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megamindsecretlair · 2 months

Note

Hey gurl hey 😄🙌🏾 didn't I tell ya, that I was just gonna just show up in your inbox one day. Well that day has come 😆 I'm putting in my request for Candy Kane. Do you think it's possible if we can get a Shy Reader type feeling insecure about meeting Kanes friends? 🤔 Feeling like she doesn't fit in with them or his world really, but Kane giving her that reassurance that she's right where she needs to be? Yeah, yeah. I think that will be a jam. 😌👏🏾

A/N: And a jam it was!

So Into You

Pairing: Kane x Shy!Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Use of n-word. PIV, fingering (fem receiving) cursing, teasing, all consensual. Established relationship. Spoilers for the show.

Summary: Being with Kane was starting to get serious. He invites you out to a kickback, wanting you to meet his crew. You didn’t come from his world and didn’t know all of the rules. It made you nervous. You hid out in his office while you contemplated ending the relationship. Kane has to convince you to stay.

AO3 Link

Word Count: 3,561k

A/N: Forgive me! I didn't know yall. I didn't know it'd been so long since a Kane fic. I'm sorry I've taken forever to get to this request. I hope it serves! Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, reblog, or unhinged ask.

Taglist: @planetblaque @browngirldominion @dayjlovesromance @flydotty @eggnox @blackerthings @hopelessdisasterr @sevikasblackgf @wide-nose-and-wonderful @monaeesstuff @notapradagurl7 @lovedlover @darkskinchristiandiorpostergirl @slippinninque @henneseyhoe @amyhennessyhouse @miyuhpapayuh @theyscreamsannii @luvvforanimatedmen @amethyst09 @ciaqui @we-outsiiiide @iv0rysoap @thecookiebratz @harmshake @00aijia00 @judymfmoody @multiversefanfics @tvchi

You were hiding. You knew you were hiding but your nerves were tearing up your stomach. Quick, painful twists that made you want to lean over or lay on the floor in the fetal position. But Kane’s warehouse was…rugged to say the least. You wouldn’t trust the floor considering what Kane did for a living.

You were not shocked. These days, Black men came in a limited variety of flavors. Growing up as you did, you did not see yourself with a banker or investor. Kane was beyond good to you and a top boss. He wasn’t running the streets anymore. He didn’t have to.

However, that didn’t mean that it didn’t make you nervous as hell. He lived a dangerous life. It was a fact of life at this point. You had strength for days, able to somehow push it from your mind. Kane was invincible in your eyes. He had to be. You couldn’t live in a world where he didn’t exist.

Your sweaty hands began to itch. You rubbed it on your jeans and tried to still your jumping leg. Sounds filtered in from the main part of the warehouse. The place was rapidly filling up with his top lieutenants and their significant others, women who chased the gangsters, and the women they brought along for support.

Large crowds made you nervous. You couldn’t speak right. Couldn’t pluck words in a coherent order. You missed cues for jokes or your heart thumped too loud for you to hear what anyone was saying. You were terrible at first impressions.

People assumed you were mean or stuck up. When in reality, you were shy to the point of being embarrassing. You didn’t speak first or follow up with people because god, why was it so hard? You felt like you were bothering people at best, being a nuisance at worst.

And somehow, this kickback felt worse. These were Kane’s top people. The guys willing to follow him to the grave. That type of loyalty meant something. Kane was not like these young dudes, running around playing with guns or drugs or spitting in the face of those who came before them. No one had respect anymore.

These people were the inner circle. These were the people you needed to impress. You were very much in your head, wheezing at the prospect of not standing up under their scrutiny. What if they decided that Kane was whole ass tripping by being with you?

You hated being shy most times. Hated that people couldn’t see you and know that there someone amazing underneath the shyness. That once you got comfortable, you were practically the life of the party. The problem was, it took you too long to feel comfortable and people lost their patience too quickly.

A door opened and you jumped up from your seat at Kane’s desk. It was the farthest, safest place you could manage around the warehouse. Everyone too afraid to enter. You looked over the railing to see Kane searching the floor.

He looked so good. Thick in all the right places. His shoulders were wide and broad and he had a slow gait that never failed to drive you wild. You noticed everything about him. Everything. Down to the twitch of his eye when he was truly upset.

Kane’s eyes swept up and you gave him a small wave. He scrunched his face in confusion and then started making his way over to you. He climbed the stairs, eyes softening as he reached you.

“Why you got me looking everywhere for you?” He asked. He kissed your cheek but pulled back too quickly, denying you the pleasure of rubbing your cheek against his stubble.

“I’m sorry. I needed…air,” you said. Kane gave you a funny look and you giggled. “Like, space to breathe.”

Kane nodded and leaned against his desk. You sat back down in his chair, getting more comfortable. He’s brought you to his place a few times so you felt comfortable mixing amongst his things without feeling like he would be upset with you. You usually hung out in his office while he handled business outside, in the main warehouse.

“I’d very much like to show you off, beautiful,” he said. He caressed your chin and made you look up at him. Your eyes drifted over his features. His dark brown eyes, his pouty lips, and his wide nose. “I want everyone to get to know you.”

You nodded and swallowed around the lump in your throat. “What if they don’t like me?” You asked, your voice sounding small even to you.

Kane scooted closer on the desk, so that your chin was nearly laying against his stomach. You blinked at him while he looked into your eyes, tone as serious as you’d ever heard him.

“What’s not to like, mama?” He asked.

A flush of heat ran through you at his little pet name for you. But on topic. You smiled, not sure what to say. He already didn’t like you putting yourself down. But how could you make him see? Make him realize? That you just weren't like other people. That other’s opinions shouldn’t matter but they do. They always have.

“Talk to me,” he demanded.

You huffed. “There’s plenty of things to like. But you’re…important,” you said.

Kane reared up as if he was getting ready to stand up and punch the wall. You placed your hands on his arms to keep him still, keep him sitting next to you. He smelled amazing. Like soap and sandalwood. His adorable mouth twitched.

“I’m not saying I’m not important. I’m saying that these guys look up to you. They respect you and follow you. And…” God, this shouldn’t be so hard to say. But it was pressing against your throat, a live thing, waiting to be said.

“What if you should be with someone a little more like them? A little more like you?” You asked.

Kane needed someone strong enough to stand in a crowd and not flinch. Someone who put others at ease and made them laugh. The kind of girl who didn’t take shit and the kind of girl who people didn’t confuse soft for weak. The kind that could help grow his gang, grow his empire, get them to look forward to something outside of slanging dope and getting bitches.

Kane sighed. “I don’t want someone like me. I want you,” he said.

He would get tired, one day, of constantly trying to reassure you. Your shyness was your business. It wasn’t on him to make you feel better all the damn time. That was exhausting. But what was also exhausting, was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Kane to wise up and quit while he was ahead.

You were looking down at your palms trying to find the words to make him see. Make him see that it only took a few months for you to be head over heels in love with him. With the safety he offered. The lifestyle. The loyalty. Kane wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for you. You needed the words to make him see that you would love to be with him for the rest of your life. But, he needed someone equally capable of taking care of him and you were big enough to admit that and give him an out.

Kane moved too quick for you to see, too quick for you to defend yourself as he lifted you from the seat and switched places with you. You leaned against the desk now, caged in by Kane’s arms on either side of the desk, on either side of you.

He brought his face close to yours, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, his eyes to your eyes. “Tell me the words I need to say to make you see that it’s you and me against all this bullshit. Tell me what I need to say, what I need to do, who I need to kill to make you see, mama?” He asked.

You shook your head. “Kane, that’s not–”

“You are the only person I want. The only person I would ever want. You don’t have to worry about these niggas not liking you. I like you. That’s all they need to see. I don’t expect you to suddenly pick up a gun and be a down bitch.”

You giggled. You played with the hem of his shirt, kicking your legs a little bit. He didn’t need to reassure you but damn if it didn’t feel really good when he did. You smiled. “I don’t expect that either. I…you’re their leader. And they need a strong old lady too.”

Kane chuckled. “You don’t think you’re strong? You almost dropped kick my ass when we met,” he said. His voice never sounded so sexy than when he was teasing or joking with you. You realized what a treat it was to hear him like this. To see the secret softie underneath all that hard living.

“I had been drinking and you spilled the drink I just paid for,” you said, giving him a playful huff.

Kane kissed your cheek once, twice, and then nuzzled his stubble against your cheek, just how you liked it. Your core burned so you shifted on the desk, to relieve some of the tension.

“You called me everything under the sun you could think of. You get a potty mouth when you’re drunk,” he said. He licked your neck and your moan was too quick to be coy. You couldn’t pretend to be anything other than completely obsessed with this man. With his strength, with his playfulness, or with his jokes and smiles.

You rolled your eyes and smiled. “That’s not true,” you said. Drinking just made you feel more like who you really were. Alcohol ensured that you didn’t care about doing the “right” thing all the time. You just lived. Outside of that, you were too conscious. Too aware. Too worried about someone making fun of you because people were fucking cruel.

“Mhm, your girls tried to tell you ‘bout me but you just kept going. I’d never seen someone so beautiful,” he said. He reached the sensitive spot under your ear, against your neck, where he lightly nipped. You shivered, bringing your hands up and around his neck to keep him close. If he kept doing things like this, he’d make it impossible to let him go.

“Kane,” you said, but it came out too breathless.

Kane kissed his way back to your mouth where he spent ample time kissing you and licking your lips. “Tell me what I need to do, then. Please. I want you here, with me.”

You sighed into his mouth, letting his lips do the talking for him. He didn’t get it. Wouldn’t ever get it. So while you kissed him, while your mind was supposed to be on him, you had an important decision to make. Walk away now or keep going and learn to live with this anvil over your neck.

You broke the kiss and looked into his eyes. Into his beautiful, wonderful eyes. The wave cop on his head. The teardrop tattoo. You wanted him. So badly that the brief thought about giving him an out was a distant memory.

“I want to be here, Kane. With you. But are you sure? Like really sure that it’s me you want?” You asked. A sick part of you was waiting for him to say it. Waiting for him to change his mind about all of the questions you asked him, all of the reassurances you needed, all of the times you ducked out of doing something if it involved large crowds or places where the only person you knew was Kane. You didn’t want to hang onto him like a spider monkey, but he was the only safe person you knew while you were out.

Kane smirked. He kissed you again, letting his lips ghost over yours. He brought his hands up to cradle your face. “I’ll tell you every day that it’s you that I want. That you’re the only one for me. Think I wanna run behind these niggas at the end of the day?” He kissed down your neck, leaving you breathless in a matter of seconds.

You shook your head. “No. You need a place to lay yo head, cut out the bullshit,” you said.

