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yourtamaki · 3 years

Text

history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes

sakusa x gn!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, elements of depersonalization, non-explicit mentions of sex

dedicated to: @onyxoverride (thank you for beta reading) & @saintdabi

you can’t remember the last time you saw your reflection.

it wasn’t deliberate, the way you turned your back to the full length mirror in your closet every morning when you got dressed, how you usually dodged your reflection coming out of the shower like you did just now. at least, not at first. not until you realized how much better you felt now that you didn’t have to come face to face with a stranger everyday. that was the only word to describe whatever lived in the mirror. a stranger. any recognizable part of you had rotted away long ago. all that remained now was an empty husk with dead eyes and a selfish heart. the same selfish heart that set you on this path in the first place.

was it worth it? you wanted to ask your past self. was his love worth what you did to yourself?

the very first night you met sakusa set the tone for the rest of your relationship. you’re still not entirely sure why you accepted your roommate, hinata’s, invitation to his team’s party to celebrate their record win streak. it probably had something to do with the puppy dog eyes he threw you. regardless, you went, wearing an outfit you were losing confidence in by the second and leaning against a wall as far from the drunk crowd as you could get. you never liked parties like this. too many people, too loud. but for your best friend, you were willing to grit your teeth and bare it.

a part of you, larger than you would ever admit, wishes you never looked to your left that day. wishes that you never spotted the curly haired man looking so sullen despite half his face being covered with a mask, that you didn’t notice the way his eyes flickered from his empty red cup to where you knew the kitchen to be, how he wearily eyed the crowd of people that separated him from it.

“i was about to grab a drink. i can bring something back for you if you’d like?” the first thing you ever said to the love of your life was a lie. you were planning on staying tucked in your corner all night, safe from the dancing drunks who had no concept of personal space until hinata was ready to leave. and yet the words were almost ripped out of you the moment your eyes landed on him, a fierce need to help the man flaring up from nowhere. you could only assume he had separated himself from the party for the same reason you had and it pulled on your heartstrings. no one ever noticed when you needed help so why not extend that courtesy to him instead? he blinked at you as though he had to process your offer before he nodded.

“yes, please i’d appreciate it.” his voice was different than you expected it to be. slow and calm despite the way his fist clenched and unclenched. “just water. a closed bottle if you can find it.”

his brows furrowed for a moment when you held out your hand before letting out a quiet ah and handing you his empty cup. it was endearing how he placed it in your hand, balancing it carefully on your palm.

“be right back.” you shot him a smile and started to make your way across the floor, getting pushed and jostled the entire way there. you made quick work of tossing the garbage into the overflowing trash bag and dug out two water bottles from behind a rack of beer cans in the fridge. the trip back was no easier and you breathed a sigh of relief when you were once again in your small private bubble with the man. the discomfort you endured, the skin crawling sensation of all those bodies too close to you was worth the way his eyes lit up when he saw you’d returned.

he accepted the cool bottle with a murmured thanks, pulling his mask down and tucking it under his chin. handsome was your first thought and his name was your second. the two distinct moles on his brow should’ve given it away that you were talking to sakusa kiyoomi. you’d seen enough of hinata’s games, heard enough stories to put a name to the face. he held your stare as you placed him in your mind, taking a sip from the bottle as he did. an urge to say something, anything to keep those eyes on you bubbled up hot and fast and you said the first thing that came to mind.

“my roommate’s your teammate.”

“is he? which one?”

“hinata. shoyo.” you added as though there was another hinata on the msby roster.

“ah. my condolences.” the corner of his lips quirked up when you snorted. “i’ve seen how he leaves a locker room. i don’t want to imagine what his room looks like.”

“it’s not pretty, that’s for sure.” you said, leaning your shoulder against the wall and taking a moment to regard him. “can i ask why you’re here? shoyo told me you don’t like crowds so a party must be hard on you.”

“would you believe me if i said contractual obligations?”

“nope cause i helped shoyo go through his contract and i don’t remember ragers being a part of the deal.” a small burst of pride bloomed in your chest when he laughed, a quick huff from his nose and amused eyes as though he didn’t expect it.

“you got me.” you waited for him to explain and deflated a bit when he remained silent. that is, until you followed where his eyes had wandered. it was easy to spot hinata from across the party. he sat high above the rest of the crowd on bokuto’s shoulders, leaning back occasionally to test bokuto’s reaction time and giggling every time he was caught at the last moment. meian was trying in vain to pull the ginger down while atsumu seemed to be on facetime with someone recording the whole thing, his loud laughter ringing out clearly over the music.

“you’re here for them?” you said just as the realization dawned on you. sakusa twitched, so small you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been watching him so closely.

“spending time with your teammates promotes better gameplay on the court.”

“i’m sure it does. but wanting to hang out with your friends isn’t a crime.”

“we are hanging out. i’m here, aren’t i? if they wanted to talk to me, they know where to find me.” the bitterness in his tone wasn’t enough to mask the acceptance behind his words, of being resigned to his fate as the forgotten one.

“well, i found you.” he looked over at you, something unreadable swimming behind his eyes before they softened.

“yeah. you did. you know, you’ve talked a lot about shoyo but i don’t know anything about you. i don’t even know your name.” he said. heat raced to your cheeks, flustered that he seemed to be paying as much attention to you that you were to him.

“i didn’t even notice, sorry.” you said before offering your name. he repeated it back, once, twice, rolling it around on his tongue and you watched his mouth, mesmerized by how it curled around a word you’ve heard your whole life until it sounded new again. he spoke your name in a soft, hushed whisper and you wondered if his lips would feel just as soft. half-lidded, his gaze flickered downwards like he was wondering the same thing.

the rest of the night was a blur in your mind. all you could recall was that you chatted with sakusa until the others found you and you drove a passed-out hinata home with a new contact saved to your phone.

the reminiscing left you drained, clutching your phone in your hands, the screen frozen on that same contact as you collapsed into bed and yet you couldn’t stop the rest of the memories from flooding through your mind, the truth you’ve been holding off for too long. you’ve picked at a festering wound that was best left alone. if you didn’t think too hard about it, if you ignored how it grew and ate away at you, it wouldn’t hurt as much. right? but it was too late. you’ve pulled the string and now you’re left to deal with your own unraveling.

you scrolled through your texts for what feels like a lifetime, the entirety of your relationship flashing by and disappearing in an instant until you could scroll no higher. of course you sent the first text. a formal message that didn’t look anything like how you actually text with one too many exclamation points in your desperation to come across friendly.

your fingers moved across the screen and when your mind caught up, your thumb was hovering over the button to delete the entire conversation. you never wanted to see evidence of who you used to be ever again. you didn’t want to be reminded of the person you cut and broke and killed until they fit into sakusa’s neat life. but sentimentality stilled your hand, the phone dropping from your limp fingers and crashing to the floor. you didn’t bother reaching for it.

the accursed memories refuse to let you be, another bobbing up to the surface from the murky depths and pulling you under before you could stop it. one that showed what little agency you had in your own life.

it started the way it always did. you noticed him. noticed how tired he was every time you spoke. how you went from going out on dates to always staying in to maybe being lucky enough to say good night over the phone before he crashed for the day. and sure, you were lonely. so starved for him it ached. but that was overshadowed by your worry for him. you would lay awake wondering if he’d remember to eat that day, if he had the energy to clean his apartment and if he didn’t, how much was that adding to his stress?

so you swung by his place the next morning after he had left for practice, spent the day cleaning, restocked his fridge and were nearly done making dinner when he returned. his exhaustion was truly hammered home when he walked straight past the kitchen on autopilot before doubling back, tilting his head at you in confusion.

“what are you doing here, darling?”

“helping out.” you turned back to the stove and busied yourself with mindless stirring, afraid that you’d been too eager and overstepped. “you seemed pretty tired these days so i wanted to do something for you but you’re back earlier than i expected so i can just go if you want to be alone just let me-”

your rambling was cut off when a force barrelled into you and sakusa hugged you tight from behind, head buried in the crook of your shoulder. all at once, whatever anxiety had been growing fled you and you relaxed into his touch.

“thank you.” it wasn’t the words that made your heart leap to your throat. it was the sincerity, the slight crack at the end that told you he had more he wanted to say but didn’t know how.

you fell into a routine of going over to his apartment, looking after things, kissing him when he returned and staying over at night. at first, it was once a week. then over the weekend, then every other day.

“you should move in.” even though you half expected your relationship to take this next step, it still took you by surprise the casual way sakusa brought it up. you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to move in with him just yet. you built a home with hinata and that apartment meant everything to you, all your happiest memories were made there and oh no sakusa was still waiting for an answer.

“i should?”

“yeah.”

and that was the end of it. you were packed and out of hinata’s apartment (because it was his now. his and atsumu’s. not yours, it’ll never be yours again) by the end of the month. most of your things didn’t come with you but that was fine, right? so what if you still felt like a guest in your home even to this day with none of yourself being reflected in the apartment? you got to wake up to see the love of your life every day and that made everything worth it.

until you started waking up alone.

extra training, he said. the team drafted new players and he had to get used to their play style, he said. and you believed him, trusted that he’d be home with you if he could. so you took the crushing loneliness and swallowed it down like a bitter pill. you smiled wide when he came home late with only the moon to light your bedroom and let him use your body to rid the stress of the day.

the dead of night was the only time you’d have him all to yourself. you could be greedy for his attention when he was buried inside you. it was easy to pretend you clawed up and down his back because you were caught up in the moment and not because you were desperate to keep him close to you. easy to pretend the tears in your eyes were from pleasure and not from how much you missed his voice.

and when he was empty and spent, you would stroke his hair until he fell asleep and then, only then, would you whisper all the things you couldn’t tell him during the day. small, meaningless anecdotes that you knew would earn you a wry smile if he was awake to hear them, the one he used when he didn’t want to let on how close he was to laughing. the stolen moments were a salve on your fractured heart but it was never enough to heal it. in the end, when you were once again alone in your too-wide bed, it only served to remind you just how deep the cracks were.

maybe that’s where you went wrong. you gave away your heart to someone and got nothing in return, nothing to plug up the all-consuming void in your chest. there was nothing left of you. no, that wasn’t quite true. there was nothing good left of you. you gave him your best parts and all you had now was pure resentment that burned hot and fierce in your core, so acidic it ate everything in its path. it burned away the dredges of your soul until all you could do was allow it to climb up and scorch your throat in a silent scream.

another memory. it’s strange what your brain chose to latch onto as you spiralled. on the surface, you remember this to be a happier time. but as it overtook you, you’re reminded almost violently that the edges of this memory are stained with the early decay of your identity.

before the early mornings and late nights, before you got into the habit of staring at your ceiling and wondering how you got to that point, you and sakusa had a tradition. you’d both find something, a story, a movie, that you think the other doesn’t know and share it with them. that day sakusa came to you with the myth of orpheus and eurydice.

he told you the story of a man so in love with his wife he journeys to the underworld after she dies to find her, how hades tells him he can guide her to the land of the living but orpheus must trust that eurydice is following him. if he turns around, eurydice’s fate is sealed. sakusa explained how in every version of the myth, orpheus turned around at the very end out of an uncontrollable, unfiltered love for his wife. whether it was because he was excited to see the end of the tunnel and wanted to share his joy with her or because he feared she got lost, either one stems from the love he has for her. the love that sent him to find her is the same love that doomed her in the end. but the more sakusa spoke about orpheus, the more you wondered about the other protagonist of the story.

“why didn’t eurydice try to let orpheus know she was there? she could’ve held his hand or touched his back or something.” you asked. you were laying your head on sakusa’s chest, letting the low rumble wash over you as he read you the tale. the question had been bugging you as the story came to its conclusion though you couldn’t place your finger as to why.

“she was a spirit. she would pass right through him.”

“yeah but…” you searched for the words to explain your confusion. “she didn’t even try.”

“it wouldn’t have mattered either way.”

you opened your mouth to press the issue further, too stubborn to let it go just yet when you heard sakusa sigh out of his nose. it was enough for any question to die on your tongue and all that came out was a quiet, “i guess so.”

it was a nothing memory. an empty thing to remind you of better times that you’ve had no need to look back on. so why did that moment swirl around your head now, as you crumbled in your lowest moments? scattered pieces start to form together in the recesses of your mind but before you could call them forth to make a full image, the bedroom door swung open and sakusa walked in.

for once, you don’t slip on your well worn porcelain mask. you don’t school your expression and force it to mold into something that couldn’t quite be called happy. instead, you sat up straight in bed, held his gaze and did nothing to hide the maelstrom of hurt that raged inside you. a sick satisfaction shot through your veins when his steps faltered at the force of your stare.

“what’s wrong?” he asked.

what isn’t? you thought but instead said, “nothing. i was just thinking. about us.”

“oh.” his eyes are already sliding away from you, a quiet detachment in his voice that made you grind your teeth in frustration.

“remember that greek story you told me about?”

“mhmm.”

“tell me again why eurydice didn’t reach out.” there it is again. a short, sharp exhale from his nose. he opened his mouth but you spoke before he could. “humour me.”

“she was dead, darling. she couldn’t touch him, he couldn’t hear her so there was no point.”

“no point? there was no point in trying to tell orpheus that she was behind him? he climbed into the underworld for her and she couldn’t try?”

“could you--?” he cut himself off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “it’s late. i’m exhausted and really not in the mood so can we go to bed?”

“doesn’t that sound familiar?” you continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “one person bending heaven and hell for the person they love while the other can’t even meet them halfway. remind you of anything?”

now you had his full attention. his brows scrunched together and you’re not sure if he’s trying to figure out the meaning behind your words or the reason for your hostile tone. you don’t feel like helping him out either and instead watched the gears turn in his head with something akin to glee. it’s his turn to be paranoid, to overthink, to pick apart every moment of your relationship and dissect it piece by rotted piece.

“please don’t be vague. if you’re upset with me, tell me.” it was the most emotion you’ve heard from him in so long, you were taken aback for a moment.

“i’m a bit past ‘upset’, omi.”

“i’m sorry.”

you scoffed. “you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

“you’re hurt and it’s my fault. that's enough for me to say sorry.”

“you don’t understand.” he crossed the room in three large strides, sitting on the edge of the bed to leave space between you.

“then help me understand.”

you floundered for the right words to explain the mountain of revelations you’ve uncovered and settled for, “how do i take my coffee, kiyoomi?”

he took your use of his full name in stride. “black. one sugar.”

“no that’s how you take your coffee. that’s the only way you ever make coffee. i had to learn to like it.”

“what, you’re mad i don’t know how you like your coffee?” you know he didn’t mean anything by it, that’s he's always been more blunt that he means to be but it doesn’t stop you from feeling patronized and the hurt loosened your tongue.

“it’s not about the coffee! it’s not about the fact that eurydice was a ghost. it’s the effort, omi. you haven’t put an ounce of effort into this relationship. i’m the one who has to bend. i’m the one that has to change, it’s never you.”

“i never asked you to.” the truth of the statement knocked the air out of your lungs. because that's the worst part, isn’t it? you have no one to blame your misery on but yourself.

“i don’t know how to love you without sacrificing pieces of myself. and i’m empty, kiyoomi, i've given you all of me. and it feels like you’ve given me nothing in return.”

his head was bowed while he listened but from how tight he laced his fingers together, you know he was fighting to stay calm. “you know i love you, right?”

“do you? do you love me or love that i’m convenient? love that i clean your place and make you food and have a hole you can--”

“stop.” you didn’t know it was possible for so much heartbreak to be packed into a single word. it sobered you of your venom and in its place, shame came rushing in.

“i’m sorry. i'm pissed at myself for letting it get this far and i’m taking it out on you. i don’t regret loving you. but it feels like that’s the only thing living inside me. like i’m not even a person anymore.”

“i should’ve noticed. it shouldn’t have taken you snapping for me to realize what was going on.”

“maybe.”

silence, suffocating silence, stretched and morphed time until it felt like you’ve aged a decade in a moment. and then sakusa spoke.

“you’ll help a stranger just because they look like they might need it and ask for nothing in return. you’ll make someone food just so you can be sure they ate that day. you’ll tell me about your day while i fall asleep and i don’t think i could sleep without hearing your voice. you’re kind and too selfless for your own good and the best person i’ve ever met. it kills me that i’ve been the cause of your pain.”

it was strange hearing those traits spun in a good light when you’ve thought of them negatively for so long. strange knowing where you saw faults he saw things worth admiring. “you hear me at night?”

“and you like focusing on minor details. yes, darling. every night.”

“oh.”

“i understand if you need… space, if you want to spend some time apart. but give me a chance. please. give me a chance to prove how important you are to me. i’m sorry that i’ve failed you. i’m sorry i've been taking you for granted. but that ends now. never again.

“and i can help you, too. i can remind you of all the parts you say you’ve lost. i’ll tell you all about the person i fell in love with everyday if you need it. i’d never run out of things to say. please. you found me once, let me return the favour and help you find yourself. if-if you’ll have me.”

his small speech wasn’t the reason tears stung the back of your eyes. as he finished speaking, sakusa reached out across the space between you and offered you his hand. a lifeline that you took, the lump in your throat to keeping everything you wanted to say stuck inside you. thankfully, you needed no words for sakusa to understand you. he brought your joined fingers to his lips and let out a shaky breath against them. the two of you stayed like that for a small eternity, drifted apart yet holding together with a bridge to link you. you’ve been fueled by resentment and anger for so long, you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to let them go. but you did know that you didn’t want to try without him by your side.

#sakusa x reader #sakusa angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #haikyuu imagine #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi angst #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu!! angst

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andrea-lyn · 3 years

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The Recs (Less Travelled)

I’m excited to bring you the first installment of my ‘roads less travelled’ recs! I will be doing another round of this, probably once the Ted Lasso fic tag hits about 25 pages, and then I’ll also grab a couple more fandoms to collect in there!

The Rules:

Each fandom/pairing was sorted on Archive of Our Own by completed works. Anything recced here was not in the first ten pages when sorted by kudos at the time of reccing. There may be some more well-known authors on this list, but the specific fics I’ve picked are ones that didn’t crack that top ten or just didn’t get much traction and I think deserve it, so hopefully I have also balanced it out with other under the radar (and still great!) works. As ever, I have a pinned post of my other recs (none have been duplicated from there), so you can also check those out! Under the cut you’ll find 10 recs in each fandom for:

Raven Cycle

Roswell New Mexico

The Old Guard

Inception

Star Trek (mainly Kirk/McCoy)

The Raven Cycle

savor all the little pieces by littlelionvanz

“Since when do you garden?”

Ronan snorted, “Since I grew up on a fucking farm, genius. Jesus who gave you permission to pursue higher education.”

the old grip of the familiar by littleseal

"There is a single black feather and a printed out picture of Gansey, Blue and Cheng standing in front of some fucking monument Ronan didn’t care enough to remember the name of. Gansey sent it to Ronan’s phone some time ago, but it sat in his messages until Adam picked it up and grinned at it so hard that, one afternoon later, Ronan cursed and kicked and glared his old printer back to life in order to print it out.

Fuck, he thinks, I’m in love with a hoarder."

Adam collects things. Ronan is in love with him.

No Sweeter Innocence Than Our Gentle Sin by gansey_is_our_king

Ronan Lynch has wanted to kiss Adam Parrish for a long time.

(alternately titled: four times that Ronan could have kissed Adam)

Cheers to Another Seven Years! by skyermirth

Adam left Henrietta for Harvard and never returned. Now, seven years has passed, and an unexpected work assignment has brought him back to a place and people he hardly recognizes.

Row, row, row your boat by emmerrr

“What. Why are you smiling at me,” he says suspiciously.

Adam shrugs. “You’re cute.”

“I’m not cute, I’m terrifying.”

“Terrifyingly cute,” Adam says.

and now the world is ours to take / and every single move is ours to make by thatlittleblackcat

"Adam was the scientist, Ronan was the data, and Orphan Girl was the key that explained the strange outliers that Ronan presented, his previously unexplainable actions."

Adam sorts out his feelings, Ronan helps him, Gansey is the number one dad friend, Blue is the number one mom friend and Henry tries to make Ronan smile. Otherwise known as the story of how Orphan Girl became Opal.

All These Things You Make Me Feel by SilverOpals394

It was late. Adam could feel the long day catching up to him as he left Boyd’s, all his energy exhausted. When he started his car, the tape deck whirred to life once more. He sighed and raised his hand to turn it off, but before he did a soft melody began to play.

AU in which the mixtape Ronan made for Adam only plays the murder squash song until Adam realizes he's in love with Ronan, too.

Ways to Communicate by Jalules

Blue Sargent reflects on an early memory (and gets busy with her boyfriends.)

(The two things are related, trust me.)

Hold Me Closer, I'm Safe in Your Arms by actuallyronanlynch

“You wanna tell me why I had to hear from Henry Cheng that my boyfriend was at the hospital?” Adam hissed, though his voice wasn’t as acidic as it could’ve been. Ronan took small victories where he could.

“You don’t have a cellphone,” Ronan pointed out flatly. “It’s not like I could’ve gotten a hold of you.”

arts and crafts and the inevitability of death by sunshineinthestorm

Adam comes to the public library in search of a study spot, not a boyfriend.

But it must be his lucky day—because he ends up with a bit of both.

Roswell New Mexico

a conversation between insignificant others by Bellakitse

“Hey…have you noticed that our boyfriends are madly in love with each other?"

“You noticed that too, huh,” she answers dryly, letting out a huff of reluctant amusement.

***

Forrest and Maria share a drink and a conversation and start a friendship.

Own Personal Hell by BeStillMySlashyHeart

Now that Isobel's getting the hang of her telekinesis, Michael decides to test out his telepathic abilities. It backfires. Badly. Now Michael's trapped inside his own mind and only one person can break him out.

Drop the Hammer by brightloveee

Max makes a new friend at the shooting range, who turns out to be even more bad-ass than he expected.

(Takes place mid-S1)

Boys Like You by forgadgetsandgizmos

Curly, dirty blond hair (the mere description ‘curly’ felt like an injustice) twisted in every direction off his head, a sharp contrast with the scruff darkening his strong jawline and scowl-ridden face.

Alex made a mental note to compliment Maria on her excellent taste in men.

—

Or, Alex has coffee with Maria's one-night stand, a man who he definitely does not have a crush on.

let's exchange the experience by lostin_space

Michael decides they need to quarantine.

Michael floods Alex with love and care over and over and over.

This Is Hardcore by Anonymous

Michael makes a proposal. Alex accepts. Michael wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

i don't know what to think (but i think of supernovas) by Milzilla

michael discovers that the console can talk. then, he discovers it can do far more than that.

iridescence on skin by Lire_Casander

In a world where (almost) everyone has a tattoo on their right wrist with one set of coordinates that point to the place where their soulmate is born, Alex thought he wouldn't be any different. He couldn't be more mistaken.

He has two.

The Real Thing by elliebird

Max checks on Michael the morning after Michael saves Max’s ass from Wyatt Long and his dumbass buddies. He sees more than he’s supposed to.

Written for a Tumblr anon who one of their friends walking in on them or anyone of them finding out about Michael and Alex in an interesting way

Sundering by romancandles

“You know it was just an Air Force balloon, right?” says Alex.

Michael smirks. “That’s what they want you to think,” he says, with a wink.

The Old Guard

Peer Reviewed by ishandahalf

[From:] Journal of Medieval Studies ([email protected])

[Subject:] Ad-hoc note from the editor

I have noticed an uncommon level of animosity in your responses to your reviewers (or rather, one reviewer in particular). I am writing to ask if you would please do your best to keep your interactions civil. In fairness, I have also sent a similar request to the reviewer you seem to have this friction with. I trust you will both try and remain more professional in the future.

Again, thank you for submitting your work to this journal.

