from outside the bedroom window of their new home. Their mother says it’s just the wind, but the boys are certain that it’s something more than just the wind. Or rather, someone.

Words: 2070

Pairings: platonic royality / platonic logicality

Warnings: Crying, physical abuse, implications of child abuse it’s not done by the mother she is a good mom who took them far away from their abusive father

This is a continuation of a cute AU idea presented to me by @ijustreallylovesanderssides. I was just going to write a quick blurb on how Roman and Logan met Patton but then that quickly spiraled out of control. This was going to include adult!Logan at the end, but I decided to wait until the next chapter to introduce adult Logan.

When Logan was five years old his father slapped him across the face. It wasn’t the first time it happened. But it was the first time it happened in front of his mother. Words started flying and Logan fled with Roman into the closet. They huddled together. Logan convinced himself it was for his younger brother’s benefit. But truly he was just as terrified as Roman.

This wasn’t the first time their parents had fought, either, but something felt different. There was a sense of finality in the air. Logan’s premonitions proved correct. His mother ushered them out of the house the next day.

“What about Daddy?” Roman asked, “is he coming with us?”

“He’s not coming with us.” She responded, her jaw clenching before turning to continue packing up their belongings.

Roman sobbed. He was only three and too young to understand that their father was not a very nice man. Logan, on the other hand, came out of the womb hating the man. He cried as a baby whenever he was held by him. Even before the man laid a finger on him he knew he was not good. Still, he accepted the man’s hugs—fearful of what consequences laid before him if he didn’t.

“There, there,” Logan said, stiffly placing his arms around Roman, “it’ll be alright.”

That was a lie. He didn’t know if that would be true. But he knew it’d help placate Roman.

“But—but who’s gonna be our daddy, Lo?” Roman sniffled, “we need a daddy!”

“We’ll buy one.” Logan said, after a pause of hesitation. He heard adults talk about going to the store to buy children—whose to say the same couldn’t be said of mothers and fathers? Obviously, someone purchased the wrong father for their family. Logan and Roman would have to fix that.

“Really?”

“Yes. I have five dollars and three quarters saved up. That should be more than enough.”

Logan was very good at saving money. Rather than using the fifty cents his mom gave him towards school milk money, he often kept it. He’d figure he would spent it on a big candy bar or a book. But daddies were just as equally important.

“We should tell Mommy—”

“No.” Logan grabbed onto his brother’s shirt sleeve to keep him from running up to their mother.

“Why not?” Roman pouted.

“Because,” Logan bit his lips, “It’s gonna be a surprise.”

“Okay!” Roman squealed, clapping his hands together.

Logan narrowed his eyes, “That means no telling. At all.”

“I know that!”

“You didn’t know that when you told Aunt Nancy about her surprise birthday party!”

“Well, I forgot!” Roman angrily stomped his foot.

The situation could’ve easily escalated into a wrestling match had their mother not cleared her throat.

“Boys,” She said, waiting until both of them made eye contact, “Get in the car, we’re going to McDonalds.”

Both of their eyes widened, and they took off sprinting towards the car. They never got McDonalds. Every kid knew that Happy Meals were to die for. The toys from Happy Meals were practically a symbol of status. They were to be coveted.

Roman shrieked in excitement when he saw the Girls’ Happy Meal had princesses. He loved princesses! His mother sighed, but easily gave into his request. Logan stuck with the Boys’ Happy Meal, seeing as it had Hot Wheels and Logan loved Hot Wheels. He enjoyed collecting them.

They drove for a long time after that, until they reached a small house on the edge of a lake nearby a forest. It was old and rickety and full of cobwebs. They wouldn’t learn until they were older that it once belonged to their mother’s parents before they passed away.

It was supposed to be a lake house shared by all the siblings. But once they found out about their sibling’s situation, they all urged her to take the lake house for her own. The first night was scary. There were no nightlights in the boys’ bedroom meaning it was pitch black. The trees creaked as the wind brush its’ fingers against them. But the worst part was the wailing. It was a loud, guttural sound that sounded too human to belong to any sort of wild creature.

They clung to each other once more out of fear. Each of them to afraid to stumble their way through the darkness to their mother’s bedroom.

In the morning they would complain about the wailing to their mother.

“It was just the wind, dears,” Their mother sighed, ruffling each of their hair with both of her hands.

“No, it wasn’t just the wind!” Roman protested, “It was something else!”

The mother didn’t argue back; she had more important matters to deal with. She told the two that they were free to play with their toys in their bedroom or watch a movie. All she asked was that they didn’t bother her.

For a while, they were content to play with their toys. But then they heard the wailing again and froze.

“That’s it.” Logan said, opening up the bedroom window.

“What are you doing?” Roman asked.

“We won’t know what’s making the noise unless we go in-ves-ta-gate it,” Logan explained, “like scientists!”

“But what about Mommy?” Roman asked. As much as he was excited about the prospect of exploring, he was worried. Mommy probably wouldn’t like it if they left the house. She might get mad like Daddy.

“We’re be back before she knows we’re gone.” Logan said confidently.