“And that place is right here, with you,” he said. He brought his hands up to palm your breasts over your shirt. He found exactly where your nipples were, running his thumbs back and forth over them and driving you wild. Your pussy throbbed, getting unbearably wet.

“Kane,” you moaned, dragging your hands across his back. You needed to feel his skin. Feel him. You searched under his shirt to find the heat of his body. Your nails scratched his back and he moaned against your skin. He moved his hands from your face, down to your jeans. He began to unbutton them, dragging the zipper down. It sounded so loud in between you both.

“Here? Now?” You asked.

“Here. Now.” Kane kissed you again, while his hands slipped past your panties and found you wet. He moaned, his finger easily sliding between your folds. He zeroed in on your clit, gathering up your essence to rub until you were a quivering mess.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, holding on for dear life. Kane continued to kiss your neck, moving up to your ear. “You so fuckin’ sexy when you moaning, mama. You’re quiet, until you get like this. Shaking. Hmmm. Holding onto my hand between these legs like you don’t wanna let me go.”

With his filthy words, you closed your thighs because he was only speaking the truth. You did not want to let him go. You wanted him closer.

Your whines turned desperate, getting close to the edge if only he would let you fall. He pulled his hand back, moving down to your entrance and pushed one finger inside. You gasped for air, but you also began to cry, scooting your ass against the desk to get his fingers back to where you needed him.

“Aww, you need something else, mama?” He asked. You nodded.

“Talk to me, then. Tell me what you need from me,” he said.

“Kane, please,” you moaned. You were close. A few more moments of rubbing your clit and you would have came.

“That don’t sound like what I want to hear,” he said. He moved his finger in and out of you, slowly. In a moment, your impending orgasm would go away. You were too greedy, too desperate to allow that to happen.

“Kane, god, please!” You moaned.

Kane licked your neck and you dropped your head back, giving him better access. He took the opportunity to nibble against your skin. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, biting hard enough to ache, and you shook your head.

“I need you to rub my clit, Kane. Please. Please. I’ll do anything,” you said. You were weak for your man and you weren’t too proud to show it. You didn’t have the patience to draw this out like him. To play coy or confident or like you were that bitch. You just wanted him, plain and simple.

“Anything? You gon’ cum on this dick and then come hang with my friends?” He asked.

You nodded, your neck aching since you still had it tilted back. “Yes, baby, I’ll cum on that dick,” you said.

“And?” He asked, his hand stilling inside you.

You giggled. “I’ll come hang with your friends,” you said.

Kane grunted in satisfaction and then resumed fingering you. While his fingers were pumping into you, his thumb circled your clit. Your pleasure tingled through your veins, turning you to jelly. You clutched him to you, holding onto him and squeezing your thighs while you rode his fingers straight to an orgasm.

You moaned and shook, twitching on Kane’s desk. The music was still thumping outside the door, the sound of Black folk having a good time rising like a tide. That’s what you loved about Kane. He made it seem like you were always in your own little bubble whenever you were together.

“There’s my girl,” he moaned against your sweaty skin.

He helped push your jeans further down your legs. You yelped from the cold of his desk hitting your ass. Kane made quick work of his own pants, pushing it down low enough to free his dick.

You held him, held the velvety steel in your hand and tugged on his dick. Kane groaned, taking his dick out of your hands. You pouted and he winked at you. “Save that for later when I let you play with it,” he said.

You grinned as he lined himself up and pushed in without any fanfare. You growled, loving the sweet burn of his dick stretching you out. “Oh baby, feel so good baby,” you moaned. Kane nudged your face with his, catching your eyes with his. He stared into your eyes while you took him in, legs trapped by the fabric of your jeans.

He groaned, stroking into you. You clutched onto the back of his neck, holding him in place. “You think I’ma let you go and you do shit like this? You need me, huh?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yes, I need you, baby. You hit this shit so good,” you cooed to him. Your words made him jerk and he chuckled before finding his rhythm again.

Kane’s strokes were exactly what you needed. You forgot about the party outside. You forgot about meeting his friends. You forgot your own name as he growled while he hit a spot that made you cry out.

“I can’t let you go when you sound like this. When you feel like this. Taking this dick like you do,” he moaned in your ear.

“Kane, oh god,” you moaned.

“Beautiful. You’re so beautiful,” he moaned. He lifted one of your legs, sliding deeper and you growled in return, moving your hips in time with his thrusts. Kane kissed you while his thumb circled your clit again.

Your mouth dropped into a pretty little ‘O’ as your hands clutched his shirt in a death grip. Your orgasm was swift, brutal, punishing, as your eyes rolled back in your head and you screamed in his ear.

Kane’s strokes increased, getting faster. You were still sensitive from your orgasm so you were crying, shaking, whimpering on his dick. A few pumps later, Kane found his own pleasure, grunting with deep relief as he spilled over and over inside of you. His dick twitched with each pulse of cum. He grunted once more, pulling out when he was softened enough.

You felt his cum leak out and you shivered. Kane kissed you while he grabbed some tissue and cleaned the both of you up.

“Why do you have tissue here?” You asked.

“I can’t sneeze sometimes?” He asked. You giggled. He was such a goof. You each got yourself together, kissing in between smoothing down your wrinkled clothing. Oh god. There was no way of walking out of here without everyone knowing exactly what you did.

Although…a deep fucking was effective against your anxiety. His cum was inside of you and while that didn’t mean much to guys, it felt like he had claimed you in a beautiful, primal way. No one would know, but you would. You’d walk around his party knowing that he came looking for you. He reassured you. He pumped you full and let you cum twice now with promises of more later.

Kane zipped up his pants and gave you a kiss. “Sometimes a nigga needs to rub one out while he’s missing his best girl,” he said against your cheek.

You bit your lip, flustered and unable to form a thought. A sentence. A word. Something. Oh, this….this you did not know. You didn’t know that he masterbated here, at his office, to thoughts of you. It brought up so many ideas for later…

“Come on, a promise is a promise,” he said. He grabbed your hand, pulling you down the stairs. At the door, you stopped him. He lifted an eyebrow at you.

You leaned up and gave him one last, scorching, heated kiss before you looked at him. “Guess now would be a bad time to tell you that I stroke my pussy almost daily thinking of all the nasty things I want you to do to me,” you said.

Kane’s mouth dropped as you opened the door. A promise was a promise after all. The wall of music and laughter hit you square in the face. You were still nervous and you weren’t sure that they would accept you, but for now it didn’t matter.

The sound of Kane’s laughter was everything to you. “I’ma get you back for that,” he promised in your ear before leading you around the party, introducing you to his top guys. You managed to bump fists, laugh, and meet his world with open arms.

Did you know where your life would take you? No. But you had a feeling that you’d be okay in Kane’s capable hands.

The end.

There's more of Kane to love! The Secret Kane Files

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sentientcave · 6 months

Text

Heavy Weighs the Crown

Here we go friends! These chapters just keep getting longer. A larger plot begins to reveal itself to me. I am having a lot of fun here and I hope you are too.

Chapter 3 - Reading Between the Lines

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Contains: Generic fantasy setting, Princess Reader, No Y/N, Some exposition, Reader's dad (deceased) was a real piece of work, Bad memories, A spot of magic, Voyeurism, Reader description kept pretty neutral but I kind of got slightly more specific about black hair care so you're just going to have to live with it.

~6k words

The next morning, it rains.

The pitter-patter of rain against your windows wakes you up, because it sounds wrong. There’s only one small window in your room in Kate’s house, and when weather blows in it’s the sound of water trickling down and dripping off the thatch roof that’s loudest, not the rain itself. Here the sound echoes strangely in the big space, and you wake with a start, disoriented, your heart-hammering in your chest.

It feels like your life in town is the dream, trickling away faster than you can cup your hands to hold onto it. You fly out of bed and wrap a blanket around your shoulders, dashing out into the hallway, bare feet cold on the stone floor. The king’s bedroom is directly across the hall from your own, and you stare at the door, frozen and unsure if you’re willing to risk knocking, breath caught in your throat, chest tight, anxiety squeezing your ribs until they ache.

You’re sixteen and twenty-six both, living two lives out in one panicking body. You no longer belong here and you’ve never been anywhere else. Your father is alive, angry, terrifying, and he’s dead and buried where he can’t hurt you anymore. You are a tossed coin landed on it’s edge, waiting to fall.

The door in front of you opens, and you leap back on instinct, but breathe a sigh of relief when it’s John standing there, looking at you with surprise first, and then concern. “Sweetpea?” he asks, stepping forward to meet you, but leaving space between your bodies, like he knows that it would be worse for him to touch you right now. “What’s wrong?”

You press your shaking fingers to your mouth, holding back a sob. You swallow it down, pulling yourself together enough to speak. “I thought it was a dream,” you say at last. “I thought he was still alive.”

There’s no question who you mean. John reaches a hand out, an offering, and you take it, clinging to him like a life-line. He reels you into his arms, and you lean in, the solid, warm bulk of him as reliable and real as the earth below. “He’s not,” he says firmly. “I put him in the ground myself. You’re safe.”

You nod against his chest, feeling small and silly now. “I’m sorry,” you say, although you’re not sure what you’re sorry for. For showing weakness, maybe, for being lost in your own memory, for needing reassurance.

“It’s early yet,” he murmurs against the top of your head. “You should try to sleep a little longer.”

You’re not sure you could even if you tried, and even though you’re still tired, the adrenaline leaving your body cold, fatigue dragging at your bones insistently. You could maybe sleep against John’s chest, holding onto him, his heartbeat steady and strong enough in your ear to drown out the still-frenetic tempo of your own. “I think I’ll just get dressed,” you say, pushing away. He drops his arms instantly, letting you put a little distance between you.

He shakes his head, smiling at you fondly, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Sweetpea, the sun hasn’t even risen. Go back to bed. I know just the thing to help. Go on.” He turns you toward your door and nudges you along.

There’s no point in arguing with him— You are tired, and although you suspect sleep will be beyond your reach, it’s cold in the hallway, especially now that you’re no longer pressed against John’s warm chest, and your bed is still warm when you climb back in.

Darkness presses down on you, heavy as grave-dirt, and you lay there, staring at the ceiling. You touch the crystal lamp next to your bed to light up the room, but that’s no better, really.

John knocks, but doesn’t wait for your answer before coming in, a dark wolf with blue eyes trotting in on his heels. “Go on, Soap,” he says, and Soap hops up onto your bed and lays down half on top of you, his head on your shoulder, tail wagging. John pats him on the head like he’s just a dog. “He’ll keep an eye on you.”

It should probably feel weird to cuddle up with a werewolf, since he’s really a man, and you’ll have to face that silly, crooked grin in the morning, but you need someone to cling to, and you’re to proud and cautious to cling to John. “Thank you,” is all you have it in you to say.