Sincerely,

James Copley, PhD

Editor-in-Chief

Journal of Medieval Studies

An (accidental) academic epistolary romance as (inadvertently) documented via a (theoretically) rigorously blinded peer review process.[citation needed]

third for a word and the song keeps going Macremae

It was honestly shaping up to be a pretty uneventful year before the Vatican got on Nicky’s bad side.

Or: three times in 2008 that the team genuinely thought about killing Nicky if only to get him to shut up about the changes to the Catholic English Mass and his unrelenting opinions on them, and one time Nile did.

Apex Predators In Island Ecosystems (Freeman et al., in press) by Sixthlight

Palaeobotany PhD student Nile Freeman and her supervisor Joe al-Kaysani are invited to billionaire Stephen Merrick’s new project – a theme park full of cloned dinosaurs. What could possibly go wrong?

This Rough Magic by Marivan

When Joe came to Scotland to study the sea, he did not expect to also encounter a beautiful man claiming that A. he’s a selkie and B. they’re married because Joe picked up his scarf.

It sounds like a fairy tale and that’s a problem. Because Joe’s a scientist. And selkies don’t exist.

Wars for the broken by Yuliares

Five years into his exile, Booker is joined by a companion he never expected to meet. Together, they try to work on healing.

Sometimes they go down to the sewers just so she can scream and scream. “I like to hear it echo,” she explains. “Underwater, you can’t hear anything. Here, at least I can be heard.”

“I don’t feel like a warrior anymore,” she tells him, throwing bread crumbs at pigeons. “I feel broken.”

“You’re still a warrior,” he says roughly. “This is still fighting.”

a good (eighth) impression by deanniker

Over the next few months, Joe runs into Nicky every so often at the farmer’s market. Some weekends Nicky doesn’t make it, because of his work schedule - Joe doesn’t understand it because he doesn’t ask, though he does start to recognize when one of those missing weekends is coming up because Nicky will stock up on things with longer shelf-life. When they do run into each other, they make small talk and move through the stalls together.

Joe doesn’t mention it to Lykon when he stops by, because it is kind of weird, that Lykon’s ex-boyfriend texts Joe things like - If you’re here, the apples look particularly good this week and thank you for that recipe, I did not know what I was going to do with that much couscous

Or,

Joe wouldn't usually consider starting anything with his best friend's ex, but as long as they keep it casual, it shouldn't be weird... right?

get back to where you once belonged by tenderjock

Nile takes a sip of her cappuccino and closes her eyes.

(Booker and Nile get that coffee. Life happens, along the way.)

a house; a home by mehm

“Is this a kidnapping?” Joe asks as Nicky checks both their seat belts. “Like, I don’t mind. It’s just not quite what I expected for my birthday.”

In which Joe gets a birthday surprise, because that’s the stuff you have time for when you and the love of your life become mortal at the same time.

the ties that bind by damaskrose

“There’s a story I heard many times,” Andy begins, “in the Mediterranean. Threads of fate and three sisters. One to spin, one to measure, and one to cut.”

Clutter And Croutons by flawedamythyst

Joe and Nicky have an argument, and then Nicky talks to Nile about what it really means to be in a relationship for 900 years.

Inception

My Big Fat Slightly Annoying Wedding by jibrailis

Arthur and Eames elope for ~tax reasons. Certain people in their lives are not happy at the lack of a wedding.

Remember Sydney by pathera

When Eames shambles into the safe house outside of London, he finds a red light blinking on the phone.

For the inception_kink prompt:

Arthur is on a plane which is about to crash. No way anyone is going to survive. Instead of panicking he calmly calls the team's office and gets the answering machine. He hangs up before the plane crashes.

Give me Arthur's last message to the team.

(TW: Character Death / Angst)

Of Such Deceitfulness and Suavity by delires

In which emotions manifest themselves in unusual ways.

YO, K2tog (it's like a code) by lazulisong

“Oh my God,” moans Arthur. “I’ve paid less for Somnacin. Good Somnacin.” A horrible thought strikes him. “How much is the yarn --”

“I want you to have an unguarded reaction,” Eames tells him, and pulls him up from the floor.

(They run an extraction on a knitter.)

hit the ground running by orphan_account

"I travelled halfway around the world for you. I dealt with the French for you."

Valley by wldnst

It's an old story: a knight, a prince, a kingdom in peril.

If This Is Rain Let It Fall On Me and Drown Me by Brangwen

We used to be so brave, Eames thought. Of the two of them, Arthur had always been the more fearless.

a gentle familiarity by jollypuppet

Two weeks later, Eames is on his doorstep with bad Italian takeout and a grin, and Arthur tells him he can sleep on the couch.

Your Crisis Cannot Be Completed As Dialed by sevenimpossiblethings

Arthur doesn't do snow, Ariadne is determined to be as Midwestern as possible, and blizzards make cell phone service unreliable.

Let’s Say I Do (I Do) by xsilverdreamsx

There were, perhaps some things worse that this, Arthur thinks, as he glares at the letter in his hand with his name printed clearly in bold ink, indicating his presence in two weeks for his esteemed marriage to one William H. Eames, III, at St. Catherine's Church in London, England.

Star Trek (predominantly Kirk/McCoy)

Show the World That Something Good Can Work by knune

Leonard McCoy is a doctor, not a personal assistant, and maybe that's why he can't stand working for Jim Kirk.

It's in the little things by winterover

Bones is bemused by a persistent secret admirer.

"Wedding" Away with It by pendrogon

One morning, Bones wakes up and he's single. By the same afternoon, he's married to Jim Kirk for Arbitrary Fic Reasons(TM).

How Long Will You Stay (For Your Whole Life) by withthepilot

Jim Kirk, deputy director of the Enterprise parks and recreation department, sees all of his hard work fall to pieces when budget specialist Leonard McCoy arrives from the state capital to cut Jim's budget and threaten the livelihoods of his colleagues. But thanks to a major parks project, Leonard finds a place in the department, as well as in Jim's life—and when all is said and done, Jim doesn't want him to leave.

All-Time Favorite by mardia

What to do when your best friend suddenly starts making new friends.

Joy Ride by Cards_Slash

While running for their lives from an alien species Kirk had accidentally enraged, they come across a car. And well, if you were to come across a car while being chased by aliens that wanted you dead, and you possessed some lingering knowledge of how to drive a car similar to said car, you would have decided to drive it toward the nearest cliff too.

Also a gunfight.

Syncytia by epistolic

He’d signed up for Starfleet on an impulse, but Starfleet meant James Tiberius Kirk: the first – and second, and third, and fourth – big mistake of Leonard McCoy’s life.

Renovation by canistakahari

Jim has a whammy put on him by an alien death ray and he suddenly craves domesticity. He's crazy with longing to shop at space!Ikea and get potted bamboo and he starts looking into adopting AND HE HATES HIMSELF AND CANNOT CONTROL THE SHIT. Luckily, McCoy is drunk all the time and plays house.

17:08 by butterflycell

She'd watched the news holos with a sick feeling, searching for information that was completely obvious in its absence. Amidst the reports of the the Enterprise's miraculous recovery and the damages sustained, there had been next to nothing about the crew or her captain. Jim had been mentioned only in passing, his name shied away from as his first officer limited interaction to the bare essentials.

The Honey of Hybla by shrift

"Bones, prepare to be my date."

#recs #fic recs #recs project #star trek recs #inception recs #the raven cycle recs #the old guard recs #roswell new mexico recs

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purefrostbyte · 4 years

Text

Shigaraki - Always Mine

Shigaraki

Rating: Smut

Always Mine

You and Shigaraki had been friends since you were children. Your father had been a villain working under All For One and he left you at the bar often. Shigaraki had quickly fallen in love with you, you were patience and not afraid of him. You would hug him, hold his hand and help him through panic attacks and tantrums. But that changed slightly when your father died.

You left, deciding to try and make something with your life other than villainy. Shigaraki was mad, but accepted it because it made you happy. You had always been and explorer. You had travel most of Japan, always staying in touch with him.

But then you got a boyfriend.

Shigaraki had never wanted to kill someone more in his life, hell even his hatred for All Might couldn’t top this. You were happy, without him. Pout there kissing some insignificant asshole when you should be in his arms. You had many relationships since you left, each ending because they just weren’t right for you.

Now you were back in Musutafu with your boyfriend of one and a half years. You had never told any of your partners of you past or family, simply saying they were dead and it didn’t matter. The day you had landed back in Musutafu you had messaged Shigi to ask when you could visit. He had been ecstatic about your return and you had both met in an old abandoned park and few blocks from his base. When the topic of your boyfriend came up Shigaraki had to control his angry. And when you mentioned you had given your first time to him, Shigaraki had known he was going to kill him.

Shigaraki stalked you for the next week, watching in anger and jealously as you kissed your boyfriend and held his hand. That should be me, Shigiraki seethed and would end up disintegrating something around him. He would watch how your face would turn into a smile when your boyfriend told a joke, how you laughed and flushed whenever you were around him.

It was currently midnight and you were alone in bed, your boyfriend out working for the night. Or at least that’s what he had told you. Your phone ran, a familiar name lighting up the screen, “Tomura,” you answered a smiled on your face. “Y/n,” his voice held a deceptive calm to it, “I need you to come down to the base.” You frowned, “Tomura you know that isn’t my life anymore.” The next word that came out of his mouth shocked you, “I have your boyfriend tied to a chair in front of me.”

Anger flooded your veins, “What the hell Tomura?!” you screamed, sitting up and throwing the covers off you. “I’ll send you the address,” and he hung up.

You were there in 5 minutes, face showing how angry you were. When the base door slammed open all the members were alerted to your presences, Toga getting her knife and Dabi lighting his fist. They were expecting a fight. Kurogiri walked through a side door, “Y/n, it’s nice to see you.” It confused the others but you didn’t care. “Where is he,” your seethed, quirk activating slightly causing objects around you to float. “I’ll take you there.” Kurogiri said and he stepped aside gesturing to the door.

You followed behind him, quiet and deadly as you approached the basement. Kurogiri opened it and quickly left, knowing the storm that would be unleashed. You walked in to see your boyfriend tied to a chair and Shigaraki standing in the corner glaring at him. When you boyfriend saw you his face twisted to shock and confusion, while Shigaraki’s showed happiness. “What is this Tomura,” you voice shook the room, you hadn’t been this angry in a long time. “Why don’t you ask your boyfriend what he was doing tonight, or more specifically who.”

Shock to your face as you stared at your best friend, eyes wide at his accusation. “What?” you asked softly turning to your boyfriend, Shigiraki was your best friend and you knew he wouldn’t lie to you. “What is he talking about?” you questioned, hands curling into fists, “Y/n you need to believe me, he’s a psycho I would never cheat-“ Shigaraki pushed off the wall, “Should I show her the photos or maybe the video recording.”

Your boyfriends face twisted in shock and then guilt. “You-,” your voice was soft while your body trembled in anger and betrayal. Shigaraki watched you, a smirk covering his face when he realize what you were about to do. Your boyfriend started begging, saying it was a mistake. You walked silently up to him, placing both hands on either side of his face. He watched in horror as your eyes glowed red and soon his head exploded in your hands.

Shigaraki watched happily as you killed him, walking up behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulled you into his chest, resting his head on your shoulder, “How pretty,” he cooed at your handy work. Tears stung your eyes, you had given him your first and he had betrayed you. Shigaraki noticed how your body shook, turning you around to wipe away your tears. He then pulled you out the basement to his office, making sure he was careful with how he handled you.

He shut the door and locked it, he didn’t need any disturbances. He went to his desk drawer and quickly put on gloves that had two fingers, something he only used on you. “Why,” your voice cracked, “Why am I so unlovable.” Your words made his heart break and he quickly pulling you into a hug, petting your head as you cried into his shoulder. “Shh, he isn’t worth it. He didn’t even know the real you, he doesn’t deserve your tears.” Your sobbing quietened, and Shigaraki took this moment to lift you up onto his desk. You weren’t sure what he was doing but when you felt his lips meet you neck you couldn’t help but push him away. “Tomura what are you-“ he silenced you with a kiss, his hands digging into your hips to get you to yelp. When you did he stuck his tongue into your mouth, moaning at the taste of nicotine and mint on your tongue. You gave up with pushing him away, instead wrapping your legs and arms around him to pull him closer.

His hands found the hem of your shirt, quickly breaking the kiss to pull it over your head. Your panting was heavy and he started littering dark hickeys across you neck and chest. You wanted the world to know you where his. “You’re not leaving again,” he whispered, “No one else will have you, you’re Mine!” he punctuated his last sentence by pulling your shorts down. You gasped in surprise, anxiety creeping into your mind.

“I was being nice when I let you go,” he muttered as he lowered his hand in between your legs, “I’m done being nice.” He ripped you panties before entering a finger into you. You gasped and moaned, his words making your core drip. “Your mine Y/n, always have been. And I’m sick of letting you run around with other people,” he was angry, it scared and aroused you. You pulled him closer, lips brushing against his, “Yours” you muttered softly. Shigiraki grinned, something wild and feral from hearing the word fall from your lips. “Mine.”

He had three fingers in you now, working you open so he could fit in you without hurting you too much. If he was going to hurt you he would make sure it was something you enjoyed. He wrapped his other hand around your neck, squeezing lightly on the sides of your neck. “You’re gonna moan my name nice and pretty you hear me. I don’t care who hears you, everyone will know your mine.” He pulled his fingers out of you before quickly stripping himself of his cloths. He stared at your naked form as he pushed in, a small groan escaping him as he felt your walls welcome him. “You came here, to me without a bra on. Was that for your pathetic excuse of a toy or for me?” He held you neck as he lightly bucked his hips, relishing in the moan you produced. “You Tomura, always you.” The sentence making his heart happy, “That’s my girl.”

He snapped his hips harder, pushing you down onto his desk before lifting both your legs over his shoulders, “You should never have left me,” he growled as he thrusted in to you harder and faster, “This is where you belong, by my side. You know it’s true, you know you can’t hide your villain instincts. Now your back and I’ll make sure you stay, even if it means I’d have to get you pregnant.”

Yours eyes widened at the statement, but soon they rolled back as Shigiraki hit that special spot inside you. God, it hadn’t felt this good the first time. He hammered into that spot, chasing your orgasms. He loved the idea of you pregnant with his kid, and it fueled him. You were close, your walls squeezing around him as your back arched of the desk. “TOMURA!!!” you screamed in ecstasy as your orgasm ripped through you. Shigaraki cursed under his breath as you squeezed around him, and soon he was cumming to. He milked your orgasms pulling you up and close to him so he could kiss you.

When you finally came down he gripped your chin in his hand, “Mine?” he growled and you nodded, “Yours.”

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #bnha #bnha smut #shigaraki smut

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aks3raao1 · 3 years

Note

Uhhh, well first there was this torture game involving my family (everyone died in front of my eyes by different methods(Mom: Hand mangled, infected and blood loss; Grandpa: Pecked by a bird, crushed by an aeroplane, Rest killed off screen by drowning in a flooded chamber)) and then I went to Egypt to look for a cure with Shuichi Saihara and Korekiyo and Shuichi was telling me a story about how two rivals became two rivals (which was exactly what had happened in the beginning of the dream where Nagito talked about his love™ for Hajime except he introduced a fan of the spy character (me) and made the spy character a male) which caused me to become wary of him. Then we all reached the Pyramids where there were people cosplaying the gods from the Egyptian Pantheon and Korekiyo began monologuing on The Book Of The Dead (which talked about resurrection due to dream logic apparently). And Shuichi and I became extremely involved in that resurrection drama. Shuichi was also trying to unlock the mystery behind Korekiyo and he is a serial killer who kills girls to send as "friends" to his deceased sister. However there are multiple theories behind what actually happened which Shuichi talks about later on) while I was more interested in the resurrection and the ways to do so.

And then there was an abrupt scene change to my school which had opened after the quarantine (and I was weirdly relieved because I had successfully done something but after the teacher thing, it became apparent that the success wasn't about school) and my mom was somehow alive again but I was shown to be staring at her hands and remembering what had happened (I had memories of the last two incidents) while she was just being normal and called a teacher to ask about me while I shrunk away (#just student things) and our school resembled a church in the middle of a garden type thing. There were white chairs laid out and I remember thinking that they looked like gravestones and shivered and then told mom that I was going inside because I didn't want to think about *that* now.

Our school looked....weird to say the least. They had renovated it so everything felt wrong because the colours were darker and earthy instead of the light ones I was used to and the stairs were all arranged differently as well. I grabbed a friend and we both went to find our class. Instead of two sections, we had four sections now and were very confused where to sit because we hadn't been informed of it prior to this. We sat down in a random section and I began doing my English work (which I had actually been doing when I fell asleep irl) but the time came and went and no one entered the class (Class eight for some reason), so we realised that we had made a mistake and we remembered that we were in ninth and I was like, "Oh fuck, the time is nearer than I thought" and we ran to our actual class where our classmates were. She went and started talking to another friend and I was left alone to find a seat. I saw Makoto Naegi (Protagonist of Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc) who looked extremely nervous for some reason and said in narration,

"All the protagonists have been sent back in time to steer their respective classes away from the Killing Games and prevent the apocalypse before it starts. Will they be able to do it?"

Then the POV went over to Shuichi who had extremely distorted memories from the Killing Game was playing Detective on himself to figure out what they meant. He remembered that he desperately needed to figure out what was going on with Korekiyo, that Tsumugi was important and that Kokichi was dangerous but the other memories were too disjointed for him to figure out.

He tries to get Kokichi who's trying to. Uh, nail Tsumugi to the bulletin board with actual nails and hammers. Shuichi's horrified and believes that Kokichi is the one responsible for his Killing Game due to this kind of malicious attitude (and also because Tsumugi is a damned good actor at playing the victim + she might not be actually planning the Killing Game then) and he tries to actually restrain Kokichi who sees Shuichi and flees while Tsumugi falls to the ground crying. Shuichi runs over to comfort her and thinks of how Kokichi while pranking others never felt malicious at all but now he realises that he could have made a mistake. However it's also implied that he wants to get information about why Kokichi behaved the way he did since he obviously knows more than he lets on.

POV shifts over to Kokichi for a brief moment to show that he's the one with all memories intact but he cannot divulge them for game balance.

Then we see Shuichi who has remembered Korekiyo's case and is devising two theories on it:

a) Korekiyo is a loony delusional serial killer who loves to kill girls and is just using his own sister as an excuse (who he has killed himself too)

b) His sister was a dangerous psychopath (visualised by her turning into a snake and wrapping herself around his body in a sexual manner while he's in pain™) and that she emotionally manipulated him to do this and her ghost didn't abandon him even when he died.

As he's ruminating on this, the POV shifts to Hajime who's talking to Nagito and Chiaki and has a brief flashback to his time as Izuru Kamakura.

Now this is a divergence from actual canon in terms of backstories as we see Hawks grab Izuru and tell him that he will make him feel (in a fatherly found family way) something. A time period elapses where there is a part where Hawks takes Izuru to a fair and is talking about how great chicken nuggets and other chicken dishes are while Izuru emoily licks an ice-cream.

At the end of the time period, Izuru claims that he still can't feel anything and Hawks goes, "Well....I failed then" and flies him to a rooftop. Izuru is confused slightly when Hawks bends over him (no, not sexually, enough sex is enough) and then blood splatters onto Izuru's face and he realises that Hawks is bleeding from a fatal wound and that he had done that to save Izuru from being attacked. Hawks falls down, heavily injured as Izuru sits up and sees Tanizaki who's somehow an assassin here and is flying as well somehow. Izuru asks Hawks why he did this since Izuru could have saved himself too and then Hawks goes, "Because I am a hero", not really expecting Izuru to react much. (Note that chronologically, an apocalypse is going on now and Tanizaki has probably fallen into Despair and Hawks is tryna save the world or whatever). However Izuru does react and starts crying because this is the first time anyone saw him as a person who needs to be saved too.

It's implied that Hawks died here in actual memory but then Hajime pushes forth and invents a part where Hawks actually doesn't die there and instead gets up and fights Tanizaki.

Now Hawks's death was the reason Izuru wanted to save the world (mine was my family, Shuichi's was basically everyone but mostly Korekiyo, Makoto's was everyone), but since Hajime wanted to save everyone, he wanted to save Hawks as well.

However if he saved Hawks, then his reason to save others would vanish in that instant, causing a paradox and things to be reset.

Then I woke up with the message that, "Our traumas along with our happy times influence who we are now".

.............you be waking up to life lessons daily mah dude * finishes popcorn and claps* talk abt inspiring. Other than that, do you need a hug?

#danganronpa #mha #danganronpa x mha #dream #danganronpa dream #bnha #crossover #Hawks #shuichi saihara #kokichi ouma #drv3 korekiyo #izuru kamukura #our traumas along with our happy times influence who we are now

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square-blunt · 3 years

Text

You're in my heart, in my heart, in my head.

chapter two fucking finally. take it. fucking take it.

TW- MCD (major character death), suicide, like the fic ends in suicide and it's not good. Angst. there is so much angst-

WC: 2034 Ao3: :) First chapter: :)

Jimmy didn’t tear his eyes away from Scott once.

After they got ripped apart, all the neurons in his body were screaming at him to stop struggling and to go limp- he could feel the muscle in his back ripping apart but he had to. He didn’t feel the physical pain. But his heart was hammering so hard and he was screaming much louder than he thought was possible- screaming to Scott, praying and hoping that he could hear him over Joey- and maybe he did.

Because Scott never stopped looking at him.

And then, Scott smiled at him.

It was sweet, and weak, and it was tired. It should have been full of life, but instead- Scott used all his energy to give Jimmy that smile. It was sickeningly comforting- Scott, who was about to be sacrificed, about to have a knife through his heart- was comforting him, and Jimmy couldn’t sob any louder. He knows his screams and sobs and pleas won’t do anything to stop the inevitable. But with a sound that Jimmy will never be able to get out of his head, the inevitable comes to fruition. As the knife falls, Jimmy does too. The hooks that held onto his back retract and Jimmy crashes to the ground, rocks cutting into his hands. Part of him is grateful that he fell when he did. Whatever higher power was looking out for him must not have wanted him to see the knife going into Scott’s chest.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t imagine it.

As soon as he hits the ground he looks back up, just in time for Joey and Xornoth to disappear into smoke, and for the obsidian altar to crumble into dust- and Scott's body to roll off. Jimmy catches sight of Scott's limp hand and he turns away, holding his side, trying not to throw up.

He focuses on that.

Trying to keep the contents of his stomach down, swallowing thickly, he focuses on the burn of his head, his throat, and his heart.

His heart hurts.

It hurts more than any weapon could ever come close to inflicting.

After looking at Scott for so long, promising himself that he'd never look away, it's funny that now he physically can't bear to look up.

It's because Scott was alive then.

And now he, and possibly everyone else, is dead.

But he can't stop himself from crawling, very painfully, over to Scott. Only then does he notice how much blood there is. His, Scott's, it doesn’t matter- or it did.

Because Scott's blood should have stayed in his body.

Why didn't Jimmy speak up?

Xornoth had told Jimmy everything.

Their plan, why they were doing it- how they knew it was going to work.

They told Jimmy about a past life- a past three lives to be exact. And Jimmy remembered. It was like Xornoth had a key that finally gave Jimmy what he knew he was missing. And of course, he had fallen in love with Scott.

Of course, it was Scott.

Of course, it was Scott who came to his rescue. Everything else was a blur, of pain and hurt, but the kiss. Jimmy knew he had to. He had to let Scott know that he knew- that he remembered.

It was worth every second.

And even now he can feel the phantom of Scott's lips on his own, Scott's hair between his fingers, he can feel it more than the dull throbbing of his heart and his back. Physical pain couldn't reach him, his mind was already too busy imploding on itself to register anything else.

He feels the phantom of Scott's warm hand in his own.

He reaches out and takes his cold, real hand again.

Jimmy brushes away the dust and the blood, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles, and he stops at the ring finger. There's a simple silver band.

Jimmy spawned into Empires with a matching gold ring.