He hopped over the ledge of the window and onto the soft grass below. He lifted his arms towards Roman and helped the younger over the edge. Once they were both on the ground, they headed towards what the wailing was located. Every so often, they’d hear it again. When that happened, Roman clasped tightly onto Logan’s arm out of comfort.

Finally, they reached a clearing to where a man sat on the ground. Only this man was enormous. To kids, every adult looked like giants. But this man in particular was bigger than what they’ve seen before. They knew almost nothing how feet and inches worked. Logan knew of them; Roman knew zilch about them. But if they could guesstimate how tall the man was, he’d be around nine or ten feet tall.

His size should’ve intimidated the children. He was bigger than their father, and their father appeared like Goliath to them. But it was hard to find one’s self intimidated by a giant when they were sobbing on the ground. It was clear to them that he had been the cause of the wail.

“What’s wrong?” Roman asked, releasing Logan’s arm to run towards the giant.

The giant startled, surprised to see human children alone in the woods.

“Hi kiddos,” He said, “I’m okay! Nothing’s wrong.”

He grinned hastily wiping off his tears onto his shirt.

“No, it’s not,” Logan said, “You were crying.”

“Why are you sad?” Roman asked, “can I fight it?”

This emitted a laugh from the giant, “I don’t think you can fight it, Kiddo.”

“Yes, I can! I can fight anything!” Roman said, “I’m strong! Stronger than Superman!”

“Really?” The Giant asked, amused.

“Yup!” Roman exclaimed, “can I go fight it now?”

“It’s not something you can fight,” The Giant shook his head, “I’m sad be—because I don’t have any friends.”

“Oh! Well, I can fight that!”

“How?”

Roman inhaled a deep breath before yelling, “I’ll fight you with friendship!” and spreading his tiny arms as far as he could across the giant’s chest.

“I shall also fight you with friendship.” Logan said calmly, also hugging the giant as best as he could.

The giant stiffened before very carefully hugging them back.

“Thank you.” He said, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” Roman asked, confused, “are you still sad?”

“Are we doing this wrong?” Logan added.

“No, no, these are happy tears.” The giant reassured, hugging them just a bit tighter to reassure them.

Once they all let go, the giant introduced himself.

“My name is Patton, what’s your names?”

“I’m Logan and he’s Roman, my younger brother.”

“I’m three and he’s five! How old are you, Mr. Patton?”

“Roman, it’s not very nice to ask adults how old they are.”

“It’s okay,” Patton said, laughing, “I don’t mind.”

“How old are you then?!”

“I am eight hundred and fifty-three years old in Giant years.”

Both boys gasped in disbelief.

“No way!”

Yes way!” Patton grinned, before a flicker of concern crossed his face, “what are you two doing in the woods all alone?”

“We were being scientists.” Logan stated in a serious tone of voice.

“Yeah! We heard a scary noise, so we decided to invest—invest—to go see what it was. So, we walked a really long way and then we saw it was you!” Roman rambled.

“What about your parents, do they know you’re gone?”

Roman and Logan glanced at each other uneasily.

“We don’t have a daddy anymore…but we still have a mommy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that! Does your mommy know you two are in the woods?”

“Scientists don’t need to tell their mommies where they’re going.” Logan said.

“Kid scientists do, Logan.” Patton said. He gave him a disapproving look. It didn’t look like one of Daddy’s faces. He looked sadder more than in anything else.

“She wouldn’t let us go if I told her. I didn’t want her to mess up our hippo-thesis.” Logan guiltily looked down at his feet. He knew if they told their mother where they were going, she’d forbid it. For Logan, it was better to beg for forgiveness later than ask for permission.

Roman tugged at his brother’s shirt, “Is mommy gonna be mad at us?”

‘Like daddy?’ The unspoken implication hung in the air between the two. Logan glanced down at his little brother. He tried speaking, but the words stuck in his throat. Truthfully, he was just as terrified of that prospect as Roman. Tears formed in his eyes and Roman quickly followed suit until they were both bawling.

“Whoa, hey, it’ll be alright!” Patton gathered the two into his arms, “Your mommy didn’t want you in the woods because she loves you. She didn’t want to see you guys get hurt.”

“So—so she’ll be mad at us then?” Roman sniffled.

“Well, she might be upset because she was sad because she didn’t know where you two were. If Mommy left without telling you where she was going, would you two be sad?”

The two thought about this for a moment. Whenever Daddy was gone, the two were happy. He was loud and mean and never let them have fun. But Mommy was quiet and patient and kind. She gave them McDonalds and took them far away from Daddy. They’d be very sad if Mommy left them.

Both of them slowly nodded their heads.

“We’d miss her because we lo—lah—love her.” Logan said, stumbling over the L word. It felt strange and foreign to his lips.

“Right, and that’s exactly why your mommy misses you,” Patton smiled, “you two should go back to your mommy.”

“Come with us, come with us!” Roman shrieked, his small hand tugging at Patton’s thumb, “we can show you our new house!”

