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the-kr8tor · 8 months

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In Deep Water

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW vomit mention, CW Inaccurate medical procedures, CW injury, TW blood, CW violence, TW death, CW guns.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

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CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8

The laughter gets louder as the source of it shows itself aboard the black hellion, the fog makes way like a curtain opening to start a performance.

Hobie's grip is tight, fingers weaved around your arm, bruisingly strong. Your nails dig into his flesh as the uniformed man tilts his head to look at you, his toothy yellowing grin thrown in your direction. His powdered white wig flutters in the breeze, medals glinting off the single lamp on the bow, hands resting on the pommel of his pristine sword. The angelic figure head is a stark contrast to the devil sneering down.

The blackened wood of his ship groans as it continues to break a part of the revenge. The sails unfurled behind him, blue wings fluttering in the wind.

The angel of death has come.

“Look at what we have here.” He clicks his tongue, eyes boring a hole through your skulls, he narrows them into slits, and like a snake, he slithers as close as he can, tethering close to the edge. There's a flash of emotion in his eyes, snarling, the navy man chuckles, the mere sound makes you want to cower. “Hello little birdy, now how far did you fly to get where you are now?”

Hobie clenches his jaw, stepping over to hide you from his view. His hand never leaves yours, the dull ache from his hold says that this isn't just a nightmare.

You want to wake up even if it means losing his hold on you.

“Oh where are my manners? Mummy would whip me if she ever knew I didn't introduce myself to a lady.”

Hobie shifts his weight, ready to pounce if need be. You grab his shirt, making sure he doesn't do anything drastic. Subtly flicking your eyes to the side, you see the crew do the same. They look at you with fear in their eyes, the hunter’s gazes illuminating their contorted faces.

You can't help but let out a shuddering breath, the sound echoing around the open waters, hoping to get your cry for help to somebody who can do something, anything to get you and everyone out to safety.

“My name's Captain Mathias Bradshaw.” He drawls, thin lips curling into a smirk. “This here is my little merry band of sailors who has a bone to pick with—” pointing at Hobie with his thick finger, white cosmetic smeared on his palms. “Him. The red hydra. I forgot to greet you yet, long time no see you rapscallion.”

You hear Hobie's shallow breathing. Grey eyes thundering, a storm brewing, lightning flowing through his veins. The only reason why he doesn't let himself loose on Mathias is your touch.

“You see here, sweetheart,” The man addresses you and you only. “For the past three years your so-called captain and I have had a bit of a tiff.” He chuckles coldly. “A rivalry of sorts.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Is it still a rivalry if you're leagues above your rival?”

“No, sir.” A gruff voice says, hidden behind the mist.

Mathias turns back around. “Well, we got our answer then.”

Hobie sneakily murmurs to you. “Hide—”

“I'm not done talking!” The sudden outburst makes you jump in your skin.

“You should've been done with your senseless dialogue a long time ago.” Hobie straightens his posture, head held high, a picture of a pirate captain. “Come down here and fight like a fuckin' man, show me your flames and I'll show mine.”

The man scoffs, amusement in his green eyes. “Flames? Yours is barely a spark.”

Hobie scoffs. “Let's be done with it then. Get the closure we both want, fight me in single combat.” Mathias knits his brows, Hobie smirks. “No? Thought you were a gentleman, where's your fuckin' honour?”

A booming laugh replaces Mathias’ scowl. “I guess it died with your little red hair—”

Hobie lets go of you, drawing his gun, pointing it directly at the monster's head. The crew takes this as their cue, doing the same, pointing their weapons towards the men surrounding them.

There's hunger in his eyes, beneath the swirling grey there's a hunger waiting to be fed.

The enemy ships don't even aim their cannons at the revenge, instead they float still in the water, unmoving, the men aboard their ships smirk in your direction like you're being served to them on a silver platter. It's then you notice the sons of the sea’s ship is no more. They took the brunt of the hellion’s collision.

No longer their sails fly, their crow's nest and pieces of wood lay floating in dark waters.

Left behind, slowly drowning in the depths.

You feel droplets sliding on your cheeks, for a second you thought it's your tears. And then more and more of it comes pouring down, splashing on the wooden floorboards.

Thunder booms from a distance, lightning flashes in the sky, lighting everyone's scornful faces.

A few of Karl's men stand with Hobie, clutching their injuries. You don't see Robbie, his lack of presence makes you glare at the sneering men.

“Say her fuckin’ name.” Hobie says through gritted teeth. “After what you did— Say her name.”

“Eh.” Mathias shrugs, “I forgot.” the laughter of his men echoes in the mist.

“You fucker—!” Hobie's hand shakes despite this, he draws the golden gun, aiming it at the navy man whose smirk gets wider.

“I recognize that little blunderbuss.” He chuckles, wiggling his pointing finger, “She pointed that at my head too, you'll be unsuccessful just like she was.”

It takes every fiber inside Hobie to not just shoot and face the consequences later. But he's surrounded, his crew is surrounded, they have no chance of escaping death if he shoots. The only option he has is through single combat and to appeal to the man's ego. He's hoping the idea works.

One look over his shoulder, one glance at your trembling face and he's back to that day, the day MJ was lost. He prays that this day doesn't end the same way three years ago.

“Little dove,” Mathias’ devilish eyes roam over your trembling body. “Look at you,” he chuckles lowly, “I'd say dear ol' Hobie here got an upgrade just because this one's got her head still glued on her neck!”

Hobie almost shoots him until someone from his crew screams, their voice full of malice, venom dripping with every utterance.

“Fuck you!” Gwen exclaims, “Don't you have any honour? She's dead and you're still spitting on her watery grave! After everything you've put her through!”

“Ah! Gwen Stacy, the ballerina turned pirate. How you doin', miss Stacy? I heard your father's still down in the stables, trying to repay his debt to the crown.” he rags her on, scoffing.

“You're still defending her? She's a traitor, a navy spy. The greatest one we've ever had in fact. Her only downfall is loving a bunch of…” he sucks in his teeth, trying to find the word. “Thieves like you. Love got her head cut off and love will be your ruin too.” Flicking his eyes to you, he observes everyone's faces after his tirade.

Hobie steps between Gwen and Mathias, his guns still raised, eyes brimming with the anger of a forsaken God. Yet he remains calm, clearing his throat, standing tall.

“Mathias Bradshaw, I challenge you to single combat, a duel. I win, you let us go. You win and you get to take us all back to the capital.” Hobie's voice booms louder than the thunder above. Lightning strikes near, the water sizzles at the contact. “I know a man of your stature can't say no.”

The man in the uniform guffaws loudly, broad shoulders shaking. “Oh that's hilarious, you think you'd win against me, little pirate? Hmm?”

“Yes.” Hobie doesn't miss a beat.

Mathias smiles, “I guess this one's less messy than what I was planning. Name your terms.”

“Guns only, five bullets. You get shot three times you lose.”

“I'll add a tiny thing to your wager.” The navy man looks over to your direction, pointing his crooked finger at you. “Same terms but I get to keep your little bird.”

Hobie turns to you, wide eyes staring back at you. “No—” He's already shaking his head before you speak up.

“Deal!” You roar above the thunder storm, deciding your own fate. The rain is getting heavier, drenching your terrified self. “The captain will take your terms as long as you honour it.” Nodding to Hobie, he holsters his weapon away from you.

Mathias cackles in the background.

Gently holding on to your arm, you already know what he'll say.

“Don't. Do you know what you just agreed to?”

“I do,” you stare at his raging eyes but they're tender when he looks at you. “I know you can take him, I trust you.” Taking his hand away from your arm, you squeeze him once before pulling him towards you. “Don't play fair, because he won't.” you whisper. “Fucking obliterate him, for MJ.”

Hobie takes you in like it's the last thing he'll ever do. He imprints your touch in his mind, wanting to remember the softness of it when the bullets get too much for him to bear.

He nods slowly, still unsure of your decision. If you trust him enough to sell your soul then he'll fight to the death so you don't have to.

With one last look at you, he turns around, facing up to the man he loathes the most, wanting to just strangle him with his bare hands. Maybe he'll do just that.

For the crew.

Mathias takes his blue coat off, grinning the entire time.

For MJ.

He grabs on to a rope, rappelling off the black hellion, landing in a thunderous impact on the deck.

For you.

Now that he's leveled with your gaze, he's a lot smaller down on the deck, stout with a round belly, face painted with white lead that's currently melting in the downpour. Hobie's taller and slimmer but he makes up for it in his agility and speed. You've seen him fight but Mathias' form could be compared to Finn's build, all muscle and strength hidden behind his uniform.

You're glad this was a duel of pistols if it was any other fight Hobie could be in trouble.

A few of his men do the same, jumping off the hellion while the ones on the smaller ships stay on board but keeping their eyes peeled.

Surrounding the bloodsail pirates, the hands of Mathias' men never leave the pommels of their rapiers. Hobie clenches his jaw, now standing before the king's flame, he can't help but gaze behind the man, back to you and his crew.

Gwen goes to your side, lacing her trembling fingers through yours, Pav sidles behind you, clutching the back of your vest. Miles stands next to Gwen, holding her other hand. You see them look at eachother with a knowing glance and glimmering eyes.

Your eyes meet Hobie's, you give him a nod, eyes full of fury, and trembling lips. You mouth a ‘Bleed him dry’.

The simple act of Hobie smiling at you, makes you tear up. It's the same one he gives you after you patch him up, it's the same one when he handed you the hot chocolate. It's the same smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

You're afraid as you part with the crowd to the side of the duelists, lest you get caught in the crossfire. As the one in front, you get a good look at the enemy on the other side, all lined up perfectly like the obedient soldier men that they are. You roam your eyes to their faces, wondering how they could obey a man like Mathias.

You assume the uniformed man walking towards the duelists is Mathias' right hand man. Left eye covered in an eye patch, his hazel eyes observe you. He's carrying a large wooden box, pristine and smooth at the edges with golden locks and embellishments. He opens it with a creak, rain water landing on the wood and soaking the velvet inside.

“You're the challenger, you get the first pick.” Mathias gestures towards Hobie, all smiles like he's not about to meet the end of a bullet.

You stand on your tippy toes to take a peek inside. There are two dueling pistols, flintlocks. One white as fresh snow, one is black like the hellion.

Hobie takes his pick, pocketing what you assume is the five bullets. The black gun in his hand shines when a lightning strikes the mast of the hellion. You hear splintering wood in the distance.

He steps back in place, measuring the metal’s weight in his hand.

“Good choice.” Mathias eyes down the gun. “Death has touched that one.”

Hobie glares, baring his teeth. If only that was enough to kill the man before him.

Mathias takes the remaining gun, wiggling it in his hand. “You ready, little pirate?”

Hobie doesn't show an ounce of fear. “You're going to die today.”

“How confident, confidence alone won't help you aim straight.”

Your entire body shakes whilst they stand back to back, guns raised on their sides. They walk slowly, counting their steps.

The pouring rain doesn't help, raindrops obscuring your vision, the cold mixing in with the ice in your veins.

With every step Hobie takes,

Five

with every hit of his boots on the floorboards,

Four

your heart tries to escape,

Three

pulse hammering,

Two

threatening to give out. Afraid of what's to come. No one else dares to make a sound.

One

Standing end to end on the dock, they turn around swiftly.

After a beat, the man with the box yells. “Fire!”

Bang!

The sound echoes out in the dark, above all the rain and thunder.

Hobie hits his mark, Mathias groans, clutching his dominant shoulder. Smoke bellows out of their guns, dissolving into the rain.

Your words are repeating in Hobie's head ‘Don't play fair’ you say, then he won't play fair.

He notices his bleeding arm, looking down he sees the bullet nicked his skin, leaving an angry gash in its wake. The wood behind him gets the brunt of the bullet, the metal embedding inside, splintering a gaping hole.

You jump when Mathias laughs along the thunder. More and more lightning pierces the sky. You can taste iron in your mouth, not realizing the pain from biting the inside of your cheeks.

They reload, Mathias’ man observing with his watchful eye, making sure they both adhere to the rules; but you highly doubt he's doing it for fairness sake.

Metallic clanking, gunpowder clinking against steel, Mathias' voice enters the fray to your dismay.

“You know, you were too easy to fool.” He starts, finishing up his reload. “You never asked why I left my lieutenant in your hands and why was it so damn easy for you to get my travel documents.” Smiling, the lead on his face melts further, dripping on the floorboards, the white paint mixing in with his blood. “Just like I said, love will be your downfall.”

Hobie doesn't have enough time to squabble, instead he would let his aim talk for him.

“Twenty paces!” The eye patch man yells again.

Hobie and Mathias move forwards, getting closer and closer to each other. You want to put a stop to the duel, but you have to trust Hobie that he'll make it, that he'll win. He has to.

You dare not blink.

“Fire!”

Bang!

Hobie almost keels over, his shoulder heavily bleeds, trembling hand holding his flesh together. You see him smile underneath the pain, following his gaze, Mathias clutches his shooting hand, groaning and hissing. It looks like Hobie shot a hole right in the man's hand. The white gun lays on the bloodied floor, discarded.