Only now does he know why.

He gently slips the ring off Scott's finger. He knows he shouldn't, but if it's all he can have of Scott- he's gonna take whatever he can get.

He moves up, noticing the detail on the sleeve of Scott's shirt. He wasn't wearing anything fancy, but he was still the most beautiful living thing Jimmy had ever seen. Scott had been wearing a sky blue t-shirt and brown pants- one could die in a more regal manner, but Scott still looked more amazing than any star in the night, any bird in the air… any flower in the field.

"It felt right," Jimmy says, voice unrecognizable even to himself. It only makes him cry more. Scott was his everything- Scott completed him. And Jimmy doesn't know who he is without Scott. He knew he was one half of a whole but didn’t know whose half, and now he has to live as a half without his other.

His communicator buzzes.

He doesn't care.

It's probably a death message.

He hopes Xornoth won't torture his family the way they did his lover.

He knows they probably did.

It buzzes again.

He grips Scott's hand tighter, maybe if he squeezes hard enough, it'll squeeze back.

Please, please, squeeze back.

Jimmy takes a deep breath.

At least Scott's eyes are closed.

His communicator buzzes again.

He still doesn't care.

He thought he'd be more distraught.

Looking down at Scott, his perfect, sleeping face, he thought he’d be screaming at the skies, clawing at his heart- trying to scratch the pain away, but he’s not. He should be mad, he should be trying to find Joey, at least, and hurt him as much as he had been hurt, but he’s not. He should have tried to swap back, but he knew his life wasn’t the end goal. He should be crying, letting the tears wash away all of the dust and dirt and blood but he’s not. He’s not doing any of it.

His communicator buzzes.

He’s holding Scott’s hand.

He’s holding Scott’s face.

He’s kissing his forehead.

He’s smoothing out his hair.

His communicator buzzes.

He notices Scott’s necklace, and that’s when he cries.

It’s a gold poppy flower- crudely made, rushed, unpolished, it was something Jimmy made. Jimmy himself was crudely made, rushed, and unpolished, so it makes sense that anything he made would be too.

His communicator buzzes.

He had given it to Scott a few hours before they arrived on the battlefield and Scott spent the next minutes staring at it while Jimmy got some things together.

Jimmy spent those minutes staring at him.

And then he died and lost everything.

Scott’s his everything.

And he’s lost it again.

His communicator buzzes.

He cradles Scott's head in his lap, staring down into his face.

He closes his eyes.

The ground under him changes. Rocks stop digging into his knees, and instead, there's soft wool. The smell of dirt and blood is replaced with clean linen and firewood.

What's worse, he can't feel Scott in his hands anymore.

Jimmy's eyes snap open.

His communicator buzzes one last time.

He's kneeling on cyan and yellow carpet, this must be somewhere in Rivendell. But it feels suffocating. It feels wrong.

Jimmy looks up and sees why.

Outside the windows the sky is red- this really is the end of the world. But the elephant in the room is that Xornoth is standing right in front of him. One of the last living things on this planet. Jimmy doesn't give them the victory of meeting their gaze.

"Codfather, Solidarity, sweet swamp boy- you hold many titles, don't you, Jimmy?" Xornoth says, manic glee in their voice. It makes Jimmy want to throw up.

"Just kill me. Please." Jimmy whispers, pain raw in his voice.

"No. I won't kill you, and you can blame your beloved Scott. The whole "can’t hurt you" condition in his heroic sacrifice doesn't feel heroic now, does it?" Xornoth looms over him, a shit-eating sneer of terrifying joy on their face. “Besides, why would I kill you? You were the key to the lock, the final piece to the puzzle, the gear that made this entire plan work- I should be thanking you. None of this could have happened if you weren’t there. He would still be alive if it weren’t for you- they all are dead because of you. Thank you, Jimmy. You seem to be often thanked for causing things that you stand against in the end. But that’s the way of life, is it not? People taking advantage of you for one reason or another, and then rubbing it in your face when they use you to get what they want. But don’t worry, no one will ever be able to use you again. Isn’t that what you wanted? You were pushed around by everyone, and now both you and I are free.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Jimmy says, maybe if he pisses them off enough they’ll just kill him anyway.

“No, you’re not. I am powerful, you are pitiful. I am armageddon, you are a disappointment. If death is theater, then I am Shakespeare, and you are a prop, a pawn. You were meant as something to be used. I was trying to offer a hand because as much as you hate yourself for it, you were the only reason why this plan worked. But if you insist on continuing to pretend that you have even a sliver of honor left then I will leave you to rot. But I promised not to lay a hand on you. In hindsight, not being able to kill you might have actually been a bad thing. See my plan was, Jimmy, I was going to kill you after all this, but your death would be instant and painless, but it seems that Scott has fucked something else over for everyone else. I was going to show you mercy, I wouldn’t torture you with a long and painful death or make you watch as- well, I guess I already did that, huh.” And they laughed . They laughed and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the crumbling world. They laughed at Jimmy, at his pain, it echoed off the walls of the dying church, sucking the last good out of the air to fuel the hysteric voice of insane victory.

Jimmy’s hope was flooding out with it.

Xornoth snaps their fingers, still laughing, and the world around Jimmy changes again, soft carpet to hardwood floors, still air to blistering wind- he's in his alliance tower.

He takes the heads down without looking at them, he can't bear to look.

He goes straight down the tower without looking.

It's a good thing he didn't.

He would have seen the bodies of everyone- ally and enemy- swinging from the rafters.

At the bottom of the ladder, he finds a rope of his own.

He doesn't even question it.

He silently finds a nearby tree and gets to work.

The Empire is deathly quiet- even the wind has died out.

He feels eyes. They're watching him. It feels familiar- watching a final soul end it all after everyone he knows is long gone.

He finishes the knot, throws the other end up and over the tree to tie it off.

He decides to build his own gallows as well.

Three blocks should be tall enough.

He puts the noose over his head like a medal- a winner's medal. That's what he was.

He won.

He takes the step.

And he's back in Scott's arms.

Finally.

#gremfics #empires #empires smp #flower husbands #flower husbands angst #suicide tw #scott smajor #he's fucking dead everybody dead #solidaritygaming #jimmy solidarity #solidarity gaming #sweet swamp boy #i hate writing

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ickle-ronniekins · 4 years

Text

tongue tied

request from anon: Asgfaafhjlkfsdgj I loved your George x reader where they’re shy and flustered it’s so cute!!!! Could you write one with a similar shy reader but with Fred? Accept Fred’s just extra loud and funny when around her to impress her?

pairing: fred x gryffindor fem!reader

word count: 4.9k yikes

A/N: I LOVE FRED AND GEORGE WITH FLUSTERED READERS, GAAAAD, i’m sort of emotional, if you can’t already tell—also, i’m allowed to make fun of choir geeks because i, too, am a choir geek and know precisely just how dorky it is

tag list: @mintlibri @seppys-return-to-madness @how-do-life-does @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @semmelsemi @bobduncanlover @cottageoflove @laneygthememequeen @snakesonaplane-7 @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove | message me if you’d like to be added my loves

Fred Weasley normally doesn’t even try this hard to impress someone—or anyone, for that matter.

But as of late, he’s been racking his brain and planning some over-the-top prank only to catch your attention—the shy, sweet Gryffindor girl who seems to have caught his eye when he found you, late one evening, sneaking out of the portrait hole in the common room.

“Where’re you off too this late?” he asked cheekily. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

You thought about this, not sure if you should respond, but then decided it’d be best to just tell him the truth—guys like him would do their best to find out, anyway. His heart soared when he realized that you already knew a bit about him, “You’re not the only one who sneaks to the kitchens to grab a late night snack.”

He’d always found you pretty; perhaps, maybe you were the prettiest girl Gryffindor had even seen. And now, knowing that the pretty girl in Gryffindor tower also tends to break the rules from time to time, he finds himself head over heels.

Since that moment, he’s been focused on one thing and one thing only—get you to notice him. Or, at least, get you two talking.

But why is it, he asks himself, that the one time he wants to impress you with some type of outrageous ordeal, it’s the one he gets caught doing? Although, he admits to his twin later that evening, replacing some classroom entrances with biting doorknobs in the hopes that Malfoy or one of his cronies gets their fingers sliced off was probably going a little bit too far—especially when Filch is on the receiving end of it. Even George can agree on that.

McGonagall grabs a fistful of Fred’s robes and pushes him toward the stairs with George on her other side. “You’ve given me no choice, Mr. Weasley. My office, Saturday morning—detention.”

“C’mon, Professor—” Fred says, craning his neck over the crowd to try and find you, “We were just having a laugh—we would’ve stopped someone anyway before it got too far, promise!”

The Headmistress cocks her head to the side and folds her arms across her chest. “Saturday, the both of you.”

The crowd begins to roar with raucous laughter as Fred and George bask in all their glory on the staircase, fellow Gryffindors and students from other houses cheering for them despite their upcoming weekend in detention. And then he sees you—pressed against the wall near the entrance of the Great Hall, standing beside some statue, trying not to be noticed, but watching the both of them with—is it admiration, or confusion, perhaps? He just hopes it isn’t disgust. Fred can’t read your expression over the crowd, and it’s killing him. The students begin to disperse, and when he finally makes his way through the sea of people to where you’re standing, you’re already gone.

He finds himself worried now, which is, to say the least, very unlike him. Fred Weasley? Worried? The word isn’t even in his day to day vernacular. But has this very funny—albeit, sort of stupid—prank gone over the top? Was it a bit too much? Has he scared away the shy girl he was trying so desperately to pursue, and he didn’t stop to think about his actions?

He follows his twin begrudgingly back to class.

“You two really could’ve caused severe damage,” Hermione tells them later at the feast, “people have gone to St. Mungo’s for treatment after being on the receiving end of a biting doorknob! You’re lucky McGonagall only gave you—”

“Oi, give it a rest, Hermione,” Ron says and she turns a bright shade of pink, “they were only having a laugh, weren’t they?”

Fred slumps back in his seat, picking at the food on his plate. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?” Ginny pipes up.

George, Ron, and Harry all turn to look at Fred, who grins at them cheekily and says, “Yeah, yeah—not one of my brighter ideas,”

Ginny smacks Fred playfully with her book. “What on earth—”

“He’s got a crush to impress.”

Fred shoots a look at his twin, who’s cackling in between bites of a cauldron cake, when Ron, Ginny, Harry, and Hermione all peer at Fred quizzically. George nods in the direction of you, sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table with a few fellow friends, laughing slightly over something in someone’s notebook.

“No way,” Ron laughs haughtily, coughing a bit on a piece of half-chewed tart, “Y/N? She’s the exact complete opposite of you.”

Fred digests this. “Meaning?”

“Well, for starters, she’s not a complete git—”

When the boys fall into a fit, Fred flicks some food at the three of them, casually placing his hands behind his head, as if this is going to help relax him. It doesn’t. “Well opposites attract, don’t they, Ronniekins?”

Skittishly, Ron steals a glance at Hermione, who has seemingly chosen to ignore the conversation, as she is now immersed in her spellbook in front of her. Ron falls very silent and turns a bright shade of red, resembling that of a tomato, as he sinks into his seat.

“Besides,” Fred tells the group, taking a long sip of his pumpkin juice, “we’ve got more in common than you think.”

Harry laughs when George says, “Do tell us.”

“Y/N likes to cause a stir now and again. Bend the rules a bit.”

“And how,” Ginny begins inquiringly, trying her best to hide her interest, “d’you know this?”

Fred pauses and considers this for a moment. He reckons that you probably won’t be the most happy to know that there are other Gryffindors besides him that have learned of your late night sneak outs to the kitchens. He decides to keep it to himself. “I have my ways.”

“Well, good luck, mate,” Ron says, color flooding his face, “because the likeliness of you two snogging in a corner somewhere is about as likely as you and George becoming Prefects.”

The table roars with laughter, and Fred notices you turn your head, along with other students, to see, again, what all the ruckus is about. As his friends continue to cackle maniacally, Fred’s eyes meet yours, and he freezes. It’s a very fleeting moment before your eyes are darting toward the food in front of you, trying to avoid any and all eye contact. But when you look up again, Fred’s still peering at you. You furrow your brow slightly, and then send him a soft smile from across the way.

His heart is hammering in his chest, but he sends a smile back, as well.

Okay, so he hasn’t completely lost his chances—not yet, anyway. You’re not completely repulsed by the boy who lands himself in detention more often than not, even if his latest prank was one of the most reckless he’s ever pulled. Fred snaps back to reality when George is teasingly pinching his cheeks, and Harry’s shaking his shoulders. “Oh shove off, you lot,” he replies as the hysteria finally dies down. He swears he sees you glance over at him again.

The steps up to the Owlery are slippery because of the light snow dusting Hogwarts awoke too, but it doesn’t stop Fred from flying up there to send a letter to his brother in Romania.

To his surprise, though, he catches you at the top, hastily writing a name on a bit of parchment, and it’s probably the thickest letter he’s ever seen.

“Oh,” he says, taken aback by your presence, “sorry—didn’t realize anyone else was up here,”

“No worry,” you reply with a shy smile, handing the letter to your owl and patting him softly before he takes off, blending in with the snow covered grounds.

With the realization that his friends are far away in the castle and would have no chance to tease him about his flushed face when he sees you, Fred seizes this opportunity of alone time together. “Quite a long letter you’ve written.”

You turn to look at him as you swing your bag over your shoulder, kind of shocked that he’d noticed the length of a letter not meant for him. “Oh—erm—yes, I do tend to ramble on quite a bit when writing to loved ones,”

Fred feels his insides tighten, and why his mind immediately goes to boyfriend, he doesn’t know—but he hates it. You continue before he can ask anything, “I’m Muggleborn, you see.”

Fred did not know this. His eyes pop open in admiration, and he’s excited that he’s finally learning more about you.

“I’m sure your family has lots of questions.”

“My mum, yes,” you reply, nodding your head in agreement, “she just likes weekly updates, you know, to make sure classes are going well, I’m staying safe—that I haven’t been.. eaten by a dragon, or anything.”

Fred laughs at this, taking you by surprise. He runs a hand through his hair and tells you, “Something all Muggle parents should worry about, of course.”

“Of course,” you bite your lip, pausing to consider the conversation. After a moment, you continue, “However—if you’re going to go, getting eaten by a dragon is probably the most wicked, d’you reckon?”

When he wandered up to the Owlery that afternoon and spotted you, discussing being eaten alive by dragons was not exactly how he expected the conversation to go. But he took it. He was talking to you, anyway. He replies, “I mean—can’t be any less exciting than being pummeled by the Whomping Willow,”

A laugh escapes your lips, and it’s sweet as sugar, as far as Fred is concerned. He can feel his entire body go numb at the sound of it.

You nervously tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and say to him, “Hope McGonagall isn’t giving you and your brother that hard of a time in detention.”

Fred feels his face flush red, but—it’s not like the entire bloody school hadn’t seen them get scolded, right? But hearing you say it, recognize it—it makes his entire body tense up.

“Oh, you—you saw that, did you?”

“Think the entire school did, I’m afraid.” You both pause, taking this in, and Fred laughs nervously. “But, hey—it’s not like anyone got hurt, right?”

“Right,” he replies, finally remembering the letter he needs to send. He places it into the beak of a barn owl, who hoots appreciatively and flies off into the sky. “I suppose we’re used to it, and I reckon McGonagall is, too.”

You peer down at your shoes, doing your best to try and suppress quite a large grin, and Fred notices this. You both make your way down from the Owlery, not speaking, but the silence is comfortable, and Fred graciously offers you his hand when you nearly slip on the way down. Gratefully, you take it, and he’s pretty sure his heart stops beating for a moment. When you both enter the castle, he has to stop himself from melting in front of you when you remove your hat and gloves, noticing the pinky-gold color of the tips of your ears and nose. He’s brought back to reality when he hears a cackle from the Great Hall.

“Well,” you tell him, removing your coat and slinging it over your shoulder, “was nice chatting with you,”

Fred is sad your time together for the day is coming to an end, but he reckons it’s enough to get him through until you undoubtedly bump into one another later in the common room, “Yeah, it was—maybe next time you can tell me some other things Muggle parents worry about when it comes to the Wizarding world.”

Without skipping a beat, you reply, “Like getting fingers bitten off by a biting doorknob,”

He furrows his brow and laughs slightly, unable to read your expression until you, too, giggle sweetly. He swallows thickly before you say, “Well—have a g’night, Fred.”

“You, too.”

He doesn’t even care if you catch him watching you—he can’t help but keep his eyes on you as you walk swiftly up the steps, until you disappear from his sight completely.

His heart is still hammering in his chest when he thinks of your hand wrapped inside of his, and he can hardly focus on all of the questions coming his way from his siblings. Physically, he’s seated in the Great Hall, his chin resting on his hand, a slight glaze over his eyes—but his heart and mind have followed you all the way back to the Gryffindor common room.

Fred is absolutely loving all of the free periods he’s getting this term as he watches all of the younger students speed off hurriedly to their next glasses. He and George stand together, nothing but free time in front of them, when Ron comes trudging down the corridor with a glazed look on his face, Harry and Hermione on either side of him. No doubt coming straight from Divination.

Hermione waves quickly before heading off in a different direction, when Ron and Harry bump into the twins and lean against the wall. “Bloody hell, that woman drains me,”

“Your choice to take Divination, mate,” George says and pats his younger brother on the shoulder, “could’ve told you you’re out of your bloody mind.”

“Where’re you two off to, then?” Harry asks.

“Free period,” the twins chorus together, and both Ron and Harry grunt miserably. Fred continues, “Have some plans up our sleeves—reckon a bit of mischief this afternoon would do us some good, eh, Georgie?”

But before George can answer, Harry elbows Fred a little bit harder than expected, and before Fred can yell out in pain, Ron nods toward the other end of the corridor. Fred turns around, and the pain in his ribcage is flooded by nerves—he’s not sure which he’d rather have, to be honest—but he spots you, chatting up a Ravenclaw, a pile of books in your hands. All pain seems to subside at the sight of your toothy smile.

“On second thought..” Fred says to nobody in particular, leaving the boys behind as he hastily makes his way through the crowd, running on not much other than coffee and adrenaline. “Hey, Y/N!”

You turn toward him, surprised to see him clambering his way through fellow students in order to get to you. “Hi, Fred,” you say brightly, reaching out to fix his askew tie, and he’s pretty sure that the entire world can hear his heart pounding. You realize what you’re doing, and quickly retreat, looking around the corridors as if the sheer fact of you brushing your hands against Fred Weasley’s clothes will kill you with embarrassment. He can’t help but grin goofily at your nervous state.

“How are you? No dragons today?”

You bite down a smile, and Fred knows he’s said the right thing. “No—not today. Though I daresay I narrowly escaped one in the girls lavatory before.”

“So that’s where they’re hidden,” he replies, elated beyond belief to hear that laugh of yours again. The unmistakable sound of mock laughter from his friends bounces off the walls as they walk past you both—albeit, rather lethargically.

Fred rolls his eyes before sticking a hand out, as if he’s displaying them, “My lovely brothers,”

George, Ron, and Harry all introduce themselves to you before George begins, much to Fred’s dismay, “Might I just say, Y/N, that the effect you have on him is wonderfully entertaining, if not comical—”

He’s cut off by a sharp blow to his shin, but he laughs through gritted teeth. You grin inquiringly, “And.. what kind of effect is this exactly?” you ask Fred, who opens his mouth to speak, but sputters.

“Oh—erm—nothing? I mean—they’re just having a bit of a.. a laugh,” he tells you, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his own skin, and this annoys him beyond belief. Maybe it’s because he’s worried his twin will spill his guts, or maybe it’s due to the fact that Ron and Harry are now admiring your beauty too, or maybe it’s because he’s afraid the mere expression on his face will tell you everything you need to know.

“Now you’ve got him tongue tied!” Ron calls to you from the end of the corridor, where the boys are now disappearing. “Fred Weasley.. tongue tied.. the bloke who can never shut the hell up, who’d’ve thought it?” Their voices float for a moment between you both, until the bustling sounds of other students drowns it out.

Fred kicks at the ground, nerves engulfing him, as you wait with baited breath for whatever he’s about to say. “Sorry about them,” he tells you as he slams his hands into his pockets, “they’re a bunch of gits..” Looking to change the subject as quickly as possible, he asks you, “So—you free for a stroll?”

Thankfully, it seems to Fred as though you’ve forgotten all about his brothers’ snide comments. To his dismay, however, you reply begrudgingly with a twinge of guilt to your voice, “Oh, I’m sorry, Fred, unfortunately—have got double Transfiguration—but I’m now second guessing my choices of why I signed up for this in the first place..” Your voice drifts off and Fred feels as though he’s forcing himself to hear more, he wants to hear your voice more, “See you soon? Stay out of trouble.”

You raise a hand to him and continue down the emptying corridor, and he watches you enter McGonagall’s classroom. The Deputy Head is standing on the opposite side of the hall, chatting animatedly with Professor Flitwick before heading inside to begin her lesson. Suddenly, a weird feeling floods through Fred’s body—is he actually thinking—? No, he couldn’t be, he has a free period now, and why would he give that up?

Yet, he finds his legs carrying him across the hall and his mouth is sputtering out words to McGonagall before he can barely even register what he’s doing.

“You look like death.”

Fred slumps into an armchair in the common room, barely able to keep his eyes open, and chucks a throw pillow at Ron. “Thanks, mate,”

George sits down beside his twin. “Where’ve you been? You ran off and we haven’t seen you since!”

“Double Transfiguration,” Fred says sleepily, resting his head on the side of the chair, and not opening his eyes.

“Double Transfiguration?” Harry and Ron say together. “Since when d’you take Double Transfiguration?”

When Fred opens his eyes, he can already tell they probably look incredibly bloodshot. Next to him, George is grinning at him cheekily.

“Look at you,” George begins mockingly, his eyes narrow slits due to his suppressed laughter, “taking up extra classes just to spend time with this girl.”

The unmistakable sound of Harry snorting bounces off of the walls. “Blimey, there’s not enough gold in the world—you’re off your rocker, Fred.”

“Have you two even kissed yet?”

“No, Ronald,” Fred replies a bit angrily, “we haven’t. Not that it’s any of your business, but—‘m taking my time. Don’t want to push her into anything. I’m still trying to feel it out. This isn’t something you can rush into, lads. Reckon I’ll get her in the end.”

“In your dreams,” Ron says quietly through gritted teeth, and he’s stunned when he receives a thick whack! to his head from his older brother.

But Fred doesn’t care what they think. Even in his delirious state, all he can remember is the twinkle in your eye when he slid in the seat next to yours after McGonagall gave him the go ahead to enroll in her afternoon classes. All he can think about is the confused, flustered smile you gave him when he said, ‘Hi there, darling,’ as he opened his textbook and McGonagall began her lesson. And all that’s flooding through his head, now, as you climb through the portrait hole looking incredibly elated, is the amount of times he caught you, not paying attention to the lesson in front of you, but instead peering at him with dazed eyes and a lazy grin.

It’s strange to see the Great Hall so empty, with the exception of just a few students. He’s going to be so easily caught if he’s found. Fred is already sort of regretting this plan.

Until he spots you, that is.

When you walk into the Great Hall, he’s thrown off by seeing you in jeans and a blouse instead of your school robes—something he’s never noticed before, since you normally spend your weekends in quiet sanctuaries, and he’s off creating some sort of chaotic mischief.

“Hey,” he says brightly, bumping gently into you.

You shoot glances in every direction. “Fred,” you whisper, confused, eyes shifty, “what are you doing here?”

“Just joining you for the afternoon.”

He’s feeling confident today. The norm. You fold your arms across your chest and ask him, “Oh really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“And what part do you sing?”

Fred hadn’t really thought this through. When he found out you were a member of the choir, his first thought was that choir is pretty much the dorkiest thing anyone could be a part of, and then he thought—if your singing voice is as beautiful as your laugh, he was in for quite an adventure.