“Okay!” Patton beamed, pretending to be tugged along through the woods by Roman. Logan followed after them, a small smile pressed onto his lips. At one point they got turned around in the woods. Patton assuaged their fears by keeping them distracted with silly puns and allowing them to ride on his shoulders.

Eventually, they made it out of the forest where a red chipped house sat by a lake.

“Here it is!” Roman whispered loudly.

“It looks like a nice little house.” Patton said.

“You should come inside,” Logan suggested, “there’s lots of spiders.”

“Spiders?” Patton uttered weakly.

“Yeah! They’re fun to squash!” Roman said, grinning.

Patton opened his mouth to respond when something sounded in the distance. Someone was calling Roman’s and Logan’s names panickily.

“Mom.” The kids gulped.

“You kiddos better go and show her that you’re alright,” Patton said, placing them on the ground once more.

Logan nodded and took Roman’s hand. The two took a few steps towards the house when Roman turned back to address Patton,

“Oh! Patton, you should come meet Mommy!”

But Patton was already gone.

General Tag List: @karebearmay @punsterterry@yourhappypappypatton@alextheodd@cryingtitan @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2@usothemarshmallow@madly-handsome @i-just-wanna-be-alone-blog @remy-alagaesias-dragon-queen@ashrain5 @otaku-marijane @pathos-logical@moonstone-fox@violetvirgil @fandergecko @echomist13

Not Quite Imaginary Tag List: @theweirdotf @jamiebluewind @kitthepan

#thomas sanders #sander sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #child abuse tw #crying tw #kat writes

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theguardianangel-fanfiction · 7 years ago

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Once Bitten, Twice Dead

Summary: It’s been two years since the beginning, and only five days since Clementine met them. But somehow, things got so much worse, and Carver was just the beginning. [Season 2 AU/canon divergent. New situations, characters, etc.] Chapter 15: The Rescue Author’s Note: I’m back from hiatus! Wooo! [Main Blog] [AO3] [FanFiction.Net]

Clementine’s eyes snapped open the moment wheezing hit her ears. She threw her arm out to the side to keep herself from tumbling over, but then her gaze snapped right back to the source of the noise. In a panic, she rushed to back up as quickly as possible.

Pete’s back was turned to her; he was curled in a fetal position, head tucked close to his knees, as his wheezing and hacking increased. He shivered when he finally began to stop, and let out a slow, deep moan.

Instinctively, Clementine blindly reached around for the earlier discarded hacksaw, latching on as her rough palm came in contact with the dulled blade (and if it wouldn’t cut her skin, she thought, there was no way it would have cut through Pete’s leg). She switched over the plastic handle and held in front of her chest, which burned with hard, painstaking beats.

The ambulance went quiet and no sound filled the cold air. Outside the window, it appeared as though dawn was coming upon them. Pete ceased movement. Clementine’s mouth went dry. Her hands trembled as she struggled to move back while keeping her grip on the hacksaw; the handle was becoming more and more difficult to hold – her grip felt uncoordinated and loose. Her eyes darted around, begging for anything else she could use to protect herself.

If dawn was approaching, then they had been there all night. If they had been there all night, then that meant there was even less time left before… Clementine willed herself not to think about that. She couldn’t. No – she wouldn’t. Any second now, Pete would start coughing again, or sit up and wearily ask if she’d heard anything.

And then she heard it. Pete let out a small gasp for air. Clementine could see his chest moving; she watched him take in air, and then gulp it in like it was water. She let out a sigh, a mix of relief and worry. Pete was alive and breathing, that was the relief. But the worry was a different story.

Even in the dark, the skin she could see was strange. Pete’s once pale skin was tinged gray. Clementine had seen it before. A heavy feeling settled in her chest as she remembered Lee’s bite, and how his dark skin had turned a mottled gray color just before his death. His whites of his eyes had become yellow. His voice had turned hoarse.

A shiver ran down her spine as Pete let out a guttural grunt. A series of moans and grunts followed, obviously from agitation or pain. But even the noise was good hear; he was alive, making noises that made him sound alive, despite his fetal position.

Carefully, Clementine stood, her grip on the hacksaw handle increasing. She took a shaky step in Pete’s direction, brandishing the hacksaw defensively. Carefully, she reached out just far enough to push the tip of the hacksaw against his shoulder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention if he happened to be awake.

Pete let out a shriek-like series of coughs, wheezing, and turned over to face Clementine. At the sudden noise, she jumped back and the hacksaw clattered to the metal floor with a loud crack.

After nearly thirty seconds, the man’s hacking ceased. With trembling hands, he began to sit up; Clementine cautiously moved closer, keeping an eye on the discarded hacksaw. She crouched down to his level just in time to hear him speak.

“Dammit. I feel like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack…”

Without any understanding as to what that saying meant, Clementine immediately knew it was nothing pleasant. Pete’s voice was hoarse and nasally. Deep, dark circles collected under his yellowed eyes. His sentence was quickly interrupted by a series of coughs and hacking that jerked his entire body.

Pete spat to his left and muttered, “Jesus…” He paused for a moment before quietly saying, “Stuck in this… can the whole damn day. You wanna hear something funny?”