“He gets nightmares too. Usually sleeps across someone’s bed. I’m sure he’d be happy to stay with you while you’re here.” John says it simply, without a drop of judgment or condescension, and scratches behind Soap’s ear. “He’s a real good listener when he can’t talk back too.” He withdraws, tapping the light and throwing the room into darkness again.

You don’t even hear the door click shut. You bury your face into the thick fur around Soap’s neck and fall asleep almost instantly.

When you wake up again, it's with a very large, very naked man on top of you.

You yelp, scrambling back on your pillows. Johnny’s eyes snap open at your first movement, on high alert before he’s all the way awake. He scrambles too, and falls right off the side of the bed with a solid thud.

"Oh! Johnny I'm so sorry," you look down at him from the edge of the mattress, trying not to laugh. "I forgot you were here."

"It's alright, lass. I didna mean to startle ye. Ah shift back overnight sometimes. Price didnae remember to warn ye." He sits up and leans against the bed, forearms folded over each other. He looks no worse for wear, and like he slept as solidly as you did, those last few hours. There’s a faint imprint of lace from your nightgown on his face, and half of his hair is stuck straight up, the rest pressed flat. "Are ye feelin' better?"

“I am. Thank you for staying with me.”

“S’nothin’ really. Nicer sleepin’ with you than Gaz, he kicks awl night long. An’ Nox doesnae like me none, so I cannae stay with Ghost.” He grins. “Price lets me stay but he makes me sleep at the foot of the bed like a dog. Sometimes a man wants a cuddle, ye ken?”

You giggle. “I ken.”

"Really livin' up to yer name, aye Sweetpea?"

You laugh again. "Johnny, you know that's not my name, right?"

"No? What is it?" He shakes his head when you tell him. "I like Sweetpea better. Suits ye."

"Me too," you tell him. It has no connections to your previous life. It just reminds you of the pretty pink, purple, and white flowers that grow on delicate, curling vines that you like to grow over the side of the chicken coop.

There's a knock on the door, and Johnny leaps up to see who it is. You have to hold your hand up quickly to avoid getting an eyeful of things you're not supposed to see. He's absolutely shameless-- you suspect he wouldn't think twice about strolling down the hallways without a scrap on. You have a curiousity about men's bodies that you're too bashful to indulge, even if you're pretty sure that Johnny would stand still and let you look as long as you liked. Well, maybe not stand still. But you doubt he would mind.

It's Ghost at the door. He doesn't wait for an invitation to come in, but he has clothes for Johnny hung over his arm, so you don't mind. Honestly, you can bear a few overzealous men who feel entitled to your space for a few days, because after that you'll get to go home and get back to your life.

Ghost positions himself between you and Johnny, just as he had yesterday. "Price said you 'ad a bit of an episode earlier. You olright?"

"Just fine," you say brightly. "No need to worry."

"Och, let him worry, hen. He likes ta do it."

"I'm really fine," you insist.

"You want to visit the mausoleum? Might make it feel more real."

You'd be more interested in going there to visit your mother's grave, if you're going at all, but you think that you'll wait for a sunnier day. A gray, dreary morning like the one outside your windows is no balm for dark memories or old wounds. Sunshine might be. "Not today," you say. "Maybe tomorrow." You get out of bed as gracefully as possible, well aware that you have an audience. "Perhaps the two of you could step outside for a moment while I get dressed?"

Ghost glances behind him, checking to see if Soap is covered up enough for him to move, and then walks over to your closet and pulls out a screen that you hadn't noticed sitting in the corner there, and sets it up. "There you go, Sweetpea. You'll need help with all your fastenin's anyway, won't you?"

You imagine that he's smiling under the mask, more than a little smug about it, but you let it slide. "Very thoughtful."

"Try to be."

The blank face of his mask gives you nothing when you glance over, aside from that he’s looking back. It’s not the first time that you’ve wished for more insight into what he’s thinking, but there’s a gravity to his attention that you swear was never there before, and it prickles at the back of your neck even after you duck out of sight.

You choose a sunny yellow dress today, to counter the deluge outside, and remove the silk scarf wrapped around your head so you can twist your braids on each side from your brow back to the nape of your neck, pinning the lengths into a knot. You’ll have to redo them soon, but without Kate and her wife to help you, you know it’ll take hours, if not most of a day.

You walk over to where Ghost is sitting and turn your back to him so he can button it up for you. He hands you his gloves to hold while he does so, and you run your hands over the detail of white leather bones stitched on over the well-worn black leather, decoration and extra protection both. Idly, you slip one on, but your hands are so small in comparison to his that you have to stretch your hand out just to get your fingers arranged inside it properly. He stands behind you, and leans over you to gently pull them from your hands, as though to underline again how much bigger he is than you are.

The top of your head brushes his chest when you tip your head back to look at him. “Thank you,” you say.

“I’m always ‘appy to ‘elp,” he says. “I’m with you for the mornin’ anyway. Might as well make myself useful, eh?”

“Stuck minding me?” you tease, sweeping around to fold back the sheets on your bed, only to find that one of them had already done it. Ghost, most likely, judging by how neat it is. You touch his arm lightly in silent thanks, and the three of you leave your room together.

Other than insisting you eat breakfast (served in a communal dining hall, where they insist on bringing things to you rather than let you suffer the indignity of standing in a line, and watch you eat with unnerving intensity), they’re content to follow you around as you refamiliarize yourself with the castle, mapping out changes so you don’t get turned about looking for anything. You find a number of familiar faces here and there, and have an perplexingly similar conversation with anyone you know, where they welcome you back cheerfully, and grow a bit quiet and nervous when you insist that you won’t be staying long, and when you try to press them on that, you’re ushered out, told they’re too busy to chat, and that you’ll find time to catch up later.

You suspect that Ghost and Johnny are the source of their nerves, but both of them always seem to be a few paces out of (human) earshot, and minding their own business, talking about something else quietly between them.

"Where's Kyle?" you ask as you're hustled out of the the healer's work shop and back out into the hallway. It’s become abundantly clear, no matter how well they feign innocence, that your hulking shadows are making the staff nervous, and you decide not to subject anyone else to their company. If you can slip away from them later, you might be able to have an actual conversation.

“Prob’ly ‘oled up in ‘is workshop,” Ghost says. “Some weeks we ‘ardly see ‘im.”

“Wizardy shite,” Johnny adds, his tone disapproving. “As if there aren’t a thousand ways ta blow shite intae bits withoot wigglin’ yer fingers. Can blow up flour, did ye know, Sweetpea? In barrels isnae much different than black powder.”

“Still useful to have a little magic,” you say, flipping your palm over and conjuring a flame in the centre of it. It’s one of the few spells in your cache, and you’ve mostly just used it to light candles and the stove. Your lessons barely dipped beyond simple control— You’d been told that magic was no proper pastime for a lady. When you think back on it now, you think it’s more that your father never wanted you to have defenses that he could not control, or that could be used against him. A grim thought, from this side of things.

“Forgot you ‘ave a little magic in you.” Ghost holds his hands above yours, feeling the heat coming off the small flame. “Come on, pet. Let’s find Kyle. Might be enough to pull ‘is nose out of ‘is books.”

You close your hand, extinguishing the flame, and let them guide you through a few corridors and up a spiraling stone staircase.

Johnny hesitates at the door, nose wrinkling at the slight, hard to identify smell of complex magical wards that are carved neatly into the doors. You can feel the slight hum of it in your teeth. Ghost pushes the door open without knocking (you think all four of these men might be allergic to knocking), and steps inside.

You follow, and stop right there in the doorway while Ghost ventures in further. Kyle is shirtless, doing pushups over a heavy looking book. He doesn't look up, doesn't even stop when he turns the page, just continues the exercise one handed. He's in perfect shape, every muscle well-defined, putting even some of the finely-carved marble statues you've seen to shame. He has a frame for wiry muscle, but he's worked so hard that he's gotten bulky too, and although he's not as broad as Soap or as big as Ghost, it's clear that he's stronger than most men. Certainly stronger than men of his occupation have any need to be.

"What do you want, Ghost?" Kyle asks, still focused on his reading. "I'm busy, you know."

"Brought our girl by to see you, and you don't even bother lookin' up."

Kyle’s attention does snap up at that, brown eyes sliding past Ghost’s legs to you, still hovering in the doorway, Johnny a step behind, peering over your shoulder. Kyle scrambles to his feet, sending the book flying with a gesture. It settles on the desk behind him as he steps around Ghost, dusting his hands against his trousers before he takes yours, pulling you more fully into the space. His skin gleams with a thin sheen of sweat, but he's not the least bit out of breath. “Come on in, Sweetpea. Did you come all the way up here just to see me?”

“Of course,” you say. It’s a silly question, although now that you look around the space, you’re gripped by curiousity. The circular room is lined with bookshelves, each full of thick, leather and linen-bound tomes that hum with power. The whole room sings like a chorus, the sound not in your ears, but tickling the back of your mind instead. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to. I don’t want to interrupt, of course, if you’re working on something.” Although, now that you're looking, it seems like he’s working on many things, all at once. He has a carousel of research tomes open next to the desk, and neatly written pages laid out over the desk to dry, a stack of opened and unopened correspondence in a basket hanging from the side, ingredients measured out by a shelf full of bottles and jars of strange and familiar ingredients, and there are unlit candles set around the perimeter of an open area on the floor, a circle of iridescent tile set into the stone, pale and glittering.

“Nothing important this moment. Just studying while I wait for ink to dry. The mind grows dull if you don’t take the time to keep it sharp.” He glances at Johnny meaningfully, and receives a rude gesture in response.

“There’s more’n just books if ye want to keep sharp,” Johnny says, his voice flinty. “Isnae the only way to learn, ye know.”

You glance at Ghost. His mask looks back at you, blank as ever. “There’s a place for books, and a place for practical application,” you say diplomatically. “Wisdom can be found in many places.”

“In a pretty girl, for one,” Ghost says approvingly. “Would be good for you to crack a book once in a while, Soap. And for you to spend a little less time ‘oled up in ‘ere.” His head turns toward Kyle.

“I have a lot to do, you know,” Kyle says. “I can’t just shove everything to the side whenever I please.”

You drift closer to the desk, peeking at the tome he was referencing earlier, the pages opened to a chapter on illusion spells. Curious, you glance to his notes, humming with interest at the first page you glance at. It’s something about setting spells of illusion into fabric, weaving magic into the very stitches. “Are you trying to make a cloak of shadows?” you ask, picking up the page carefully by the edges, still mindful of the mostly dried ink.