Gwen's hold on you tightens, you can hear Pavitr sob quietly.

You catch Hobie's eyes. There's hope in the swirling grey, nodding, you encourage him, mouthing an ‘end it’. He seems to understand, straightening his stance, he reloads the gun as best as he can with an injured shoulder.

Mathias wheezes out a strained laugh. “I gotta hand it to you, your aim is pretty good.” He stands, grabbing his gun on the way up with his uninjured hand. “No matter how amazing your aim is, you're still bloody blind!” He screams, spit flying out of his mouth.

“My two bullets that's in you say otherwise.” Hobie tilts his head mockingly.

“No, no, no.” Mathias clicks his tongue, waving the gun wildly. “You still don't get it do you? You're not asking questions, letting everything fall into your lap, thinking God's on your side on your little revenge quest. But he's not,” he chuckles. “Sacrificing my lieutenant was the best decision I've ever made, especially knowing the fucker can absolutely sing. Loose lips sink ships, little pirate. Do remember that. Especially since you didn't seem to learn from it last time.”

Hobie's face falls, dread filling his chest.

“Bribing the governor to plant my travel documents and telling him to go unwind in a brothel for a couple of days was well worth my coin.” Mathias stretches his shoulder, reloading his pistol with bloodied hands.

He continues. “The two idiots at the gates were…well idiots, I barely had to do anything to them. The lock was a false security to make you sweat a little bit.” The king's flame proves himself. “You're blind. You've focused so much on taking me down that you didn't notice the little details. It's either that or you're also deaf, preferring not to hear your crew's concerns.”

“Not a very good attribute for a supposed captain.” he shrugs, he says his words mockingly.

“Fuck you!” Hobie aims directly at his rival's head.

It's all his fault, everything that led up to this point is his fault.

The gun trembles in his hold. Mathias looks pleased, smiling at Hobie.

“You know the rules.” Mathias sucks in his teeth. “Don't fire until lieutenant Dubois says so or I win and I get your little bird.” he looks over at you. “Oh we're gonna have so much fun together, every night, every day.” His laughter makes you want to grab the nearest knife and shove it down his throat.

You don't back down from his disgusting gaze. “If he doesn't kill you, I will.” Pavitr tries to hold you back. “And it won't be quick.” your voice shakes from sheer anger.

“I look forward to it, duchess.” Mathias spares you one last glance.

You don't notice how Hobie looks angrier than he did, he's clearly holding back. His glare alone could burn a hole through Mathias' skull. Yet he stands tall, getting a second wind; he's gonna shoot a hole in his skull instead.

His head goes a hundred knots per hour, thinking of all the what ifs. What if he just listened, what if he didn't let her stay, what if, what if, what if, the words are tattooed in his mind, clawing and biting at his psyche.

“Ten paces!”

They walk in sync, closer to each other more than ever. Pausing in place, they stare each other down, Mathias' smile never leaving his lips. Hobie's scowl gets deeper with every second that passes.

“Fire—!”

“Fuck this.” Mathias lunges in surprise, grappling Hobie.

Hobie doesn't get a chance to dodge, his gun clattering on the floor as the heavier man tackles him to the ground. The wet floors make it hard for Hobie to find leverage against Mathias who's currently choking him with his large arm.

Chaos ensues, everyone breaks the line, unsheathing their weapons, fighting, steel and skin clashing. Pistols going off left and right, but your main focus is on the two men writhing on the floor.

You hear Hobie choke so you run faster, taking a fallen dagger from a corpse, you quickly dodge people, determined to save Hobie.

“This is what happens when you let your feelings decide for you!” Mathias yells above the mayhem.

Finally making it close to them, in one swift movement, you stab Mathias on his back, crimson ebbs on his white shirt like spiderwebs. He screams, letting go of Hobie.

You don't spare him a glance as you take Hobie by his arm, dragging him below deck. Shutting the doors closed, Mathias bids you farewell with one last cackling.

Guiding him through the corridors, you hope the winding hallways help make it harder for the enemies to find you.

“Y/N.” He wheezes out.

“Don't fucking talk.” Your feet brings you to the galley. Sitting him down, he plops like a fish on the chair, head lolling to the side.

Slapping his cheek, he wakes back up with a groan. “Actually, keep talking. Stay awake, please.”

Hobie nods, “I need to go back up, I can't leave them there.” He tries to stand but your hands stop him, making him sit back down.

“You can't help in this state. Let me treat you then you can go and help.” You look in his pained eyes. “Please, at least let me help with your shoulder.” your other hand fumbles to his back, searching for an exit wound. You already know the answer when you feel the hot crimson weeping out from the puncture left behind.

You plead with your eyes.

“Alright, do what you have to do. Make it quick.” he nods, you leave his side to light a fire in the hearth, laying a metal poker on top of the hot coals. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Whatever keeps you awake.” Taking out the first aid kit from your bag, you notice your hands tremble. They never shake when you're treating someone, with your back turned away from him, you swallow down a sob.

“There was this girl, she had red hair like one of those…” he sighs, injuries aching, throat throbbing. “Apples.”

You reach his side once again, trembling fingers dipping into the wound ointment. “You have a way with words.”

He grabs your shaking hands in his, “Are you alright?”

You pause in your frantic movements, blinking rapidly. “Y-you’re the one who's bleeding right now.”

“You're shaking.”

You twist your wrists away from his touch. “I'm alright, worry about yourself and your crew.”

“You're a part of my crew”

“Shut– just…” you exhale. “Continue your story.”

Hobie nods, eyes drooping. “She just one day showed up on the docks, asking for a place.” He inhales sharply. “I needed to fill the second ship so I agreed, I let her in. I shouldn't have done it.” His eyes well up but no tears fall. “I should've turned her away but she was determined, she had the skills to stay— can you give me somethin’ for the pain? A fuckin' rum or wine, anythin’”

“No alcohol, if you want to bleed out be my guest.” You hold a cloth above his wound, pressing down to stop the bleeding as much as you can.

“Fucker!” He stomps his foot, “you can be such a little shit sometimes you know?”

You can hear the struggle upstairs. Weirdly enough, there's no sound of cannons firing.

“I know—” the ship tilts suddenly, flinging you and Hobie brutally to the side. You do your best to shield his injured self, taking the brunt of the impact, back stinging from the wall.

He lands on top of you, arms on your side, face hidden on the crook of your neck. You can feel his staggered breathing on your skin.

Bottles and pans fly towards you two. Pushing him away, you guide each other to the corner of the room, huddled together, protected by the hearth.

“Shit!” Hobie protects your head with his hand when a pot flies towards you. The ship keeps turning and tossing the both of you until it finally straightens out, you can feel how fast its going by how wild the utensils are swinging.

“Someone got hold of the helm.” He whispers, his cool hand on your tender shoulder. “We're running.” Hobie doesn't say it with pride or dejection, he utters it with embarrassment.

“That's good,” you stand up, giving him a helping hand. “We can get out—”

The unmistakable sound of a cannonball whizzes past and the ship lunges harshly on the side again. You can hear frantic yells from above.

Hobie takes your hand, “I need to get up there.”

Helping him up, you nod. “And you will, let me close that wound off and give you something for the pain and we'll go back up there.”

“Y/N, you can't—”

“We will go up there.” the fire in your eyes makes him obey. “Sit down, I'll make this quick but not painless.”

He flops down, masking the pain with a grimace. Inhaling, he continues. “I let MJ in.”

You pause for a second before taking the metal poker. “Even after seeing all the bloody signs.” He sighs. “Maybe I am blind.”

You hold his face tenderly. “You were, but you still have a chance to change that. You can still help your crew. Make it right for their sake.”

He holds the back of your neck, kneading the skin with his bloodied fingers. “I don't regret letting you stay.”

You look at him apologetically. “You will after this.” Shoving the leather pot holder in his mouth, moving aside his clothes. “Inhale” you place the hot poker directly on his bullet wound, cauterizing the gaping hole.

It sizzles, Hobie holds on to your sides tightly, bunching up the fabric in his hands. Muffled screams eaten up by the leather in his mouth.

You move the rod away once it's done. Hobie's eyes roll in the back of his head. Slapping him lightly, he wakes back up.

“Stay awake, hey. Look at me.” He stares at you through half-lidded eyes. “There you are, captain.” You smile to reassure him. He gives you a tired nod. “Now for the exit wound.”

Hobie inhales, more than ready this time around. His skin is clammy, eyes red from the brimming tears. He clenches his entire body, determined to get it over with. Twisting around in his seat, he hopes the ship doesn't rock as you push the searing metal poker on the back of his shoulder.

With a muffled yell from him, you take the tool away, letting it cool down. Moving his head with your hand, you look at him apologetically.

“I'm sorry, if I warned you first you would've flinched.”

Hobie spits the leather out of his mouth, patting your cheek with his sweaty hand, he leaves it there, stroking your skin.

“I wouldn't have flinched.” He chuckles through the searing pain.

“Of course you wouldn't.” You hold his hand that's on top of your cheek. “You did good.”

He laughs, hand leaving your skin to hold your hand instead. “Not the first time I've felt fire.”

You smile, without thinking, you lay your forehead on his as more cannonballs fly around the revenge.

“You did good too.” He whispers. Eyes closed, he leans away. “Now get me something for the pain and let's get the bastard.”

You smile, nodding to him. Taking a bottle from your bag, you rub mint oil on his upper lip, igniting his nerves, keeping him awake.

“That's the only thing I have that could help. I can't give you alcohol.”

Hobie tentatively stands up, “Maybe after this then.” He groans, slightly limping. “‘m gonna need an entire crate of ‘em.” he thinks adrenaline is enough to keep him on his feet.

He faces you, a ghost of a smile on his pained face. Hobie bends at the waist, you scramble to help him but he refuses with his hand raising to stop you. Taking something from inside his boot, he grabs a shiny and slender thing.

“Here.” Hobie hands a silver dagger to you, intricate carvings of a turtle and a sea snake looping around the glimmering handle. “Somethin’ to defend yourself.”

“Are you sure? It looks—”

“I don't mind givin’ it to you.” He closes your hand around the hilt. “Make sure this one hits his neck this time.”

“I will.” Your eyes fill with determination, adrenaline still coursing through you.

He wobbles towards the door, sparing you a smile on the way.

“Hobie,” you call after him. “Continue your story after this?”

“Only if you tell me yours.” He looks over his shoulder, giving you the same smile he always has.

You scoff with a small smile, “Maybe I will.”

“Let's fuckin’ go and be pirates then.”

—

Getting up the deck was tedious work with all the rocking and shifting from the ship and the wild waves, add that with all the cannon balls whizzing past, it was like riding an angry bull. Meeting halfway with Karl on the way there made it easier, filling your chest with hope.

“Where's Robbie?!” He frantically yells, forehead bleeding, hands gripping Hobie's vest.

“I-I don't know.” Karl's face falls. “But we'll find him, I know he got out.”

“Got out from what?” His voice trembles, “what happened, Hobie?”

Hobie holds his friend’s wrist, “I'm sorry.” Karl weeps. “Go find Robbie and your crew.” He shakes his head. “And get the hell out of here, he's after me not you.”

Karl's eyes fill with tears, flicking towards you who look on with sad eyes. “What about you and the others?”

“We'll find a way out. We always do, remember?” Hobie reassures him with a smile. “Take one of my dinghies, and row the hell out of here.” he takes Karl's hands away from his vest. “We'll see you back at the old place, yeah?”

“You fucking better, Hobart or I'll drown you myself.” Karl takes your hand briefly, nodding. “I hope I see you again, doc.”

“Me too, captain. Find Robbie.”

You part ways with Karl, praying that he finds Robbie and what remains of his men.

“Ready, trouble?” Hobie gets your attention by brushing his pinky against the back of your hand.

“I'm right behind you.”

—

It's war.

The moment Hobie opened the door to the deck you smell petrichor and blood in the air.

You get a glimpse of the battle before he could shut the doors. Bodies, both pirates and navy alike lay motionless on the floor. The sound of thunder mixes in with the pained yells, flashes of lightning illuminates the night sky and you see the faces of the dead clearly.

Two-fingers lay face first on the deck, arms bent at an angle, blood pooling from his head. Through the smoke and splintered wood, Foul screams when a sword plunges through his heart, silencing him immediately. Danny takes a bullet for Finn who promptly avenges him with his cutlass, swiftly separating the man's head from his body.

One face you were hoping was among the dead was missing. Mathias isn't on board.

Something flashes in his eyes when he looks at you. Grabbing your arm, he leans in, your heart stops.

Hobie moves past your head to press his forehead on your shoulder. Bathing in your presence, hand squeezing your skin

“Hobie?”

He smiles, moving his hand up to cup your jaw. Chuckling, he cleans his dried blood off your cheek with his thumb. “Do me a favour, Scuttlebutt?”

“What is it? We need to get up there!”

Hobie ignores you, leaning away. “Survive for me would you? Live, find your family. Promise me.” He sniffs, eyes glinting.

“What?”

“Just promise me, trouble.” He shakes you.