Clementine sat up on her knees and noted Pete’s tone. She clenched her teeth and momentarily, again, thought of the approaching dawn and the hacksaw. Still, she had no other choice but to listen. But before she replied, he spoke again.

“I’ve been thinkin’ – and I don’t wanna die.” A maniacal smirk crossed Pete’s grayed face. He suddenly let out a laugh that quickly progressed into a coughing fit. “Never thought I’d be the kinda idiot to say somethin’ like that. But there it is.”

A few seconds passed as his gaze averted hers.

“I’m scared, Clementine. Jesus, I’m scared.”

Clementine said nothing. Her mouth felt like lead, and a steady thudding had already begun to fill her head. What was she to say to that? What could she say at all? She wanted to tell Pete he would be fine. She wanted to say that he wouldn’t die – but she knew he wouldn’t take it. He was smarter than that.

She was smarter than that.

“Clementine…”

She glanced up to meet Pete’s eyes, which were sagging and tired.

“Would you promise me to look out for Nick? I love that stupid kid… No matter what you think… He is a good boy…”

Nick. Clementine had forgotten Nick. He was out there somewhere, probably scared out of his mind. Maybe confused. Maybe he didn’t even know what had happened to Pete’s ankle. And if his earlier behavior was anything to go by… he wouldn’t take this well.

Clementine clenched her hand around her opposite wrist and averted Pete’s eye for a moment. She was no stranger to looking out for people. She had looked out for Christa after Omid’s death – though, arguably, their relationship was more symbiotic than anything – and she had looked out for Lee at certain times.

“I’ll look after him. I’ll do what I can. ” she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Pete laid his head against the wall. His eyes were beginning to go glassy, and though they remained open, and his breathing became shallow.

And that was when the knock – or rather the banging – came.

“Pete?” came the voice, followed by another bang on the door. “Nick? Clementine? Anyone in there?”

And just like that, a weight was lifted from Clementine’s shoulders. She recognized that voice. Luke’s southern drawl stood out against the growling of the walkers – though she realized a moment later that there was no growling.

She quickly stood up and made her way to the door, pushing away the boxes.

“Luke!” Clementine immediately pushed the door open and came face to face with Luke. His hair was messier than it had previously been, and he looked a lot more tired than he had previously.

Luke let out a breath, eyes widening. “Clementine – Pete!”

Clementine darted back to Pete’s side after glancing back. He was barely moving, breathing shallowly. Slowly, he began to turn his head to face Luke.

“Holy…” Luke tapered off slowly, mouth hanging open as he gaped. His eyes flickered down towards the bite mark on Pete’s ankle as all of the color drained from his face. Slowly, Luke reached up to his temples and latched his fingers onto his hair. “Shit… Pete…”

Pete could barely seem to open his eyes. He looked up at the younger man through half-lidded eyes and quietly spoke, “Luke.”

Luke was shaking his head now, and looked up at Clementine with a horrified expression crossing his face.

“What the hell happened?”

It was at that moment that Clementine looked down at Pete. He made no sound, no movement – Clementine peered back up at Luke, who had stepped into the ambulance, and shook her head, then looked down at her knees.

“Clementine – fuck… He’s gotta be…”

Just as quickly as she had met Pete, he was gone. Then Clementine looked back up at him, and out of the top corner of her vision, she noticed movement. It was the last thing she noticed before Pete lunged, hands latching on to her wrists – his feral roars and growls were entirely that of a walker.

A scream of surprise mixed with fear ripped from her throat as Clementine was knocked onto her back, knees connecting with Pete’s sternum as her back formed an arch. Panic coursed through her mind as she shoved against the man – doing anything she could to keep him from going straight for her throat. Luke didn’t react immediately, frozen as if he didn’t know what to do, but another shriek from Clementine forced him into action.

“LUKE!”

His hand immediately went for his back pocket, where ripped from it a handgun – his trembling hands seemed to barely be able to hold the gun straight. He hesitated for just a moment –

Clementine felt frozen as well, terrified out of her mind as she tried to fight the walker off; just as she had done with that horrible man yesterday – but Pete was bigger, heavier, and stronger, even as a walker. Her own screaming was joined with Luke shouting something she was unable to make out.

A deafening gunshot sounded out, a loud ringing starting up in Clementine’s ears. Her vision suddenly went red as blood shot out from the gunshot. Pete’s reanimated body went limp, and Clementine shoved him off in a panic, barely able to take in a breath. Warm blood splattered her face and her shirt; her heart raced and she could barely breathe and she wanted to scream –

But she still wasn’t bitten.

“Fuck! Clementine? Come on, kid, speak to me, goddammit!”

A steady ache was beginning to become apparent in her head. Clementine slowly looked up to see Luke making his way towards her – but she couldn’t take her eyes away from Pete.

He looked helpless. Blood poured from a hole in the back of his head, staining his jacket. A putrid smell of various body fluids was already making itself known in the small space. Clementine had no idea whether she wanted to vomit, cry, scream, or do all three in that short space of time.