Kyle looks over at you and smiles, but it’s all teeth. “Something like that. I didn’t know you were interested in magical theory.”

“She’s got a little sorcery in ‘er,” Ghost explains. “Maybe you should give ‘er a lesson or two. While she’s ‘ere.”

Your ears perk up at that, and you drop the paper back to the desk, forgetting it entirely. “Would you?” you ask excitedly. “I really would love to learn more.”

Kyle slips his shirt back on and beckons you over to one of the bookcases, smile turning sly and conspiratorial. “Can you give me a hand Sweetpea? I need something off the top shelf.”

You look up at the top shelf, which is well out of your reach. “Kyle, I think maybe you should ask Ghost.”

“Sorry, pet, I’m busy keepin’ Soap from pilferin’ alchemical ingredients.”

"Wasnae pilferin'! Just takin' a wee looksie. Isnae a crime."

"Soap," Kyle says pleasantly. "If I find anything missing we are going to have a long talk about it." He shakes his head lightly, sweet brown eyes finding yours, amused.

"D'ye think he means a good rough fuck?" Johnny asks Ghost, not quite quiet enough for you not to hear it. "Or an actual chat? Because that's goan ta change what I do here."

"I really don't think I can help," you say to Kyle, ignoring Johnny's query as much as you can. "Unless you'd like me to climb the shelves."

"Here." He crouches down in front of you and hugs your knees to his chest, other hand a higher on the backs of your thighs to hold you steady, and pops up. You let out a little shriek, and press your hands against his strong shoulders for support. "Don't worry, Sweetpea, I've got you. Now, can you grab that slim blue volume to the right? The one with no title on the spine."

Scanning the neat row of books, you locate the one he means and pick it up. "Ive got it," you inform him, laughing. "Now please put me down."

He slides you down his front carefully, adjusting his grip, your skirts bunching up and exposing your stockinged calves, and he holds you just above him for a moment. You loop your arms around his neck reflexively, holding the book behind him. He looks up at you, so dazzlingly handsome, you're almost surprised that he's real.

"Kyle," you remind him gently. "Please put me down."

“You sure?” he asks, bringing you down just a little more, so that your face is just above his own. “You look a bit tired today, princess. Could just carry you around for the rest of the day if you like.”

“That will not be necessary,” you say firmly. “But it’s a very kind offer.”

You hear a snort from the other side of the room, but you’re not sure if it comes from Ghost or Johnny. “Nothin’ kind about it,” Johnny says, crossing his arms. “Bastard just likes the idea of bein’ pressed up against ye all day.”

“You slept in her bed last night,” Kyle reminds him. “There’s no need to be jealous.”

“Ahm no’ jealous! Yer just bein’ a fandan charmer tryna cop a wee feel, an’ ye willnae admit ta it.”

You look over at Ghost, and he shakes his head. You imagine that he’s rolling his eyes, just as exasperated by the two of them as you are. He comes to your rescue though, carefully pulling you out of Kyle’s arms and setting you back down on the floor. “Thank you, Ghost,” you say archly, shaking your crumpled skirts out with one hand.

“Sorry, Sweetpea,” Kyle says, and you can’t help but note that he certainly doesn’t sound sorry. “If you read the first chapter of this tonight, we can do a lesson in the morning. This will probably be a step up from whatever paltry lessons the old wizard gave you— I know he took offence to the idea of training you at all, the closed-minded old bastard. If you have any questions, make notes, and we can go over it.” He taps the top of the book you hold. “You can write in it, if you like. I’ve scribbled in the margins a few times myself.”

You tuck the book into your pocket. “Thank you, Kyle. I appreciate that.”

“Anything for you, Sweetpea.”

You hesitate, a bit nervous to ask a favour when he’s already agreed to take time out of his day to give you a lesson in something you’re not sure you have enough talent in to warrant. He’s cleary a busy person, and you don’t want to waste his time.

Kyle senses your hesitation, and reaches for your hand, squeezing reassuringly. “Anything,” he repeats, brown eyes oh-so earnest.

Your ears feel hot. Flirting comes as easily to him as breathing, and even though you’re sure he means little by it, by his relationship with Johnny and the claim that John has laid on you, it’s hard not to grow flustered when he directs the full force of that sunshine smile at you. “Did you ever, um, help your sisters with their hair? I’d like to have a bath this afternoon, and wash my hair, but it’ll take me ages to rebraid it alone. I would really appreciate an extra set of hands if you have a spare minute tomorrow.”

He grins at that, pleased to be able to help you with something that Ghost and Johnny are ill-equipped to. The scar on his cheek dimples slightly when he smiles this hard, the slight flaw in his complexion more a dashing accessory to his charm than any detractor. “Would be happy to help. Do you have everything else you need? Oil? Curl cream?”

You hadn’t thought to check what was in the cupboard in the bathroom. “I’m not sure,” you admit.

“I have some. I’ll bring them by your room later this afternoon, just in case.”

Ghost offers to walk you back to your room, leaving Johnny behind to discuss something with Kyle, although as soon as the door closes, you hear a crash and a series of colourful swear words. You glance behind you as Ghost ushers you down the stairs. “Should we—”

“No. Trust me, Sweetpea. They’re just fine, and not doin’ anything you want to see.”

“Oh.” The implication warms you from the tips of your ears to somewhere in your belly.

“You’ve got the lads all worked up,” Ghost adds, as though you needed more context. “Competin’ with each other to get a smile out of you. Let ‘em blow off a little steam.”

“I don’t understand why they’re so concerned with me, if they have each other,” you say, trailing one hand over the wall, feeling the bumps of cool stone and seams between the cut blocks as you descend. “And John has made no secret of his intentions.”

He touches your arm to halt you, and moves past, taking a few extra steps so he stands below you, the near-hidden gleam of his eyes on level with yours. The two of you are alone here, where the curve of the stairs create a private universe, a pocket of stone and crystal light casting meagre shadow. "What are your intentions?" He asks. "Are you goin' to just let 'im take what 'e pleases?"

"I intend to go home," you say. "I won't be staying."

"Olright, maybe you do go 'ome. And what'f Kyle or Johnny came sniffin' round to court you themselves?"

"They won't."

"Why wun't they? You're a ray of sunshine sweet girl. You're the only one that don't see it."

"Ghost--"

"No, hush up for a moment, princess. You've got the wrong idea. I personally threatened every man that so much as looked your way. For years. Din't think about 'ow that'd make you feel. You're beautiful. Enough to chase, enough to go to bloody war for." His body is still, save for the slightest twitch of his fingers. “I don’t know why you can’t see it. You make us all crazy.”

The surety that John would really let you go slips as Ghost speaks, something fundamental about your footing in the world shifting uneasily beneath you. You had found comfort in the idea that you were quotidian, unremarkable. That the crown alone was aggrandizing, and you could pass unnoticed without it. Now you wonder if you’ve ever gone unnoticed, or if it was just that you had been too obtuse to see. “It doesn’t matter,” you insist. It’s easier to reject what he says outright, even if Ghost has never lied to you, never given you a reason to doubt his words. The ground settles. “I will be going home in a few days, and once John has my official endorsement none of you will have to keep an eye on me again.”

“You won’t rid yourself of me that easily,” he says firmly. “Keepin’ you safe’s one of the only jobs that I do that’s worth doin’. I promised your mum I would, an’ I don’t intend to break my oath just because you don’t think you’re worth it.”

“My mother asked you to?” You had always thought Ghost’s orders had come from your father, setting the quiet, faceless, black-clad knight on your heels, as close as a shadow, only leaving your side when the king sent him off to fight, somewhere far and away. “Why?”

“Figured she could tell I ‘aven’t got an ounce of ambition in me. Used to, before I came ‘ere. Didn’t do me any good. Can’t trust my own head, sometimes. But if I can trust what’s ‘ere—” He puts his hand to his chest, head tipped slightly to the side. “— Then I know I can trust what’s in there.” He lifts his hand and taps his finger against your forehead lightly.

You blink at him, surprised by how much he’s said all at once. Abruptly, he turns around and continues down the stairs, finished the conversation. You spur yourself back into motion, sweeping your skirts up with one hand so you don’t trip. There’s no doubt that you could trust Ghost to catch you, but the risk of sending you both tumbling down the long spiral staircase has you moving cautiously.

He stays with you for a bit, offering help unbraiding your hair and unbuttoning your dress, and leaves without protest when you ask him to. Predictably, he’s quiet the entire time, as though he used up his daily quota of words all at once in the stairway.

You lay out everything you need close to the tub, and sink into a hot bath, sighing. This is perhaps one of the few things you really did miss about castle life— Hot running water. If you wanted a hot bath in town, you would either have to go to the public bathhouse, or spend a good hour boiling enough water to fill a tub at Kate’s house.

You hum happily to yourself, which turns to singing out loud, the acoustics in the tiled room too good to resist. You sing your way through a number of folk songs as you run a cloth over your skin and scrub your hair clean, hot water and soap washing away what little of the darkness from that morning that company and distraction hadn’t banished, clinging shadows in the corners of your mind scoured clean again.

You pull the plug and let the water start to drain, and stand up, wringing your hair out before you reach over to the towel you’d set aside for yourself, bracing you hand on the side of the tub.

“What are you two muppets doing?” John’s voice coming through the cracked open door startles you. And it startles Johnny and Kyle too, because they tumble through the door onto the tiled floor, landing on top of each other in a heap.

You clutch the towel to your front, unable to keep yourself from letting out a surprised shriek. It takes a moment for surprise to give way to anger, your shocked, wide-eyed gaze traveling from Johnny’s red face to Kyle’s guilty expression to John in the doorway, a complicated mix of stony anger and surprise in his blue eyes. Both emotions fade as his attention lingers on your exposed legs, crawling up slowly.

“I came to drop off— But he was—” Kyle starts to try to explain himself.

“Dinnae try to blame tha’ on me, ye fuckin’ roaster, Ahm no’ a’ fault for what yer doin’,” Johnny cuts him off angrily, shoving Kyle off of him. “Yer no’ better than me just ‘cause ye weren’t here first.”

“I wouldn’t have—”

You level a glare at him that has his mouth shutting so fast that you can hear the click of his teeth. “Get out.”

The two of them scramble up and nearly fall over themselves trying to get out as quickly as possible, mortified to have been caught. They start sniping at each other before they’ve even gotten out of earshot.

John, however, doesn’t budge from the doorway. You direct your fury at him. “John. Get out.”

He doesn’t scramble to obey like the younger men did, as is he has any more right to be there than they did. “Sweetpea,” he says evenly, as though he expects to be able to talk you down from your very justified anger with a few measured words.

“Now,” you snap. “Before I lose my temper.”