“Alright I promise. Can we—”

“I'm sorry.”

“What—?” Hobie pushes you hard, you fall off the steps, landing on your behind, he exits without looking back, shutting the doors closed. “What the fuck?!”

You rattle the doorknob but it's no use, he locked it on the outside. Frustrated, you try to kick in the door, hurting yourself from the hard wood.

“Fuck! Hobie!” You bang the door, peeking through the keyhole you see carnage as Hobie makes quick work of the remaining men. “Let me help!”

The sound of cannon balls going off almost deafens your eardrums. If only you had your lockpick you could open it.

Your lockpick.

It's a stretch but you still run towards your cabin, feet thudding loudly, echoing around the hallways that you've memorized.

You feel relieved after seeing your door. Shouldering it open, you frantically search for the metal on the shelves. The tip of it scratches your hand but you don't care, already bolting off towards the exit. Running off with your bag tied around you, hoping the medical kit inside is enough to treat the wounded, you hold the lockpick in your hand while you run.

Your hope dwindles with every cannon hitting the ship.

Doors whizz past, ankle stinging, the sounds of screams and gunfire makes you sprint faster.

You don't notice the blood soaked hulking man leaving Hobie's cabin.

Running into him, you stagger, tumbling down, heart falling into your stomach as he looks down at you through his nose.

“Hello there.”

Scrambling to get to your feet, you slide under his legs, stabbing his achilles heel with your lockpick. The man screams in agony, you take the opportunity to sprint like you've never ran before. You'd take running away from O’hara any day.

Your lungs scream for you to stop, but you go on as you hear thundering stomping behind you.

There's no exit and you can't run forever.

The metallic click rings behind you, rounding the corner, you barely dodge the bullet aimed at you, nicking your hip.

“Shit!” You almost fall yet you continue on, entering the library, you shut the doors behind you, locking it swiftly.

Lifting your hand away, the sight of your own blood turns your fear into fury. With your trembling hands, you unsheathe the dagger from your belt.

You have a promise to keep, and you never break a promise.

Hiding behind the armchair you always sat on, you crouch down, gripping the dagger, ready to strike like a viper in the sand.

You look back on what she taught you, “Strike fast and hit hard. Don't give them a chance to get back up.” her voice whispers it to you and you intend to follow it.

The door bursts open, splintering the wood to a thousand pieces.

“The captain wants you alive, little birdy. This doesn't have to hurt if you just come with me, eh?” You hear him chuckle lowly, blatantly lying to you.

His heavy footsteps thud closer.

You use the shadows as your guide, the oil lamp left open on the corner table does the work. For once you thank Gwen for forgetting to close the light.

“I can help with your wound. Glue your wings back together again” he whistles. “The red hydra can't help you with that but I can. I'm a surgeon you see.” Getting closer and closer, you time your strike right.

You come out of your hiding place with a battle cry. Still crouches down, “I highly doubt that!” Slicing his tendons in one quick movement. The second he falls to his knees, you stab him in the neck.

Stepping back, he chokes in his own blood. With wide eyes you flinch when he stands, seemingly unaffected but his shaking pupils say otherwise. With a garbled noise from your assailant, he reaches for you.

“What the fuck?!”

With a split second decision, you dodge his hands, moving backwards, throwing books from the shelves which bounce almost harmlessly on his head and body.

There's a loud thrumming sound outside, its warbling is almost mechanical but definitely something an animal could've made.

He heard it too, pausing in his movement for a second before he lunged towards you. With a scream, your back against the corner, he jumps you.

Your head hits the wall in an ugly crunch, seeing stars, sliding down the wall, landing on the floor, he chokes you with his bare hands. Indistinct noises escape from his mouth, your dagger nowhere to be found in his throat. His entire body hides anything in front of you, drowning your vision, filling it with your murderer. His blood drips down on your face, almost drowning you in it.

You know he's running on fumes but based on your vision fading, lungs gasping for air, you think you'd go out first before him.

Hands grazing something metallic on the floor next to you, you inch your fingers towards it. Finally finding your grip, you smack it on his head.

You've got a promise to keep after all.

He yells, the oil from the lamp spreading on his skin and clothes, engulfing him in flames.

You frantically roll away, killing the fire clinging to your clothes until there's nothing left but burned cloth.

The flames light up the entire room in orange and reds, the paper around him helps feed the fire as he tries to desperately put it out.

There's that thrumming again.

You watch on, holding your tender neck. Your face is flat, eyes reflecting the fire that's quickly eating at the man. Fabric burns on his flesh, flesh turns into charred muscle, the fire eats at that too until he falls, silence hanging in the room except for the fire cackling, ashes and flames surrounding his corpse.

You stand up, ratty shoes stepping over fire to grab the fallen dagger with a thick cloth from your bag.

For a second you stand amidst the fire.

The thrumming outside and the warmth wakes you up, flames licking at your clothes, it's heat scorching your skin, nose filling with smoke. Even with all the pain you still escape with your life, determined to keep your promise.

Running outside the former library, the cracking of splintering wood fills your ears, you instinctively dodge, backing away before the mast of the revenge falls on your head.

Shielding your face, you cower. The mast stills, sharp wood lay next to your feet. Tentatively opening your eyes, the sounds from above are clearer in your ears, all the screams and guns going off, you hear it loud and clear that you can decipher whose screams belong to whom.

The fog enters below deck through the gaping hole left by the broken mast. All the while, the smoke from the library rises up, replacing the mist.

Your exit.

You don't hesitate to climb up. Jagged edges of sharp wood rip amd snag your clothes, stabbing your skin. Finding leverage, you manage to prop yourself up on the deck, meeting face to face with a lifeless Ned.

The light in his eyes is gone, unsung music escaping from his open lips. Skin dirtied by flowing ichor.

You don't hear anything else other than skin meeting skin in a brutal dance.

“No.” You quickly jump up, leaving the fire behind you to consume, to devour what's left of the revenge. “Ned?”

Desperately feeling for a pulse, your heart wretches in your throat, saliva filling your mouth, bile rising up from your gut.

There's no pulse.

With a choked sob, you close his eyes for him. The sound of wet punching makes you turn to your side. Hobie's eyes are wild, vicious and desperate, bloodied knuckles pummeling the man under him. Skin broken, nose cracked, skull open for the world to see. Yet, Hobie doesn't stop even with the obvious signs of death. Fueled by rage, he paints the wooden floorboards with the man's brain.

It all feels sickenly real, your heart is still beating in sync with his punches but there's so much death around you that you feel like you're a part of the dead. Blood and smoke filling your senses, adrenaline slowly washed away like the tides.

You're sitting in a graveyard and nobody else has noticed.

“Hobie.”

His fists pound harshly through the man's head, splintered wood now embedded in his skin.

You apprehensively crawl towards him, your various injuries aching, blood seeping out from your hip. The chaos around you still continues on while he still doesn't stop.

“Hobie—” your fingers brush his arm, he flinches back, fist raised to knock you out. But he halts, knuckles kissing the tip of your nose, painting it with crimson.

With wide eyes, he heaves, muscles tensed, grief all over his expression. You shove your fear down, holding his raised knuckles, moving it away gently. You hold his face in your other hand, smearing the fresh ichor on his cheeks, staining your own skin.

“It's done, he's dead.” You nod, caressing his face, turning it away from the carnage below him. “Hobie,” you unclench his fist carefully, shattered bone and hair sticking to him. With a shallow breath, you let the tears flow on your cheeks. “He's dead.”

His face flashes with fury only to be triumphed over by misery. With a heavy heart, he nods.

Behind Hobie, a uniformed man raises his pistol, without a second thought, you take the golden blunderbuss from his waist, hastily aiming it directly at the man's head.

Your ears ring, the smoke from the gun blinds you for a second before you see your target fall dead with a bullet right between his eyes, blood splattering like fireworks from his head.

Hobie looks at you in surprise, taking his gun away from you carefully. Hands soft on your raised skin. He pats your cheek and you could only shake your head.

“We need to—” the ship collides with something, Hobie holds you close, covering you away from debris. With his embrace, he protects you. Scarred hand on the back of your head, face hiding in the crook of your neck. Leather, sea salt and blood invades your senses.

The hellion is once again looming over the revenge, its golden façade cracking under the damage made by Hobie's ship.

Mathias shows himself, looking worse for wear, he wobbles on two feet, clutching his injuries.

You hear footsteps around you, raising your head, eyes widening at what's left of the crew, they stand behind you and Hobie. Wiping blood off their faces, reloading their guns, sharpening their swords. The red sails of the people's revenge still fly above, more than ready to take what they're owed, no matter what it takes.

Gwen's blond hair is dipped in ruby red, hands tight around her blunderbuss. Miles wipes his face clean, stepping next to Gwen with clenched jaw. Pavitr stands directly behind you, face covered in what you hoped to be someone else's blood. He nods, reassuring you.

Yuri and James take one look at Ned, their expression alone could make you weep again. Finn, crouches down next to you, nodding wordlessly, blue eyes glossy.

Hobie exhales, with shaky legs he stands up, helping you back to your feet. Gripping your knife, you scowl at the man above.

“How cute. The power of friendship isn't enough to save you.” Mathias says through gritted teeth.

The rest of his crew arrives, there's less ships than before, proving how the bloodsail pirates is a force to be reckoned with. They have what Mathias doesn't have, giving them something worth fighting for.

Mathias nods, signaling his ship to turn their cannons towards you and your family.

You step in front of Hobie. “I have a proposition!” Yelling above the rain and metallic clanking, you push away Hobie's hand from your shoulder.

“What is it?” The man rolls his eyes, looking incredibly bored. “We can't be here all night.”

“Me,” the crew voices their concerns, Hobie takes your hand, face terrified.

You smile, “it's alright.” Whispering to him and the crew only. With tearful eyes, you turn back to the devil above. “You seem like you really want me, so fucking take me instead. Let them go.”

You feel the heat beneath your feet. The fire devours everything just a few feet below you.

They all yell your name behind you. Protests fill your ears but you choose to ignore them. You feel his calloused fingers squeeze your hand.

The man guffaws, “Holy shit! You like them that much?” He observes Hobie's contorted face.

“You like her that much?” He chuckles. “You know what? I don't even want you that much, sure, get on up here, birdy!”

There's that thrumming and warbling again. It's much clearer now that you're above, it seems like it's coming from beneath the ship.

“Come here and take me then!” The rain mixes in with your salty tears. Raising your arms, shoving everyone away, you taunt him. “But let them go or I'll plunge this dagger through your eye!”

“Christ, you're as insane as him. Perfect for eachother eh?” he sighs, gesturing for his cannons to cease. “I'm already satisfied even though a few of your men escaped from a dinghy but eh, I'm sure I'll get them soon enough. Just like how I'll get you one day, little pirate. I'm a very patient man, I'll wait three more years if I have to.”

Hobie's face is full of anguish when he swivels you around to look at him. “Don't fuckin' do this. He won't keep his word,” he flicks his eyes to Mathias, then back to you, grey eyes darker than before. “the moment you step foot on that ship he'll kill you.” his mind comes back to that fateful day.

He can't let that happen again, not to you.

You look at him softly. “I know, but I'll make it hard for him, that'll give you enough time to escape. Hobie, I have nothing else, just this.” swallowing the lump in your throat, there's heat under your eyes. Taking his hand, you squeeze it once. “Let me do this, for you and for them. You still have to get your revenge so let me do this. Don't let him win.”

“You promised.” His voice cracks.

“I don't think I can keep it now.” You flick your eyes behind him, the crew looks on with grief marring their eyes. “They're too young for this, Gwen, Pav and Miles, they deserve to live too.”

You hear the rope fall from the hellion's deck. “I'm glad I got stuck in that net even though you made me walk the plank.” chuckling through the tears, you give them your best smile to remember you by.

“Don't leave.” he pleads.

Sliding your hand away, you take one last look at them, making a sketch of their faces in your mind to remember when the inevitable happens.

“I have to go now or this won't work.”

The captain has no plan on how to fix it, how to fix everything, and he beats himself bloody for it.

Turning around, with every step you take feels heavier than the last. You make amends to her in your mind, praying that it reaches back home. You also thank her, but you don't regret running away that day.

You'll never know what lies for you up north or if there's someone there waiting for you. If there is someone, you apologize to them too.

You leave traces of yourself to the people behind you with the hope you live on through those pieces. That at least they won't forget your name.

The howling wind and rain whips at your drenched form, committing the feel of it to memory.

Grabbing the rope, you fight the urge to look behind.

“Hurry up, birdy!” Mathias cackles. “Come on then—!”

The thrumming is deafening, everything seems to freeze mid motion.

Giant mounds of flesh rise up from the water. Snake-like features curl above, rising to the heavens, cutting through the grey clouds.

You can't help but be mesmerized by the beauty of it. Iridescent scales glimmer against the lightning, cracked scales teeming in gold. the lightning bolts ricochet off their scaly skin, unharmed.

More serpents appear from the depths, towers of scaled flesh. They rain sea water from above, dripping from their massive bodies.

One curls just above the hellion, opening its eyes, revealing an entire ocean in its orbs.