Luke’s eyes were glassy as he made his way towards Clementine. His gaze was focused on Pete, who lay on his side; slowly, Luke shifted his gaze to Clementine and kneeled down next to her. He shook his head slowly and spoke in a low voice, “Are ya okay?”

Unable to get herself to speak, Clementine simply nodded. She looked up to the ambulance door, averting eye contact with Luke and pointed towards the noises of the quickly approaching figures: even more walkers.

“Th-there’s more.” gasped Clementine, nodding towards the outside of the ambulance.

Luke nodded and replied, “R-right – okay, uh –” He paused for a second before continuing, “All right – we gotta go. I’ll take ya back to the cabin –”

He offered his hand to Clementine, and carefully pulled her to her feet, though she was still shaky and her heart rate had not yet gone back to normal.

Carefully, the two left the ambulance, more than eager to get away from the nearest walkers, which were only a few feet away. Luke grabbed a hold of Clementine by the wrist to get her attention, and then nodded in the direction of the nearest trees.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said in between uneasy breaths, eyes still focused on the vehicle. Clementine took one last glance towards the ambulance – and to an extension, Pete. She didn’t know what they would tell Nick. What she would tell Luke. Or the others. She knew what they would think – she was dangerous. What was even worse was that another good person was dead, maybe even because of her.

A wave of dread washed over her as she followed closely behind Luke.

#twdg #twdg fanfiction #obtd fanfiction #chapter 15: the rescue

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kpopfanfictrash · 8 years ago

Text

Addewid

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Kai (Jongin)

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3,726

Summary: “You cannot appeal to my better nature, for I have none. I am not human, little one.”

You’ve always known you were different. You’re able to see them, after all, able to see the Others. You’ve also always ignored them. Until the day comes where you’re forced to make a choice - one that throws your world into chaos. And sends you down a path you might never return from.

As we step into the forest, shadows wrap themselves around us like branches and my breath catches. The enormity of what I’ve done crashes over me and I find it hard to stand.

I’ve just sold myself to the Unseelie court.

There’s not much time to think about this though, as the land of nightmares swallows me whole.

II - The Other

Only five steps into Faery, I know I’ve made a mistake.

For the first minute of walking it seems we’re still outside the bookstore. Still moving through clustered pines and familiar boughs. I’m not sure at what point this changes, just that one minute I look up and the mist is closer. The trees, darker. They grow in strange, twisted shapes to make my pulse race.

The leaves on one tree seem dipped in crimson. Emerald fades to scarlet at the tip, like a finger touched by poison. My eyes linger for only a moment before something else grabs my attention. Flowers so deep purple they’re almost black, shying away as we pass. Actually turning to mutter amongst themselves. I think I hear them whisper.

Suddenly I’m grateful for the fairy’s grip on my arm. It’s too tight, nearly suffocating but it’s the one thing that gives me a semblance of reality. Keeps me grounded amidst so much terror. The branches slide together and the creaky drip of water echoes past. Whether or not it’s actually raining is a mystery, since the trees overhead are too dense to see.

Staring up at them, I almost trip over a root. Nearly face plant before the hand on my arm yanks me straight again. “Pay attention,” Kai hisses.

Face burning, I look forward. I’m silent as we continue our forced march. The stranger doesn’t make a sound. His footsteps don’t echo, nor do the branches crack beneath his feet. Me – I’m incorrigible. A virtual thunderstorm of sound. I never realized quite how loud I was until this moment.

Like my breathing – deafening. Even my strides are too large. I keep bumping into the strange fairy, his arms, his legs, his hip. Each step brings a new glare in my direction. One I quell from, wishing I knew how to step lighter.

The third time I trip seems to be the last straw.

With a low exhale, the Prince drags me to face him. “Must you attract the attention of every creature between here and the Unseelie?”

Instead of answering, I glance around. “Are we not in the Unseelie now?”

“No.” His eyes flicker. “This is the Other – borderlands between the human world and Faery. Getting noticed in these woods would be a decidedly bad idea.”

Swallowing my fear, I look back down. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to get us noticed.”

“Then be quieter.”

“I can’t.” I glare back at him, jaw tight. “The last time I tried to hike through the woods was – well, never,” I say, chancing a glance up at him. I’ve never really been the outdoorsy type. For good reason, apparently.

Prince Kai stares back at me. “Then we’ll have to move quickly.”

Grabbing my arm, he takes off once more in the same direction we’ve been travelling. Though whether that’s north or south or east or west or up or down, I couldn’t say.

Do directions even exist in Faery? Would a map have that same, known compass in the upper right hand corner? Or would it be some entirely new direction I never knew existed. It seems fair to assume anything happening in Faery is completely detached from the human world. Starting with my immortal jailer.

My gaze glances sideways as we walk. Or rather, as he walks and I’m dragged alongside him. The tips of his fingers dig into my arm – though he leaves no mark. He’s beautiful, but like all things in Faery his beauty is designed for a purpose. A face so inhumanely perfect, it’s mesmerizing. He reminds me of those snakes which lure in their prey by pretty colors, subduing them to complacency right before they kill them.