He hesitates a moment longer, but the look on your face makes him reconsider trying to have a conversation with you for the moment, and he leans into the room just enough to grasp the door handle and pull it closed behind him as he retreats.

You look at the ceiling for a long moment, swallowing down the urge to scream.

By the time Ghost comes to fetch you for dinner (unsurprising that the other three didn’t have the nerve) you’ve mostly calmed down, untangling your emotions as you do your hair. You hope that John will have news of your cousin’s witness, so you can count down the days. The longing for home has intensified, and all you want is to curl up in your bed in Kate’s house and cry. If it will be weeks, you’ll ask if you can go home in the interim, and come back when the time comes to make your speech.

Ghost helps you button up your dress. You’re so tired of needing help from them. Your ire bleeds over, and you’re snappy with him too, annoyed that you’ve had to spend so much time with men lately. Aggravated that you’re forced to rely on them for something as private as getting dressed, when they shouldn’t even be alone with you in your room to begin with.

You apologize on the way down the stairs, however. Ghost just chuckles in response. “Even when you’re snappin’, you’re a peach,” he says. “Don’t think you missed a single opportunity for a please and thank you. Can’t ‘elp yourself from bein’ sweet.”

“Well, you didn’t do anything,” you say. “I’m not angry with you, I shouldn’t be rude.”

“Think it would be a bit of a lark, you bein’ rude.”

You laugh, and it clears away some of the lingering bitterness, like sediment washing away downstream. You feel remarkably clear-headed when you enter the dining room and face the three sets of guilty eyes.

All three of them start to speak at once, and stop as soon as you raise your hand. “I don’t want to hear it,” you say firmly. “All three of you are grown men, and you should know better than to behave so shamefully.”

John frowns, not happy to be receiving the same share of the blame. “Sweetpea, I wasn’t—”

“I am not finished.” You cut him off with a sharp look. “I know I do not need to chastise any of you. All of you were in the wrong. But I share some of the blame too, allowing you all free access to my space in the first place. So here is what will change. One, I would like a lock on my door. No more popping in without permission. Two, you will all learn how to knock. Three, I would like a lady to accompany me for the rest of my stay here. It is not appropriate for me to accept assistance from any man with dressing, and I do not require shadows following me everywhere I go.”

Ghost shifts beside you. “Now ‘old on,” he says. “You need protection.”

“I need no such thing. I do not believe there are assassins waiting around every corner for me.”

“I should be with you,” he insists. “If somethin’ ‘appens—”

“What do you expect is going to happen?” you ask hotly. You’ve lived on your own for years, and your hiding place was apparently well known to everyone. If an assassin was coming to dispatch you, they would have already come. The opportunities had likely been plentiful.

“Ghost is right. You need to be kept safe.” John holds up both hands when you look at him, half a surrender and half a plea for you to hear him out. You raise your eyebrows slightly, waiting. “A compromise. A fighting woman. Someone that can help you with anything you need, and can defend you if something were to happen.”

You incline your head. It’s a reasonable compromise. “That would be acceptable.”

“Farah?” Kyle asks.

“If she’ll say yes, she’d be the person I trust most with Sweetpea’s safety.” John glances at you, and offers you a little smile, like he’s not sure that you’re entirely done scolding. “You’ll like her. I’ll have her meet you in town tomorrow. Want you fitted for something nice to wear for your speech.”

“There is a closet full of perfectly nice dresses in my room,” you say. “I do not need anything else.”

“Indulge me. Your cousin’s man will be here tomorrow night, and the day after we’ll have you make your statement.” John’s smile widens, turning the slightest, inexplicable bit smug. “Want you to look your best, if it’s to be your last day as a princess, hm? And then on to better things.”

You sigh. It can't hurt to give in on this matter, since you won't have to stay much longer. “Very well, John. Although I think it’s a waste.”

The look in his deep blue eyes is inscrutable, but his smile doesn't slip. “I disagree. Nothing you let me give to you could ever be a waste.”

***

Image credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - Divider by CafeKitsune

#fantasy au #cod mw fanfiction #x reader #x fem reader #141 x Reader #Heavy Weighs the Crown #These bastards really are just the worst #I love writing AUs where Ghost is the most well adjusted one #Send my man to fantasy therapy (learning a trade) and see what happens #Re: Use of the term muppets - Uhhhh Muppets exist in this universe and they travel around doing Punch and Judy type shows #Coming soon to a market square near you lmao #Ye Olde Jim Henson's Workshoppe

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the-s1lly-corner · 25 days

Note

bishops x reader who wants to sacrifice themselves?

Bishops x Reader who offers to sacrifice themselves

oooooo i love me some angst mweheheheheheh notes: reader is gn, any creature for the reader, did a coin toss on whether or not they agree to sacrifice you, tbh not really proud of this but i do kind of like kallamars part and shamuras... will be yoinking that for some imaginary scenarios later cws: sacrifice and death

LESHY

he agrees to it after thinking about it for a while, hes not exactly happy about it but you bring up good points for why it should be done

you get a grave, too, decorated in flowers and small statues and trinkets, you actually have a hand in decorating it as morbid as it sounds

his mouth feels sour during the preparations, like he feels hes making a mistake letting you go through with this... hes killed countless followers before, most not even being sacrificed... so why are you different?

asides from of course, you being one of his favorites- but even then he wasnt exactly gentle with his other favorites either... young god, not as experienced as his siblings but just as quick to snuff out life without much of a second thought... the sacrifice is done

HEKET

flat out refuses, and shes not going to be gentle about it. nothing you can say will change her mind, she still has use of you (code for her saying that she wants you to stay for just a little longer, or forever if you have a gold skull necklace)

besides- theres so much other use for you asides from giving your being up- like... working, and worshipping, and...!

doesnt like it when you bring it up and shuts it down anytime you mention it, shes stubborn and her words are final

shes so tense and harsh about it that it may put a strain on your relationship for a while until one of you caves- and its unlikely that the god of famine is going to backdown and admit defeat in this

KALLAMAR

he makes you a grave for when youre gone- hes always had that planned regardless of how you ended up going out... age, disease, an accident... but never did he ever consider you wanting to give your life to him to further his own

he wants to deny you right then and there but youre persistent, but he holds firm despite your begging to let you help him

there are countless other fathful followers that can be sacrificed, they can be chosen instead... and the proposition of using someone else seems to hurt you, just a bit... like you believed that you werent devoted to him enough

its a messy thing all around- you want to prove yourself to him and further his power and range... and he doesnt want to let go of you just yet- if it had been anyone else he would have let it happen without a second thought

SHAMURA

they dont take your request lightly, not at all... just by the look in your eyes and the tone of your voice they knew there was no changing your mind- and this wasnt something you offered up on a whim

that doesnt mean theyre... thrilled about it... they make sure the preparations leading up to the ritual are catered to you, this is your death afterall and they want to make your last few days as comfortable as possible

perhaps they are compensating for something that plagues their mind, a means to regain some control and regulate their feelings of grief

oh how theyre going to miss you... but faith is something that must be preserved, and if you want to preserve their power.. and their life.. who are they to deny you?

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amywritesthings · 1 year

Text

silver underground. / chapter 11.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 3.2K

Summary: flashback one - day one, eighteen years ago

Warnings: graphic violence and mentions of death involving minors, implied child abuse, depictions of poverty and corruption, alcohol, starvation

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 11 - FLASHBACK: ONE

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. if you have yet to watch those episodes, i highly encourage to check them out. otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory. i will also preface if you are sensitive to violence involving children fighting each other, then you may want to skip this flashback.

“Another!”

Thwack.

EIGHTEEN YEARS EARLIER

There are two of everything right in front of your eyes.

The world splits in half, meshing and morphing into shapes and spaces you can’t quite comprehend.

Your fingers seek to cling to a nearby lamp post and miss — but a two-step stumble helps you grab onto the cool metal on your second reach.

Stability. You need some kind of stability.

Especially if you’re going to win against him.

You’re only nine years of age when Mother tosses you into the world of illegal street fighting. Starting kids young means the return investment can provide longevity — for her and her wallet. Surviving and winning are ideal, but betting against a wounded horse can also turn a profit.

No matter what, she cannot lose.

This woman is not your mother, not really — your biological mother is long gone, trapped somewhere lost in the spices or selling the night to strangers.

Perhaps she’s even dead. You almost prefer that narrative. It sounds peaceful.

(Mother says you have that woman’s eyes. You’re not sure if she’s lying.)

Calling her Mother evades wandering questions from Military Police that patrol the streets of the Underground City from time to time, looking to issue fines or arrests. According to her, they leave unassuming parents alone — the police pity the mouths they have to feed yet turn the other cheek without a solution.

Mother is vicious. Mother is cutthroat. Yet Mother is hailed for her ingenious operations by her circle of drunks and degenerates.

Mother spends too much money at her favorite pub, Roxy's, where you’ve spent countless nights falling asleep on benches waiting for table scraps.

And Mother has made it very clear that she sees one trajectory for your miserable life:

To utilize all of your fury in the name of the almighty coin.

You are not her first child, nor will you be her last. There used to be six of you, but she’s now waning down to four. Unfortunate accidents — kids never last long in the Underground; a sector full of orphans with sullen faces, hungry bellies, and hungrier fists.

Most families down here cannot afford children. Hustlers, however, can. From trafficking to spice mules to fates far worse than your own, you’re considered lucky.

(According to Mother, parentless brats are easy targets and even bigger wins.)

Eventually you’ll die somewhere in a sewage drain like the others before you.

Just not today.

Fighting is hard — of course it is, you’re just a kid — but now, at twelve years old, you refuse to lay down and die.

You intend to win. You intend to live.

So you endure and you punch your way out of death’s cold fingers day after day after day.

Sort of like him.

Your opponent in question waits for you to find your footing at the dismay of the wails and shouts of onlookers creating the circle around you. He stands on the other side of the rowdy circle with practiced fists held high at his defense.

Like he’s done this as long as you, if not longer.

(He could very well be the reason you’re sent to an early grave if you’re not smart about your next lineup of attacks.)

The child across from you — possibly the same age, give or take a year or two — has the coldest stare you’ve ever witnessed. He’s small in stature; the tattered hand-me-downs hang off of his boney frame, the fabric too baggy for his malnourished body.

This boy, however, is fierce. The way he carries himself through this entire street brawl screams trained — as if he came out of the womb kicking and screaming, ready to fight.

He isn’t one of the barrack brats sent for easy slaughter nor is he a stolen kid like you.

At the edge of the circle, a tall and lanky man with a tan fedora watches intently. He’s the one who asked the boy to throw another punch a few minutes earlier. His eyes never leave the boy’s movements for a second.