You can't stop looking at it, petrified.

“Dragons.” You say in awe.

“Y/N!” Hobie races towards you. His hand brushes against your shirt, so close yet so far.

You get yanked up with the hellion, grip still frozen on the ropes. Holding on for life, the beast has curled around the ship, in your peripheral you see men jumping off, splashing down into the depths, taking their chances in the cold.

Facing the creature, they trill and thrum, crushing the hellion and the navy ships in their massive jaws and swirling flesh.

You wake up from the trance they had you in, almost losing your grip off the rope.

“No!” You screech, saving yourself, arm socket straining against your weight. Twirling the rope around your hand, you tie it just like how they taught you.

Palms burning on the hemp, looking down, you're hanging high above the revenge. You watch as the crew frantically unties a dinghy while Hobie and Finn stay behind, they're too far for you to make out what they're doing.

Your only chance is to jump in the water but you know that'll be the end of you.

Water parts for something swimming fast under the water, it moves towards the Revenge. You scream their names in an attempt to warn them.

“Gwen!” Your throat struggles from the screaming. “Brace yourselves!”

The serpent crashes on the starboard side, away from where the small boat hangs. Hobie clings to the remaining mast, knife in his hand. Heart pounding, you watch as Gwen runs towards Hobie, he yells, she shakes her head but in the end she bolts for the dinghy. You nod, hoping she saw that you forgave her.

The beast constricts around the helion, crashing the oak and its gilded carvings in its wrapped body.

You sway in the wind with the serpent’s movements, praying that the rope hangs on to the figure head. The figure head of an angel looks down at you, lifeless eyes observing your slow demise.

This is the end for you, you've never thought you'd be killed by a mythical being turned into reality but here you are, hanging on by a thread, waiting for death to come.

With one last glimpse at the revenge, you see the fire finally reaching above deck. Gwen and the others lower down on the dinghy while Hobie grabs onto a rope, cutting the knot off the steel rings, remembering James' teachings, if he keeps doing that he’ll get yanked up, and with the wild wind, it will surely be a disaster.

You yell his name in a futile attempt to stop his effort at saving you.

Finn raises something in his hands, heaving it over his shoulder.

You sharply turn your head when a snapping sound fills your ears. The hemp untangles, with the rope breaking in the middle, you close your eyes.

The sea serpent lets out a guttural scream, the sound alone sends shivers down your spine. It uncurls around the hellion and you get a glimpse of a sharp harpoon sticking out from its eye.

Falling with the hellion, the serpent's eyes turn from blue to a bloody red, bathing everything in its gaze in crimson. it's the last thing you see before you shut your eyes.

You feel a familiar arm around your middle, looking over your shoulder, you think you've already died.

“I've got you!” Hobie yells, with him carrying you and his hand grasping on the rising rope, he struggles to hold on.

So you help him, wrapping your arm behind him, you hold the rope in the other, face close to his as you two fly above the revenge, swinging and whipping uncontrollably in the storm.

The beast trills, jaw unhinging, its rows of shark like teeth in full display.

“Shit!” Hobie manipulates the rope to swing you two away from its sharp teeth.

It fails to catch you, instead it turns its attention to Finn on the deck.

“Finn! Run!” Your blood curdling scream gets his attention, yet he pays no heed.

But everyone already knows it's too late, with one last fight in him, he raises his harpoon, yelling, meeting the serpent's opened mouth halfway.

It swallows him whole.

You just stare at where Finn once stood, he leaves patches of his ichor on the floor.

The revenge sinks, fire and water engulfing Hobie's home, your home.

“Love!” The name rots in his mouth, it gets you out of your frozen state. “I—”

The last standing mast cracks and breaks apart. You lose your grip on Hobie.

And you fall once again. For a second you fly, eyes peering towards the clearing sky, with white clouds in your vision, you brace for impact.

“MJ!”

That's the last thing you hear as you fall in the depths in a harsh splash.

A/N: so sorry for the late update!! Hope you like it 🫶 (if i forgot to put any warnings on the tags please tell me)

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feybarn · 5 months

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I'm not going in any specific order, just in the order in which these prompts nudge at me. This one is from @bolithesenate. Not entirely sure this is what you were imagining... the crime got replaced by Dooku being... Dooku-y and judgmental. It also got a little longer than planned... But I kind of want to play with Komari and Obi-Wan some more... so maybe???

*tosses Komari & Obi or Rael & Obi as Master-Padawan pairs here and runs away real quick*. I just like imagining the total chaos these would bring. Especially the Komari & Obi,,,, what crimes would they commit.

Yan stared down at the tiny thing—an initiate in pristine white tunics, staring up at him with wide, guileless eyes—in front of him. “What is this, Komari?” he asked, edging away.

“My new padawan,” his apprentice informed him, tone nearly belligerent.

Yan sent her his most censuring look, but Komari didn’t quail or retreat. Instead her jaw jutted out in sheer obstinance. It was… unusual. Komari had always been nearly desperate to keep him happy with her, but in this moment, such thoughts seemed to be the furthest thing from her mind.

“You are a padawan,” he informed her. “And still several years away from your knighting.” He glanced back at the—oh Force—child, who was still watching him silently, those wide eyes making Yan entirely uncomfortable.

“Well, he will be my padawan,” Komari informed him, not even the slightest bit deterred. “His name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I found him and a padawan crawling through the air ducts trying to get into the kitchens.” She sounded disgustingly proud. “I’m going to teach him how to do it better.”

Yan wanted to know what, exactly, Komari had been doing investigating the air ducts, but decided that was a lesser concern at the moment. “And where is this other initiate?”

“Quinlan’s a padawan, Master Dooku,” the initiate corrected him. “Master Tholme took him on as soon as he turned ten.”

Tholme. Tholme was from Qui-Gon’s creche clan, he remembered. A Shadow. Yan had heard that he’d taken on some sort of rapscallion apprentice, but he hadn’t had a reason to be introduced. “And how old are you?” Yan asked the initiate.

The initiate shifted on his feet a little. No sense of confidence, Yan diagnosed. They’d have to do something about that.

Force, no, there would be no doing something about anything. Because this was not Komari’s future padawan.

“Eight,” the initiate told him.

Five years until the child was thirteen. It was possible that Komari would be knighted by then. But highly unlikely.

Yan narrowed his eyes at the child, who didn’t look away. Perhaps he didn’t lack confidence entirely; Yan was aware that many of the younger generations considered him… intimidating. An impression he had done nothing to try to alleviate.

“Well, Initiate Kenobi, I’m afraid that Komari is mistaken. She will be returning you to the Initiate Quarters immediately.” He turned his gaze on Komari, making certain that it was perfectly clear that he would not take her insubordination on this matter.

Komari glared at him, but wrapped an arm around the Initiate’s shoulders. “Come on, Obi-Wan. I’ll take you back to the Initiate Quarters. For now.”

Yan shook his head as she left with the initiate in tow.

Her future padawan indeed. Yan thought not.

5 years later

“Where is Knight Vosa?” Yan asked, searching through the ranks of Jedi. Galidraan’s air was cold against his skin where his robes did not protect him. They were preparing to approach the Mandalorian encampment with orders to surrender, but he could not find his former apprentice.

Knight Thriff winced. “Uh, the padawan said something about a bad feeling?” Thriff said. “Knight Vosa decided they needed to investigate. They left before dawn. No one knows where they went.”

Yan had not expected for Komari to be knighted so soon, but finding Initiate Kenobi five years ago had lit a fire inside of her that he hadn’t been able to temper. She’d been determined to be knighted in time to take Initiate Kenobi on.

She had dedicated herself so entirely to her training that Yan had run out of reasons to keep from Knighting her three months before the boy’s thirteenth birthday. She had arrived at the Council Chamber the day after her knighting with Kenobi in tow and the first bead already picked out for his braid.

The council had agreed unanimously to allow the partnership, despite Yan’s own concerns on the matter. Mace had actually gone so far as to tell him that the shatterpoint between the two of them was bright and beautiful and that Mace expected great things from them.

He had not wanted her to bring her new padawan with them to potentially fight Mandalorians. But Komari had been adamant that she wasn’t leaving him behind at the temple.

His comlink chimed.

He pulled it from his utility belt. “Master Dooku,” he answered curtly.

“Master.” That was Komari’s voice. “There’s a second encampment of Mandalorians in the southern quarter to blame for the death of the civilians in this quarter,” she informed him. “Death Watch.”

“How do you know this?” he asked, surprised. “We had no intel—“

“Well, Obi-Wan and I found the intel,” Komari said. “I’ve left Obi-Wan with the True Mandalorians—“

Horror filled him. “You what?”

“—Fett and I are investigating this second encampment. I’ve negotiated a temporary truce between our group and his.”

”You—“

“See you soon, Master.” The comm call cut out.

Yan felt the wind curl around him as it blew. He was not sure whether it was that or the sense that Komari was falling further and further from his reach that sent the chill down his back.

“Your Master is going to be okay,” Mand’alor Fett comforted a shaking Padawan Kenobi where the boy hovered over Komari’s sleeping form. Yan stood a few steps away, staring down at his unconscious former padawan, bacta patches over her side where a slug thrower had ripped into her.

Yan knew that it was likely his responsibility to comfort his grandpadawan, but he had never been good at comforting. Nor could he bring himself to do so when it was, in many ways, young Padawan Kenobi’s fault that Komari had been hurt.

If she had just listened to Yan and left the boy at the temple… But no, the boy had run into the battle against Death Watch despite orders to stay out of it.

“She’s a fighter,” Fett continued.

“It’s my fault. I should have stayed out, like she told me, too,” Kenobi whispered.

“You should have,” Fett agreed, not bothering to soften that blow. “Kyr’tsad isn’t the place for an ad, but you saved Myles’ and Alena’s lives. We won’t forget that.” Fett rested a hand on Kenobi’s shoulder. “You were trying to protect people, your Master is going to be proud of you for that.” He stood from his kneeling position. “Come on, I told Vosa that I’d keep you safe until you were off planet. Let’s see what we can do about teaching you to use a blaster in the time we have left.”

Yan watched as Fett led a reluctant Padawan Kenobi away. Yan looked down at his former apprentice. He remembered when she had been entirely devoted to him. But that hadn’t been the case in nearly five years. Now her devotion lay elsewhere. Yan had never thought he’d yearn for those days. But at least then, she’d have listened to his words of caution.

Still, perhaps she would listen now, when he cautioned her about her padawan.

If the two of them were not careful, they would stain the legacy of their lineage.

10 years later

“You trained her well,” his Master said, voice low and cruel. “Perhaps, too well.”

“She is a credit to my lineage,” Yan said, keeping his voice even. He hadn’t been pleased when Komari had been chosen to go to Naboo to spring the trap that his master had set. It could be no coincidence that it was one of his own apprentices sent. He knew that his Master was attempting to ensure that his ties to the Jedi be more… permanently cut.

A sickening part of him had just been grateful that it hadn’t been Qui-Gon that had been sent. Qui-Gon who, when he was honest with himself, he could acknowledge as loving most. But then, if Qui-Gon had been sent, then perhaps his Master would not be quite so displeased with him. Qui-Gon had always been something of a maverick, but a maverick who could be depended on to follow certain expectations.

Qui-Gon would have removed the Queen from the planet, would have gotten her to Coruscant to plead her case.

Komari and her padawan had never been quite so predictable. Galidraan had been the start, but not the end, of disobeyed orders and unsavory partnerships. Yan had fought constantly with the horror that could not quite stop the pride he felt when Komari and Obi-Wan became known as the team to send before the boy had even turned seventeen.

Perhaps Yan should have known that Komari and Obi-Wan would have ruined his Master’s plans now. But, neither he nor his Master had expected for Komari and Obi-Wan to join forces with the Queen, her handmaidens, and a force of Mandalorians to take the planet back.

Yan wasn’t even sure how they’d gotten word out to the Mandalorians that they required aid. But then, his former apprentice and her apprentice had always been remarkably capable and entirely unorthodox.

He had tried to caution Komari against maintaining the friendship she had built with Jango Fett ten years ago on Galidraan, but she had retained it regardless. Had done worse and encouraged an impressionable young Obi-Wan’s own friendships with the two Mandalorians he had saved on that Galidraan battlefield.

The fruits of that relationship had borne out now. Naboo relieved from their blockade before his Master could use the circumstance to gain the power he desired and his Master’s more brutish apprentice—Darth Maul—captured and contained.

“A credit to your lineage,” his Master repeated, disgust cool beneath the words. “There will be consequences to this setback, Tyrannous.”

“I understand,” Yan said evenly. He steeled his heart. He knew what this would require

He had lost Komari fifteen years ago, when she had arrived in his quarters with an eight year old initiate with wide, guileless eyes. It had been a gradual loss. That his new Master sought to make it permanent… Yan had made his choice.

But perhaps…

Yan did not allow his new Master to see the small kernel of hope that burned in his chest that maybe his former apprentice would subvert his expectations in this, just as she had in everything else since that day fifteen years ago.