In this scenario, Kai is the predator and I am the prey. His hair is silver, hanging casually above his dark, almond-shaped eyes. They scan the woods as we walk, his ever-watchfulness never lessening. The Prince’s body is tall, lean – muscled without being showy.

Though his skin is pale, it seems almost like pallor. As though he hasn’t been out in the sun in a long time. Beneath that dullness lies an almost golden sheen, like ice laid over amber.

“Why are you looking at me?”

My gaze snaps downwards. I didn’t realize he could see me – then again, I suppose I don’t really know how far his magic reaches. Or what this Prince can do.

“I – no reason.” When his gaze meets mine, I repress a shudder. “I was thinking you must not go outside that often.”

A small furrow appears in his brow. “What?”

“I – nothing.” My lips press firmly together. “It’s unimportant.”

As the Prince opens his mouth, I notice the forest has grown quiet around us. Before there was the pitter-patter of raindrops, the slide of leaves, the whisper of flowers. Now there’s nothing.

It’s as I notice this that the Prince stills. His eyes drift sideways, scanning the newly quiet space. His body lowers into a crouch almost automatically, turning in a circle. He stops halfway to stare into a dark overhang between branches. The space he’s looking at is black as night, fading from twilight to midnight within footsteps.

“Get behind me,” Kai says, his voice low and urgent.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Hands trembling, I scramble to stand behind him. It’s then that it occurs to me I could run. Kai is facing away. There’s something in the forest to keep him preoccupied while I slip away, unnoticed.

Slowly, hesitantly I take a step backwards.

Something rustles in the bushes. I take another step. And then another before it seems like the entire forest erupts. Something lunges into the clearing, powerful muscles tensing as it towers over Kai.

The thing growls – or maybe speaks. There’s a chilling combination of clicks as something slippery falls from its mouth to the ground. Kai’s face remains immobile, though a flicker of a smile crosses his face. He draws his sword from within his sheath.

The thing moves first, not in a step but in a leap faster than the eye can see. My blood chills - Kai is going to die, he has to. There’s no way he can win against this great, towering thing which moves like lightning. A hole widens where it’s mouth should be, displaying dozens of razor sharp teeth. Two slits are its eyes, ruby red and narrow.

When the beast moves I realize that Kai is no longer there. There’s a sharp, sickening squelch of metal through flesh and the thing roars, lashing towards something I cannot see.

Kai darts suddenly from underneath, eyes ablaze and teeth bared. He looks wild – feral, even. It makes him even more breathtaking. The prince’s sword slashes, silver in the night. The beast roars as its dark, shadowy paw comes down faster than Kai can move. He dodges but is nicked in the shoulder.

The prince staggers before disappearing. I don’t see how or where – don’t stay long enough to find out. Instead, I turn and run. Run as though my life depends on it, because it does. The forest stumbles along with me, dark and looming on all sides. My breath is gasping, head spinning as I struggle to focus.

I know I’m making a lot of noise as my feet fly, arms pumping but I can’t help it. It’s as I run that a cold pit starts to form in my stomach. What if I can’t get out? What if I’ve actually been running in the wrong direction this entire time? Despite my worry, I continue on. Now that I’ve started, I don’t see another way out.

The undergrowth falls beneath my feet, screams of flowers serenading as I step on throats - and then another noise. My head snaps sideways with the realization that something else is crashing through the forest with me.

Large, lumbering, limber. Did I say that my stomach sank before? I didn’t mean it. That was nothing compared to now, nothing compared to the realization that of course that thing didn’t hunt alone.

There’s a clearing ahead and I’m almost there when the thing leaps out at me. I skid to a stop, screaming as I stumble. From the ground, the thing is even more terrifying than before. Before there was Kai between us - before, it wasn’t focused on me.

Drool hangs from its jaw, unhinged as it sinks even closer to the ground. Its eyes are red, oddly coherent in their appraisal of me. It seems confused, as though unable to label me friend or foe. Its jaw keeps opening and closing, harsh, guttural noises coming from the back of its throat.

It’s form is indecipherable because it keeps on shifting. One second I think it’s similar to a bear. Then a giant. Then boulder. It’s always the same color though – a deep, pulsating, nightmarish black.

I’m frozen, flat on my butt where I’ve fallen. Just for a moment though, before my hands are scrambling – pushing me backwards, upwards. Looking for something to fight with. When my right hand close around a rock I swing it forward, chucking it at the beast without a second thought.

Wrong move.

My attack shakes the thing from confusion to identify me as a threat. With a blood-curdling shriek, the thing launches itself forward – only to shudder to a half as the hilt of a sword embeds itself in its chest.

Kai leaps into the clearing, sprinting towards the beast. The sword is his. He’s thrown it – normally a terrible idea – but effective, in this case. As he runs he yanks two daggers from his belt, brandishing in each hand to dart beneath the mass of animal.

The thing yowls, turning towards this new threat. Kai’s face is stone as he moves, slicing a vicious streak over the beast’s maw. The thing stumbles, dropping to what I think are its legs. Kai doesn’t hesitate, flipping onto the beast’s back. Stabbing both his daggers down and breaking its neck.