A cigarette dangles between his fingers like he’s not the least bit worried about the boy’s safety, not even when you finally charge him with a punch.

The boy dodges, swiftly swinging his own. You duck before it can connect with your face.

Over and over, you meet like this. Swing and a miss. Kick and a block.

You’re evenly matched.

People are getting bored. They want bloodshed, not skill.

If you win? It could win her a lot of money.

If you lose? It’s one less mouth to feed and a new opportunity to find fresh meat.

A clean punch from your fist finally connects with the boy’s eye, earning a chorus of boo’s. Once more you flop back against the street lamp in exhaustion, holding onto its metal body to ground you.

The boy grunts, holding his face. The man on the sidelines merely laughs, amused at the surprise shot.

You wonder if this man is the kid’s father.

(You can only hope not all parents, adopted or otherwise, are like this.)

Yet the boy does what is asked of him: another. He stalks towards your shaking body at the street lamp and swings, but you manage to duck to the ground with a sweep of your leg before he can land the blow.

He falls to the floor, offering an opportunity for you to scramble on top of him to get the upper hand. You roll together in the dirt-ladened cobblestone street, ripping at each other's hair and yelping with a ferocity of wild animals.

People shout and toss their coins into the makeshift ring, throwing obscenities and swears in an effort to finish the bitch already!

You’ve learned quickly that the bitch is a crude name for you.

And he does try. The boy bites, kicks, grabs what he can while you defend your face and neck, forcibly rolling yourselves over to get a few cheap shots in. You’re pretty sure you hit him in the eye again. He hits your jaw and draws blood.

In a blink his hands fly to your throat, squeezing but without intent. You gasp under him, kicking and flailing your limbs to find something nearby to stop him.

Then a gun fires overhead.

The fight — once hopeful to the brink of death — is over.

“MPs inbound, seven o’clock!” shouts an older woman from the sidelines.

The carnage scatters into the darkened alleyways of the Underground.

The man coaching the boy on the sidelines now enters the invisible ring to grab him, effectively pulling him from you. The boy lets go of your throat instantly, disinterested in finishing the job. Unlike so many others before him, he doesn't care about the kill. It's unusual.

A surge of air hits your windpipe and you choke on it, still seeing double of the gray-eyed child as he disappears out of view.

“Get up, James.”

You recognize the voice.

"James!"

The name she gave you.

“Hurry, they’re coming.”

You move, but it's not fast enough. Mother drags you by the hair to help you onto your feet, scowling at the interruption of a fight she was so damn sure you had.

(You don’t think you would have won.)

“Mother, who was that?” you ask softly, finding that your voice is hoarse from all the shouting and strangulation. “The boy, who was that?”

She ignores you, grappling with your wrist to drag you into an alleyway.

Your eyes stay transfixed on the billowing trench coat of the cigarette man until he, too, disappears from the watchful eye of the military police.

Once you're out of sight, Mother drops to a crouch, assessing surface-level bruising and scrapes with her eyes.

Nothing about it is loving.

“You have to train to be as good as him,” she finally tells you.

Your eyes meet for just a second.

She was probably beautiful when she was a teenager, but her soul made her ugly. Harsh lines cut into her face from years of smoking. Her voice is bumpy like gravel, but there is a sickeningly sweet tune to her tone even when dealing with her children.

It can be terrifying sometimes; how soft she can sound with such angry, unforgiving words.

“Answer me, James,” Mother demands as she tugs your bruised wrist closer.

You don’t move your face, even if your entire body hurts.

“I know.”

“He could have killed you.”

“I know.”

“But you would have won.”

(You don’t think you would have won.)

You keep your gaze to your scuffed shoes as she harshly wipes the blood from your face with a handkerchief.

“Say you would have won,” Mother insists. “You can be easily replaced by another sibling if you don’t think you can win next time.”

“Next time?” you accidentally ask, and those lines on her face sink deeper. Your eyes widen. “Yes, Mother, I would have won. You know I’m your best child.”

The lines on her forehead gradually smooth out. Her red lips curl into that sick, sweet smile.

“That’s right. You are my best child.”

If it were any other situation, then perhaps this statement would bring you some comfort. It doesn’t.

Being her best means you’re taking the brunt of the worst fights. Being her best means you have to fight harder with the same consequences if you fail.

You say nothing, do nothing, and wait for her to stop wiping at your sore face. It takes a few more seconds, but once she’s satisfied, Mother stands at full height and resumes her descent into the alleyway.

Her hand fishes an unassuming cloth coin purse from her jacket pocket and you immediately know where you’re heading.

If you love the prospect of pissing money away, then Roxy’s pub in the southern quadrant of the Underground City is the place to be.

It’s Mother’s favorite place — where the downtrodden meet to pretend things aren’t so dire in the Underground City. It’s routine for the same group of people to end up here every other night, if not every night.

Because of the frequent patronage, the staff are willing to give you under-the-table food scraps for free so Mother can use her money for other things.

Like gambling.

According to one of the regulars named Bill, it was you who took the brunt of the street brawl wounds: busted lip, sprained ankle and wrist, potential concussion to the head. Under a makeshift bandage placed by one of the whiskey-soaked corner dwellers of the pub, the congealed blood on your forehead intermittently tickles your brow.

He implies your opponent didn’t end up much better. Bill won’t go into the specifics, but he says it's impressive you’ve held your own against that little devil.

Most people at the event bet against you. A draw was your best chance at survival.

You take Bill’s word for it.

Despite the lack of win, Mother celebrates with her favorite bar-goers. They’ve been drunk for well over three hours now, sloshing ale and whiskey across the bar top with little consideration. They cheer her name — not yours — and fill her glass as a cigarette dangles between her fingertips.

Payment after payment, money pours in front of her ashtray from regular betters.

People who have no excuse to gamble their money away but live for the thrill of it.

You, however, hide in the shadows of the pub — out of sight and out of mind.

God, you're exhausted.

Finishing your roll of bread given to you by the barmaid takes effort. Even the act of eating leaves you spent.

Halfway down you stop trying, staring at your food with a grimace. You wonder if there’s water to wash it down. Maybe if it’s mushy, it won’t be so bad.

Yet when you raise your attention from your lap, you’re surprised at what your eyes catch. The sight rushes the air rushes from your lungs.

Although the small person's head is bowed, you recognize the mop of wild black hair instantly.

(It's him.)

In the opposite corner of the pub, the boy from today’s street brawl sits quietly on a bench. Splotches of bruises peek out at the apple of his cheek. His reddened hands rest idly in his lap while his feet dangle, too short to reach the floor beneath his hole-ridden shoes.

(He's really here.)

And his guardian — his father? — is the man whooping and hollering over copious amounts of liquor beside Mother. You make the connection with a wandering gaze, noting the very same trench coat from the street now spilling over a bar stool in Mother’s proximity.

How long have the two of them been here? This entire time?

Without thinking, you slowly stand from your bench and take a breath.

You’re not sure what possesses you to hobble towards him.

Maybe it’s because he looks so sad.

Maybe it’s because you’re projecting your own wayward confusions and sadness onto him.

Maybe it’s because there aren’t many kids left that understand what it means to put your fist to someone’s face with the intention of breaking it.

And just like that, he notices you, too.

There is a sharpness in the way his chin tilts to acknowledge your growing presence, quick to detect and assess the danger.

You pause in your next step, on your bad ankle, and wince.

Gradually the boy raises his attention, sockets sullen and as gray as the iris of his eye. His left eye is purple from where you socked him twice at the tail end of the fight.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

Wordlessly, you limp closer towards his bench. He doesn’t move. You lean back and start to fish for the food burrowed in your tattered coat pocket, but he tenses.

Glares.

As if you’re going to bring out something that will finish the job that street brawl only started.

Instead you hold out your free hand — wait, I'm no threat — and produce the half-eaten roll of bread given to you by the barkeep in the other.

“Have you eaten?” Your voice is still hoarse from shouting.

The boy continues to glare, briefly dropping his attention to the bread now outstretched for him to take.

He remains silent, immobile, while the party rages in the other room.

Maybe it’s a lost cause.

Maybe this was a stupid idea.

Maybe—

“No.”

Small but audible; the boy answers in a murmur. For a kid so agile in a fight, he sure looks scrawny up close.

Breakable.

“Would you like some?” you ask instead, gesturing once more with your outstretched arm for him to take the bread you have left.

He doesn’t react beyond blinking down to the food again.

“I already ate half of it,” you add, like it’ll make taking the free handout easier for him.

Fraction by fraction, the small boy removes a cracked and bruised hand from his lap and raises his slender fingers to take the bread from you.

You let go once there is weight to its end, mindful of your distance.

The boy studies the food as if it’s a rare specimen, looking it over for mold or poison, before heading the already bitten half to his mouth.

He swallows thickly, coating a dry throat.

“Thanks.”

The gratitude sinks your shoulders down, lessening the stress pinched in your back. You sigh softly once he’s taken a bird-sized bite, chewing slowly to savor the taste.

You want to tell him that you ate just as slow so he doesn’t feel self conscious but decide against it.

“Can I… sit?” you ask as he starts on his second bite, causing him to pause. Contemplate.

He nods once, so you nestle into the empty spot beside him.

For what feels like hours you sit beside this strange quiet boy in silence, happy not to be alone.

He eats in a mild-mannered way, careful not to spill crumbs on his worn clothes.

He finishes his half of the bread eventually but never tries to speak to you.

You don’t mind.

Here on this bench, two children of the Underground City can rest — if only for a short while.

You both tense at the sound of a loud howl from the bar, but it is only you who looks. Some of the patrons have begun a slurred rendition of a surface hymn. A man shouting louder than the rest, belligerent and shitfaced, catches your attention.

It’s him: the boy’s keeper. Long, unkempt hair flies out from the bottom of the hat like wires as ale sloshes high over his head.

Others join his singing with grating enthusiasm.

“Is… that your dad?” you gently ask.

The boy continues to pick apart what’s left of the little roll, ignoring your question.

You turn your chin to watch the drunk tirade, assuming he won’t respond.

Until—

“Is that your mom?” he retorts, and you whip your attention back to him.

The boy watches you instead of the rowdy pub patrons.

You suck in a sharp breath, uncomfortable with the sight of how badly his eye has been blackened thanks to your attack.

Are you sorry, for bashing his face the way you did? Is he?

Mother’s told you it’s nothing personal. It’s just business.

(No one stuck in the Underground City can afford to feel remorse — or worse: regret.)

“No,” you answer, and he takes another bite. “I call her Mother, but… she found me.”

He doesn’t react — only chews, like every bite may be his last, and swallows. His tongue darts out to lick the crumbs from his busted lip.

You lean in closer to whisper again.