#fey's writing #star wars #obi-wan kenobi #komari vosa #dooku #not at all relevant to the story #but Jango has an absolute crush on Komari #the rest of the true mandalorians laugh at him #Komari has a crush back #whenever they meet up they flirt by teaching Obi-Wan to be deadly and dangerous

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bigboobyhalo · 1 year

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Foolish: Just hard-workin’… grindin’, y’know?

Bad: … Yeah! Just grinding together!

Foolish: Yessir, yessir.

Bad: Grinding, me and Foolish and Dapper, we’re just… grindin’ all the armor up.

Foolish: … Yeah alright!

Bad: Yeah!

Foolish: [chuckles] There’s just no way, there’s just no way…

Bad: Grindin’– Grindin’ away! … There’s nothing I like more than grinding with Foolish.

Foolish: [bursts into laughter, in an “are you serious?” tone] Come on!

Bad: What? [Foolish continues laughing] What?!

Foolish: [still laughing] Come on!!

Bad: [getting frustrated] What?!?

Foolish: Surely– yeah, Dapper, please, like, you gotta write something after that.

Bad: [even more frustrated] What?!?!

Foolish: [reading Dapper’s sign] “There’s a big–” [laughs]

Bad: What did he write?? [reading Dapper’s sign] “There’s a big difference between grinding WITH… and again–” [affronted] F– FOOLISH!!!

Foolish: WHAT?!

Bad: WHAT THE FUDGE IS WRONG WITH YOU?! You little– you are a RAPSCALLION!

Foolish: Don’t “Foolish” me!

Bad: No, I will “Foolish” you!

Foolish: Don’t you “Foolish” me!!

old clip from when bad and foolish did a dungeon together

#qsmp #foolhalo #bad #foolish #it’s funny because right after this #bad says ‘you’re lucky I’m about to go get my food’#the food in question? the dreaded chicken wings from The Incident

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sporadicthingcollection · 11 months

Text

Smash or Pass: Part 4/4 (LA!Buggy the Clown x Reader)

Summary: It's the last stop before the Grand Line and you slink away for a quiet evening. The universe, however, decides to clown on you. Sequel to Kiss, Marry, Kill. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Warnings: Attempted murder. Word Count: ~3.6k.

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PART 4: In which you prepare for a walk of shame, avoid eating your hair, and do some storm prepping.

Oh, what a wonderful dream. There you were, the High Surgeon Princess, besieged by uncultured swine. You thought for sure your time was up, but then the Harlequin Outlaw swooped in like the incorrigible, irascible rapscallion you've always wanted in your life and saved you from certain doom and dishonor. You graciously treated his wounds and one thing led to another and you fucked like rabbits in springtime. You got married and had two-point-five children and lived happily ever after in a castle with a white picket fence.

Unfortunately, your marital bliss is interrupted by the sun on your face and a battleaxe pingponging around in your skull.

You grumble. You hate Drunk You. She’s a bitch who doesn’t know her limits. Next time you see her, you’re gonna kill her.

Your cheek is stuck to something smooth, your arm is under something heavy, and something wispy tickles your lashes. You open your eyes to find that they’re all the same thing -- a broad expanse of tanned skin stretched taut over hard muscle, draped with a head of long, blue hair.

Alright, maybe Drunk You isn’t so bad. She knows your tastes and left you a thoughtful gift. Maybe you’ll get a bonus round.

You drape your other arm over him and explore. Nice pecs, fuzzy chest, cock semi-erect… ooh, soft belly. Very nice.

You walk your fingers up to his face. Stubble, pierced ear… what the hell is that on his face?

You sit up as much as you can with your arm stuck under your gentleman friend.

Your memories come rushing back like water through a sluice. Your blood turns to ice. You’re never drinking again.

You’re stuck. In bed. Naked. With Buggy. Buggy. Fucking Buggy. Not Kuro, who at least had some class while he tried to eviscerate you. Not Mihawk, who has no beef with you personally and doesn’t wear a shirt. Not even that handsome Marine with the sword and suit.

You could have lived with any of those, but no, you wake up next to the most pathetic man in the four Blues. A literal clown. A vainglorious loser. A man who wants to rip your captain, your best friend, limb from limb and feed him to sharks.

Do you think you could chew your arm off before he wakes up?

You look for any sign of him stirring. Eyes closed, hair falling in his face, lips parted slightly as he breathes. One strong arm tucked underneath his head and the other in a loose fist by his mouth.

He looks so cute and peaceful. Ugh.

He shifts enough for you to free your arm and, just as you thank the gods, he lets out a snore that could have come from an ox. You can’t help but laugh.

Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this was two people fooling around. Maybe nothing will come of this and you'll both go on your merry way with a fond memory of a night of drinking, dancing, and screwing. La-di-da-di-day. Everyone wins.

You stand up on shaky legs and examine yourself. A lot of little bruises on your thighs where he gripped you, but no hickeys. Thank God.

There’ll be no hiding the walk of shame, but you can at least maintain some dignity. You fix your hair, rinse your mouth out with the water in the dry sink basin, and sponge bath yourself with…

Hmm. No washcloth and you're out of rags. There’s gotta be something around here you can use.

Like the candy cane bandanna on the floor. You snatch it up and, wetting it, give yourself a quick wipe down. Pits, tits, pussy, as the saying goes. You'd never forgive yourself if you got something nasty from this.

“Oh,” says a soft voice.

You turn. Buggy, propped up on his elbow, blinks sleepily at you. The sun lights up his hair like a shallow sea on a calm morning, shifting and shimmering as he brushes a few strands out of his face.

Your stomach jumps up your throat in a most pleasant way. Clearly, it’s conspiring with your heart against your brain.

He rubs those wide, gorgeous eyes. “Thought you’d’ve made your exit.”

You were about to. You shrug. "Just enjoying the view. Counting the masts.”

Hook baited. The joke is right there. Right there. He’ll say ‘I’ve got a mast for you right here, hur hur’ and you’ll have an excuse to get the hell outta here.

But he smiles. Not the showman’s smile he gets before he says something he thinks is clever. It’s soft. Warm. The kind of smile one bestows in private to those deemed worthy.

"Glad you didn't," he says.

Your brain puts up a valiant defense, but the heart-stomach alliance is winning. You swallow.

His smile wavers slightly. “Is that my bandanna?”

Shame burns your ears. "Sorry. I'll wash it--"

He flaps his hand dismissively. "Keep it. I've got plenty."

He pulls the sheets back and by God, nothing has ever looked as tempting as him. Him, a pirate with a weird nose who tried to kill you, sprawled out on scratchy, threadbare sheets, his fat cock laying there so deliciously—

You swallow again. Your pussy has joined the siege on your brain and they’ve voted to rename it the Organ Entente.

He stretches as he stands, his muscles rippling as he pops and rolls his joints. Sunlight pours over his body, draping him in liquid gold. He pulls his hair from its ponytail and gives it a good shake before putting it back up.

Lest your eyes join the fight as well, you turn away. Count the masts in the harbor. See if you can spy any Marines. Find the Merry.

Two strong arms drape around your shoulders, pulling you against a broad, warm chest. He rests his chin on your head. “Think I can see my ship from here,” he murmurs.

And in jumps your skin from the top rope. The nerves have betrayed the brain, charging over the ridge to aid the Entente in its assault. “Yeah?”

“Right over there. The Big Top.” He points to a perfectly normal-looking ship, nothing like the beast that waylaid you a few weeks ago. “Well, she’s the Loosey Baru now. Heard the Marine captain's a real bulldog, so we did her makeup and gave her a costume change.”

“Amazing what you can get away with when your sail’s not a big Jolly Roger.” You were the only one against putting a giant WE ARE PIRATES sign on your mainsail, but you got outvoted.

His chest thrums as he giggles. “Subtlety is for cowards.”

You scoff. “Subtlety is for people who like not being in prison.”

"And being flashy is for people like me.” His head moves to your shoulder. His stubble scratches against your cheek. “Who like meeting girls like you.”

The Entente breaks through the wall and feelings flood your brain. Warm feelings. Fuzzy feelings. Feelings that make you absently kiss the side of his nose before you’re even conscious you’re moving.

Buggy goes stiff and not in the fun way that pokes your kidneys. He jerks away from you, gaze hard as he searches your face. Whatever he’s looking for, he must not find it, because a moment later he kisses your lips.

Overwhelmed, your brain surrenders. The Entente celebrates by jumping around all through your body, bouncing from your head to your toes. They also must have fired off a twenty-one-gun salute, too. Why else would your ears be ringing like bells? Big bells? Big, glorious, golden wedding bells?

But it's over as soon as it started. He pulls away and straightens up. “C'mon, let's get outta here before the matron gives us the hook."

Dressing goes smoothly enough for the both of you. Socks and gloves are retrieved. Drawers are located. Your bra and his scarf are found. You stuff his bandanna into your pocket and he settles on a ponytail.

You’re pulling on your trousers when you see him looking in a small compact mirror, carefully drawing green swoops on his face with what looks like an oil pastel.

“Makeup at a time like this?” you ask.

“Flashiness is next to godliness.” He draws a cross on his forehead, then regards himself. “Ech, I need a shave...”

You pause as you fasten your belt. “Gimme a few grand and I’ll shave you so smooth you’ll look like a ten-year-old. Promise not to cut your tongue off this time.”

“Done.” He swaps the green pastel for a tube of lipstick and moves on to his mouth, smearing his lips red. “Gonna have to straighten out my cabin first. Place’s been a mess since... well, always."

You pause mid-bra hooking. "Huh?"

“Haven’t shared with anyone ‘til now.” He rubs his lips together. “Not like it’s dirty — just clothes and shit everywhere. Hope you don't need much closet space.”

What the hell is he on about? You pull your shirt over your head. “Sharing quarters?”

“What, you think I’d stick you in with the freaks? My bed’s big enough for two.” With the back of his wrist, he smears the color onto his cheeks and into the gruesome smile he’s known for. “Not to mention that it's a bed and not a hammock. You ever try to fuck in a hammock? Ain't easy, lemme tell ya."

You lace up your shoes. "I have no idea what you’re on about."

"I’ll show you when we get back to the ship."

"What ship?”

Any mirth in Buggy's face vanishes. He looks at you, brows knit. "My ship," he says slowly. “We’ll get you settled, then I’ll go take care of my business, and we'll haul anchor when I get back."

The audacity of this man. "You really think Luffy'll let you kidnap me? He'll be on you like suckers on a squid."

He’s giving you a look you know well: the do-you-need-a-psych-eval-cuz-you’re-talking-crazy look. “Since when is going with someone willingly kidnapping?”

You return the look. "What the hell makes you think I'm going with you at all?"

He pockets the lipstick and clicks the compact shut. He steps towards you. “You said if I screwed you to the wall, you’d come with me. I did just that. And then I asked if you meant it, and you said you did.”

"That's not--" You falter. Okay, you can see how bringing up what he said and telling him to do it could be misinterpreted.

Well, shit. Miscommunication strikes again. "Sorry you got your hopes up."

Buggy falters. Something stirs the rivers of his eyes, the same vulnerable, hurt something you saw lurking when you'd insulted his nose. His gaze drifts downwards and his jaw clenches.

Remorse douses you in a bucket of ice water. You're officially a giant asshole. And a slut. And a dumb bitch lush who hurt someone you actually started caring about.

For a moment, you consider recanting. Go with him. Run off and join the circus like you always threatened you would. Sail the seas with a colorful cast. Get rocked every night.

You stop yourself. Enough. You hate a captive audience, you're not a pillager, and while you are a slut, you're not desperate. You have people you know you can trust. Stick with them. Don't jump in with the wildcard.

Buggy huffs, snapping you out of your musings. The hurt in his eyes has faded and the rivers are still. The eerie calm before the storm surge.

"You led me on," he growls.

"I did no such--"

A knife flies past your head, taking off a few strands of hair and shattering the window.

Buggy's shoulders rise and fall rapidly. He readies another knife. "I'm gonna rip your lying tongue out."

You suppose that's karma. You edge towards the window and he matches your step. Another knife narrowly misses the back of your head.

“And then I'm gonna drag you across the keel by your fingernails."

Ouch. A third knife sails past your nose. You're almost there...

"And then I'll nail your corpse to the figurehead!"

He lunges at you and you at him. You dive low, hitting the floor as he hits the dry sink and leaves the way to the door wide open.

Unfortunately for you, it's locked. You turn the bolt only to be pulled away and spun around by the strap of your satchel.

Buggy pins you against the door, yet another knife at your throat, his arm against your chest, and his knee between your legs. It would be hot if it wasn't for the deranged churn and roil in his eyes.

"I'm gonna ask one more time," he says. “You coming with?”

“No,” you spit. You try to kick him off, but he holds you fast.

He cracks a bit in both composure and voice. “What’s that little rubber prick got that I don’t, huh?! What's it gonna take?!”

“He’s never tried to kill me.” Not on purpose, anyways. “And he doesn't hurt innocent people.”

Frustration ripples through his eyes, and his gaze drifts downwards. “Well, I’m hurt.”

"You're not exactly innocent!" He doesn't notice your hand sneaking towards the knob. "He'll have to be dead, dying, or catatonic before I leave him."