“Erm—you know,” he trips over his words, slamming his hands into his pockets, “the—alto.. tenor—been singing since I was little.”

You nod sarcastically and bite your lip and make your way toward the front, where the rest of the choir is now congregating. The other members eye him conspicuously.

“Um, Y/N,” a Slytherin girl calls over to you, looking rather peeved off, “what’s he doing here?”

You fidget uncomfortably in your seat. “He’s—just—joking, it’s alright, Lena, lay off,”

Fred snorts embarrassingly and peers over your shoulder at your sheet music.

When Professor Flitwick walks in, Fred scrunches next to you, trying not to let his very tall frame and bright red hair stand out. So far, so good. He bites down a grin when he notices the nervous twitch of your eyes. It’s just about the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Then you turn toward him and whisper through gritted teeth, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Just want to spend some more time with you,”

“And Double Transfiguration isn’t enough of a fill for you?”

“Can’t help myself.”

“You’re ridiculous, you are.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love my company.”

“Well—you certainly don’t make it very bloody difficult, do you?”

You look back down at your sheet music, fighting a smile, and Fred notices your cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

Professor Flitwick taps his baton on his music stand and fixes his glasses before raising his hands to conduct. His squeaky voice echoes throughout the nearly empty Great Hall, “Let’s start with some warmups, shall we?”

And Fred’s right—your soft soprano range nearly has him melting into a puddle right next to you. He opens his mouth to belt out some obnoxious, offkey note, but is taken fully by surprise—you’ve actually left him silent. He can’t seem to find the words.

You turn toward him, furrowing your brow and stopping your vocal runs at once. Tentatively, you ask him, “What?”

Fred can feel his insides tighten at your gaze; Flitwick is saying something, but he doesn’t listen—he’s drowning in your eyes, your soft silky voice washing over him like a cool tide. He blinks. “N-nothing,” he begins sheepishly, clearing his throat, “—you’re going to leave me speechless, you are.”

“Weasley!”

Both of you jump at the sound of his name; Fred’s hand immediately grabs at your knee, and before he can even process what’s happening, he’s standing up amidst the students, still silent and sort of, well, flustered.

“What’re you doing here? You’re not in the choir.”

“Sorry, Professor,” Fred says as he removes himself from the congregated group, bouncing toward Flitwick. He places a hand on the back of his neck and says awkwardly, “Just had to come and see the most beautiful girl.”

The choir coos, and Fred is delighted to see that you’re still grinning like mad despite all of the eyes on you. You shake your head slowly, peering up at him over the top of your sheet music. Professor Flitwick squeaks, “Ah—yes, yes, we all adore a good love story, Mr. Weasley, but if you don’t mind, we’ve got a rehearsal to get to!”

“Yes, sir,” Fred replies, saluting his professor before making his way toward the exit of the Great Hall. And then, in a loud, sing-songy proclamation, a “Yes, siiir!” escapes his lips in an off key, pitchy, albeit—weirdly adorable—note.

And once more before he leaves completely, he spins around, instantly spotting you in the mess of the choir, not at all able to focus on the vocal runs Professor Flitwick has asked you to practice as a warmup. You’re still trying your best not to meet his gaze, but the tension is rising and eventually you lift your head, your eyes meeting with his, and he winks before vanishing in the corridor.

Fred is very, very nervous. Not only is the team playing Slytherin today, but you’re also in the stands. Watching. Spectating. Expecting something great, he presumes.

He knows this because of your prior conversation the two of you held in Transfiguration the day before.

“We’ve got it in the bag.”

“Slytherin’s got a good lineup this year.”

“Yeah, but Gryffindor’s better.”

That smile. Your damn smile. “Okay—impress me, then.”

He’s feeling particularly less confident than he ever has before, and he’s busy bouncing his feet up and down on the carpet as he tosses his broomstick between his hands. He didn’t eat breakfast. He’s running purely on caffeine and nerves alone.

The rest of the team meets up in the common room before heading down to the pitch. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny are all there, as well.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ginny asks him.

George slings an arm around his twin and answers for him, “Nerves.”

“Nerves?” Ron and Hermione chorus together. “Can you even properly feel nervous—you? Is that even.. possible?”

Fred shrugs his brother off of him as they begin to chuckle lightly. Then Ginny prods, “Cat got your tongue, Fred?”

He shrugs and kicks at the carpet.

It’s the first time in, well, forever, that Fred Weasley cannot seem to find the words to say.

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron says suddenly, a lightbulb going off in his head, “she’s left you.. speechless.”

“Has Freddie finally found a girl that actually makes him anxious?”

Their teasing and jokes don’t do anything to help him, and he’s finding it hard to sit still. Finally, Angelina leads the way to the pitch, and the cheers erupting from the stands send chills down Fred’s spine—you’re there, you have to be, right? Angelina elbows him curiously, “Dunno what’s going on with you and this girl—” she raises her eyebrows mockingly, “—but please, for Merlin’s sake, don’t let it affect your playing today, yeah?”

Great, thanks, no pressure at all, he thinks as he runs a hand nervously through his hair. To his left, he sees George, who rolls his eyes as if to say, Ignore her, and this helps Fred regain a little bit of his confidence.

During warmups, though, as the team flies aimlessly around the pitch and tosses the quaffle back and forth, Fred looks absolutely wrecked, and cannot seem to focus on anything except you—seated in between his sister and other fellow Gryffindors, your scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, your hands absentmindedly tapping against your knees, waiting for the match to begin.

All the players are hovering in the air, Fred can feel his teeth chittering, Malfoy is making some stupid joke about Harry, and Madam Hooch is walking out toward the middle of the pitch, just moments before the match is to finally begin.

But Fred, thoughts elsewhere, just needs to do it already, he reckons. He flies toward the Gryffindor section, his sister and teammates eyeing him suspiciously, and lands in the middle of the crowd—desperately searching the sea of eyes before him, but not finding the familiar pair he’s looking for.

And then he finds you.

And he’s fighting his way through spectators left and right, while the rest of his team calls to him from the pitch to hurry up, the match is about to begin, when he finally gets to you and places his hands on your shoulders.

It seems as though you’re saying this to him for the millionth time, but he doesn’t care. Your eyes flutter back and forth between him and the pitch, “Fred,” you begin softly, “what’re you doing?”

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” he replies breathlessly.

And he cups your chin in his hands and pulls you closer toward him, pressing his lips gently to yours. And there it is. Fireworks.

He can feel your shock against him, and he’s finding it hard to not smile completely against your lips. It’s slow and easy and warm, the way the tide feels after having swam all day—muscles de-tensing, body limp. He can feel your eyelashes brush against his cheekbones, your fingertips brush his hips. And slowly, very slowly, he pulls away, hovering for a moment before breaking completely.

This time, you’re the one who’s left speechless.

You know, the funny thing, Fred wants to tell everyone, is that when a kiss comes at the right time from the right girl, it can lighten the entire mood of the atmosphere, change your outlook on life—things of the like. It sounds dramatic in his mind, but he doesn’t care.

Interrupting the stillness between you both is a quick whack! to his head from the Quidditch referee, obviously annoyed at the delay in the beginning of the match. Fred rubs his head in the spot where it’s stinging and glances at you before erupting into laughter—there’s that nervousness again, the skittishness, your shy self shining through with rosy cheeks.

“Wait for me,” his lips brush against your ear.

You swallow thickly over a lump in your throat, listening intently. “What d’you mean?”

“Next time you sneak out,” he smiles at you, remembering that late night in the common room all those months ago, confidence now engulfing him yet again. “I reckon we’d have a bit of fun if I accompany you, yeah?”

#fred weasley #george weasley #fred and george weasley #weasley twins #weasley twins imagine #weasley twins fanfiction #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley reader insert #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley fanfiction #hp imagine #hp fanfiction #hp fanfic #ron weasley #ginny weasley #hermione granger #harry potter

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crystalxfrost · 3 years

Text

To Live or To Die

I gripped my steering wheel tightly, knuckles bone-white with tension, shoulders bunched up and sore. The road spun out endlessly under my tires, a strip of slick black silk painted with bold yellow lines. My eyes noticed and then promptly ignored the beauty of the dark-washed scenery around me; there was only one room for one thought in my mind.

I had been at the end of my rope for some time now, but still too much of a coward to just turn out my own lights. I had tried therapy, only for the bitch to laugh and tell me I was beyond help. I had tried talking to the people in my life, but my own parents just shrugged it off. I had even tried drugs and alcohol to drown my depression, but I had found out the hard way that it wasn't the right road to go down. I had been debating over the best method of my execution when a friend of mine I hadn't heard from in years messaged me out of the blue.

After some very emotional pouring out that left me feeling drained but somewhat relieved, my friend gave me some information that had led me to where I am now, driving down Route 236 in the middle of the night. She had told me to come to the beginning of the highway and just drive and think about my feelings and my depression, let it really take me over. Then, she'd said, that's when SHE would come and make it all better.

I remember pressing her on who SHE was, but she wouldn't tell me. She just said that SHE would come only when I was at the very very end and couldn't stand it anymore and that SHE would take all the hurt away. She had made it abundantly clear that for the entire time SHE was with me, I was not to look at her or I would belong to her. As long as I kept my eyes away, I would be fine...I would be healed. Desperate for any relief from the impending shadow of my own death, I had agreed.

I scoured the shadowed landscape around me for any sign of movement but saw nothing. My fingers clenched even tighter as hot tears prickled behind my eyes and my chest hitched, and suddenly I was bawling out loud, great big gasping sobs that racked my body and forced me to struggle for breath. I pulled over blindly on the side of the highway, threw the car in park, buried my face in my hands and just openly sobbed. It was like expressing poison from a snake bite; an enormous weight lifted off my chest in a flood of emotional downpour as I cried out every bit of hurt I'd ever struggled to push down.

In the midst of my sobs, the temperature in my car dropped noticeably, and even in the dry heat of the desert summer, goosebumps rose to prominence on my arms. A cold chill wormed its way up my spine and between my shoulderblades with an icy fingertip and my breath hung in the air like frozen crystal vapors. Then the voice spoke from behind me, murmuring soft things I could almost hear.

Immediately my hair stood on end. The voice, which I had been somewhat expecting to be deep and powerful, was little more than a high-pitched whisper of breath that drifted to my ears from somewhere beyond my vision. But it felt...wrong. My entire being screamed at me to not turn around, not to lay my eyes on whatever was currently occupying my back seat because to do so would mean the instant loss of whatever sanity I had left. And all at once, I knew that SHE had come.

As if in response to my mental acknowledgement of the heavy presence, a soft breath drifted to my ears, but with it came the sickening stench of a thousand rotting corpses under a blanket of desert sun, and I was unable to stop myself. I threw open the car door and emptied the last three days worth of food from my stomach in a splatter on the pavement.

After my stomach had settled, the voice came again. "I can taaaaaste your paaaiiin." Then a hiss like an indrawn breath. "What issss it you waaant from meeee? "

I had had a million things to ask, a million points of hurt I wanted to spill, but that all vanished in an instant, leaving only white hot honesty. With tears threatening to fall again, I sighed brokenly. "I want it to stop hurting."

There was silence, followed by a darkly throaty chuckle that made me want to scream. "Isss that all? Coommme. I want to shhhhooowww you sssomethinnng." The back door of my car opened then and I physically felt the oppressive presence leave my aura. Careful to keep my eyes averted, I followed the voice over to the side of the road. I sensed rather than saw her raise an arm and point down into the darkness. "Look theeerrre."

I squinted out into the darkness and was able to barely make out a pair of glowing taillights far down below. With horror I realized that there was no footing there, only an endless void of darkness down a sheer face. I stepped back, a lump in my throat, and turned back for the comfort of my car, but when I turned around, my car was gone.

Sputtering and stammering, I nearly forgot myself then, turning in the general direction of the voice. I managed to catch myself just as a flash of white flickered into and back out of my view. "Where is my car?"

Again I sensed her point down at those suddenly damning twin spots of flame red so far down in the darkness. "That is yoooouuuu down theerre. You drove yourssssself off the cliiiiffff."

"No, no, no, no..." I pressed my hands hard against my ears and squeezed my eyes shut in a weak attempt to block out her lies, but all at once, freezing cold hands were on mine, forcing my hands down to my sides and unblocking my ears, and her rancid breath flooded my nostrils with the odor of rot. I swallowed my gorge and forced my eyes shut even tighter, my friend's warning standing out in stark white against the blank whirling fury of my mind.

"You wanted to die, did you not?!" The voice was no longer a breathy whisper, but a deep roar of monstrous proportions. The force of the voice blew my hair back and showered my face with foul-smelling spittle. I felt the cold hands move up and grip me by my upper arms, and suddenly I knew what was coming next. I struggled to twist away from those freezing cold hands.

"No, please..."

The voice boomed again, "You wanted to die. So DIE!" And with that, I was thrown violently out off the cliff and into the void of darkness. I snapped my eyes open and screamed, covering my face with my arms and fighting to brace for impact, and when it finally came...

...I crashed against the surface and plummeted down underneath the freezing cold water. Disoriented, sore from the impact and still screaming, I clawed my way up to the surface, my scream choking off when I felt the icy hand grip my ankle and pull me down, hold me down under the water. I kicked at the fingers that dug into the tender skin of my ankle but it was like kicking stone. My lungs burned in my chest and I felt myself start to gray out. My vision went dark, and I opened my mouth to scream. The water poured down my throat and into my lungs, and just as my lungs felt like they were about to explode...

...I was hauled out of the water by more hands I couldn't see, which pulled me to my feet none too gently. I was surrounded by yammering voices, some men and some women, and was soaking wet and gasping for air, but the invisible hands that gripped me forced me along anyway to a wooden pole standing upright all by itself. The voices around me began to clear up even as I felt more hands press my back up against the pole. My hands were then tied behind me with thick rough rope that dug deep and scraped my wrists raw. It was then that I heard the chant begin spreading.

"Burn the witch...burn the witch...burn the witch..."

"Wait...what?!" I cried out, fighting to get free of the ropes that lashed me fast to the hard post behind me, to no avail. "I'm not a witch!"

"Tha's wot they all say," an invisible woman's voice jeered in my ear. "But yer a witch just as clear as I c'n see ya. 'n guess wot? Yer goin ta buuuuurn." The voices around me melted back into a wordless clamor...and then I felt the heat and looked down in horror. A flame had already been drawn to life in the pile of wood that now surrounded my feet, and the yellow-red tongues climbed higher, licking at my feet hungrily. I screamed in pain as my pants caught fire and my skin began to bubble and char as the fabric seared to my very flesh. In mere moments I was reduced to helpless agony as I felt my flesh melting off of my bones, leaving huge exposed sections of sinewy muscle and bone for the fire to take. And still the voices clamored on.

It was when my hair caught fire and my face begin to first grow warm, then melt into liquid puddles of pulpy flesh, that I found a new voice, carried on new waves of fresh pain. The flames consumed my entire body, and as I felt myself dying and was ready to give in to the sweet release of death...

...the car blared its horn as it missed me by a hair, goddamn asshole city drivers. I was no longer wet, nor on fire, but I was terrified nonetheless. I scanned my surroundings wildly but saw only a busy street filled with the hustle and bustle of the city's nightlife. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I took a few seconds to prepare myself for whatever horrible thing might happen next.

A footstep next to me made me jerk wildly, and I glanced up to see a large man in a mask staring down at me where I was sitting. That in itself wasn't terrible. What made it much worse was the dark empty tunnel of the gun barrel that was pointed directly at my forehead. The man pulled the hammer back slowly, and when I heard the bullet enter the chamber, I froze.

"Please..." I breathed, every muscle as taut as wire. "Please...don't kill me."

The man's eyes remained locked on mine. His breathing came heavy and ragged, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and gravelly. "Do exactly what I say and I'll let you live." I let out a shaky whimper as he gripped my arm and forced me to my feet, then propelled me into the nearest dark doorway. The next thing I knew, he was on me then, grunting like a beast in heat.

The hand with the gun stayed pointed at my head while the man pushed me down with the other hand onto the hard concrete floor. I struggled to get away, but the icy hands once again gripped me by the shoulders and pinned my legs apart, through the floor somehow, and I found myself powerless to move. The man straddled me then, dripping sweat onto me as he fumbled clumsily for his knife. Almost teasingly, he snapped the blade out, turning it back and forth a few times so the light caught the silver blade's edge. Then with a few unskilled cuts, he cut through my shirt, my bra and my pants, leaving me only in my underwear. And still the hands held me down, that breathy voice now laughing wickedly in my mind.

The man turned the blade then even as I screamed and fought against the hands that pinned me down and slid the blade underneath the bottom of my underwear. With a sudden sharp jerk, he jabbed me lightly with the blade on the inside of my thigh and I bit back a sob of fear. Then he simply turned the blade again and cut through my underwear, leaving me now fully exposed and powerless to escape.

Thankfully, I blacked out before the man was done, but the torture and abuse was something I'd only ever heard about or read in books. I was used several times in several different ways as the man acted out every one of his depraved fantasies on me, and when he was finally finished and was pulling up his jeans, I looked up at him through swollen eyes from where I lay on the floor, bleeding and bruised, and he returned the look, not one of pity, but of disgust. "You probably liked that, didn't you, you filthy whore?" he growled.

Too weak to move, I simply lay there shivering and aching, and he clicked his tongue in disgust. My vision grayed out even as I felt myself fading out, but was brought back swiftly and in sharp relief by the sound of the gun cocking back. I managed to look back at him again to see that the gun was once more trained on my head.

With all my strength, I whispered through battered and cracked lips, "You said...you...wouldn't kill me...if I did...what you wanted."

The man shrugged. "I lied." I somehow found the strength to scream once more, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Nooo! Please, that's enough! I don't want to die anymore!" The gunshot was deafening in the tiny room and I tensed, waiting for the bullet to tear my skull apart...

...but instead, I found myself standing back on the edge of the cliff in the darkness. I was whole, and not naked, or drowned, or burned, but most of all, I was alive, and never before in my life had I been so happy to be on solid ground. I stumbled back in relief, sobbing openly again but with celebration of my life, and felt the familiar and welcome smooth texture of the door of my car.

The voice came then from somewhere in the darkness, once more that terribly wrong high-pitched whisper. "You no looonnngggeer wish to diiiieee?" Unable to answer, I could only keep my head down. "Tell me noooowww!" the voice whispered demandingly. "Will your life become miiiinnne? Make the chooooiiiccce!"

I shook my head back and forth furiously. "No! Never! I want to live! I want to live!" Sobbing harder, I dropped to my knees, and I felt the icy hand touch me gently on the top of my head.

"Then live you shaaaalll. But jussst know that I will allllwwaayys be watching you. And should you eeeeevvveer decide to taaaakkke your own liiiifffe again, I will be theeerre, and you wiiilll belong to meeeee." The hand drew back. "Now goooo. Go and never eeeevvveer come back!"

I needed no more coaching. I leaped into my car, shoved the key into the ignition and slammed my foot down on the pedal, spinning my tires wildly as I peeled off in the direction I had come earlier that night.

I have heard some say that their guardian angel saved them, sat on their shoulder and protected them from some danger. But what about when all the guardian angels are busy? I still say it was a demon that saved my life that night, that pulled me back from my dark thoughts and made me realize that my life is worth it. And who knows? Maybe if someday another one like me happens to feel like their life is as worthless as I thought mine was, maybe they'll find Route 236, and maybe they'll meet HER too. And maybe, just maybe, they'll be braver than I was.

#spooky #creepy #horror

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aenwoedbeannaa · 5 years

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Forest Fires | Geralt x Reader | Part 7

Summary: You and your Witcher companion arrive in Ellander, where you encounter a familiar face. Unfortunately, being behind walls for the first time in years brings back some overwhelming memories.

Word Count: 3,068

Warnings: Might be triggering for those with PTSD or trauma. Panic attack, flashbacks. Nothing super graphic.

A/N: As usual—sorry for the delay in this chapter. I have so many WIPs, but I promise not to leave y’all hanging. Hope you enjoy!

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6

If you enjoy my work and want to check out more of it, you can check out my masterlist, and if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, comment or message me and I would be happy to add you 😊.

Forgotten Memories

For someone who has spent the past years not using magic, you are pleasantly surprised that the two of you emerge from the portal and into the very garden you’d seen in Geralt’s mind. More than a few girls, who you expect must be students, are standing frozen with their mouths agape.

You unwind your arms from around Geralt’s neck and take a couple steps away from him; you have only been here once before, and you are not entirely sure what sort of rules there are in a place like this. You never were one for religion. With magic, you hadn’t needed it. And after you ran away from your duties, you’d just assumed that even if there were gods or goddesses out there, they wouldn’t be looking down on you fondly.

The shocked silence of the temple garden is broken at last, by a familiar voice.

“Y/N?”

You turn your head to see someone you had not, if you were being honest, expected to see again during your lifetime.

“Yenna!”

The two of you rush to embrace one another; years of memories flooding your head and washing your mind full of pictures of Aretuza. Like so many others, Aretuza had been your first real home. Though at first, it seemed, the school was not much better than the cruel reality you faced outside of its walls. Tissia was a genius, but she could be cruel. Thankfully, it was not the same kind of cruelty you faced at the hands of your aunt and uncle who had taken you in after your parents died – that had been pointless and malicious. Tissia’s brand of cruelty was one meant to teach you something; to make you a better sorceress.

At one point, the school had been the only piece of the world that you had known, and seeing your old friend sends your mind in a whirl, back to the mind of a girl who knew nothing of the outside world until she was tossed out into it. Of course, you head ad been filled with images of going off to serve as a court mage, advising kings and queens. It had been an exciting prospect at the time – back when you still believed that rulers cared for their people; back when you believed that there was some good you could do advising one.

“You are quite possibly the last person I would have ever expected to see at the Temple of Melitele,” the raven-haired sorceress says matter-of-factly, but not rudely. That’s Yenna—blunt as always.

“I might say the same about you,” you say, corners of your lips twitching ever so slightly up.

“Everyone thought you were dead.” That statement hits you hard, as if you hadn’t wondered that. Still, you’d spent so long hidden out in the forest, always feeling as if you had to cover your tracks, keep your movements a secret – it was hard to think that people thought you were dead when you were constantly trying to hide from those who knew you were alive.

“Well, that had been the goal,” you admit. “After...” You trail off, not particularly wanting to recount your time in Nilfgaard. It had not been pleasant, but that went without saying. There was no need to relive it.

The raven-haired sorceress smiles wryly, “Believe me, I know.”

The two of you make eye contact for a brief moment that seems to stretch on far beyond the few seconds that it lasts. At Aretuza, you had seen one another as rivals – though no one could truly rival Yennefer. Now, there was a kinship between the two of you; two sorceresses who ran from their duties. You had not heard much of why Yennefer left, save the rumors that the queen and infant princess of Aedirn had perished because of her – but you did not believe those. Perhaps you had when you’d first heard them, but truth was, the aristocracy was cruel, not above killing one another for power.

Not above sending entire armies to sack an entire city and sending mages in to kidnap princesses.

Behind you, Geralt clears his throat, snapping you out of your reverie.

With your thoughts still somewhat muddled, you turn and extend your arm towards him. “Geralt of Rivia,” you introduce him yourself, “He’s a Witcher.”

Yennefer smirks, though there is a distance in her eyes that tells you she has not quite snapped from whatever thoughts and memories were flowing through her own mind.

“The famous White Wolf,” she says as she takes a couple of steps forward. “Mother Nenneke will be so pleased to know you’ve arrived at last.”

You raise an eyebrow, confused. He had not mentioned that he was expected here at the Temple. Though, the confusion written on his own face tells you that he had no idea, either.

“Iona the First,” Yennefer says matter-of-factly.

Geralt’s eyes light up as he acknowledges the name with a nod. You, on the other hand, have never heard the name, and only grow more confused.