“Do you have a na—”

“Levi!”

A name.

The shout erupts from a familiar gruff voice. The drunken trench coat man hangs over the bar, squinting to find somebody in an alcoholic haze.

Your question dies on your lips when the man's attention lands on the two of you.

“Oh! Levi! There you are. Ready to head out, boy? You’re supposed to be training in a few hours.”

He turns widely to the crowd of drinkers, belligerent and wasted.

“Not that he needs to. Kid’ll kill just about anyone you ask him to. Gotta keep a runt busy, am I right?”

The bench creaks.

The boy — Levi — stands obediently. His hands are empty, bread devoured and gone, but he continues to regard you from his peripheral vision.

You stay put, lips parted with a sentiment, a feeling, you cannot put into words.

For whatever feels like forever, you both stare at each other.

Then he leaves without another word.

You stay and fall fast asleep on the bench, bruised cheek pressed to the warmth of where a scrawny boy named Levi sat, until Mother is ready to stumble home at sunrise.

author's note: i know this update a rough one, but i promise the next is that levi/james banter we know and love. i've planned this structure from the original outline, so i hope the next installments are as exciting to you as they are to me. the original concept of silver underground was to build a memory loss fic starting at the middle of the story as it's technically your perceived beginning. now we're witnessing the real beginning.

if people are interested, i may write levi's pov of the flashbacks as additional content.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x you #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x reader #aot fanfiction #aot #aot fanfic #snk spoilers #snk #snk fanfiction #wip series #fic: silver underground #silver underground #amywritesthings

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greenreticule · 3 months

Text

Predictions for what will make it into Season 1 of The Mighty Nein animated show.

(I am presuming 12 episodes and eyeing the general pacing of Vox Machina)

The season will primarily focus on what the wiki lists as "Arc 1: Come Together"

Episodes 1-2 will be the Carnival Arc that brings our team together, like how we had the Brimscythe arc for Vox Machina

Episode 3 will be the Alfield adventure, as this is where several important things are introduced:

Caleb's trauma with fire (they will keep Molly kissing his forehead)

Shakasta (who I presume will be kept in as he reappears later, and Khary Payton voiced a character in the Vox Machina show)

The group being forced to take on the Mighty Nein name in order to get paid

Beau's goggles

The characters will develop an in-universe vocal stim with "Nein" to replace the game-level significance of everyone rolling 9s on their dice and yelling "NEIN"

Episode 3 will end with the sleeping Nein surrounded by dark figures at their camp as the week's cliffhanger.

Episode 4 will open with the Syphilis Bandits.

Episodes 4-6 will be broadly about their time in Zadash.

Plot points established:

The Kryn attack and the beacon

Caleb sharing his backstory with Beau and Nott

The Gentleman

The close brush with Trent Ikithon and other members of the Assembly

Moments kept:

Tusk Love

Pumat Sol

Mollymauk cornering Caleb about the coin

Beau and Yasha in the bath

"Long May I Reign"

Episode 6 will end with Cree recognizing Mollymauk as the week's cliffhanger (a confrontation moved to the Nein's second meeting with the Gentleman)

Episode 7 will open with Mollymauk disentangling himself from Cree so the Nein can go meet with the Gentleman for additional jobs.

Episodes 7-9 will be about them running jobs for the Gentleman

Plot Points Established:

Molly's life began when he woke up from a grave two years ago

Fjord's discovery of the first Cloven Crystal

Moments Kept:

Beau and Caleb getting into a fight and then being counseled by Fjord and Yasha about how best to apologize

And then everything else about depends on where they plan to leave off the season. There are three places I can think that they end it:

Fjord, Jester, and Yasha being kidnapped

Molly's death and burial

Meeting Caduceus

And I think most likely that it'll be Option #2: Molly being buried. Maybe there will be a Caduceus tease, maybe not. A toss-up.

Things I'm assuming will be cut:

Knights of Requital (the writers will have other ways to show the corruption of the Empire)

The pickpockets and the prison arc of Hupperdook

Calianna

Kiri (I know we all love her, but she doesn't have a lot of impact moving forward)

#mighty nein #critical role #mighty nein animated

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 1 year

Note

If you still want prompts, how about 2 for Geraskier? 💚💕

2. A casual touch on the shoulder to acknowledge them

Jaskier is sitting by the campfire, hunched over his lute as he mulls over a particularly tricky lyric, when he’s startled by the unexpected feeling of a hand brushing his shoulder. With a shriek, he startles and drops his lute. It’s not until a hand snaps out and seizes his lute before it can crash to the ground that he realizes that it’s not some ruffian who’s snuck up on him while he’s composing, but Geralt.

“Geralt!” Jaskier claps a hand over his chest. “You just scared the shit out of me! I didn’t know it was you!”

Holding Jaskier’s lute in one hand and an apple in the other, Geralt looks at him blankly. “Who else would it have been?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I was scared shitless.” Jaskier doesn’t point out that in the months they’ve been traveling together, Geralt has touched him a grand total of three times. Once was the punch that Jaskier can fully admit that he deserved. The second time was when he grabbed Jaskier’s arm to drag him away from a drowner who was about to snatch him while he bathed. The third time was to press a damp cloth over a gash in Jaskier’s arm left by a griffin. All three times, the contact was brief and businesslike, lasting mere seconds.

Jaskier gets the impression that Geralt doesn’t like being touched, which has been an adjustment. He’s used to exchanging casual touches with his friends and family—kissing his mother and sisters on the foreheads, picking up his nieces and nephews and spinning them around, throwing an arm around Essi’s shoulders, leaning against Valdo while they sit together. But every time Jaskier forgets himself and claps a hand on Geralt’s shoulder or picks a bit of grave hag out of his hair, the witcher looks like he’s just swallowed something sour.

Geralt snorts and holds out the apple. “Here. Your stomach has been growling for an hour.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinks and takes the apple. Now that he’s not entirely focused on his composition, a new version of Toss a Coin recounting Geralt’s heroic defeat of a wyvern, he can feel the hollowness of hunger in his belly. “Thank you, Geralt. That’s… very thoughtful.”

“Hm. All the rumbling is disturbing my meditating.”

“And me playing the lute isn’t?”

“Getting fucking used to that,” Geralt grumbles, handing Jaskier his lute, and turns away.

Jaskier finds himself grinning at Geralt’s back. “Does that mean you’re starting to like my music?”

All that gets him is another grumble, but Jaskier’s spirits aren’t dampened. Because this is the first time that Geralt has ever touched him just to touch him. It wasn’t much, just a simple hand on his shoulder. It certainly wasn’t the myriad ways he’s guiltily fantasized about Geralt touching him over the last few months. But it’s still the first sign the witcher has given that he’s starting to grow comfortable in Jaskier’s company. That someday, he might even like having Jaskier around.

“Thank you, my friend,” he calls.

“Not your friend,” Geralt says, as Jaskier expected him to. Ah well, progress is progress, no matter how slow.

Jaskier takes a bite of his apple. It’s the best thing he’s tasted in a long time.

24 Touches Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome @toapoet

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills

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mintteapullet · 8 months

Note

Obsessed with Biting at my Fingers, Nipping at my Heels.

Little Nobara and Yuuji are so cute! World’s cutest children arrive send Geto reeling, give Shoko a minor heart attack at their presence, watch their older brother almost start a fight with a gravely injured man who is their bio dad, and then leave to watch Panda, Inumaki, and Maki train with Megumi. Also the little scene with Gojo and Shoko was adorable. What was the elder’s reactions to Nobara and Yuuji? They were smart enough not to touch them but I doubt they were happy.

Geto bringing up stealing them was bold, I do think Gojo would actually kill him for them. Did Shoko and Nanami know Gojo’s plan going in or did he just drop it on them? Because I can hear Nanami’s sigh from here either way.

I'm so glad you enjoyed! It was basically me smashing together a bunch of tropes I liked and turning it into a story.

Theyre the cutest little pups, and absolute troublemakers. Perks of having Gojo as a parent include being able to do off the wall shit and no one able to really step in without getting mauled. Nobara was absolutely rooting for Megumi if a brawl were to start between him and Geto. Im glad you enjoyed the SatoShoko scene, it was one of my favorite to write, they are so very tender. The elders were terrified because special grade sorcerers are rare, and hardly ever mingle quite like Satoru and Suguru did, so Nobara and Yuuji are a coin toss. A terrifying one at that. Their mother is already a uncontrollable force of nature at the best of times, so their existence is a threat, but not one that they can even attempt to extinguish without the might of the Gojo clan coming down on their heads.

It was very bold, but mostly just a attempt to rile Satoru up. As Suguru stated in his internal monolog, that would be a death wish on his end. Normal omegas have gone far beyond their abilities to protect their pups, if Satoru saw Suguru as a threat to any of his pups there wouldn't even be a scorch mark left on the floor. And regarding Suguru being kept at the estate: yes, it was absolutely talked about amongst the three adults. While saving Suguru's life was a spir of the moment decision, the estate is pack grounds, and Suguru being kept there isn't taken lightly. Nanami definitely sighed though the second he got home and Shoko and Satoru had their "I did something disappointing" looks

#Mint Writes #Asks #Jjk omegaverse #Omega Gojo #Alpha Geto #SatoShoko #Satosugu #Sugushoko #Mom Shoko #Mommy Gojo

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brewed-pangolin · 2 years

Text

After playing both the campaign and warzone, I have come to the simple conclusion that there are two very different sides to Mr MacTavish. Something that I am lovingly referring to as...

The Highland Coin Toss

How he reacts and treats you is purely dependent on the relationship and what he's more comfortable with you calling him. And if you are lucky enough to gain access to both sides, flipping his coin turns into an all out 'spin the bottle', color me horny fuck fest. So, without further ado, let us begin....

18+ MDNI under the cut

CW: Just some personal headcanons sprinkled on a giant heap of smut. Sub/Dom Soap. P in V, Fem receiving.

AN: This is the first anything I have written in over 5 years, so apologies if it's absolute shit. Honestly, though, had so much fun with this double-sided Scottsman! Much Love 💛

'Heads' Johnny MacTavish

Walls? Yeah, he's got 'em. More to protect himself from those around him. But patience will prevail. Give it time, and you'll begin to see those barriers slowly crumble down.

Honesty goes a long way with Johnny. He can generally read people like a book (please don't bring up Graves, he's still sore after that traitorous bastard) If he does catch you being untruthful to him or any of the 141 or Voqueros, good luck getting back on his good graces. Book's closed, done.

Beneath that hardened exterior, Johnny is incredibly affectionate. And not just in a romantic aspect. He doesn't see 141 and Voqueros as soldiers or troops, they're his brothers.