He looks back up. Defeat hardens into determination. "Consider it done."

You really shouldn’t say what you’re about to say, but the words are out before you can stop them. “Good fuckin' luck, big nose.”

The river rages. The floodgates crack and the levees break. He drops the knife and reels back a punch.

You twist the knob. The door opens outwards and he sails past you, landing a heap on the floor.

"Sorry," you say. You really do mean it. He tries to grab your ankles, but you dodge his hands.

The bar looks like a stampede went through it. The matron looks up from her cleaning as you leap down the stairs. "How's your boyfriend?"

"Trying to kill me." You sprint for the front door, only to pause. "This happens a lot. Situation normal." One more pause. "And he's not my boyfriend."

An impotent roar hits your ears. "I'm gonna make you eat your hair!"

And there's your cue. Exit, pursued by a clown.

---

In hindsight, it makes sense that Sanji would be in the galley making breakfast. You still scream like you saw a corpse when he greets you, but he doesn’t take it personally. Just offers you a warm drink and a place to sit.

You sit at the counter while he pours you a steaming mug of black coffee. You drink deeply. “How do you always manage to make a perfect cup?”

“If I told you that, I’d be out of a job.” He returns his attention to the stove. “So what’s his name?”

You almost spit your coffee all over him. “Say again?”

“You're gone all night and come home in the morning looking like you ran the whole way.” He gives you a sympathetic smile. “Will you at least tell me if you were chased? Just in case we need to bust some heads.”

“I think I lost him by the shipyard.” You stare into the swirling steam. “If you fell in love with someone, would you leave the crew to be with them?”

Sanji’s gaze drifts upwards. "Didn't I already?"

But he's... Oh. Ooooh. "Alright, that was smooth. But you know what I mean."

He pulls a frying pan from the cabinet, gazing into its sheen like a scrying mirror. "I'm not sure. Depends." He looks up. “Is this the same person who sent you running?”

“No,” you say on impulse. Sanji continues to stare at you. You slump. “Yes.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Love always hits like a hurricane,” he says. You quirk your eyebrow at him. “Old East Blue saying. It's sudden, fast, and sweeps you off your feet.”

Not the only thing that does that. "Speaking from experience?”

“First time I saw you, love,” he says with a wink and a smile.

You blush in spite of yourself and laugh. “Call me in ten years. I’m a bit old for you.”

His smile grows. “Could have fooled me.” He clicks the burner on and turns to dig around in the refrigerator. “So, tell me about your temptation.”

“What's there to say? Boy meets girl, boy drinks with girl, boy dances with girl, boy kisses girl…” Boy blows girl's back out, boy gets his heart broken, and boy threatens to make girl eat her hair. “...and here I am.”

“Sounds like a swell guy.” He sets a stick of butter, a rasher of bacon, and a dozen eggs on the table. "At least you had fun."

You snort. “So what do I do about B—” You catch yourself. “About this hurricane of mine?”

Sanji looks at you. Not that accusing right-into-your-soul look that Nami does, but like a man contemplating fish in a pond. “Well, you could build a sea wall, evacuate to higher ground, dance around naked in the rain…”

You chuckle. You wouldn’t mind seeing that. “What would you do?”

He smiles. “Batten down the hatches and enjoy the rising tide.”

You nod. Certainly something to chew on.

Standing, you take your mug. “I’m going to sit on deck. Photosynthesize a bit,” you say. You smile. “Thanks for listening, Sanji. I mean it.”

"Any time, love. I'd never judge." He cracks eggs one by one into the frying pan. “Every big storm has a name. What’s this one?"

You pull the bandanna from your pocket. You should hang it out to dry. “Hurricane Buggy.”

As you head out on deck, you hear the mighty splat of eggs hitting the floor.

---

The Buggy Pirates are no stranger to their captain's mercurial temper. Laughing one moment, shouting the next, then throwing a violent fit about who knows what, then back to cackling.

But this is extreme even for him.

They linger outside his cabin, listening to the crashing and slamming. No shouting, though. Just the occasional huffing and puffing, followed by the crack of splintering wood and the whunk of knives hitting the wall.

"How long's he been at this?" the strongwoman asks the fire eater.

"Longer than usual," he mutters. "No one knows why."

The old fortune teller -- also the cook -- crosses her arms. "He was gone all night and he comes back with a love bite. Could only have been a woman."

The shatter of glass makes everyone flinch. Still, not a sound from the captain.

"Could've been a fella," the strongwoman says.

The cook shakes her head. "I've been around a long time, girl. Only a woman could drive a man to this sort of madness. The fury of a woman scorned is nothing compared to the rage of a rejected man."

The contortionist rolls his eyes. "So he fucked around and found out. So what? Mohji said he had eyeballs on the rubber kid's crew. We need to move."

The strongwoman casts him an appraising look. "If you wanna go in and get him, be my guest."

He blinks, then frowns. He crosses his arms. "We could all go in there."

"I'm not gonna fight a guy with a shitload of knives."

"We can take him. Not like he can't stab all of us."

"He literally can."

"Wait. Shh, shh, shh." The fire eater puts a finger to his lips and holds up his hand. "You hear that?"

They all listen. They hear nothing. Silence.

He presses his ear to the door. "He's singing," he says with a frown.

They all glance at each other. That's never a good sign. "Singing what?"

"You know the one about the guy who gets drunk and kills his woman and gets hanged for it?" They nod. "That one."

The cook gives the strongwoman her famous told-ya-so look. The strongwoman rolls her eyes.

The door opens. The fire eater leaps away and everybody tries to look like they weren't eavesdropping as Captain Buggy comes strolling out, fiddling with his scarf and humming. He looks perfectly normal -- well, as normal as a man like him can look.

He speaks like he hasn't spent the last hour tearing his cabin apart. "Mornin', folks!"

The marksman looks at the strongwoman. Say something, it says. She shakes her head and looks at the cook. She looks at the contortionist, who looks right at the captain.

"Rough night, cap'n?" he asks.

Captain Buggy freezes. Everyone flinches.

Slowly, he turns to the contortionist. His expression doesn't change as a disembodied hand snatches the man by the neck and throws him into the water. Everyone jumps away, but nobody dares move any more.

Captain Buggy recalls his hand. "Mohji's found Rubber Boy, huh?" he says. "Great! Right on schedule. One little last minute change, though. The brunette with the long hair? I want her alive."

They look at each other again. "I thought we were gonna kill them all," the strongwoman says.

"Oh, we will. First, I kill Rubber Boy. His ass is still mine. Then you all clean up his little friends. And then..." His voice drops. "I teach the little diva a lesson, and then I'm gonna kill her." The darkness vanishes, and he returns to being jovial. "But first, breakfast!"

He strolls off, humming to himself. As soon as he's out of earshot, the cook speaks.

"Oh, he has got it bad," she says.

---

Take a look at a boy like me

Never stood on my own two feet

Now I'm blue as I can be

Oh, love come get me down!

---

A/N: And here end the melodramatics! a big thanks to everyone who read and commented and reblogged and liked and sent asks (askers ilu especially, i see a 1 by the envelope and my day is immediately made) 💙 i've got some ✨idears✨ in the pipeline for what's next, but in the meantime... stay flashy~

⬅⬅⬅ | To the "Curious Courtship" Masterpost | To the Mastahpost | Tip Jar | ➡➡➡

#buggy the clown #buggy x reader #buggy x you #buggy the clown x reader #kiss marry kill #one piece x reader #one piece #one piece live action #fan fiction #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #x reader #emberly writes #smash or pass #the curious courtship of buggy the clown

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shirefantasies · 4 months

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Idk if/what you’re open to writing right now, but can you possibly write something focused on pippin? Maybe fluff or headcannons or oneshots, whatever you want. I’ll put my trust in a fellow pippin girlie 😉❤️

Ahhh I definitely was not when this very first rolled in but barring any more grievous wounds I am always down to write about my beloved 😌

Pie in the Sky- Pippin x F!Hobbit!Reader

(Gif by @lotrcolors! Didn’t see rules about not using them but will take down if they prefer!)

Perfect dough never fails to put a smile on your face. Sticky as it is, even the feeling of it beneath your hands as you knead it is pleasing. Flames to your left tell you the oven is more than ready to receive its eventual bounty. A few rolls beneath your pin and there you have it, a beautiful drape on the tin before the real treasure is stowed away. Twirling in your flighty joy, you turn for the stove, taking up your pot of wonderful sparkling scarlet raspberry filling. Pouring it in, you see you’ve made a bit extra- muffins might just be in your future, too! Last step is cutting the lattice and then your oven is finally presented its trophy.

You already pulled out the right size hourglass when you got your start, so all there is to it is giving it a flip and you’ve got a little time for inventory.

The fishers had a wonderful haul: bright, shiny salmon you had filleted earlier in the afternoon, leaving only the need to coat them in lemon juice and seasoning. Potatoes as well, potatoes fresh as the salmon, though they are to be fried into chips, not grilled. A plate of roasted zucchini and carrot to say you’re getting your vegetables in. Not to mention the pie.

Every voice in your head had told you to just make enough for yourself, but having a visitor is likely enough, is it not? May as well make a bit extra, you think as you reach for a tin of dill weed.

Foolhardy, they say. Foolish indeed to leave a pie cooling upon the sill of your hole’s window lest some rapscallion make short work of it. But what is life without a little chance, you ponder as you check up on your treat, glancing out to the passing road…

“Well, that is about as fine a pie as I’ve ever seen! What’s the occasion?”

Peregrin Took. Pippin, just about the whole Shire calls him. Sprightly, smiling, and green-eyed, the young hobbit comes from quite the family. He is the only one you know of so well, though. Oft is he seen alongside his cousin Merry, particularly for goers of the Green Dragon. You are not quite in that guild, though it has been tempting enough of late.

“No occasion, really,” you reply with a smile, glancing up at Pippin through your lashes, “to be honest, I just felt like it.”

“I can see why," he muses, tone dreamy.

"I made extra. Care to join me for supper?" Leaning further upon your sill, you rest your chin upon your hand.

"If you insist," he answers quickly, "then who am I to say no?"

He slips around the remaining perimeter of your yard, disappearing from your view until you hear a knock at your door. At once you abandon your pie, crossing through your kitchen and hall to open it.

"Well, hello there," Pippin jokes with a wide smile, arms outstretched and heels rocking, "fancy meeting you here!"

"Master Took," you play along, waving him in, "what a pleasant surprise! Please, come in."

Hands running over his shoulders faintly, you help him out of his coat, taking notice of how eager he is to strip himself of the extra layers, unwinding the scarf in record speed and glancing around the entry of your home.

"The kitchen is this way," you wave a hand, "Shall we?"

You take the way he practically trips over his feet on the freshly polished floorboards going forward as a yes, holding out a quick hand to steady him, thinking better of it, withdrawing shyly. Leading him to the dining table, you sit him down at the head of it and make for the kitchen to procure all your supper fixings. One by one you set down steaming platters, Pippin's eyes tracking your every movement before landing on the offerings themselves. You hear his stomach rumble as the smell of the first platter of chips fills the room, say nothing but smile and simply compound the feast until his eyes are wide as saucers.

Master Peregrin Took had caught your eye some time ago, from what day you cannot even say, but at that moment and beyond his wide, wonderful smile and lovely singing voice permeate the back of your mind far too often. Often enough, in fact, that you've taken up the peculiar little habit that finally serves you so well, making far more of anything than you need lest you ever are gifted the luck of the Shire's jolliest soul at your door. And as he sits before you, so close your arms brush as they reach for cups and utensils, engrossed in sharing a story his cousin's gardener told him about the Proudfeet's pumpkins, all you can feel is a glow of warmth and satisfaction.

"Mmm," Pippin hums in pleasure between forkfuls, "how did I never know what a good cook you are?"

You shrug, suddenly feeling a little shy. "I suppose I never labelled my creations all too well at any festivals."

"Well, if you keep this up," he teases, "I may just have to keep coming to call."

"Be my guest," you wave a hand and smile widely, eyes remaining upon his, "it isn't often I get company."

You barely trust your ears at his next words. "I can hardly believe that! But I'm more than happy to take up the task."

Wit utterly fails you at that, words lost in the fluttering of butterflies filling your entire being and a smile you cannot have hidden for all the gold in the Shire.

Pippin greets you by name this time, leaning into your window with eager familiarity. “You wouldn’t happen to be baking, would you?”

“Why, yes,” you smile back even wider, bending down for a moment to collect proof in the form of a steaming yellow cake before you tease, "if you don't mind waiting for it to cool and get frosted I'd be happy to share. Unless you were just hoping I was busy."

Pippin practically runs around to your gate, bringing yet another smile to your lips as you turn from your cake to the strawberries you'd been slicing.

“Excellent party, no?”

Glancing up from your tankard, you see Pippin has slid up to your side, leaning an arm casually upon the edge of the table and giving you that easy smile that makes everything within you flutter. His sandy hair is sprinkled with tossed flower petals and falls about his face, which flickers beneath the lanterns set all about. He’d undone his ever-present scarf, this time letting it hang loosely about either side of his neck and down onto a green velvet waistcoat that brings out those eyes of his.