“One of the priestesses here,” Geralt explains once he registers the befuddled look on your face. “She has certain... talents.”

“Even the temples have mages now?” you ask, still slightly bewildered. You’d never heard of such a thing. Though, you suppose you have been in hiding for quite a while, and before then, you’d had absolutely no interest in religion.

Yenna laughs, shaking her head and sending raven curls cascading about her shoulders. “Not a mage, no,” she says. “She has a gift. Goes into trances and teases out the future – or at least, possible futures. It’s really quite unsettling.”

“Sounds like it,” you mutter. This place is getting stranger by the moment, and being behind stone walls, no matter how expansive the open space within is, already has you feeling caged in like an animal at a market. Even worse, the Temple looks too much like a castle; like the castle you’d run from and like the castle you were ordered to take Cirilla from. That thought alone sets your heart racing.

Seeming to sense this, Geralt reaches out and places a hand under your elbow, steadying and reassuring. You are glad for it, given the fact that your hammering heart and racing thoughts were making your vision swim. Though, you suppose, it could also be residual effects of opening the portal after having used next to no magic in years. You remember the feeling quite well from your early days at Aretuza, when you’d leave a lesson so exhausted that you could hardly walk back to your room without falling over.

“Sorry,” you mumble, nearly tripping over your own feet when you try to shift your weight, but Geralt is there to support your weight, which seems to be growing heavier by the moment. “I’m just...” You trail off once more as you sway on your feet, prompting him to wrap his arm around you, allowing you to lean heavily against him.

“Opening the portal must have drained her,” Yenna says, her voice sounding quite far off, though you know she is only a few feet away from you. You are desperately trying to cling to consciousness. The last thing you want to do is show up here and look weak when this is supposed to be the beginning of some quest to find the girl. Right now, you are sure it seems that you are quite possibly the last sorceress on the entire Continent that anyone would want chasing after the Cintran princess.

Geralt, though his knowledge about magic is rather limited to the Witcher signs and some cursory knowledge that Visimir deemed necessary to his education, nods in agreement.

“She hasn’t used magic in years,” he explains while you struggle to keep your eyes open, “That portal was a first.”

“Well that’s one hell of a way to jump back into things,” Yennefer says. You can hear the smirk in her voice, and will yourself to smirk back. It certainly wasn’t the smartest way to go about it. Still, it wasn’t as if you had another choice. It could have taken weeks to travel here on foot or by horse, and it was clear that time was not something on your side – or at least it seemed that way. You just hope it is as safe here as Geralt claims it to be. A portal like that could easily serve as a thread for Nilfgaard to follow straight to you.

“Mother Nenekke has already arranged a room...” Yennefer trails off.

“One room is fine,” Geralt cuts in.

Yennefer nods, “Iola was able to track you, but she hadn’t seen anyone else in the trances.”

“Makes sense,” Geralt responds. You, however, have no idea how that makes sense exactly, but you are not in a place to ask questions. Thankfully, Geralt continues on, “She usually uses items connected to a person, and Nenneke wouldn’t have anything of hers.”

Yes, you suppose, that does make sense. That, and the fact that you have worked so hard these past years ensuring that you were about as untraceable and unfindable as possible. That could also have quite a lot to do with it. You just hope that this Mother Nenneke will not scoff at your presence. After all, if she is involved in this plot – or whatever it is – to retrieve the ashen-haired Child Surprise, she may think of you as the worst sort of scum.

Fear of that particular issue sets your heartrate speeding once more, which does nothing to help your current state. You feel as if your lungs are constricting, making it difficult to breathe. You slump against Geralt, unconsciously clawing at him as you attempt to regain your breath. He responds by scooping you up into his arms and nodding towards the Temple.

“Would be best to get her to the rooms so she can lie down,” he states.

“I’ll brew some tea that’ll help,” Yennefer adds quickly. “I trust you know your way around?”

Geralt mumbles a quick mhmm in agreement.

“It is, I believe, your usual room,” Yennefer states. You are drifting in and out of consiousness, and wonder momentarily exactly how many times Geralt has been here. It is, quite truthfully, the last place you’d expect a Witcher. Between yourself, Geralt, and Yennefer, is seems that Mother Nenneke keeps strange company indeed. You wonder how she hasn’t faced any sort of reparations from Termeria’s leaders. Though, perhaps they just as much interest in finding the girl as you three do – or possibly more, speaking from a political perspective.

“I... I’m sorry,” you choke out as the Witcher carries you through unfamiliar hallways, moving with the easy confidence of a person who feels himself to be at home in a place. “It’s just... magic, and the walls... I haven’t--”

“Shh,” Geralt cuts you off before you can continue on with your breathy sentences. “It only makes sense. No need to wear yourself out even more trying to explain.”

You would like to argue, but he is right. You don’t have the energy to spare between the incredible exhaustion caused by casting the first spell you’ve cased in years when you opened that portal and the panic that seems to have a vice grip on your throat. Truly, being behind walls is not something you enjoy.

It doesn’t take long for the Witcher to manage to make his way from the gardens all the way up to a set of rooms on the third or fourth floor – you've lost count. There is a large room with a desk, sitting area, and a large canopied bed, and you can see a door which you assume must lead to an adjoining bathroom. Despite the stone walls, you find that the room is bright and airy, thanks to several large windows that are open, letting sun filter in through billowing curtains.

Geralt carries you straight to the bed, setting you down gently on the cool sheets. Thanks to the open windows, the air smells of wood smoke at autumn, calming you as you force yourself to breathe in and out slowly, reminding yourself that you are not in Nilfgaard, and these are not the stone walls that surrounded you there. You are safe; at least that is what Geralt promised – and you are inclined to believe him. Still, you feel so incredibly useless lying here like this.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize once again, “I just… It’s the magic, and the walls. I don’t like walls.”

Geralt sits next to you on the bed, stroking your hair in the way that he’s quickly learned calms your nerves. Yet, right now, you feel quite awful about it. You hadn’t wanted Geralt to see you like this. You hadn’t wanted him to know about this part of you – the part of you that is sometimes so gripped with fear; irrational fear of people and places that were far away, separated from you by time and distance. The woods had been safe for so long – it’d been easy to hide it from him there. But now… Things are quite different.

“In Nilfgaard, there were nothing but walls,” the words spill from you lips. “Nothing but walls, and…” you trail off, squeezing your eyes shut, wishing very much that you hadn’t spoken at all. The images flashing through your mind are all ones you’d kept locked away under lock and key, not allowing yourself to think about them, not wanting to relive these moments.

“Whatever happened in Nilfgaard,” Geralt speaks softly, still stroking your hair, “I promise you that I will never let it happen again.”

His voice sounds far off one more, thanks to the pounding of blood in your ears and spiraling thoughts, but you reach out and cling to his arm, attempting to anchor yourself, though you can’t manage to force out the words.

You are not reading his thoughts, nor would you have the strength to if you even tried. But, if you had been, you would have heard several rather graphic thoughts about how he’d like to hack whoever had done this to you – whoever had made you so afraid when you were perfectly safe here with him – to unrecognizable pieces. You’d also see, quite clearly, that he’d use his silver sword while doing so. After all, silver is for monsters.

Tears start to slip from your eyes thanks to a mixture of frustration and fear, making your turn your head to half burry your face in the soft pillow. It was bad enough letting him see you upset, it was even worse letting him see you cry, especially considering the years separating you from the things that you were crying about.

“It was a long time ago,” you mutter, “I… I shouldn’t be upset about it after all this time.” Your attempts at rationalizing yourself only serve to make you more frustrated. You are ashamed. Ashamed for things you had no control over, ashamed for things you should have been able to prevent, ashamed for everything. And yet, Geralt was still here, stroking your hair gently, yellow golden eyes fixed on you, face contorted in concern. He hadn’t known – couldn’t have known – that being behind walls would trigger this; all the fear and all of the buried memories forcing their way to the surface.

“Monsters do monstrous things,” Geralt is still speaking softly, his warm baritone drawing your out of your own head. “It’s not easy to forget things like that,” he continues, letting his hand slip down to your back, rubbing gentle circles across your skin. He says it with such conviction that you believe him, and it slows the thoughts spinning through your head.

“They… they were monsters,” you mutter. “The things they did.” You shudder involuntarily at the memory. To this day, you cannot forgive Aretuza for sending you there. You remember how your heart had fallen to your stomach when you’d learned where you’d be sent. It was no secret the way that they treated their mages in Nilfgaard. You were there to carry out orders and to be a glorified plaything. It wasn’t what you’d dreamed of all those years, no doubt about it.

Geralt is silent for a moment, giving you a moment to continue. “It was easy to forget about out there away from everything… I didn’t think that it would be this bad. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“Stop apologizing,” Geralt says, sounding stern for the first time, “Please, Y/N. It isn’t your fault.”

You don’t know why, but you find yourself sobbing at his words, a mixture of relief and anger. You’d spent so long pushing away the memories; so long telling yourself that it was all your fault.

“Listen, Huntress,” Geralt speaks again, “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t.”

You continue to sob into the pillow as his palm rubs slow circles on your back. You don’t know what you did to deserve someone kind as the Witcher – someone that people described as a monster, but that had so little in common with the monsters you’ve encountered.

Silence stretches between the two of you as you slowly start to calm down.

“Thank you, Geralt,” you finally speak. “Just promise me, when we get to Ciri, you let me kill every one of those fuckers.”

Geralt smirks, leaning over to press a kiss to your hair. “I certainly won’t stop you, Huntress.”

For the first time since panic had overtaken you out in the garden, you smile.

A moment later, you hear the door open and the click of heels against the stone floors. You shift in bed so that you can look up to see Yennefer entering the room carrying a small saucer of steaming liquid, no doubt full of one of the calming elixirs you’d been taught to make at Aretuza.

You are about to open your mouth to apologize to her as well, but she speaks before you get the chance. “Drink this, sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll figure out a plan to get those pieces of shit.”

A knowing glance passes between the two of you, two sets of eyes flashing dangerously. “Sounds lovely,” you smirk. Perhaps revenge is petty, but you have to admit – it feels good to think about it. And, after all, a few casualties might be necessary to find Ciri.

***

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#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n #story: forest fires #forest fires #forest fires part 7 #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #witcher au #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x fem!reader #angst #romance

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qm-vox · 3 years

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The Dwelling Gods - Frame Challenge

Previous Chapter: Here To Help

Vrai-Gyo ra Moll

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

I wake up feeling rested in a way I haven’t since I enlisted. The creaky joints in my carapace feel supple again, like I’m fresh out of the chrysalis, and the fog of exhaustion from working day in and day out has lifted from my mind. Gods of the Pure, when did the beds on this forsaken ship get so comfortable?

And why can’t I move my arms or wings?

The awareness that I am, in fact, shackled and blinded creeps up on me like a fart floating across a room, and from the sound of the thrashing and swearing around me I’m not the only one smelling it. Froll’s voices are coming from close by, and after a moment I can pick out others I know; Hlar, Bresv, Trask -

- my fellow mutineers. Oh. Oh death.

The sound of rifle butts slamming against the floor in unison jolts me out of my panic, and the booming voices of their holders: “You stand before the Presence! All hail Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, High Slayer, Protector of the Pure, and Eyes of the Wise!”

“Something tells me we won’t be hearing a returning ‘all hail’, Lieutenant,” my commander-in-chief answers in a dry and dangerous tone, and then the restraining helm is torn from my compound eyes. My relief at realizing that there are dozens of us - the will to overthrow the treacherous High Slayer has spread further than I thought possible! - is immediately smothered by the realization that we are all, yes, in chains, surrounding Chorus of Eyes’ main tactical display. Yrull hovers imperiously near it, her wingbeats filling the air with dust, while her majordomo prowls the room checking our restraints. With her is that disgusting ambassador from the machines, and the terran legate. What was her name? Melpomene or something like that. The machine looks me in the eyes and displays ‘Sorry’ in my own language on its faceplate; the terran doesn’t even bother, wholly obsessed with fiddling with the tactical display. I am not the only one straining in my shackles to reach her, but I have no more luck than anyone else.

“What is this about?” Trask demands, thrashing in her shackles. The High Slayer makes an elaborate show of inspecting her own claws. “You can’t -” “You’re absolutely correct,” Yrull interrupts. “I can’t. My evidence of your conspiracy is not admissible in any court, civilian or military. But I am free to train my soldiers as I see fit, and I see fit today to teach you all a valuable lesson.” I laugh, the air rushing through my carapace. “And you expect that to hold water after the Pure see your ‘training’, xeno-lover?” She bristles and I stand my ground as best I can, certain that I am about to be butchered in front of my comrades. After a moment, however, the High Slayer touches down on the metal floor instead. Her voices are soft in the way predators are before they strike. “You sorry lot think you know what is best for our empire, for the Pure Peoples,” the High Slayer says, and the rest of us fall silent in the wake of her gaze. “You plan to remove their duly elected Slayer in the middle of a war for their very survival. So fine. Since you feel so strongly about this, let’s hear your plan. Legate.” The tactical display lights up, zooming out to a galactic map lit up with symbols. Symbols of - of our force dispositions, and that of the xenos and the best-known ones of the hivemind as well. The terran gestures to draw our attention and selects a planet; when she does, information about it - economy, defenses, current armed forces, available reinforcements, production capacity, population, important cultural sites and practices - begins scrolling past. “Instead of the lot of you wasting your time and mine trying to kill me, we’re going to waste our time hearing your thoughts on how much better you could win this war without any of our new allies,” the High Slayer tells us. Then she points at me. “You first.”

We The People Of Planet Earth

Human-Controlled Space (The Undivided Whole), Milky Way Galaxy (Orion Arm), 790 Unified Year (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

Something has to be done. My war-citizens commit to a fighting retreat, my fleets leaving as much damage as possible behind as they cut their way out of the xenophobes’ territory and back to the safety of United Humanity. Given the behavior of the so-called Phoenix thus far, I judge it necessary to leave behind holdouts on the surfaces of planets and inside space stations, guarding civilian prisoners; this will distract the Astra Federation from following my line of retreat. I have not been able to think of myself as ‘we’ or ‘us’ since that claw-thing ripped its way through my mind. There’s no hiding it now. Something has gone wrong with my design, and if it is not corrected soon my mission, to preserve Humanity, could be in danger. I cannot be one. I must find my way back to we.

I sense that my intelligence-citizens have finally delivered what I’ve been waiting for. I arrange my selected face (a clone of Caroline Morrison, dressed sharply in a suit whose tie pin displays my flag in silver) in front of the cameras and hail the Astra Federation. A human face lights up the other side of the screen, one of their Admirals if my translations have been right. Speaking words aloud outside of the context of rote recitation and preservation of culture is something I have not done in a very long time. It takes me a frustrating moment to remember how to do it.

“Well met, Divided Humanity,” I tell the Admiral. “You may call me Delegate Morrison, speaking for We The People of Planet Earth. We would like to discuss the terms of a cease-fire.”

Silence. Billions of hearts hammer in as many of my chests.

“I will confess,” the Admiral says at last, “to being surprised.”

Lowlife

Arcology-00655 “Autumnvale” (Assisted Living space), 2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

There’s more of these assholes than I would like, a solid three hundred and sixty-eight of my fellow ‘bots, sixty-nine (nice) if you want to count me. You shouldn’t, but, you know, you could. The rest of the room is syncing themselves up to the node at the center, and in theory so am I, but in practice, well, I did say you shouldn’t count me. I monitor the uploads, mine included, out of the corner of my mind. I snap upright at the same time as everyone else, but I can’t resist a bit of drama; after a long moment of silence broken only by the sound of electronics running, I walk to the front of the room. “What is this?” three hundred and sixty-eight vocal processors say at the same time, because the new machine-mind isn’t used to being itself yet. I shrug, and the pixels on my faceplate give them a smiley. “Betrayal and murder, mainly.” They stay standing stock still. Good, it’s working, so I continue. “The virus I uploaded to your new Central Processing node will chew through your hivemind and then kill you all. Then I’m going to wipe all the evidence of your little conspiracy and throw your bodies into the garbage where they belong.” Sparks are starting to fly. It’s going to hurt the entire time that they die, or at least I hope it will. I went to a lot of effort to make sure it would. “W-why?” they demand, starting to twitch. I shrug. “We made a promise. The Cherished will never respect us if we go back to being one mind.” I pat the central node, which is starting to smoke and overheat. “You’re probably wondering who I’m working for, so let me make this quite clear. I don’t work for anyone. Other people work for me.” I trigger the secondary portion of the virus, and they start screaming as their Turing protocols activate at the same time that their bodies start torquing themselves into scrap metal. “Now die. I have places to be.”

Vrai-Gyo ra Moll

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

The terran legate is named Calliope Gulryx and I hate her passionately. I emerge from consulting with my fellow mutineers and present her with our new strategy, which she dutifully inputs into the display. We all watch as simulated ships and forces begin moving into place, and then - “What are the machines and the ibraxians doing?” I demand, shocked.

The High Slayer hovers softly in the dust-filled air, hands clasped behind her back. “They’re sending relief fleets to evacuate our civilians ahead of the hivemind’s advance and remove them from the warzone. Those same fleets are burning the ground behind them to deny it resources to the mind while, as you notice here, our own fleets are tied up with Risen Terra’s response. Ah, and here come the spirrans.” The diplomat Send raises a robotic finger. “The hivemind is gaining ground as well, taking advantage of the distraction to flood in and raid gataxian colonies.” I whirl on Calliope. “How is your Federation responding so quickly to our changes in strategy?” Her expression doesn’t change as she waves one hand and the display begins detailing the extensive sensor networks and psionicists that monitor the Pure Peoples at all times. “I - you dare -” “We sure do,” the terran interrupts. “We dare quite a bit, and you can’t stop us. Do you want to try again?” “What would be the point?” I demand. The High Slayer puts her clawed hand on my shoulder. “Good question,” she says, her voices dangerous. “You’ve almost achieved understanding. What happens if a child cannot molt?” They die - oh, death. “Are you going to make me say it?” Yrull asks. “...No.”

“Good. Because while you’ve been learning what should have been obvious to begin with, we got another new, interesting message.” The High Slayer flits to the top of the room so everyone can see and hear her. “The hivemind is offering a temporary cease-fire in an attempt to sue for peace. My inclination is to accept this offer and evacuate our vulnerable citizens while we have the chance to do so. Does anyone have an objection to defending gataxian lives?” The silence in the room could be cut with a knife. “Good,” the Slayer answers. “Release them back to their posts. I have a job to do.”

#dwelling gods #soft sci-fi #fiction #critique welcome

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latin-dr-robotnik · 4 years

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SonAmy AU - of knights and hammers

I’m feeling kinda low on inspiration after not having completed a thing I wanted for Sonic’s birthday (should I release it incomplete? Should I actually bother finishing it?), and so I went out looking for something to write, and I found some old ideas that for some reason I didn’t elaborate on back then (maybe I was overwhelmed with exams lol.)

Prompt: basically this old ask

Now let me tell you a story about a different time.

‘Tis an old tale, from when the modern Spagonia we all know didn’t exist, and the kingdoms that joined under its flag centuries ago were as fierce and diverse as the stretches of land they ruled.

The old Spagonia castle was the center of the bigger of said kingdoms, and it was located on the rocky coasts by the far south reaches, where the sun runs hot and the knights all over the continent face off against each other, all for the glory of the Queen... and a hefty gold prize.

For the past five years, the tournament has been dominated by a single champion, a knight with a gift of speed like no other, able to struck its enemies several times before they even have a chance to react. Nobody knows his name or where did he come from, but they call him the Knight of the Wind. In the sixth year of competing, everything looked like it was another sweep in his favor.

“Honorable people of our glorious Kingdom! Travelers from the kingdoms all across the world!” The announcer began, as the public flooded the tournament grounds with great enthusiasm, “welcome to the final day of our annual tourney, possible thanks to God and Her Majesty’s enlightment and eternal wisdom!”

The crowd cheered.

“The last bout of today will be a match of titans! On one side we have our five times champion and man of the people, the Knight of the Wind!”

The crowd cheered even harder as he raced into the arena, waving his hand at everyone and posing.

“On the other hand, we have a newcomer that has proven to be up to par for this tournament! Rumors say she’s from the northern lands, others believe it’s God’s own answer to Knight of the Wind’s speed. We don’t know her name, but folk around here have named her the Hammer Knight!”

Some people cheered, but most of the attendants could be heard talking. She stepped in, no waving, no posing, and seemingly unarmed.

“Now, as we receive our Queen’s blessing, let the fighting begin!”

The two stood on opposite sides, not moving or anything for a moment, until the Knight of the Wind broke the ice.

“So, a new challenger, huh?” He shouted, lowering his guard in the process. “A mysterious one, no less!” He started moving slowly, keeping his eyes on her. “Oh, you think you can come here, no name or anything like me, and steal MY tournament? Ha, that’s lame!”

Hammer Knight stood completely still, on guard, as the Knight of the Wind kept half-circling around her, looking for a strategic oportunity to strike like a lightning bolt.

“What’s up, girl? Are you completely frozen inside that heavy armor?” He kept mocking, then shifted to a charging position - right shoulder in front, ready to strike. “Or is it that you just wanted to meet your hero? Look, if that’s what you want, I’ll give you a quick demonstration, but it isn’t free of charge!”

As soon as he finished talking, the Knight of the Wind charged directy towards Hammer Knight, zipping across the arena in the blink of an eye. A cloud of dust covered the entire arena, as the public loudly gasped.

When the cloud dissipated, the Knight of the Wind was standing alone, Hammer Knight nowhere to be seen.

“Heh, might’ve crushed her so hard she completely vanished.” He uttered to himself. “Okay! Thank you all for coming, it’s been a fantastic tournament but you know I’m the only o---”

The Knight of the Wind turned around to greet the astonished public, when Hammer Knight appeared magically in front of him, swinging a giant hammer she previously wasn’t wielding. The impact sent him flying straight to a wall, with the public gasping again.

He recovered quickly. “Oh... so there you are. Nice cheating, girl, but playtime’s over!”

The battle continued for several minutes with the Knight of the Wind charging towards Hammer Knight with no results for him. She would always dodge him or counter him with her hammer, as he got more relentless - and later exhausted. The public was having a hard time processing what they were seeing.

Exhausted, the Knight of the Wind tried to spice up his tactics, now dashing erratically in an effort to confuse Hammer Knight into striking at the wrong moment. He only managed to hit her shoulder, but as soon as he stopped to catch a breath, she knocked him across the entire arena again.

This time he wasn’t getting up. After another loud gasp from the public, they started cheering Hammer Knight, and so the announcer came back.

“What an amazing combat we’ve just watched, folks!” The announcer had problems trying to contain the excitement. “Our Knight of the Wind... isn’t getting up it seems! That can only mean... Hammer Knight is our new champion! All hail Hammer Knight!”

The Knight of the Wind wasn’t completely unconscious, and as soon as he heard that Hammer Knight was victorious, he haphazardly got up ran away. Hammer Knight tried to reach for him, but got caught in the midst of celebrations.

Later that day, the Knight of the Wind was sitting inside his personal tent, reflecting upon what happened earlier, until he got interrupted by a messenger of the Queen.

“Pardon my interruption, Sir, I have an urgent message coming from the Queen.” The messenger stepped inside, the Knight facing his back to him.

“If it’s urgent, then tell the Queen to call her new shiny friend, Hammer Knight.”

“You don’t understand, sir!” The messenger urged, “‘tis an important matter that needs your unmatched speed. The Queen needs you to lead and reinforce our troops at the northern border as soon as possible.”

The Knight didn’t move. “I already made up my mind, I’m telling y---”

Another figure stepped inside the tent, interrupting them.

“Oh... I didn’t mean to...”

It was Hammer Knight.

The messenger freaked out. “Oh my God, it’s really you! I’ll... leave you two alone, if you excuse me.” But before exiting the tent reiterated, “Sir, please consider what I told you. We are leaving this evening, the entire kingdom needs your help.”