The thing shudders. Twitching for a moment before slowly falling to one side. It’s landing contains all the muffled grace of an earthquake. Kai jumps from its back to land lightly before me.

The clearing around us is silent.

Slowly, my hands uncurl from the earth. Eyes wide, breath coming in heavy waves as I meet the dark Prince’s gaze. His hair is askew, clothing slashed and there’s blood on his arm – I remember that he was wounded in his first fight. Kai’s eyes flicker, such anger present I physically recoil.

“You foolish girl,” he mutters.

I clamp my jaw shut to bite down my retort.

The Prince takes a small step forward. “You are bound to me. This is Addewid, you cannot run. Where did you think you were going, even?” His eyes scan the forest. “This clearing is not fifty paces from where the first attack occurred. You ran in a circle.”

My eyes move around our surroundings. How is that possible?

Kai drops into a crouch before me, his voice like a caress. “You swore for the rest of your life that you would reside in Faery. A promise like that is not so easily broken. If you try to escape again, you’ll just end up by my side. Or worse.”

The weight of his statement settles over me. I can never escape. Never leave. I falter with the weight, for the first time realizing the full extent of what I’ve done. For the rest of my life I will be stuck with this cold, unfeeling stranger who looks at me like I’m dirt on his shoe. This thing that killed two beasts twenty times his size and is barely winded.

The Prince cocks his head at me. “Stand.”

I remain where I am. Seated, in the mud and muck. It seems a better option than going with such a horror.

This entire time Kai has been cleaning his knives and now that he’s finished, he tucks them away in his belt. His eyes narrow when he sees me still sitting there, grabbing at my wrists to pull me upwards. “I can carry you if I need to,” he warns. “It won’t be pleasant.”

“I’ll walk, thanks.”

“Good.”

I look up just in time to catch him wince, to see the way his hand brushes his shoulder. As he moves to tug his sword free from the animal’s chest, I notice he’s favoring one arm. The thing is hurt. Not that this means anything to me. With quick, practiced movements the Prince cleans his sword, sliding it back into its scabbard and turning to face me. His face is once more like stone and I wonder if I imagined his pain from earlier.

The forest has resumed normalcy – or whatever you could call normalcy in a shadowed, Faery forest. As we continue to walk, Kai doesn’t touch me. He insists on me walking slightly before him so he can keep an eye on me. The humiliation of this doesn’t escape me and I hold my head high as we walk, refusing to let being treated like this break me.

We walk for what seems like miles. Sometimes we stop for rest but always in short, measured periods. Ones where Kai sits stock-still and closes his eyes, and I don’t try to run. The string of his words still rests sharp on my consciousness.

So does the terror I felt when facing that dreaded beast. I know that, had Kai not intervened I would be dead. I don’t have the capability to survive in these woods. Its a small wonder that the Fey view us humans as beneath them.

“Let’s go.”

I find Kai looking at me, eyes open and clear. The Prince rises noiselessly from his rock, nodding for me to do the same. We continue on, walking for hours, miles, until my eyes start to drift. They flutter against my cheeks as I stumble.

That’s when I notice my breath turning to mist. Fogging ahead into the cool, night air. It must be colder here - strange that I didn’t notice. I’m smiling when I turn to him. “It’s so pretty here,” I say.

There’s confusion in Kai’s dark eyes. Alarm, when he looks at my coat. Murmuring darkly, Kai scans the horizon. “We’re still an hour or so out,” he says, gaze returning to mine.

I shrug, raising my hand to the nearest ice covered branch. “Pretty,” I murmur.

Though my fingertips slide against the bough, all I note is texture. The temperature feels about the same as I am.

Kai says something which sounds distinctly like a swear, though I don’t recognize it.

I frown. “That didn’t sound nice.”

“It wasn’t.” Ignoring my noise of protest, Kai bends suddenly to heave me over his shoulders. Sliding his body beneath mine to lift. I shudder at his touch, curling away from the ice of his skin.

“Let go of me,” I protest – though feebly.

“No.”

Then he begins to run. My forehead sags awkwardly before I’m adjusted into a more manageable position. The forest flies by in a blur of greens and grey and white. I realize how slowly Kai has been traveling because of me. I only think about this fleetingly though, as the thought comes and goes before I can grasp any sort of meaning.

My eyes begin to drift shut.

“Don’t sleep,” Kai says, his voice low. “You can’t fall asleep.”

Frowning, I stare at the back of his neck. “Why not, Prince Kai?”

“Because I won’t allow it.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, you don’t own me.”

“Ah, don’t I?”

The thought makes me pause. “No.”

“But you made me a promise,” he says, and to my ears it sounds like he’s smiling. But that’s ridiculous – Prince Kai would never smile.

“I made a promise to stay with you,” I mutter. “Not cater to your every whim and fancy.”

The body beneath mine shakes and I realize it’s because he’s laughing. The immortal Prince Kai is laughing.

“That would have been a far more interesting promise.”