Nothing else but a smile could have broken across your face at such a sight, joy alongside warmth you can luckily blame upon lanterns and the fires on which spits had been roasting and sheer proximity to all the dancing couples whirling by and other hobbits stopping at the table and idly chatting.

“Just grand,” you reply, only aware in post the surefire dreaminess of your expression, “the music's wonderful, everyone is in such cheer, and the spread is great, too! And now I've got fine company as well!"

"As have I," Pippin replies, glancing away from your gaze, then back to it, "and you are so right about it all. I can't wait to dance the night away! And I've just had about the best cookies of my life!"

You giggle at that, fingers tightening around the wooden mug you held. "Oh yes? And what kind were they?"

"Lavender sugar."

"Ah," your eyes light up, "those would be mine! See what I mean about the labeling? Oh, I'm so glad you liked them!"

Seeing as how it's the sole reason you made anything at all for the birthday of someone's aunt you didn't even know too well.

"Liked them?" He leans closer. "I loved them! But enough of that: how would you care for a dance or five?"

Nothing would have gotten your hands off your tankard with greater haste, its base hitting the red tablecloth at your back faster than he could say "South Farthing".

"I would love that," you tell him, and without a moment's hesitation you are swept up into his arms.

Pippin's hold about your waist is tighter than you'd have expected, but you don't complain a mite at the feeling of his hands on your hips, even the twitch of a finger you'd almost suspect to be the beginnings of roaming if you were any more full of yourself. He goes fast with you, something you hadn't doubted for a moment, and you get a thrill from the way he pulls you in so quickly from a twirl, sending you flying into his chest and caught with his other arm each time. Perhaps you aren't so graceful as some of the other, older or more leisurely pairs out on the open grass, but you know as your bare feet struck the soft ground again and again that you would have it no other way.

“Oh, now it’s shortbread?”

You put the hand that isn't holding the basket on your hip, fixing the younger hobbit with a look. “Do you want some or not, Marigold dear?”

"Oh, yes," she replies, golden head bobbing and petite hand reaching to loosen the cloth you've wrapped over the bars, "and I will take one for the old Gaffer, too.”

“Oh, he should enjoy them. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, after all.”

“And who else shall?” Marigold muses, fixing you with a positively catlike smile. “How is my advice about a man’s heart going, then, with Mister Peregrin Took?”

Your easy smile melts into something dreamier, grip on your basket relaxing slightly. “Well, all my baking certainly is bringing us together more.”

“And showing him what a good wife you’ll make him, too. He looked very happy there dancing with you at old Violet’s birthday!”

Before you can stop yourself looking a fool, your smile is widening tenfold. “You think so?”

“Oh,” Marigold waves a hand, “you’re incorrigible! Next time you two dance, just lean in for the kiss!”

“Easy for you to say,” you shoot back, crossing your arms and nearly, but not quite, upsetting your shortbread basket, “I could tell you the same about Tolman Cotton.”

Paling then reddening, Marigold gapes at you and sputters. "Now that is quite different! Tolman is a family friend, after all! If I were to- Why, that friendship might-”

“Uh-huh,” you nod in mock sympathy, a sardonic smile upon your lips, “well, then, perhaps you ought to bake him something. After all, a good friend told me the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Marigold grins. “Yours, maybe! Tolman cares much more about a good spot of fishing than all that.”

“Then you come over to sit in my kitchen and make him a new lure while I muse over what Pippin’s favorites might be. I’ve some dyed feathers I could spare.”

“From what?” Marigold asks, tilted head and smile incredulous as you make your way down the lane.

That is all Pippin catches of the conversation, but it is more than enough, he reflects with a brief proud smirk that quickly melts into a wide, dreamy grin as he glances down at the pair of chocolate-covered shortbread bars in his hands. Your grandma had some good ideas, but she’d never get his heart beating like you did.

It is not the most common occurrence in the world to hear your bell ring, so to say you shot up from your sewing is an understatement. All but tossing the shirt whose sleeve you’re repairing down, you pad across your planks to the door, mouth widening into an ‘o’ at the sight of Pippin at your door, a bunch of daisies in one hand and a basket slung upon the opposite arm. Today he is wearing a lavender vest; you don't think you've ever seen him wear lavender before, but of course it suits him.

“Hi there,” he said your name, voice lowering, “I thought I could maybe…take you on a picnic.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, habitually glancing down at your dress and feeling a hand shoot up to your hair. “Well, I don’t know if I’m picnic ready, but-”

“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he remarks with a shrug and the most casual smile, as if he’d commented upon the balmy state of the weather.

“Well,” you glance down toward your feet and fiddle with the end of your sleeve, one arm shyly across your chest, “how can I say no to that? Of course I will go, then. Do you need anything for your basket, though? I admit I haven’t made much fresh today, but I can always-”

At that, Pippin shakes his head, curls flying about his smiling face. “This one is my mother’s treat. It’s about time I pay you back, after all.”

“Oh, alright. Because I do have a leftover pie in the-”

“Yes, bring that.”

You giggle as Pippin continues. “Don’t you worry, though- my mother’s cooking is almost as good as yours! Just don’t tell her I said that.” Punctuating his joke with a wink, he extends his arm and beaming, you take it.

Pippin leads you down to the bank of a stream and spreads out a blanket you hadn’t noticed him carrying before, probably due to being too occupied looking into those sweet green eyes and fluttering your lashes at any affection that potentially swims within them. The ground is soft already beneath the blanket, making it quite easy to settle upon your little spot across from Pippin and his basket. Water babbles tranquilly at your side by your feet, glistening in the spring sunshine.

Your companion offers quite the spread, for on top of your pie there is cold chicken and hard boiled eggs, sandwiches with salted meat and cress, cheese alongside the end of the sandwich loaf, fresh red raspberries, and turnovers.

“I hope this is enough.”

“Are you joking?” Your eyes light up, glancing from Pippin to the array of food to the sunlight filtering through the greenery at the stream’s edge. “This is perfect. All of it.”

"It had to be," he says, "I wanted our courtship to start off right."

Falling suddenly deaf to the chirping of birds and babbling of stream, you looked up from your sandwich with wide eyes, again seeing Pippin smiling at you like he'd made the most natural conclusion in the world, this time before tilting a fistful of raspberries into his mouth. Blinking, you search for words, failing momentarily in favor of just grinning over the way Peregrin Took never fails in his unwitting quest to always surprise you. Heat creeps to your face, heat beyond even the beating of the sun down to your head.

Pippin, it seems, takes your silence as a form of denial. All but dropping the plated slice of pie in his hand, he wipes one set of fingers off on the edge of a napkin before waving both hands hastily back and forth.

"Unless I heard your conversation with Marigold wrong. I just got so excited thinking that we could be everything I'd dreamed of and that what you were doing was working. Not that you needed to do it because I already thought you were the prettiest thing I've ever seen and why am I saying all this?"

"Because you're cute," you gush, heart still flip-flopping at his words, at the way the sunlight dances off the curves of his sheepishly smiling cheeks, "and you're always managing to find new ways to steal my heart."

"Me?" His voice is so quiet it's all but a whisper of joy. "You think I'm... Well, I think you're just sweet as this pie here. No, sweeter. Besides finding new ways to steal your heart, might I find new ways to kiss you?"

"Smooth," you tease, shaking your head playfully, gleefully, "you might indeed."

If Pippin is thinking anything you made was sweet, not a single delight you could have whipped up in your kitchen stands a chance against the feeling of his lips on yours, dancing lightly against them in the springtime breeze.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 | Reply/Message/Ask to join 💕

#lotr #lotr imagines #lotr x reader #pippin took #pippin #pippin x reader #pippin x female reader #female reader #ask #anon #requested

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dilatorywriting · 2 years

Text

Monster Mayhem: Little Red Rapscallion

Gender Neutral Reader x Jack Howl Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: 'Dear Evil, Overlord, Patron. Please stop sicking your demon guard dog on me. I'm only trying to help. Kind Regards, Little Red Ridinghood'

A/N: Thank you so much to @insideous-beez for the brain rot, which became brain fertilizer, and eventually a functional story; This one is a bit darker than the other installments due to the Warlock/Evil Deity goodness, so there is a bit more horror here!

[PART 1]

Your grandmother had always told you to mind your manners when it came to the creatures who made the forest their home.

Or, well. That was a lie. Many lies, really. If you wanted to be nitpicky.

Firstly, the old crone who lived deep within the borough of the cursed trees wasn’t actually your grandmother. At least, not in the biological sense that seemed to matter most within your little, provincial, town. She was just a kindly, wrinkled, turnip of a woman who found you wandering the mudflats one day and decided she liked your spunk and general lack of self-awareness. She patted your head, served you strange, bubbling, teas laced with sweet magics, and always returned you to your fretful parents by sundown. And so, she was Grandma. Even if calling her that aloud made your parents go nearly green and had the local shopkeepers crossing themselves and spritzing you with Holy Water.

Secondly, Grandma had never told you to keep to your manners. Usually, she encouraged the opposite. (‘Why not curse them, huh?’ she’d complain loudly. ‘They’re thieving bastards, the lot of them.’ ‘Grandma,’ you’d sigh. ‘The street cleaners are just doing their job. They didn’t mean to steal your dead racoons.’) The idea of her demanding you act ‘proper’ and ‘kind’ was damn near laughable. But what she did enforce upon you with all the firmness of a world-weary teacher was the concept of not fucking with that which ought not be fucked with.

And the sprawling, Shaftland Forest was not to be fucked with.

It had always been a great, creeping, thing. The trees would groan and whisper as you passed, and when their sharp branches tangled in your cloak like grasping fingers, it never felt like an accident. The animals that lived beneath those trees were even stranger—wild, large, beasts with glinting eyes and an arcane mysticism about them that left icicles in their tracks even on summer days, or tangled the undergrowth into something that moved.

The people of your village did not enter the Shaftland Forests. They put up signs, and wards, and spun cautionary tales to every traveler who dared step even a single foot into their teeny, terrified, homestead.

You visited regularly. Because you were half-stupid at least, and because Grandma lived in those woods. And while she’d cautioned you about treating her habitat with care, she’d promised ages ago that so long as you were sweet to the forest, it would forever be sweet on you too.

‘There is a great power in these trees,’ she’d hum to you, as she stirred a simmering pot that looked to be filled with the blood of… something you probably shouldn’t think too hard about. ‘You would have been a lovely gift for it, you know.’ She laughed under her breath. It didn’t sound like a joke. ‘But you were too precious to ruin like that. So he decided we ought to keep you.’

You had no idea who ‘he’ was supposed to be, but you always made sure to shower the forest with compliments. As thanks for not using you as whatever being a, uhm, lovely gift entailed. ‘Oh what nice leaves you have,’ you told many a tree. ‘And what large petals have bloomed today,’ to all the flowers. You’d always been safe in these woods—sheltered beneath a bubble of golden affection and the soft scents of the richest perfumes. The forest always welcomed you with open branches and the coo of creaking bark.

Which is why the twisty field of black thorns blocking your usual pathway gave you pause.

You reached out a finger and prodded one of the sharp points. It bit into your skin with the clear intention of drawing blood, before swaying away at the last moment to twine loosely around your wrist.

Huh. How peculiar.

“May I pass?” you asked the thorns.

The shivering web of ebony tightened along the path and you frowned.

“May I pass, please?” you tried again.

The briar patch seemed to heave with a gusty, angry, sigh. You were about to reach forward and try your luck one more time when a deep, rumbling, snarl curled out from the shadows beyond. Out of the sea of roiling darkness and dainty thorns strode a great, white, wolf. It bared its teeth at you in an expression that was entirely unpleasant.

Immediately you held up your hands in placation and took a wide step backwards. The wolf just kept growling at you like you’d murdered its entire family or something else equally egregious. It skulked forward soundlessly, ears pinned flat.

“My apologies,” you said, dipping your chin in a gentle bow. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I’m just trying to use this path to—”

The wolf lunged at you with a near roar, and you just barely managed to roll out of the way with a shriek. The thing landed hard in the dirt where you’d just been not a moment prior, and it swung its great, fanged, maw in your direction.

“Apologies, old one,” you tried again, just as Grandma had taught you. “But I really just—”

The wolf snapped, nearly taking off your fingers, and you folded over like a turtle that had been upended on its back—rolling around helplessly with your limbs flailing wildly as you went. The sharp crack of your head against the ground left your brain rattling around like dried beans in a can, and you could taste the copper sting where you’d bitten down into your tongue. The failed cartwheel had set you back a solid fifteen feet from the wood’s edge, and the wolf huffed at you—a stupidly pointed ‘stay away’ if you’d ever seen one. It glared at you with glowing, golden, eyes for a long moment before melting back into the shadows.