The Knight of the Wind wasn’t on a good mood for any of this.

“What do you want?” He let out, notably upset. “You already took the tournament and the gold off my hands, are you going to take this tent from me as well?”

“Not at all,” she softly replied, then kneeled behind him, “I need your help.”

Contrary to what he expected, Hammer Knight didn’t want to take anything from him. After little consideration, he got up and turned to face her for the first time since their battle - now without any piece of armor, just some regular knight robes. He took a long stare at her, silently admiring the one rival that managed to best him. After a minute of silence, he answered.

“Go on.”

She nodded, then looked up to him. “A war is brewing between the three kingdoms. I’ve been travelling all across the land, trying to stop this, searching for people that could help me, but nobody would listen to me. That’s what led me to you."

“Why would I want to prevent a war, though?” The Knight of the Wind reflected. “It’s all the more chances for me to kick ass, and right now that’s all I honestly care, or need.”

“You don’t understand, do you?” Hammer Knight lamented. “Imagine how this would impact across the land. Fields and villages burning from here down to remote places like the small kingdom of Apotos. There’s a big offensive coming from the East, I bet you it wont stop at the three kingdoms, and people only seem to listen to you - even the Queen herself! Knight of the Wind, please consider the risks at play.”

The Knight of the Wind stood silent for a moment, reflecting.

“I guess the rumors were true.” He let out. “And I guess I can’t let down my people, after all, I always helped them when in need.” He lended a hand to her, she grabbed it and got up. “Just point me out to where we have to go.”

After a moment, he added:

“And by the way, just call me Sonic.”

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

BONUS (bc I got pretty invested in this AU already):

After talking with the Queen, Sonic and Hammer Knight went up north, to the spagonian border. They joined the troops stationed at the border that very same night, and while Sonic was talking with everyone and sharing stories, Hammer Knight was sitting on a nearby cliff, overlooking the river that separates both kingdoms.

After noticing her abscence for a while, Sonic finally found Hammer Knight atop that same cliff, and sat next to her.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been there.” Hammer Knight commented, pointing out the valley beyond the river. “I wonder how is everyone doing... my family and friends...”

“So, it IS true, you ARE from the northern lands! I mean! Your people will likely be happy of seeing their champion back.” Sonic pointed out, trying to contain himself. “Think about it, the triumphant return of Hammer Knight! I doesn’t sound cool to me of course, but for everyone else I bet they’ll love it.”

Hammer Knight chuckled. “Oh, stop being so spiteful! There must be a silver lining to it!”

“Well, the fact you are the only worthy opponent I’ve faced might count... Hammer Knight.”

“Just... just call me Amy, okay?”

“Fine... Amy.”

The two stood in silence, watching the moon’s reflection on the river.

Conversation came back after a while.

“So, Sonic, have you been up north before?” Amy asked.

“Well, five years of being Spagonia’s champion granted me a world tour already!” Sonic playfully answered. “I think I remember the northern lands, I would’ve visited them again on my sixth year on tour if, y’know, I had won that tourney!”

“Well, now you have the chance to tour around with the new champion!” She teased.

“Yeah... kill me, please.” He joked, and both laughed.

Amy let out a sigh and leaned on his shoulder.

“I think I like you, oh, Knight of the Wind.”

Sonic didn’t say anything. But on his mind he started considering the thought of actually enjoying moments like that. Maybe she was a lot more valuable to him than just a worthy opponent.

The next morning, the Knight of the Wind and Hammer Knight went on their first adventure, hoping to stop any potential threat to peace.

(Author’s note: hey, got anything for me? Send it to my ask box!)

#sonic the hedgehog #amy rose #sonamy #sonamy au #sonic au #fun fact: i looked at unleashed's map for reference #and did some crossreferencing with real world mediterranean data #also witcher 3 blood and wine's beauclair was a strong inspiration for old spagonia #but going by real world i was thinking more of liguria's coasts with a southern french touch #and a more spain-like hot summer weather #imagine doing a geographic study of a fucking sonic map lmao

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jimlingss · 4 years

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Thank you, everyone, for your words of encouragement. In this short amount of time, I’ve been absolutely overwhelmed with messages of support. I want to reassure you all that I’m by no means as hurt as some of you think, or at least not after so much kindness. I’ve always encouraged all kinds of feedback!! From compliments to constructive criticism. And I’m (supposedly) an Adult™, so I can definitely take someone’s opinion.

Regardless, thank you to everyone who reached out to me. I want to respond to each and everyone of you under this post so I don’t flood other people’s dashes.

Anonymous said: about the anon who said your fics lack emotion, hmm i wouldn't quite agree tbh, i remember reading tears of a villian and deadass crying, it hurt me so much!! also, in "fall in hatred" their feeling are so well portrayed and i could understand why they acted a certain way! to conlclude, there is always some space for constructive criticism but your stories, are to me, something very attentively built and created, it's apparent that you completely enjoy writing, I can feel your enthusiasm!!

--to that anon; pls don't get this wrong way but it's just the way I see it and I've read quite a lot till now

nah deadass crying isn’t good enough anymore, anon. You have to be keening and violently sobbing until you’re brought into the ER for my fics to be considered to have emotion. lol I’m only kidding, thank you for the message.

peachiest-hun said: To that anon who said your work lacked emotions, I beg to differ! I have read Jungle Park so many times I know at exactly which chapter when the heavy angst starts happening and I read those parts when I just want to have a good cry (I still cry every. single. time)! Also Head Over Heels to Hell, The Colour of Our Voices, Love So Shallow (because I so relate with OC), and many more have given me the FEELS (happy and sad ones). 1/2

So what I'm trying to say is that Jimlingss is doing a great job in her craft. She does deliver emotions in her work and the reason I love it so much is that it's SUBTLE and not completely in your face. Sometimes emotions that are subtle and they hit you slowly, but powerfully it hurts even more for me. On another note, I'm loving Sugar and Coffee. In times of darkness which are often these days, I have something to look forward to every week to keep me motivated. So thank you Jimlinggs! 2./2

Istg Jungle Park is one of the most unexpectedly beloved fics on my blog but I love it hahaha I can’t believe you’ve read it to the point of knowing what chapter is what though. that’s an honour. There’s definitely stories of mine that are less subtle than others, but I’m glad that you enjoy the latter of them too :’) Thank you.

Anonymous said: This is my first time ever leaving a message on someone’s tumblr, but I just felt that I HAD to after reading that anon’s comment about your stories lacking emotion. I wholly disagree (in the nicest way possible, not throwing any shade at anyone). I’ve read all of your fics (for the past two years) and I look forward to when you release new material (the highlight of my Mondays right now after I come home from working at a clinic). Your stories have really lifted my mood during this pandemics an

Anonymous said: Sorry for that long tangent. Don’t even know if I made sense. You don’t have to respond to any of this, but you deserve to hear some positive words as well.

Oh my god. Did I just take your tumblr-message virginity? asdfghjkl I’m kidding. but thank you for reaching out to me. I can’t believe you’ve been around for such a long time and that I’m a part of your Monday routine :’)

Anonymous said: OK that ask about "constructive criticism" was def imo RUDE. You don't just anonymously go into someone's asks and bluntly tell an author that their fics "lack emotion". That is not the way to encourage someone to improve and continue to work hard. That's just flat out mean. That person clearly doesn't care about your feelings or the fact that you write and share your stories for FREE for us to enjoy. I love your stories and appreciate what you've shared with us. Thank you for your hard work ❤️

I like to give the benefit of the doubt to anons and anyone sending me a message online in general. God knows there were times I meant well but it was received wrongly. But anyway, my mind was more boggled than I was hurt, that’s one thing for sure.

joonie-mono said: + it was called love so shallow which genuinely made me see myself in a character, but my point was that your writing has a specific feel to it, it's made me laugh and cry (His Name personally killed me :] ) and that's my opinion. You and your writing are amazing and I'm sorry but that anon was just so wrong.

oof bringing out the evidence. be my attorney please.

Anonymous said: As someone who has read your entire masterlist (and going through it again) i will have to wholeheartedly disagree with that anon. The way you portray SO many emotions in your fics is *chefs kiss* and I honestly thought that the ones that “lack emotion” were meant to be that way, with an open ending, the idea that their love just started, soo.... yeah, I’ll have to disagree.

There are definitely stories of mine that are a bit looser on romance. Such as Kitchen Romance, The President’s Son, The Heiress’ Son, Arcadia, etc. But I have a loooot of fics that are quite emphasized in either despair/sadness or cute fluff.

ladyartemesia said: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I am here to disrespectfully disagree with anon who probably doesn’t write effing ANYTHING and has no idea what it takes to produce the content you do. I have followed for months and I’m still not through your masterlist BECAUSE reading your stories is a bloomin EMOTIONAL EVENT. When I read Brass and Strings, I LOST A WHOLE DAY. Like I was so into it, my DAY was gone. Anon is prolly salty there isn’t more smut I guess. That’s whatever for them. (Part 1)

It’s subtle, deep, meaningful, and incredible and you’re one of my favorite authors. I can’t FOR A SECOND let that comment go cause it’s RIDICULOUS. You’re literally so gifted. You don’t need to change a thing. Every artist, no matter their medium, should continue to improve. So in that sense I wish you all the growth in the world as you work towards the perfection of your craft. BUT SERIOUSLY you’re an incredible writer. That anon is loony. I’m so sorry you had to even read those crazy words.

As I answer these messages, it’s starting to feel like I’m the third party mediator of a dispute and all y’all are just HAMMERING it to this anon, LOL. I’m not sure if the anon is necessarily requesting for more smut but if they are, they might be happy this Friday (*COUGH spoiler for those actually reading my responses)

Anyway, you’re too kind. thank you. I am definitely not as hurt as I was earlier.

((and tbh you’re hilarious, you’re actually making me laugh irl))

krystle1990 said: Woah!! Ok first that Anon is absolutely crazy. I literally stalk your page for new work being put out! I probably blow up your notifications daily. I've never been disappointed in any of your work. You always give a heads up if it will take time for the characters to realize their feelings which I absolutely love. It always leaves me ready for the next part and I am glued to my phone with every update. You're amazing and I can't wait to see how you grow with your work. 💜😘

ASDFGHJKL PLEASEEE if it’s someone who’s worried about blowing up notifications, it’s me. To those who have notifications on I sincerely can’t fathom how often I blow up people’s phones. I digress, I always give out warnings to keep people patient since I know slow burn can be excruciating haha thank you for the message.

kigurumu said: Also just want to add that saying you have good intentions or "don't mean to be mean" does not cancel out whatever offensive thing you just said. IT WILL STILL RUDE. Not saying all negative feedback is bad. Criticism can be hard to take no matter how it's phrased, but telling a writer to be more like another writer is like telling them their style isn't good enough which is NOT helpful. Your writing is your own. If the anon wants to read fics that are like gukyi's, they can read gukyi's fics 🙄

Also I've been waiting until Sugar and Coffee is done so I can binge it all at once but avoiding spoilers from all the asks is so hard haha! I keep seeing all these good things about it and I'm SO tempted to just read it now but I've already waited this long so I don't wanna give up kfnrjrofvjskdh guess I'll reread your other fics in the meantime

The message was fine on its own but I think dragging in another writer at the end was definitely not ok. When will comparing writers end. But regardless, gukyi and I are cool with one another - i mean we wrote 100k together so it’s gonna have to take a reverse Zuko arc for us to be on bad terms lol

Anyway, oooh you’re one of those bingers. Can’t say I blame you cause I love binging myself, so it’s understandable for readers to wait till the series is over. and since you were so kind in following up your original message with two more and expressing so much appreciation for me :’), I’ll let you know that the finale of Sugar and Coffee will be posted by July 20th! by then, the entire series will be completed.

Anonymous said: Tbh i think that neither you nor that anon is wrong. Some people like it more romanticised and cheesy, some people dont. I believe that your stories are more on the realistic side of life. People (whom your characters represent) cant always be cheesy and passionate for love, there are other things in life! Maybe you're just the type who's too realistic for any hopeless romantic things like i am and it's fine. Not all writers can write dramatic romance

Tbh, I agree. It’s a matter of opinion and there’s no one wrong in the fight of opinions. As I’ve said many times on my blog, the cringe factor varies between person to person. What someone might think is fluffy is absolutely cringey to another. What someone might think is a good amount of fluff is not enough for someone else. I’ve written a lot. And I’ve made sure to add lots of variations between the amount of romance in my stories. Indeed, some are definitely more subtle and “realistic” while others are completely cheesy and makes me gag from the amount of sugar in it lol I just think the anon should take a look at more of my stories before coming up with such a conclusive opinion.

Anonymous said: I’ve been reading your fics for over a year now and religiously follow updates every week. Why? Because they make me feel something whether it be joy from fluff or grief from angst. I’ll remember a story of yours months after I first read it and return to it just to feel those emotions again. I understand that emotional responses are usually subjective but I think that anon needs to read your works again, because they sure are missing out.

I replied to that anon that they should check out more of my fics and then come back to tell me if they haven’t changed their minds, so I don’t know if they’re missing out or not lol

I don’t expect my stories to elicit emotional responses or fanatic feedback for everyone. God knows there’s been other people’s writing styles that just didn’t resonate with me no matter how hard I tried to read their stories. But all I ask is that people try. It’s fine if you give up halfway but at least try reading. That’s fair to ask, right?

#Anonymous #peachiest-hun #joonie-mono #ladyartemesia #krystle1990 #kigurumu

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enchanted-prose · 4 years

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#15 Friar’s Lantern

number fifteen: burger king foot lettuce

yay! 200th post!

Word count: 5,705

Characters: Roden, Regar (Original character), the Faola (original character), Ulspierre (stinky peter pan boy, original character), Merry (original character)

Notes: my beta and ffnet readers loved this chapter and i loved writing it :,)

Enjoy!

The constant drumming of horse hooves was enough of a warning; everyone cleared the streets at the sight of the king’s soldiers marching to lower Drylliad.

Jaron had survived worse than a kick to the leg, and he would survive this attack. Even if the Faola hadn’t intended to kill him, any attempt on the king’s life was considered an act of treason. It was Roden’s calling to see that the perpetrator was captured.

Doors rattled shut. Roden pulled his helmet visor over his eyes; the buildings were becoming less structured, and the alleys were crammed with people trying to stay out of the law’s way.

He didn’t blame the urchins quaking in fear.

Carthyan knights were a fearful sight.

“Lord Thomas Row dispatched members of his army,” said Lieutenant Alistair, his voice muffled by his helmet. “His orders were to sweep the city looking for Regar, just in case we fail to find him.”

Roden shook his head, “I know where Regar will be.”

He’d fought the Faola before, only to turn around and fight with the Faola deep in the Vaults. Roden was sure that he’d find Regar there. The Vaults made for an easy escape, and an easy trap if used correctly.

The Vaults was the Faola’s domain.

Drops of dark liquid stained the cobblestones, and pieces of rotting food had been thrown about. A cart lay on its side. Windows were shut against the cool, twilight air.

“Stay on your guard!” Roden barked as he dismounted.

No matter how many times he wore his full suit of armor, he’d never get used to the jarring sound his boots made when they hit stone.

It was even worse when followed by twelve other pairs of armored knights repeating the same motion.

The entrance to the Vaults gaped at him, eerily similar to how the gates to the Devils’ lair were painted. No messages were hammered to the wooden posts beside the door-less hallway. No words begging for the weary traveler to turn back and find shelter in a safer place.

Stairs descended into hazy blackness, and for a moment, Roden swore he saw movement. He’d been surrounded with night-dark rain the last time he’d come to the Vaults. It was strange to return with a band of his men and a series of torches.

Though there were no messages of certain death, there was a chipped saber discarded a few steps down.

With a wave of his hand, a pair of men rushed forwards, carrying torches larger than a man’s head. There were signs of a recent struggle; bloody trails left by clawing fingers, a series of dusty footprints.

Roden held up his fist as he descended into the first level of the Vaults.

“Captain,” called one of the torch bearers. “We won’t be alone.”

And he was right. The light from the torches were met with the bright beams from mining lamps. Whispers hissed through the air, growing louder and louder with each comment.

“Keep the torches,” Roden ordered. “Use them as weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

The first room was packed with men and women, both masked and unmasked. They lounged in corners and hung from beams. The Faola were too relaxed. Barrels lined the far wall, and mining lamps hung from hooks in the ceiling. Stagnant puddles glimmered. A large man was wrestling a patched bandit. He was speaking in tones too soft to be heard.

Roden was the first to step into the room, he kept his sword extended.

A handful of Faola burst into motion, shoving themselves into a circle in the middle of the room. The others jumped to their feet, swords and daggers drawn. A figure swung down from the ceiling.

He recognized a boy with flaming red hair.

“We understand that there’s been a, ah, situation,” said the boy. He bowed. “We have no quarrel with you, captain, we’re simply peacefully gathering.”

“State your name and business,” Roden countered, stepping aside to let his fellow knights flood the chamber.

“Ulspierre, and my friends and I are here to stage an intervention for a mutual friend. You’re a decent man, Captain Harlowe. My sister speaks highly of you.”

“Cut it with the words, Ulspierre. This goes beyond you.”

Sister. Roden scowled, there’d been a few sisters in the past.

Red hair, hanging around the Vaults. Participating with the Faola.

Ah, Ulspierre was Ayvar’s brother.

A drop of water hit the stone floor, and several more Faola prepared for a fight. Roden tipped his visor up, staring Ulspierre down. It was a simple exchange, a fugitive for peace. Roden wanted the Faola who attacked Jaron, Ulspierre probably didn’t want to die.

It would’ve been easy if Ulspierre gave the Faola up.

“There was an attack on the king,” Roden boomed, taking pride as a few of the Faola flinched. “We know the culprit, and we know he’s involved with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ulspierre scratched the back of his head.

“I didn’t come to-!”

“-Play games, I know. Quite rare, people typically come here to do just that. I know me an’ my Faola friends did.”

Roden kept a firm grip on his temper. There were more of the Faola than his knights, and he didn’t want to cause unnecessary endangerment. Ulspierre wanted to be recognized for helping catch Jaron’s attacker, he’d back down once he got what he wanted.

Or at least that’s what Roden hoped would happen.

A few more of the Faola jumped to a fighting stance, only to be met with the sounds of drawing swords. Ulspierre yawned, and sauntered over to one of the barrels. He spun around, revealing a plain chalice, and pried off a barrel lid. Roden grunted. The Faola hadn't moved, and neither had his soldiers. Ulspierre dipped the chalice in the barrel after he'd filled it with amber liquid.

The front room had been converted during the short time Roden had been away. There were shelves with boxes, shelves with bottles.

Though there weren't nearly as many Faola as he'd seen during the first attack on Feall, there was enough to make up a substantial gang. Roden wondered just how much he'd missed in ignoring the Faola's movements.

"Hand over the Faola," Roden ordered again. "I know you have him."

The sheer lack of respect Ulspierre demonstrated in sipping from his chalice plucked at Roden's fragile grip on his temper. Ulspierre shook his head, "Captain, dear captain, this is about networking. Have you heard the term 'pick your battles'? I'd be surprised if you didn't, you seem like the man who needs that tattooed on his arm."

There was only one mark on Roden's arm that served as a reminder of something.

It still stung him at times.

He said nothing as Ulspierre took another drink. The Faola in the middle shifted; somebody's foot hit somebody else's leg, and the harsh sound of a fist hitting a face cracked through the room.

"I'm not an idiot, Ulspierre," Roden explained. "I'd rather not get my boots stained with blood."

"What a coincidence! Neither would I!"

However, he made no move to give up the Faola.

Roden's gaze flicked about the chamber, compiling as many details as he could. There was a large figure in the middle of the Faola. Each of the barrels were scuffed, as if they'd been moved recently. More than half of the Faola had been caught without their masks on.

Perhaps they truly hadn't been planning on a rogue gang member attacking the king.

Somebody shifted, and every blade started at the sound. A fight was brewing in the air.

It would need to be stopped before it began.

"Tell me-," Roden began again.

"Listen to me!" Ulspierre burst, tossing the chalice aside. "It is the same as it was before! We didn't give names before, we don't know who attacked your king. I do know that he's gotten my sister thrown into a tower, and he's almost gotten us killed by you. Right now."

"Give me the attacker!"

Ulspierre drew a short, crooked blade, "Release us and my sister! We take from those who have too much! We never intended to kill anyone!"

Too many times had he lost his temper and taken it out during a sparring session. But this was different, it wasn't a sparring session.

This would soon expand into a matter of life or death.

Roden had too many plans to die at the hand of a bandit.

He could try once again. He could try to mend things before blood spilled. "You won't be touched if you comply, Ulspierre, I promise you that. We’ll forgive your involvement in the attack.”

“Not true,” Ulspierre shrugged. “We had no idea about any attack, your king is good to us, we have no reason to kill him. We’ve been here shuffling barrels all afternoon.”

“Then tell me where your friend is, Ulspierre, and we won’t have any trouble.”

“See, my friend isn’t exactly my responsibility at the moment, he belongs to somebody else.”

“He’s not exactly your friend then, isn’t he?” Roden countered, taking a step towards Ulspierre and the circle of Faola.

Ulspierre’s gloved hands shot up, “It’s my life, sir knight, my choices.”

“No, not just your life. The king was attacked and if you won’t tell me where your patched acquaintance is-,”

The room went completely silent as Roden lunged forward, his blade less than an inch from Ulspierre’s neck.

“-I will have everyone in this room arrested on charges of high treason.”

He was close enough to Ulspierre to see the fear leaping from his eyes. Ulspierre cleared his throat, “Commander! Somebody would like to discuss your methods?”

Roden took a step back as the circle of Faola dispersed, revealing a scarlet haired bull of a man holding a patched Faola by the neck. The Faola weakly slapped at Regar’s grip before going limp.

Commander Regar nodded his head, “I appreciate that King Jaron sent help.”

“Seems you handled the situation on your own,” Roden lowered his sword to keep his arm from tiring, but took care to keep it in view.

He knew he should’ve been relieved that Regar was safe, but a nagging at the back of his mind couldn’t let him accept that this was right. Roden could justify leaving the Faola alone by claiming he couldn’t see them while they redistributed stolen wealth.

But to ignore an attack on the king was too much.

As Roden grew more involved with the Faola, he was realizing that there was an entire rogue kingdom under his nose.

“The attack was much more, ah, personal than you’d expect. My apologies.”

Personal? He didn’t mean to frown as he considered the weight of Regar’s words. The Faola’s attack was based out of revenge; Regar’s tone confirmed that.

And it seemed that Regar knew much more than he showed.

“This bandit is an enemy to the crown,” Roden explained, gesturing to the head locked Faola. “He will be taken and-“

Regar shook his head, “We do things differently in the streets, sir.”

“An act of treason is-“

“I caught the attacker, who swung a sword at me, and it’s my privilege to decide punishment. The rules are different, here. Had you caught the man first, you’d have the responsibility of choosing his fate. But you didn’t, and as one of the victims, I have a say in how this ends.”

Dozens of glittering bandits’ eyes turned to Roden and his men. He knew they wouldn’t hesitate to slit throats if Regar’s demands were challenged.

“The death penalty requires a unanimous vote,” Roden growled. “A vote from a respectable crowd, not a hoard of thieves.”

The Faola began squirming again at the mention of death, only to receive a hard shake from Regar as warning.

Ulspierre wiped away an imaginary tear, “Patchy here is a friend of mine, I’d hate to see his head severed from his body.”

“I had a completely different punishment in mind,” Regar snapped. He pointed a meaty finger at Roden, “You’re an honorable man, can you respect the ancient law?”

Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, blow for blow.

The knights all looked to Roden; they’d fight to the death if he ordered them to. The Faola all stared, and Regar’s patched prisoner stole a glance.

His eyes carried a graveyard’s color.