Before I can respond, the world slows around us. Solidifying into a discernable landscape of grey and white. There’s a house – although maybe I wouldn’t call it a house, given its size. Castle, would be more appropriate. Or manor. Kai stops at the threshold, pushing open the heavy oak doors with one hand.

He doesn’t set me down, moving towards the polished staircase to our right as a strange, tingling sensation starts to spread to my feet. It hurts and I make a small noise against the cloth of his shirt, turning my head into his back.

Kai’s body stills beneath mine. “We’re almost there,” he whispers.

“Where?” I ask, the noise barely audible. My eyes are barely open by now.

The next span of time is a blur. Hands which give me to other hands. A murmur of voices. Tugging of my clothes and a gasping sensation as I’m lowered into water. It hurts. I whimper, trying to escape but strong hands push me down. Keep me there. Rubbing feeling back into my limbs.

I almost wish that they hadn’t. I scream when the pain arrives. Scream until the noise fades to moans as I struggle to keep conscious. Which isn’t for too much longer before blessed darkness takes me. As I drift off, I think I hear a voice speaking above me.

“She’ll live, won’t she?”

There’s a murmuring answer.

“Thank god.”

When my eyes open, I don’t recognize my surroundings. It’s too bright and I quickly shut my eyes against the pain. Slowly easing them open as my pupils adjust.

The room is white. White as snow, light as ice. The soft, downy comforter I’m wrapped in is a pearly shade of grey – the darkest shade in the room. Gossamer curtains cover each window, drifting down to bleached wood below. The bed I’m in has four posts – each hung with their own, gauzy fabric.

I blink lazily up at it all, struggling to make sense.

The events of the past twenty four hours come crashing down around me and my eyes shut as I fall back against the pillows. I’m in Faery. In what must be the residence of my captor, the fairy Prince Kai.

There’s no one else in the room with me. Nor is there really much of anything at all. Nothing besides the bed, a dresser and a wardrobe. There are no books I realize, slowly pushing myself into a sitting position. As I do, the covers fall down about my waist.

I scream, the rash noise leaving my throat before I can consider it’s consequences. I can’t help it - waking up naked and alone in a strange man’s house will do that to you. No, no, not a man – one of the Fey.

The door to the room flies open.

My hands are around my chest before I know what I’m doing, pulling the sheet up as fast as I can. I don’t know whether I’m relieved or not when a woman enters.

The woman is also Fey, though she looks much older than Kai. I wonder briefly how that works – how one immortal can look old compared to another. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, fading quick from worry to sharpness.

“What in that world?” She places a hand on her hip. “You were screaming bloody murder. I thought a bannik got to you.”

Confused, I blink back at her. “A what?”

“A bannik. Small, feisty. Hides beneath stoves and throws things – thought one may have crept up from the kitchens. That’s not important.” Yanking back my curtains, she holds out a lump of clothing to me. Not my clothing, though and when I don’t react, she huffs in frustration. “Come on dear, I have things to do. Your brush with hypothermia took up quite a bit of my time last night.”

Hypothermia. I stare down at my hands, spread on the bed sheet. That explains the strange dream – the water, the pain, the nakedness. A formidable blush emerges as I clutch the sheet tighter. “Were… were you the one who undressed me?”

“No.” Briskly, the woman shoos me from bed. I don’t move until she yanks the sheet, forcing my legs to the floor. “That was the Master.”

Cheeks coloring, I pull my sheet along with me. “And the Master is…?”

Her eyebrows rise. “His Majesty, Prince Kai.”

“Excellent.”

The woman resumes making the bed, fluffing and snapping with all the efficiency of a war veteran. When she notices me staring, she nods. “Go on, get changed. The Master requested you attend dinner tonight. That’s in two hours and I need to make sure you’re presentable by then.”

“Two… hours?” I’ve never needed longer than a half-hour to get ready in my life.

“I know, it’s not a lot of time.” The woman sadly shakes her head. “But we’ll make do. At least you’re looking better now,” she notes, scanning my body. “A bit of color back in your complexion.”

I bend, scooping up clothing from where she’s laid it on the bed. “T-thank you,” I hear myself say.

“For what, dear?”

I can’t say what I want to. Which is that this strange, brusque woman is the first shred of kindness I’ve experienced since coming to Faery. I can’t say that though, so I turn away. “Thank you for nursing me back to health.”

“Humph.” She continues to make the bed. “I did what I could, dear. You should really thank the Master though.”

“Why?” At the door to the bathroom, I pause. “What, did he try to drown me in the bath and decided better of it?”

A small smile crosses the woman’s face. “He healed you.”

Her words nearly make me drop my clothing - I catch it just in time. “He… what?” I sputter, not sure I heard correctly.

“He healed you,” she says, looking over at me. “You’re lucky not to have lost a foot. Healing is a power I haven’t seen the Master use since… well.” The woman falls silent. “It’s been a long time.”

A long silence settles over the room. “Dinner is in two hours?” I manage.

The woman’s smile returns as she smooths out the comforter. “Dinner is in two hours.”

[Master List]

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