You spat out the cocktail of mud and blood pooling along your tongue, and wiped angrily at your sore chin. The forest had never denied you before. So maybe it wasn’t your lovely, lonely, trees that were sending you away. Maybe it was just this stupid wolf. Maybe the beast was trying to make a stand—to usurp the role of whatever spirit had ruled over this dark land for so long now. You grumbled and made your way back to your feet. It was fine. Your forest was strong. It would never lose to such a stupidly fluffy opponent. You’d just have to try again tomorrow.

The next day you armed yourself with a small arsenal of goodies. Daggers, ropes, armloads of talismans, and kindling, and rations. You hoisted your bow across your back and carefully plucked at the soft fletching of the arrows. The feathers buzzed beneath your fingers, and after a moment of uneasy hesitance, you cautiously replaced the weapon where it hung over your bed. Grandma had never liked the idea of you carrying weapons in the forest (‘it invites troublemakers’ she’d warned), but if something really had gone wrong in her woods, then it was better to worry about asking forgiveness than permission. And surely you could argue for a dagger. The bow… With its weighted arcana and strange, dissonant, strength felt like something dangerous.

So you apologized to the rippling thorns before cutting them back with swift, precise, strokes of your blade and starting down that familiar path to Grandma’s cottage.

You made it about fifty yards before one of your talismans began to ping worryingly. The tingling thrum along your side was just enough of a warning to keep you from being mauled outright.

The White Wolf lunged from between the trees and you skittered out of the way of its attack. For such a huge creature, it was so silent. And its gleaming, downy, coat should have more than given away its position in the gloom. There must have been some kind of magic to it—something old, and ancient, that let the beast slip through the darkness unseen.

The Wolf situated itself firmly in the center of the path, hackles raised and shoulders hunched like it was readying itself to pounce.

“I need to get through,” you told it, firm, and raised one of the Protective talismans. After a heavy moment you scowled and bit out, “Please.”

The Wolf snarled and propelled itself forward. It latched its overlarge teeth in the fabric of your red cloak and quickly began to drag you to the ground. You frantically flailed about, and just managed to avoid those glinting fangs enough to thrust the talisman up into the beast’s ribs with a heavy smack. The charm lit with a brilliant, amethyst, gleam and sparks shot through the air. You let out a triumphant, ‘ah HA!’ And then all that magic fizzled out like a dying candle. You gaped in horror as the ‘one hundred percent foolproof, don’t you worry about that child’ Protective talisman fluttered to the ground like a discarded bit of newspaper.

“Oh, shit,” you croaked, as your cloak was shredded between the wolf’s canines with a horribly shrill wriiiiiip.

You sprinted like a bat out of Hell, tearing through the undergrowth and only just managing to collapse beyond the border of the tree line before the wolf could snap its jaws around your ankles. You curled your limbs protectively up beneath you, and watched through a veil of cold sweat as it paced along the foliage—leaving no tracks in its wake.

Fine, you thought bitterly. Two can play at this game.

The next morning you walked North, beyond the only safe paths you knew. Carefully, you began to scuttle your way up the nearest, gnarled, tree. The bark groaned and rattled beneath your fingers, as if disquieted. But there were no trails of white fur yet darting about the underbrush, so you offered the tree a hasty apology before climbing higher.

From there, it was only a matter of cautiously hopping from branch to branch. Normally when you’d tried ridiculous feats of stupidity like this in the past, the trees seemed more than eager to help you along—practically reaching out with their branches to catch you in their willowy, wooden, fingers. But they seemed stiff today, testy. The leaves themselves seemed to complain as you went, and you shushed them as politely as you could.

There was a sharp bark from beneath you, and you looked down to see the Wolf circling your perch in a frantic, pacing, dance.

“Hello!” you beamed, perfectly, poisonously, pleasant. “Nice to see you too!”

The Wolf sneered, lips curling up into a tight, tense, bow over its fangs.

You leaned forward, keeping a hand securely looped into your roost.

“Aww,” you cooed. “Is it too hard to climb up here with those big, fluffy, paws?” you mocked, wiggling your own fingers contentedly. “Bet someone really wishes they had opposable thumbs, huh?”

And then, like you were being smited by God Himself, the branch beneath your feet cracked clean in half, and you plummeted to the ground bellow with a harrowing screech. Naturally, you landed right at the wolf’s aforementioned stupid, fluffy, paws. Its great head lowered, and you could feel the heat of its breath as it growled into your face.

With a pathetic little ‘eep!’, the talisman tucked into the back of your boot burst into life and you flickered like a janky illusion. You stumbled to your feet a dozen or so yards away, fighting the urge to double over and barf. Slipping through planes was unpleasant at the best of times, let alone when under actual fucking duress.

The Wolf blinked its wide, golden, eyes at the empty space beneath its paws, and then whipped its head in your direction like a blood hound. You pushed yourself upright with the help of the very tree who had betrayed you so thoroughly, and began your hasty retreat.

You crashed through a curtain of thorns and out into the open with a gasp.

You rolled forward like the world’s most inelegant acrobat and came to a skidding halt in the dirt. You sat up with an achy cough, dislodging muck, and rocks, and leaves from your windpipe.

The Wolf prowled behind you��its glare a set of golden pinpricks in the gloom.

“What is your problem?!” you wailed.

The wolf tossed its head, like rolling its eyes wouldn’t have been enough. And snapped at you with another one of those pissy, bitten off, growls.

“You know what?” you seethed, swinging back onto your knees to jab a finger at it accusatorily. “Fuck you!”

The thing had the absolute gall to snort at you before turning to return to its ceaseless patrol.

By the time you hauled yourself back to your family home, you must have looked an absolute mess. No one bothered to stop you when you practically clawed your way up the stairs and into your small bedroom. Though to be fair, no one really bothered to stop you for anything anymore. Not since an old women with too much spare time and not nearly enough light in her eyes had decided that you were a child to be treasured.

You grabbed your bow off the wall and slung it over your back. The sleek, silvery, wood hummed beneath your fingers. It had been a gift, one whose very existence you stalwartly refused to question. The weapon was finer than anything that could have come from your village’s blacksmith, or honestly probably any human craftsman. It was weightless. It was too heavy. It sang in your hands. It was not a token to be bestowed lightly. But… Well. Whoever it had belonged to before, it was yours now.

And you were going to shoot that goddamn Wolf right in the ass.

On the fourth day of your apparent banishment from the Shaftland Forest, you stormed those woods like a would-be conqueror. The silver bow keened beneath your palms, and you held a thin, spiked, arrow knocked and at the ready. Your nemesis found you in no time at all, and you bared your teeth at the stupid, fucking, mutt before it had the chance.

“One last time,” you said, drawing your bow as tight as you could. “Let me pass, beast. Or I will go through you.”

The wolf’s hackles were raised, but the snarl had slipped off its face. It dug its claws into the dirt, and you watched something like surprise work its way across the thing’s regal features. Its golden glare flickered from you, to the bow, and back again, like it couldn’t quite believe what it was seeing.

“I have business in these woods,” you demanded. And then, petulantly—because you just wanted to know that your stupid, devil worshipping, turnip of a grandmother was okay, and you were so fucking fed up with this garbage—you stomped at the ground and shouted, “And I was here first! So scram, you overgrown Pomeranian!”

The Wolf’s ears drooped, and something like a tremor worked its way down its spine. But then the thing was shaking its giant head like it was surfacing from beneath a pool of water, and it straightened its posture with a rumbling growl.

“Fine,” you snapped, and unleased the first arrow. It whizzed past your fingertips with a thready, shrill, fwoom faster than you could track. The booming force of it shocked you enough to have you shooting wide, and you watched that pin-thin arrow hit a tree trunk and sink all the way through to the other side.

The Wolf rushed forward when you went to reload, fur standing on end like you’d run it through with a bolt of lightning. It tackled you bodily to the ground with a yelp, and you wheezed as the air was knocked out of your lungs in one, fell, swoop. The bow tumbled out of your hands and you scrabbled for it wildly. And then the beast lunged for the bright red of your hood, as it seemed so keen to do in each of your past scuffles. But maybe it was done playing with you. Or maybe it just wasn’t expecting you to flail around so terribly. Because its garish fangs bore down past the soft, billowy, fabric of your cloak and tore straight into the meat of your arm instead.

You gasped and weren’t entirely able to swallow down the sharp shriek of pain that bubbled up and out of your throat. The wolf reared back in shock, its mouth stained red. It immediately ducked back in close, and then away, and then in again. Like it wasn’t sure what to do. The stalwart resolve from earlier was gone—replaced entirely by a bumbling sort of panic that had your head swimming more than the blood loss.

You tucked your arm in close, feeling the tattered remains of shredded fabric curling beneath new, warm, wetness. The Wolf cautiously nosed forward, but when you flinched it reared back like you’d struck it. The beast stepped pointedly away, and then began to pace frantically back and forth. Occasionally it would stop, like it was going to move in close again. But then its pointy ears would press stiff and flat atop its head and it would skulk away all over again.

Whatever, you seethed silently, jerkily ruffling through your bag for some of the Healing talismans you knew were tucked away at the bottom. If the monster felt some kind of weird guilt for taking a chomp out of you when it’d already been doings its damndest to maul you for the past four days straight, that was its problem.

It was taking you longer to unearth the talismans than you would have liked, and your hand was really starting to shake in earnest. The Wolf whined high and miserable in its throat, and you rationally decided that it would be a terrible, petty, idea to waste what little composure you had left just to tell it to fuck right off.

The horrid mess of crimson had begun to seep its way along your skin—dripping down your wrist to plop against the damp, mossy, earth with an echoing plip plip plip that was not unlike the fall of slow, fat, spring rain. The air around you seemed to grow heavier with it—the trees swaying at their roots and the dark, shriveled, flowers straining against their stems to get a taste. The Wolf’s golden gaze flicked around the grove cautiously, and you watched its black nose twitch in obvious discomfort. You swore you could see hands—dozens, hundreds of inky appendages reaching out from the shadows. Fingers twisting up into claws like they meant to grab onto you and dig in, never letting go. The Wolf settled itself at your back like a brick wall, snarling doggedly at the wispy talons. The beast was so large it practically enveloped the entirety of you, and you had to fight the delirious, dizzy, urge to lean back into its impractically soft fur.

“Hey! Are you alright over there?”

Both you and the Wolf jolted in surprise as a group of adventurers plowed their way through the trees. The Wolf’s already distressed expression twisted into something nearly manic and it roared—putting all those ferocious teeth on display.

“Woah!” one of them yelped, crashing to a halt and dragging their friends to a stop beside them. “What the fuck?!”

The others all looked equally startled, hands settling heavily on their weapons. And while right now Mister Wolfy wasn’t outright nomming on you or your limbs, there was a still a steady stream of blood trailing from the wound near your shoulder—a set of very obvious teeth marks sitting stark and red against the rest of you.

“We heard a scream,” another spoke up. Then, pointedly raising the sharp edge of his sword, asked, “Is this your companion, Ranger?”

‘Ranger?’ you blinked, confused, before remembering the bow still sitting in the dirt by your feet. Before you could respond, the Wolf lurched forward over your shoulder. It didn’t leave you—didn’t stray from its steadfast position at your hind—but it pushed its gaping, angry, maw as close to the group as it could. The trio reeled back as the monster snapped, and snarled, and nearly vibrated out of its skin with rage. But… no. Something wasn’t quite right. As viciously angry as all that harsh barking sounded, there was something very, very disquieting about it. Something strained, something afraid.

The one with his sword raised stepped forward, the others moved to follow. And then they were gone.

You blinked, shocked silly. There had been people there—not a second before. You were sure of it. What the fuck was happening?—

And then there was a discordant scream from somewhere deeper in the woods. Distant, but close. Like there were arcane tricks distorting the way of the world. Keeping you separate from the horrible, grinding, shrieking noises while… whatever was happening carried on—not a dozen yards away. Cloaked in shadows and rotten, violet, petals like how a parent might gently close a curtain around a child’s bed at night. You watched in half-awe, half-horror as seeping, purple, miasma leached from the trees and into the air. It chased the intruders with vicious intent. You could feel the sharp, dark, heat of it prickling along your skin, but when that swirl of near-black enchantments made its way to you, it slipped past you like smoke—leaving only a faint trace of awful, coppery, perfume against your clothes.

“Why couldn’t you just stay away?” a deep, miserable, voice echoed in your head, and you jerked around in shock to see the Wolf staring at you with heavy, gold eyes.

“Did… Are you…” you trailed off, swallowing. Not sure how to even begin asking what you wanted to ask.

The Wolf sighed, bone deep and weary.

“I tried so hard to keep everyone away,” its voice rumbled in the back of your mind. “Why did you have to be so stubborn?”

“This is my forest, too,” you said after a long moment, fingers digging into the dusty material of your pants. “What’s wrong with it? What happened?”

The Wolf stared at you, quiet and considering. And then it lumbered to its feet with a defeated sort of slouch.

“Come, then, Little Red One,” it huffed, and swished its tail against your back. “I’ll show you.”

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #Twst Fantasy AU #Jack Howl x Reader #Jack Howl x Yuu #Hellhound!Jack Howl #Familiar!Jack Howl #Patron!Vil Schoenheit #vil schoenheit #Jack Howl #Monster Mayhem Jack Part 1

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