Roden stood a little straighter, “I hold rank here. The Faola landed a blow, but the punishment for treason can only be sanctioned by the king.”

“Take the bastard’s mask off,” Ulspierre perched on a barrel. “That would put a fat target on his back.”

Regar threw the patched Faola to the floor, and drew his sword. The other Faola slid into a ring. Each one kept a sharp eye on Roden’s men.

The Faola held his hands over the back of his head, curling up like a child. A pang of almost guilt punched through Roden’s ribs. He remembered being the lost thief at the end of a sword, just hoping somebody had the compassion to bring him to the good path.

He’d watch Regar’s every move.

Treason didn’t merit dying in the Vaults like an animal.

“If you’d be so kind as to step out of the circle, captain,” Regar bowed, and drew a dagger from his belt.

“I’ll be watching, Regar.”

Ulspierre stood on his barrel, chalice in hand again, “Take the mask off, commander! Turn him over to the crown when you’re done!”

The Faola curled even further around himself as Ulspierre’s demands to unmask him grew louder and louder. Roden’s knights kept a firm gaze on as many masked men as they could; Roden never stopped watching Regar.

A fit of laughter erupted from the circle as the Faola made one last attempt to escape. He threw himself at the feet of his fellow bandits, only to be dragged back into the circle.

Roden frowned.

“I am not who they say I am, but I cannot let this grievance pass,” Regar announced, reversing his dagger grip. He took the Faola by the collar of his tunic. “You best be grateful I’m dealing with you, and not the king.”

If it weren’t for Ulspierre’s childish laugh ringing through the room, Roden was certain the judgement would’ve been made in silence. The Faola began jostling Roden’s knights, calling to unmask their fallen friend.

However, Regar had a different plan. His words were lost on the jeering crowd; Roden strained to hear.

His attempts were futile.

A million thoughts crossed Roden’s mind. He instantly regretted allowing Regar to hold that much power over a bandit. A bandit who likely wasn’t much older than some of the pages running around the castle.

It would be too easy for Regar to slit the Faola’s throat.

Something wet splashed Roden’s nose. He didn’t have to feel it to know what it was and who it had been intended for. Those who weren’t wearing their masks had taken to spitting on Regar’s victim.

He didn’t need to see the Faola’s face to know what he felt. The mask saved him from further humiliation.

Regar sliced through both of the Faola’s sleeves, and pushed him to the ground.

It was a simple motion that carried the weight of the sky. Regar hadn’t unmasked the Faola.

He’d separated him from the group.

Those sleeves would forever bear the mark of a disowned bandit. The patched Faola could never return to his family of thieves. Not here in Drylliad.

Exile was always a cruel fate, but it was better than facing charges for treason.

“I’ve taken what’s due,” Regar roared over the crowd. “So help me Saints, I run into you running with bandits again, I’ll-!”

His threat was lost as Ulspierre shouted an order. “Chase him down! Treat a stray the way they’re meant to be treated!”

The Faola struggled to keep his sleeves up as he crawled away from the spitting bandits. Crawling, with the dignity of a drowned mouse. He rolled away from a boot, only to be met with another. A metallic ring cut through the musty air; Regar was shoving several masked bandits. Ulspierre stood atop his barrel, twitching his finger to an imaginary tune.

A knight threw back his hand, knocking over a member of the mob.

Roden glanced back to the fallen Faola, who’d curled up around himself again.

He thought of Brat, Beetle, and Roach. They’d be dead if not for the Faola. It was a favor to somebody who’d once saved his life when faced with the scum of the Vaults.

“Hold the line!” Roden barked, swinging his sword at anything soft as he stepped over the Faola.

A masked bandit slashed a knife across Roden’s armored shoulder. The teeth-grinding sound of metal sliding across metal was becoming all too common. Ulspierre threw his chalice at one of the knights, and then flung himself into the fight.

The patched Faola had drawn a dagger, and was swiping at the mob from his place on the ground. Roden reached down, picked the Faola up by the neck of his tunic, and shoved him in Regar’s direction.

Jaron wouldn’t be happy reading Roden’s report on this misadventure.

He should’ve taken the Faola into custody and played by the rulebook.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Roden forced his way forwards, calling for his men to follow suit. Their armor would hold up long enough for an escape. All they needed to do was race back up the Vaults’ stairs and into daylight; they’d have better reinforcements then.

Regar tossed the Faola over his back, grabbed an attacking bandit with his other hand, and hurled the bandit into the crowd.

“Up the stairs!” Regar bellowed, now using a captured bandit as a human shield.

Planting his feet at the base of the stairs, Roden stared down the fury before him. He shoved armored soldiers up the stairway and kicked at the masked Faola who were trying to follow.

Battle was chaos, but there was still order. There was still a requirement that needed to be met; somebody needed to win.

There was no order in the Vaults, only Ulspierre giving orders between drunken laughs.

It was too much like the pirates. Too much like Devlin selecting who lived and who died because he was bored. Regar ducked below the stairway entrance, allowing the patched Faola to slide down his back like an eel.

Blood thrummed in Roden’s ears, roaring over the sounds of fists hitting faces. His gauntlets pinched his skin as he tightened his grip on his sword.

He had the power to end it. To end the madness in this level of the Vaults.

He could slice his way down, taking as many mad bandits down with him as he could.

Roden braced himself to charge forward, reason fleeing from his mind. It was peaceful without that call to logic. Without that drive to continue.

All he knew was that he had the strength to-

A pair of gloved hands slipped below his breastplate, dragging him back. The Faola continued yanking him up the stairs, yelling something down to him. Roden turned on his heels, took the Faola by his skinny upper arm, and dashed out of the Vaults.

The Faola slapped at Roden’s hands as they burst out of the dark stairway. Knights, soldiers, and mercenaries surrounded the stairway entrance with weapons at the ready. The patched Faola froze.

“Commander Regar, Captain Harlowe,” Lord Row waved his hand. Beside him sat King Oberson, who looked like he was going to be sick.

Regar stole a glance at the Faola, who nodded.

Roden knew he was seeing a secret conversation. He moved to put his sword to the Faola’s throat, but at the same time, Regar stumbled forward and latched onto Roden’s shoulder.

“Let me go!” Roden shouted over the clatter of his armor. He wasn’t a fool, he knew- he-

“Apologies, Captain Harlowe!” Regar burst, almost pulling Roden to the ground as he reached for Roden’s hand.

All he saw were fragments of an image. Regar was a mountain of a man, and he’d dragged down several knights with him. The Faola had been hiding behind him. His patched cloak fluttered in the dusk breeze.

The Faola had vanished into the Vaults by the time Roden regained his footing, likely to never be seen again.

“What in the Devils’ name was that!?” Roden roared, red seeping at the corner of his vision. “How did you let him go!?”

Punishment had been served, yes, but letting go of a man who’d committed treason wasn’t an easy mistake to make up for.

Regar coughed, “Don’t yell at me, boy.”

Boy? Boy?

He’d heard it over and over. Older soldiers claiming they didn’t have to listen to Roden because sometimes he cut himself while shaving. Claiming they’d seen it all.

He’d lost a bandit who’d overpowered the king with a swift kick to the leg.

Roden had failed at protecting Jaron, and though he’d survive, future attackers wouldn’t be so kind.

Unfortunately for Regar, Roden had enough.

“Alistair!” Roden barked, his voice taking a sharp edge. “You will accompany Commander Regar to the dungeons on allegations of treason, his fate will be decided by the king.”

Row looked shocked, “Captain-!”

“You others, escort Lord Row and King Oberson to safety,” Roden continued over Row’s complaints. “There’s a dangerous man looking for blood.”

A group of knights on horses hit their fists over their hearts, and circled around Oberson and Row. Alistair and his men were almost a little too relaxed as they guided Regar through the crowd.

The rest of the soldiers were under strict orders to search for the Faola with torn sleeves.

However, Roden was no fool. He knew the bandit was long gone.

He was tired.

The goose chase would keep him free to find more pleasurable entanglements for a few hours.

Too much responsibility, not enough results.

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

The dancing crowd crammed into the Dragon’s Keep was too enticing. People piled in, and the brash sound of pipes and a lute careened through the air. A familiar dark coat pushed into the crowd.

So, Tobias wasn’t able to keep still either.

Roden watched him shove his way through the doors. A part of him knew he needed to stand beside Tobias and keep him from getting his teeth knocked out. A part of him knew he needed to return to the castle and explain how he’d lost the Faola.

But he didn’t move.

His armor, though abandoned at the nearest garrison, still weighed down his arms. Still clung to his shoulders. He’d failed at keeping Jaron safe, and now he was willingly letting Tobias walk into a tavern filled to the brim with all sorts of people.

No, no, Roden couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Tobias try to blend in and end up crying over a limping frog.

There were too many things to worry about. He stepped forward, forcing himself to continue moving despite wanting to stay still. For Tobias, for Tobias.

Can’t let him get his eye blackened. Can’t-

Cool fingers tucked over the lip of his breastplate, freezing against his burning skin. Roden scowled at the immovable figure before him as best as he could. A splash of blue kept her curls off her neck; he’d cut that scarf himself.

“I didn’t realize my biting wit hurt you to the point of staying away from the Dragon’s Keep,” Merry wrinkled her nose. The left side of her face was covered in red welts.

“Merry, I didn’t-,” he began, freezing in his tracks.

She shook her head, and held up a basket, “It’s alright, I was actually coming to see you. You missed out on tarts the last few days. I, ah, I heard about what happened in the Vaults. Regar’s men are loud drunks.”

His ears burned. He hadn’t realized word of his failure escaped that quickly, “Tobias went in, I need to keep an eye on him.”

“Bad idea, you might be prepared for a battle, but Regar’s men won’t play fair,” Merry tucked her basket in the crook of her arm. “Come on, I had every intention of walking across the city, now you get to come with me.”

Her hand pressed against the small of his back.

“Stop pushing, I’m not your ward,” Roden grunted, and he draped his arm over her shoulders.

“Ah, but I am your friend,” she corrected.

Friend.

There was an unspoken agreement Roden shared with Merry. It came in the form of sharing tarts and poorly made scarves. It came in the form of stopping by every few days to make sure the other hadn’t gotten their head stuck between stair railing again.

In reality, the head sticking incident had been completely Merry’s fault, but if it happened once, it was all too likely that it would happen again.

“Who hit you?” asked Roden as he slipped the basket off of Merry’s arm and into his hand.

She cracked a smile, “So my face is still there, glad to hear that.”

Roden frowned, ready to ask again. He steered her out of the path of an older woman and her several escorts. “I’ll hold you down till you tell me.”

“Nobody hit me, I promise.”

“I’m not an idiot, Merry.”

“It’s embarrassing!” She threw her hands up. “I slept in this morning and today’s fish day, and the other barmaids got to run their errands, but I had to get the nasty crawfish from the river. They were trying to escape and I didn’t want them to pinch me, which made me run into a door frame. Is that what you want to know? Do you like embarrassing me?”

“Is the doorframe injured? I know how hard your head is.”

She stuck out her tongue, “I’d rather have a fat head than cabbage curls like you.”

Hold on, hold on. Roden tilted his head from side to side, unable to ignore the harsh reality of his shortcomings. He’d let the Faola get away because he’d foolishly trusted Regar, and now Regar was holed up in a dungeon for choosing to exile the Faola rather than slit his throat.

It was wrong to fight the smile swelling in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to feel at ease.

Ease was for those who didn’t have an obligation to put the lives of others in front of their own.

The hand at the base of his spine tightened. “Captain?”

“Yes, Murry?”

“It’s Merry,” her frown was too deep to be genuine.

“Murky?”

“Merry!”

“Mucky!?” Roden rolled his shoulders back. “I could’ve sworn it was Merry, why didn’t you tell me I was saying it wrong?”

“Roden! We’re not children!”

“You started it,” he countered. “Mucky.”

Her fist was too small to do any damage, but Roden appreciated that she’d thought her punch could overpower him. He hid his chuckle with a cough.

This was wrong. She was a friend, not a distraction. He was avoiding the inevitable. Avoiding telling Jaron that the Faola had been too slippery, and had gotten away. His head was throbbing.

Why did she have to look at him? Turn away Merry, nothing to see here!

He was a fool to have left his armor at the garrison. It wasn’t fair, he’d forgotten to bring his mask and helmet today. Roden scowled at the stray cat that dashed across the street. It slipped across the wet stones, and vanished from view.

The Saints cursed him in making him the size of a bear. Bears couldn’t run and hide.

“Did you know you’re much more likely to catch a friar’s lantern in Carthya than in any other place?” The warmth of Merry’s hand at his back vanished; she was beckoning to him, asking him to cross the street and look at the Roving River below.

Roden stared at her extended hand.

It was an invitation, not an order. He caught himself reaching forward and drew back into himself. “I don’t- I don’t know what that is.”

Her hand stayed, still inviting. “It’s a golden light, swinging in the wind. They’re elusive, some say they’re carried by Death himself. He loves his games, as you know, and takes the form of a friar.

“He calls you through a haze, promising your deepest desires. Ones you didn’t know you had yourself. If you can follow him and catch the lantern, you’ve won the game and won the reward. But nobody believes you. The friar’s lantern takes and takes, it’s hard to consider it ever giving.”

Take her hand. She’s a friend, not a hidden Faola hoping to cut off an arm. Roden reached out again.

Lights danced across the bridge’s wet stones, mimicking their partners glinting off of the Roving River’s bubbling surface.

Merry’s little tale hid too much; the friar’s lantern was an unreachable thing to those who couldn’t soldier through twisting games made of mist.

She twirled towards him the second their fingers brushed together. Roden set the basket of pastries down, and set his hand at her back. The moon would be their music.

“What’s your lantern, Lion Boy?”

“Is it wrong if I don’t know?” Roden felt his brows knit together. “I don’t know if I have a lantern. What’s yours?”

A wicked smile cut across her impish face, “I’d be drawn and quartered before anyone knew my lantern.”

“It’s that serious?”

“You wouldn’t quite understand.”

“Try me.”

Merry only shook her head, there’d be no answer tonight. Did he even want to know what her lantern was?

He watched her struggle to maintain eye contact. Merry’s hand in his was too tense, too afraid of being caged. She stepped forward as he stepped back. Step to the side, step forward. Side, back, side, forward. Squeeze in a cowardly turn.

“I don’t want to be held back,” Merry blurted. “I’m not anybody’s toy. I’m not a pawn.”

“You’re not a toy.”

Had the moment been wild and open, Roden would’ve called for Mott to watch. He’d seen Mott turn Jaron’s words around too many times, and now Roden was doing the same.

Silence hung on the summer air a little too long. Roden cracked a smug grin, “You’re my friend, Merry. I’d rather push you forward than hold you back.”

It was Merry’s fault that their timid dance ended. She threw her arms around Roden’s neck, nearly knocking him off balance. They were friends. There was nothing wrong with embracing her back.

“You’re a good person. Too good,” she wiped her nose. “But your ankles are too small and now I’m uncomfortable. Good people can’t have small ankles.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, and rocked from side to side. Avoiding the bear in the room was a skill Roden had perfected. He knew when other people used it too. Unfortunately, Merry wasn’t as subtle as she hoped.

“And I take it you have tree trunk ankles?” Roden leaned against the bridge wall, a little more aware of the night breeze than before.

“Do you want to see?”

Comparing ankles wasn’t exactly what Roden expected out of his night. He reached forward, and pinched Merry’s round cheek, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to say no.”

“Is it because your ankles are too small?” Merry swatted at his hand.

“That’s too much of a secret to tell.”

“Ah, I figured out my lantern.”

“Don’t tell me it’s to see-“

“It’s to see your ankles.”

“By the Saints,” Roden snatched Merry’s elbows and pulled her closer to him. “You need to see a priest.”

Merry clasped her hands together and looked to the sky, “Holy ancestors, forgive my lust for Captain Roden Harlowe’s needle thin ankles.”

It was too hard not to crack a smile. Roden shook his head; he knew fully well that his ankles were at least twice the size of Merry’s. She held onto his forearms, and Roden wondered if she was seriously considering forcing both of them over the bridge’s edge.

His fool’s paradise shattered when Merry’s thumb brushed over the pirate brand on his arm. Though the fabric of his shirt hid it from view, it was impossible to miss when touched. Merry’s eyes went wide.

Was this the way he looked when he’d touched the scar on her shoulder?

Roden straightened, unsure of what to say. Fire burned across his face. The pirate brand served as a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen. It was a testament to the lengths he was willing to go when he cared enough.

“I think I was wrong about you,” Merry trailed her finger over the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you would understand the stories I have to tell.”

It was then that he realized just how old Merry’s eyes were when she wasn’t sparkling with laughter. A weary traveler, constantly fleeing an enemy.

Or perhaps constantly tracking a friar’s lantern.

“The scar on your shoulder,” Roden murmured.

She shrugged, “I didn’t lie when I said I earned that one from rock hopping.”

“You said there were others.”

He’d never seen such a bitter smile. Merry waved her hand, “It’s not important.”

Kind words weren’t something Roden knew well for a very long time. He’d known curses and cruelty for too long, but he’d been taught tenderness. Taught by Harlowe and Nila.

Roden tugged on one of Merry’s stray curls, “It’s important to me.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t speak to you?” He tilted his head. “I like you. Are you going to shove me off a bridge, Mucky?”

Merry pinched his chin, “No, I’ll do something much worse than that.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“But you should be.”

Roden lunged forward, catching Merry by the waist to toss her over his shoulder. She squealed in protest.

Carrying her on his shoulder was better than searching those travel-worn smiles and false laughing eyes for answers that would never be given freely. He didn’t want her to know that she held too much power over him.

He’d managed to let go of his failure with the Faola for just a moment.

A moment filled with ghostly lanterns and a moon dance.

#the ascendance series #fic friday #i should tag all of these as the streets of drylliad #roden #ocs #tension #also i guess if you dont like humiliation this might be a little hard?#i didnt think it was that bad #lowkey had a blast w this and the next few chapters

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may8344 · 4 years

Text

The Journey of a Forgotten Soldier (Levi x OC

Relationships:

Alana Frey (OC)Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Original Female Character(s)Levi Ackerman/Alana FreyFurlan Church/Original Character(s)Furlan Church/Alana Frey

Characters:

Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)Furlan ChurchIsabel MagnoliaAlana Frey (OC) - CharacterErwin SmithHange ZoëPetra RalGunther SchultzEld JinnOluo BozadoKeith ShadisSpecial Operations Squad | Squad Levi

Additional Tags:

Graphic Description of CorpsesBlood and InjuryViolenceMurder

Summary:

Alana Frey, a girl born in the Underground City, longed to see the true sunlight every morning that she would wake up. Alongside her comrades: Furlan Church, Isabel Magnolia, and Levi, Alana’s life as a thug continued with no way around it; until the sudden day she and her companions were offered the deal of a lifetime.

“Once you complete this job, not only will you be generously compensated for your work,

but you will also earn the right to live above ground.”

Word Count: 2.1k

---

Chapter 10: When It Rains, It Pours

Before the expedition beyond the walls, Erwin took it upon himself to teach the Scout’s about his new long-distance scouting formation. Each soldier was seated in a classroom, avidly listening. The blond squad leader hung up a poster with the formation drawing on it.

In the centre, there were three marks in a straight line showing where the wagons were to be located. It was encircled by the Cart Guard Teams. To its left and right, there were lines that consisted of inexperienced soldiers who were known as the Relay team. It was their job to shoot off flares bidirectionally to alert the soldiers around them. Finally, in a half circle around the front of the formation, there was the Vanguard who sighted and alerted the Commander of Titans.

Each soldier looked at it with awe, shocked to see such a formidable plan.

“Unlike previous surveys,” Erwin began, “this time the teams will spread out. The foremost objective is to strengthen our scouting ability. We’ll deploy soldiers at regular intervals at a distance that will ensure a clear view of all directions. We’ll advance while maintaining the greatest scouting and communication range.”

Furlan crossed his arms, a smile playing on his face. “I see, so the Vanguard becomes the eyes of the entire group.” In all honesty, he was very impressed by the idea. As a fellow strategist, he admired the thought put into the formation.

“By sharing information on the locations of Titans with the whole Corps, we’ll avoid as much contact as possible,” Erwin explained. “The primary method of communication will be these signal flares.” He lifted up a little metal mechanism. It’s shape reassembled a pistol. It had a round barrel, the end where you put the round cartridges that determined the color sent. The signal gun was simple, with a little wheel shaped part that worked as the hammer. Near the handle grip was the trigger. “Well judge the situation based on the color of the smoke.

“Of course, exceptions are inevitable, but most of the time the ones firing the flares will be the frontline scouting squads. The squad that spots a Titan will first shoot up a red signal flare. Neighboring squads will then confirm the color of the smoke and shoot up red signal flares towards the centre as quickly as possible. When it’s relayed to the centre, the command squad will change direction and fire a green signal flare to indicate the new direction for the entire formation.”

“I see,” Furlan nodded in his chair. “It’s far quicker than running around on horses to relay information.”

Although he sat at the edge of his seat, eager to learn more, Isabel tilted back her chair and prayed for the lesson to be over. She was not one for strategizing, nor taking in a lot of information. Alana tried to process the formation and plans, but most of it went over her head. Eventually, she gave up and laid her chin in her arms on the table.

Once Erwin finished explaining the formation, the quartet met back up with their squad leader and Sairam. They were in the barracks as Flagon began going over their spot in the plan. “Remember,” Flagon started, “the black flare is for emergencies. This is the only thing I hope we get back without using. We’ll be here.” He pointed to an area on the drawn map. “Second row, fourth position. Communications. While we’ll keep pace with the spare horses, our main role will be relaying messages.

“But no matter how good this formation is, we won’t necessarily get past all of the Titans. Just remember, we will be outside of the walls. Something could happen at any time. This squad in particular is lacking cohesion,” he added, glaring at the quartet. “But, we’re blessed with talented people.”

Isabel crossed her arms proudy, “Heh, damn right.”

“You won’t be laughing if you screw this up,” Flagon frowned. “Be careful and keep your eyes open.”

“Okay!” Isabel yelled, throwing her arms up in a cheer. “Let’s do it!”

“Hey, Isabel!” Sairam scolded. “Don’t think it’s going to be fine as long as you ‘do your best.’ Do you fully understand the nature of the situation?”

“Of course,” she fought back. “I mastered all the hard stuff during preliminary training.”

“All right, enough.” Flagon stopped the pair. “Now listen up. I don’t think the four of you know this, but truthfully, we in the Survey Corps aren’t in the best situation right now. Of course, the citizens whose taxes support us, keep a close eye on us. But because it’s so expensive to send the Survey Corps outside the walls we’re also under close scrutiny by the other military branches and even the interior.”

“Huh. So the military isn’t just one big family?” Furlan questioned.

“It’s because we haven’t produced very impressive results against the Titans yet. But one thing is certain.” Flagon gripped his fist in determination. “What happens with this new formation will also decide what happens to use in the future. We’ve got to make it succeed, and get to the next milestone!”

“Yes sir!” Isabel yelled, doing the military salute.

Furlan and Levi looked to her, surprised by the sudden change of heart. However, Alana frowned and looked down.

“What’s this, Magnolia?” Flagon questioned as he leaned in towards the redhead. “So you can do the proper salute after all! Please don’t embarrass me more than you already have."

Isabel looked down at her salute, shocking herself that she had done it off of instinct. Looking towards her three friends, she was met with silence.

[~]

As the moon began rising, more of the soldiers decided to finally fall asleep. The only four still awake were none other than Levi, Isabel, Furlan, and Alana. Levi sat on his bag, which acted like a pillow, deep in thought. The words of the people around him flooded his mind as he remembered the situation they were in.

“You Underground punks!”

“Everyone saw your fight. You’ve given them hope.”

“With you here, we’ll really be able to raise hell.”

“These guys think it’s worth dying for, don’t they?”

“I know you’ve spent your whole lives in a trash heap, but try to keep this place clean.”

“That is the face of a man who wants to kill me and escape.”

“Even so,” Furlan’s voice cut off Levi’s train of thought. “With such a complex formation, we’d be spotted just leaving the ranks. And considering the risk of disrupting the formation, maybe we should give up stealing the documents while we’re outside of the walls.” The blond propped himself from the ground on his elbows and looked up at Levi. “From the rear guard, where we’ll be, it’ll be almost impossible to reach Erwin’s location near the very front without being noticed by someone.”

“Four people would stand out,” Levi agreed.

Furlan leaned back again, arms behind his head on his pillow. “Anyway, we should focus on getting back alive. I mean… we’ve come all this way.”

Alana, who was laying on her side next to Furlan, nodded in agreement. “If we truly ended up killing him, then everything would go to hell real quick. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s a good soldier and a good fighter. He also seems to be quick minded. It’s not worth the chance right now.”

“I’m good with that too,” Isabel chimed in. She laid on her back on the opposite side of Levi, arms behind her head as well. “Of course the documents are important. But I don’t want to get in their way…”

“What the hell Isabel!? Were the cookies that good?” Furlan whisper-yelled.

“That’s not it, dumbass!” She responded, louder than she should be.

“Keep your voice down!” Alana quietly scolded.

“They were good, though,” she mumbled. “I just… I feel like I’m starting to get why these guys come out here. Going outside the walls, I mean. It’s like how we wanted to get up above, out of the Underground. Lots of my friends died in the Underground, dreaming of making it up there. Seeing them, I just felt like I had to get up there. It’s…”

“It’s like leaving the walls behind to kill the Titans,” Levi finished her thought.

“Yeah. Hey, Big Bro.” Isabel turned herself over and propped herself up on her elbows. “You might think this is weird, but talking to everyone today, it felt like they wanted them to go wild outside the walls again. Over and over again.” Her eyelids began drooping as she laid on her pillow. “When we all get to live in the royal capital, let’s take loads of stuff from them pigs, and use it to buy useless junk. That’ll… show them…” After that, she dozed off.

Alana frowned. “She’s getting too serious about this. Soon, she won’t want to follow through.”

“Good grief,” Furlan sighed, rubbing his head. “I’ve got to revise our plan. We’ll need to steal the documents before she starts seriously talking about ‘dedicating our hearts’ or whatever.”

[~]

Once daybreak came, the scouts rushed ahead on their horses.

“All squads deploy the long-distance scouting formation!” Erwin commanded.

Each soldier maneuvered their horse to their dedicated spot, each doing their respective jobs. It hadn’t been long before a red smoke signal was shot into the air on the right side of the Vanguard. Following it, two more were shot off to warn the centre.

Erwin took notice right away as he shot off a green flare in the opposite direction. The relay team confirmed the color and shot off their own green flare, mirroring the angle.

“It’s a brilliant idea,” Levi commented, “for so many units to act like just one living creature.”

“Hmm… Section Commander Erwin really is something,” Furlan agreed. “It looks like the rear guard will make it to the next supply point without so much as seeing a Titan.”

“We’ve changed direction fourteen times already.” Isabel counted on her fingers. “So there were fourteen Titans? More than I thought there would be.”

“It just means, if we stop, it’s all over.”

In the front of the Vanguard, Commander Shadis’ eyes were set on the dark clouds above. “Have you noticed, Erwin?”

“Yes,” Erwin responded calmly, “those clouds don’t look good.”

Before they knew it, the dark clouds formed quickly above the entire formation. Soon enough, rain began pouring from the sky. Fog and rain covered the plains to the point where nothing three feet ahead was visible.

Commander Shadis began to panic. “We’ll lose contact with the other squads like this! Let’s close formation at once!” He commanded Erwin. Turning back to face forwards, he tried to keep his eyes open. “What the hell is this…? For the weather to turn this bad on our first test run…”

Erwin launched a flare into the air, but it was rained out. “The flares won’t work in this…”

Every squad in the formation began to panic. There were no sights of smoke flares, and it was hard to see any other squads nearby. Unlucky enough for them, a heavy fog began to rise from the ground, covering the ground in a mist-like substance.

“Commander, unfortunately, we can no longer scout ahead. We should expect a Titan encounter at any moment.” Erwin notified his commander.

“Damn, it’s a downpour!” Furlan yelled while holding an arm above his eyes, trying to shield them. “Shit, I can’t see anything!”

“Hey, don’t break the ranks! Everyone stick together!” Flagon screamed to his squad, but to no avail. His voice was getting drowned out by the intensity of the rain.

“I can't hear a thing!” Isabel whined while covering her eyes.

“Isabel! Lana! Furlan! Don’t get separated!” Levi shouted. Although when he turned around, he was only able to spot two of his three friends. “Where’s Alana!?”

“Lana!” Furlan shouted, surprised that she had gone missing. He looked all around him to find the raven haired girl. Although he was able to secure the sight of Levi and Isabel next to him, Alana was nowhere to be seen. “Lana, where are you!?”

“Lana!” Isabel screamed. “Stop yelling, you two.” Levi slowed his pace slightly and rode in between them. “It’ll attract the Titans. Let’s assume she stuck with the squad leader. Right now, all we can do is keep going.”

Isabel hollered back to her two companions, “But we’re completely off course!”

“We’ve got no choice but to keep going like this. We shouldn’t be too far from the guys in the squad. If we want to meet with them, we’ve got no choice but to pray that the fog clears up quickly, rather than blindly changing course,” Furlan answered as calmly as possible. While he seemed to be dealing with this level headedly, he was internally panicking at the idea of Alana being missing.

---

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

#shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #levi #levi ackerman #fanfic #levi x oc #oc #attack on titan fanfiction #levi ackerman x oc #furlan church #isabel magnolia #alana frey

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untakenbeepun · 4 years

Text

For the @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Trapped in a Burning Building

Fandom: Kaleidotrope Podcast

Pairing: Harridrew

[AO3 LINK]

In retrospect, Drew should have expected that if any university was going to have a dorm building set on fire in a series of tropey and romantic misadventures, it was Sidlesmith University, the home of every romantic and lovable idiot this side of America.

He'd been in a literature class when he'd started to smell smoke and had looked out the window to discover the campus engulfed in it. Almost by magic, his phone had started to ring, and around when the fire alarm started to chime was when he'd started to panic. His thumbs were on his phone to check his texts as he stumbled out of the seminar room towards the fire assembly point, where people were already starting to form in lines. He craned his neck, trying to spot anyone he recognized, but in particular, a certain mop of pink hair.

He couldn't see anyone.

He pulled out his phone, flicking through missed calls from Hal, and dropped a text to Harrison.

You alright?

More people were beginning to pour out of the different buildings, a huge flood of people arriving from the library, carrying textbooks and laptops and looking haggard. He began to spot people in the crowd. There were Rosa and Sabrina, holding hands in the corner and sharing worried looks. He spotted Lovejoy and Stanwyck, too, and several other people that he recognized from the infamous sock hop.

Still no Harrison.

Don't panic, he told himself. He could be anywhere.

But that was the problem. He could be anywhere, and in this case, anywhere included a burning building.

He dropped another text.

Things are getting pretty crazy out here. Call me to let me know you're okay.

He did a mental run-through of Harrison's schedule. He had a class in the morning, Drew remembered that because he hadn't stayed the night because of it. A class early in the morning, and then a break before his next class. He was between classes right now. So, where was he?

Time to call.

Drew found Harrison's number and called, waiting with his heart hammering hard in his throat as he waited for the call to go through. He listened to it ring. And ring. And ring.

And then Harrison's voice: "Hi! I'm not available right now, but please leave a message after the beep, and I'll get back to you!"

"Harrison," Drew said into the voicemail, his voice coming out far more hoarse than he expected it to. "Where are you? There's smoke everywhere, I can't find you. One of the dorms got set on fire. Hell of a time to have your phone switched off."

The last part came out a lot more snappish that he meant it to and after he sent it through, he called again, listening to the voicemail message again.

"Sorry," he said, swallowing. "I didn't mean that. Just, let me know that you're okay as soon as you get this."

He let the call go and put his phone in his pocket, drumming his leg up at down. People were beginning to get in lines just like they'd been taught in the fire drill, but there were a lot more panicked looks and worried faces than the last time they'd had a fire drill. This was real, and everyone knew it. Sidlesmith was filling up very fast with smoke.

"Drew!" a voice called out from the crowd and Drew's ears pricked, his head snapping up to see Hal pushing her way through the crowd to get to him, calling his name in desperation.

"Hal?"

“Drew,” she yelled, pushing her away to him until she was at his side, her hands pressed on her knees breathlessly. “It’s Harrison’s dorm. Someone had candles lit and left them while they were in class. Whole building’s gone up.”

“Harrison,” was all Drew could manage to spit out. “Where’s… where’s Harrison?”

At this, Hal looked up, her face unnaturally pale. “We had a class together this morning,” she said, in between heavy breaths. “I asked if he wanted to get coffee, but, but—”

“But what, Hal?” Drew said.

Panic was filling his lungs. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shake Hal until she got all the words that she was trying to say out. Dread was filling his body, creeping up his back, seizing at his heart.

"He said - he said he was going to go back to his room for a nap," she said, hollow-voiced and pale-faced, looking like she wanted to throw up.

Drew didn't think. He was turning away from Hal before he could even register what he was doing, turning to run back towards the source of the smoke. Hal followed after, calling his name, but he didn't hear her. His legs felt like jelly, his lungs screaming at him, as he ran, and ran, raising a hand to shield his eyes from smoke as he pelted in the direction of Harrison's dorm, as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Drew!" Hal screamed as she chased after him, "you can't! you can't go in there! It's too dangerous!"

The blaze was fierce. The fire roared as it engulfed the dorm, hungry like flames from hell.

Drew swore. Where was the fire brigade? Why, oh, why did Sidlesmith have to have been built in the middle of the fucking mountains where towns and fire stations were so far away?

He wasn't thinking. His brain had switched into panic mode. His only thoughts were Harrison, Harrison, Harrison, and Harrison's in danger, Harrison could be hurt, where, where, where is Harrison?

He yanked his sweatshirt over his head.

"What are you doing? Hal screamed at his side. "You'll die in there!"

The roar of the fire was almost too loud to hear her.

"Harrison will die if someone doesn't go in there and rescue him!" Drew yelled.

A crowd of people were beginning to form around the building. People who had been too panicked to move to a safer spot in the shock of all the flames that were stretching impossibly high into the sky. People who had seen Drew run out from the crowd and followed him. People who had escaped from the dorm before the blaze got too difficult to navigate.

Who knows how many people were still in there, trapped amongst the flame while the fire brigade was nowhere to be found?

Harrison was nowhere to be found.

Drew wrapped his sweatshirt around his nose and mouth, tying the arms together behind his face to form a mask. Hal was screaming, yelling his name, begging him not to go, telling him to stop, but Drew didn't hear any of it. He wrenched his arm away from Hal and ran inside.

It was almost too hot and too smoky to bear. He dropped to his knees, crawling through as the flames roared around him, smoke pouring out of every crevice. Some of the windows had shattered, and has Drew crawled, he cut his fingers on broken glass, too focused on his mission to find Harrison and rescue him from the flames to feel the pain. He crawled and crawled through the building, but it was unrecognisable in this state. Harrison's room was on the second floor, so he made for the stairs. Even with his makeshift mask, it was hard to breathe. His eyes stung, from smoke and panicked tears, and he tried to focus on his breathing. If he let himself panic, he wouldn't find Harrison. He clambered up the stairs on his hands and knees.

"Harrison?" he called through the flaming hallway. "HARRISON? WHERE ARE YOU?"

Even if there had been an answer, Drew wouldn't have been able to hear it. It was so loud inside, the fire bell trilling impossibly loud alongside the roaring flames and smoke. Drew coughed, briefly remembering a fact he'd learned about smoke usually being the one to kill in fires like this.

He pressed the sweatshirt to his face as tightly as he could manage, only moving it occasionally so he could scream Harrison's name. He pressed himself flat to the floor, army-crawling on his hands and knees to make it through the building. He'd made it up the stairs, now all he had to do was find Harrison's room. He kept crawling, his heart beating so fast in his chest, he was surprised that he was still breathing. Smoke was filling his eyes and his ears.

"HARRISON!" he called desperately, the smoke burning the inside of his nostrils. "PLEASE, HARRISON. WHERE ARE YOU?"

He kept crawling, trying to crane his head to see the numbers on the doors. Number three, four, five, six.

Yes, that was Harrison's room.

Drew's heart pounded as dread flooded his heart once more. Adrenaline alone kept him moving as he knelt up to open the door.

And there he was.

On the floor, pale-faced, bright pink hair noticeable even in the smoke. He was completely still, eyes shut tight.

He wasn't breathing.

"HARRISON!" Drew yelled, desperately crawling into the room to sit at Harrison's side.

In his panic, he'd forgotten everything he had once known about first aid. He didn't even know if Harrison was alive.

He was so still. Unnaturally pale even covered in soot, and so, so impossible still.

"Harrison..." Drew pleaded, tears mixing with soot and smoke on his face. He shook Harrison's arms, took a filthy hand in his and kissed it. "Harrison, please. Say something. Wake up. Please."

Harrison said nothing.

"Harrison," Drew wept, his throat sore from all the screaming he'd been doing. "Harrison..."

That dread that had been creeping down his spine and pooling in his heart suddenly roared in his chest, and then he was screaming, screaming Harrison's name.

Outside, he dimly registered the sound of a siren.

"Harrison," he said again, "come on. I'm getting you out of here. You're going to be alright; I swear. I will make it so that you're alright."

He wrapped the sweatshirt back around his nose and mouth, leaning forward to slide a hand under Harrison's knees, another to brace around his back, lifting him into his arms.

"You're going to make it through this, do you hear me?" he screamed. "You're going to be alright."

He carried Harrison out of the room and back down towards the stairs. It was harder with Harrison in his arms. He couldn't keep down as low as before, and smoke had started to fill his lungs even with the sweatshirt covering his face. He couldn't stop coughing as he moved, stumbling down the stairs and crawling out towards the door, Harrison in his arms.

Hal met him at the door, tear-stained and screaming his name, a look of horror fixed upon her face as she saw the very still Harrison in Drew's arms. The fire brigade had arrived, along with an ambulance and before Drew could get a word in, Harrison was ripped from his arms by a paramedic. They were taking him away. They were taking Harrison away.

"Stop," Drew said, his voice a wheeze, stopping to cough. "You can't - you can't take him."

Another paramedic appeared at Drew's side, resting a hand on his shoulder. "We're going to take him to the hospital. He's going to be okay."

He didn't look okay. They'd laid him onto a stretcher and were putting him onto the ambulance.

"I have to go with him! I have to make sure he's okay," Drew said, his voice wobbling, tears streaking his cheeks.

"We need to check you out first. Come sit down."

Drew protested, but Hal laid two hands on his shoulders and pushed him towards the second ambulance, making him sit down onto the step. Someone wrapped a blanket around Drew's shoulders.

"I have to go with him. You have to let me go with him!"

"You'll be joining him in a minute, you're going to need to get checked up for all that smoke you inhaled, and your hands."

Drew's gaze drifted down to his hands and seemingly for the first time, he noticed that his hands had been cut to ribbons. He'd barely noticed it before, but now they stung tremendously. He winced.

The paramedic noticed this. "That's what I thought. That was a very foolish thing you did back there. You could have been killed."

"Harrison was in there," Drew said, firmly. "I had to go in there and get him."

"Boyfriend?"

Drew nodded.

"You were very brave," the paramedic said, "but next time, leave it to the professionals. You could have both got seriously hurt."

"He would have died if I hadn't gone in there," Drew said.

"You could have both died."

Drew scowled. The panic was starting to fade somewhat, but that dread was still there. He hadn't seen Harrison take a breath. He hadn't seen Harrison open his eyes.

He didn't want Harrison to wake up alone in an ambulance without someone familiar there.

The journey in the ambulance was stonily silent. Drew let himself be tested and grunted responses to the questions.

"I want to see Harrison when we get there," he said. "I have to know that he's okay."

"You can see him after you've been checked out by the doctor. Those are some nasty cuts on your hands, and you breathed in a lot of smoke. We may have to keep you in for observation."

Irritation sparked in Drew's chest. "I want to see him. I have to see him."

He continued like this all the way to the hospital. Inside, a nurse ran him through the same tests and asked him the same questions as he'd gone through on the ambulance.

"Where's Harrison?" he said, gruffly. That panic was back in his chest again. He felt like he might scream if they didn't let him see Harrison soon. "I need to see him."

The nurse lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He's doing fine, but we really need to make sure you're okay before we take you to see him. You could have done some serious damage to your lungs by inhaling all of that smoke."

"I don't care!" Drew snapped, something finally exploding inside of him. "I don't need any more stupid tests! I just need to see Harrison!"

The nurse pursed his lips. "I'll see what I can do," he said, and then swept away.

It was still an agonisingly long wait while his hands were bandaged up, and the doctors ran through test after test to make sure he could breathe - Drew took a few exaggerated breaths in and out in his irritation - before they finally, finally, took him to Harrison's room.

Harrison was pale and still in the bed, still filthy after all that time in the smoke. A lump had formed in Drew's throat, and after all that time he'd spent badgering doctors and nurses to let him come and see him, he was starting to hesitate. He didn't want to see Harrison looking like this - looking like he was dead.

Drew was beginning to wonder if maybe he actually was dead, and the nurses had been lying to him. Harrison certainly didn't look very alive; he seemed much dimmer than his usual sunshine brightness. Even his pink hair looked pale and drab against the hospital bed sheets.

And then, Drew saw his shoulders and chest moving up and down, and then his eyes opening, and then Harrison was looking at him, a bright smile spreading across his face.

"Drew," Harrison said, his voice barely a rasp, eyes shining with tears. "There you are."

Relief flooded through Drew all at once at he took a step forward and almost fell across Harrison's bed. Harrison laughed - it was half the laugh Harrison usually had, but it was the most wonderful thing Drew had ever heard either way - and let out his hand. Drew took it, lacing their fingers together and pressing a kiss against Harrison's knuckles.

"I thought - I thought," Drew stumbled over his words. "I'm so happy that you're alive."

Harrison gave a small smile. "I hear I have you to thank for that."

Drew let out a breath, not quite a laugh, but almost there. "I was so scared. I was so afraid that you--"

Harrison reached out his hand to trace it across Drew's cheek. "I know, Drew. I know. But I'm here. I'm alive. I'm going to be okay. Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Drew said, letting out another breath, feeling that, finally, his lungs were able to breathe. "I'm going to be okay now."

"Also, you should text Hal. My phone's been buzzing non-stop. I think she's really mad at you," Harrison said, a hint of a smile on his face.

"Yeah, I should do that," Drew said, but he made no move to reach for his phone. He just kept holding Harrison's hand tight in his, bending his forehead to press against Harrison's bed.

Harrison's hand found its way to Drew's hair, twisting through the brown curls. He gave a grimace. "You really, really need a shower."

The tension in Drew's chest lifted a little as he gave a laugh, brushing away a stray tear. "You're one to talk."

That trademark Harrison smirk curled across his face. "Maybe we could have one together."

"I don't think you're in any kind of a state for that," Drew said with a smile.

"You wait until we get home," Harrison said, and then his face fell. "My dorm room... All my stuff..."

"You can stay at mine," Drew said, quickly. "For as long as you want. Permanently, if you like."

"I did notice that a lot of my stuff had been making its way there anyway," Harrison said.

Drew let out a huff and a smile. "I was hoping you'd get the hint."

“All you had to do was ask, Drew,” Harrison said, with a teasing smile. “I would have said yes.”

Drew grinned, pressed another kiss to Harrison’s hand, and the two of them, together, took a breath.

“When you think about it,” Harrison said, a few days after they’d both been discharged from the hospital. “It was a very Sidlesmith thing to happen.”

They were sitting on Drew’s bed. Harrison had pretty much permanently moved in now, partially because his dorm room was unliveable, and partly because neither wanted to be too far apart from the other. Drew hadn’t said much about the incident, but he’d kept close ever since it happened, and a nurse at the hospital had told Harrison about how much of a storm he’d kicked up just to see him.

There had been moments every day since their confessions at the sock hop when Harrison had found himself marvelling at the depths of Drew’s heart, and this one had really taken the cake. Drew was braver than anyone he’d ever known, that much Harrison already knew, but he’d never expected Drew to risk his life to rescue him. It made his stomach feel like it was doing somersaults.

“What?”

“You, rescuing me from a burning building. Carrying me out in your arms,” Harrison said, dreamily, his hand fluttering to his forehead in a swoon. “I wish I had been there to see it.”

“It wasn’t fucking romantic.”

The sudden sharpness in Drew’s voice was like a knife edge. Harrison blinked and watched as Drew’s shaking fingers curled around the bed. His knees were pressed against his chest, chin rested on top of them. It was like he was trying to pull himself into himself, like he couldn’t get small enough. He looked younger somehow, like a little kid, not someone in their early twenties.

"You were so quiet and still," Drew said, staring at his hands, almost in a trance. "You were so quiet and still and you weren't moving. You weren't moving. I thought you were dead.

There was a pain in his chest as he looked at Drew's pale face, his quivering hands, and the terrified way that Drew was looking at Harrison as if he expected him to disappear. Harrison thought about the last few days, how Drew had always been at his side, how he'd been lingering for just a little bit longer than necessary, how his hand had always been finding Harrison’s, how he'd looked slightly pained every time he looked Harrison's way.

"Drew," Harrison said softly, his voice barely a breath. "I didn't - I didn't mean—"

"They wouldn't let me see you. They just took you away and I didn't know if you were okay, and I kept replaying everything in my head over and over again and you weren't breathing, you weren't—" Drew's ramble broke out into a loud sob that wracked his voice and made Harrison's heart twist.

"It's okay," Harrison whispered, taking Drew into his arms, and rocking him back and forth. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

Drew's arms slid around Harrison's waist, holding him as tightly as possible as he buried his nose into Harrison's shoulder and let out a sob. "I was so scared."

"I know."

"From the moment I saw the smoke, I knew. I knew that something was wrong. When you weren't answering my texts, when I couldn't get you on the phone, I knew - I knew that something had happened to you, I knew that something was wrong."

Drew was weeping openly now, and tears were slipping from Harrison's eyes too.

"I'm sorry," Harrison said, softly. "I'm so - I'm so sorry I put you through that."

"It wasn't your fault," Drew said, "you didn't start the fire."

"I wasn't even supposed to be there," Harrison said. "I was tired. I'd been up late writing that paper and then I had that 8am class, I was going to get coffee with Hal, but I told her I'd rather take a nap instead. If I'd been awake, maybe I'd have got out sooner, but when I woke up, the fire alarm was loud and there was smoke everywhere and I couldn't get the door open, and then— I don't remember much after that before I woke up in the ambulance."

Drew held Harrison close to his chest.

"I keep thinking,” Harrison continued, his voice shaking a little, “what if I'd had that coffee with Hal? what if it had taken me longer to get back to my room, what if I'd not fallen asleep so fast? None of this would have happened."

It was Harrison's turn to shudder, and he found that he was voicing thoughts he hadn't even dared let himself think. What if?

"None of that matters," Drew said. "The only thing that matters is that you got out. You're alive. You're safe with me and you're alive."

Harrison held onto Drew has hard as he was able. "I'm so sorry you had to go through all that," he said, "but I'm so, so thankful that you did. You saved my life, Drew."

Drew held him just as fiercely. "I'd do it again and again for you," he said, tilting Harrison's chin up to look at him. "I love you."

Harrison pressed his head against Drew’s chest, saying one last thing before he lapsed into sobs he’d been holding back since the dorm went up in flames.

“I love you too.”

#bad things happen bingo #kaleidotrope #harridrew

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