Don't try to get in between him and his missions. Johnny is a military man through and through, and nothing is more important to him than the completion of the task at hand.

Loyal to a God damn fault.

Johnny is the fighter of the coin toss. Calculated, thorough and eyes on every detail, no matter how insignificant they may seem.

Once those walls are dust, this man will be nothing but putty in your hands.

Now, on to the fun stuff...

Johnny is 100% a switch! If you want him to be in control, he'll gladly take the reigns. But if you're feeling a bit more frisky and want to be in control, this man will be in absolute heaven (he won't deny it, Johnny loves watching you ride him)

Is absolutely obsessed with your body.

No matter the time, place, or scenario, he's going to have a hand on you (leg, thigh, arm, hand, neck, ass, foot, head...) And those hands like to wander...simple caresses turn into deliberate touches with one goal in mind.

And Johnny knows ALL of your pleasure zones. Will either focus his fingers on them or dance around them entirely just to drive you wild. Once his touch has been satiated, his mouth will go to work.

Kissing Johnny is an experience in sexual nirvana. His hands will cradle your head as his tongue explores and tastes you. Only when you're a breathless mess will he give you reprieve and move on. Every inch of you will be peppered in starving kisses. Loves your neck and inner thighs the most (mainly due to the reaction and moans you elicit in response)

But his main prize is the deliciously warm cavern between your thighs. Is nothing short of methodical when eating you out. Torturously so at times.

Starts with long, languid draws of his tongue along your folds. Quickly followed by precise and deliberate attention on your pulsing clit. Loves to oscillate between these two maneuvers, purely out of satisfaction as you all but lose your mind beneath his salacious mouth.

Johnny knows exactly where that special bundle of nerves is, he knows how much you can take and will push you to your limit. You'll be on the verge of insanity, and all you'll see between your legs is victorious glacial eyes beckoning you to break and come apart on his tongue.

He is so atuned to your body it almost makes you wonder if soul mates are a reality or just a long told fairy tale. This thought always creeps into your mind as he enters you. So slowly, you feel ever inch of him, and once he's fully seated, you swear you can feel his rapid heart beat within your welcoming cunt.

Slow and steady wins this race in his mind. Johnny is fully aware that it is not the pace that gets you off, and is willing to spend all night getting you to the ecstasy you both so desperately desire.

Don't count those determined hands out when he's thrusting balls deep within you. He'll find that pulsing bud and match his determined circling fingers with the pace of his hips.

Speaking of hands, Johnny never keeps them in one place for too long. His fingers will traverse and explore your curves like meandering, sexually driven pilgrim.

King of Priases! "Y'So beautiful hen." "Good bonnie. Feel so fucking good." "C'mon, I know ya can give me another one."

Will talk you through your orgasms.

"Keep your eyes on me, bonnie."

"That's it. Cum for me. Cum for me, hen."

His voice will be soft, slightly above a whipser with just enough strain in it to send you over the edge.

You'll know when Johnny's close. He'll hold you tight, desperately so, to the point you'll feel like he'll suffocate you. His pace will stammer and with one last thrust you'll feel him empty himself within you.

Johnny is in heaven when he cares for you post romp. He'll pepper you in soft kisses while his fingers dance across your still trembling skin. And he's always prepared; damp washcloth within arms reach because he knows you both can get quite messy.

You'll fall asleep first, because that's what he wants. Soft whispers of how beautiful you are, how good you make him feel will echo into your ears. The last thing you'll remember is strong arms wrapping around your waist and the slow beating of his heart as you let sleep take you over completely.

'Tails' Soap MacTavish

Walls? Yeah, no. Try fucking skyscrapers. Only way you're getting to this side of the Scot is by proving you're not a complete waste of time and flesh. Even if he has opened himself up to his more accepting side, don't push your luck trying to figure out what he hides behind closed doors. Soap will read through those lines within seconds and shut it down. And he'll be a locked vault from then on.

Assertive. Especially during and immediately following missions (it takes Soap a day or two to get back to civilian life).

Bit of a control freak, particularly when it comes to his routines. (Yes, he has a very specific hair regimen. So if you value your life, don't touch anything. And no, he's not going to talk about it)

Patience. Patience. Patience. Let Soap open himself up to you. It may take a few months, maybe even years. You may need some help from his brothers in arms to get to this man (Gaz especially, he's such a softie). They're truly the only ones that know Soap for who he really is.

Complete trust is necessary to gain access to Soap, and once that element has been reached, you'll have your own personal body guard at every beck and call.

Soap is the protector of this flip of the coin. Think of a 200lb, military trained pitbull. God forbid anyone looks at you the wrong way.

Smexy time!!

Soap can be a bit aggressive at times, especially if he's been without any release for a long period. But make no mistake, Soap is a pleasure Dom to the absolute max! He'll get off, no doubt about that. You on the other hand, depending his mood you'll have either one mind blowing orgasm or several. (Good luck trying to walk after those nights)

While Johnny has a routine while being intimate with you, Soap is all over the place. He may start by fucking you relentlessly for hours, followed by eating you out and finish with devouring your mouth. Then start all over again in a different rhythm, and will probably throw in some shower sex just for good measure. Soap's unpredictability is what drives you to insanity. You can't keep a handle on him, and in that, your mind goes blank and purely enjoys everything he gives to you.

Ultimate grabby hands. Can get a bit carried away at times. Don't scold him for leaving bruises, consider them ultimate fleshy love notes.

Formidable make-out extraordinaire. While Johnny is affectionate and somewhat desperate, Soap is aggressive and all-consuming. And he won't give you a break from his mouth until he's had his fill. (Cue your grabby hands so you don't fall to the floor)

Hickeys. Hickeys fucking everywhere. Obsessed with leaving them in the most random places. Your calf has become his new favorite, and you strangely enough can't get enough of it.

Three words: Teasing. Fucking. Bastard.

Loves to watch you squirm beneath him, whether it be to his mouth or to his hardened and precise cock. And his hands, God damn his hands! You've started calling him your 'Clitoral Beethoven" since he can make you sing by the sheer power of his fingers alone.

Soap is ravenous with his mouth on you. This fact is proven time and again when he is buried between your thighs. His vigorous workings are only magnified by his vibrating groans that tantalizingly work their way up your spine.

Soap is the epitome of messy when he's eating your pussy. He'll all but swallow you whole, covering his stubble and chin with your juices. Those gorgeous blue eyes disappear between your thighs, replaced by darkened orbs filled with needy hunger. Your breaking point is when he begins to seesaw his head from side to side, the friction of his mouth combined with his determined tongue will having you screaming his name within seconds.

No flat surface is safe with this man. Can and will bend you over at any moment, especially if you're alone. (If not, expect a fair amount of borrowing stares and even a firm grab of your ass if he's feeling extra horny, which is pretty much always)

Speaking of horny, Soap is so needy for your pussy he can't always wait for you. But this man is resourceful, and almost always prepared. You don't know where he keeps it, but somehow he's got lube in his hand and already stroking his cock and you've barely pushed your pants down for him. And there's nothing gradual about how Soap enters you, he's balls deep first thrust. But he does hold and let you get used to him, purely for the feel of your cunt quivering around his cock.

Loves, loves, LOVES doggie style! Not only does it give him the most perfect view of your ass, but let's him have complete control of the pace. And whoa mama you're gonna need to mentally and physically prepare yourself, cause Soap is gonna fuck you senseless!

Have a mattress warehouse on speed dial. Just do it!

Mentioned that Soap is assertive. That's an understatement when he's having his way with you. He's strong, Godlike when he so desperately wants to feel your pulsing cunt around him. So expect a fair amount of man handling and body contortions (cue you turning into a human pretzel fuck toy; yoga may become a necessity before any Soap sexathon)

And that Scottish accent will only thicken as he pounds himself in your molten core.

"Be a good lass and scream fer me. Want e'eryone to know yer MINE."

"Takin me so well, aren't ya?"

"Can't get enough, can ya bonnie? Always so fuckin hungry fer my cock."

"So fuckin wet fer me. Yer a dirty girl, aren't ya?"

You're going to either have a strong hold on him or anything with a firm base, because Soap is going to completely ruin you. The room will be a cacophony of skin slapping, pleading moans and reverberating growls. The sounds will tempt you to poke the bear, but do so at your own risk...

"Harder, Soap. Fuck me harder."

His calloused hand will firmly grib the back of your neck, and the other will give your ass a hardened smack. You'll feel his body weigh down against yours, hips contuing their assault as his mouth ghosts the cusp of your ear.

"Fuckin needy little thing, aren't ya lass?"

Consider the bear, poked.

Soap will undoubtedly fuck you through your orgasms. He may be talking, but it will probably be some overly gratified Scottish that you don't understand. It's the growl of his words that make you go over the edge, blissfully cock drunk as your body convulses around him and your mind goes completely white.

Aftercare with Soap will almost always end in a bath. One to clean the excessive amount of fluids, and two to help soothe your blissfully overused body. As rough as he can be during the act, Soap is incredibly tender and gentle afterwards. Only thing on your mind will be when he came during the deed. His repsonse is always the same...

"Non of that now, bonnie."

Want to give some massive kudos to @yeyinde, @irnbru32, and @mvtthewmurdvck for their inspiration to get me back to writing. Y'alls fics are so unbelievably well done and immersive, I honestly can't get enough! Glad to be back and part of the Soap Squad 🧼 💛

#the highland coin toss #what the fuck did i just do #was slightly drunk when i wrote most of this #wanna flip his coin #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #cod soap #soap squad 🧼

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novankenn · 6 months

Text

Shock & Awe (5)

Jaune was beyond pissed, but he had sveral valid reasons to be in such a mood. First his interaction with "what's her name", then Yang wanting a rematch, followed by that nut-job Headmaster flinging him and everyone else off a cliff.

BUT that wasn't all there was. Then the red-head that had been with "what's her name" pinned him to a tree... with a fucking spear! Finally followed up now by being chased by a massive Death-Stalker. Yeah to say this was a day Jaune had wished he had just stayed in bed, was an understatement.

Of course he would NEVER admit that the whole Death-Stalker thing was his fault... nope, not ever, that will follow him to his grave, which if the group he was with didn't figure out how to deal with it AND the Nevermore... would be fairly soon.

Pyrrha who had become his partner, through some stupid first-sight rule, was doing her best to protect him with the help of a pink haired girl and black haired boy. All the while "what's her name" her partner, Yang and Yang's partner were trying to keep the Nevermore occupied. This was the classic definition of a cluster-fuck. Worse part was they were all trying to protect him, because he had no obvious weapons.

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans Jaune pulled out a arcade token, and rolled it about in his fingers. He could, but that would be showing everyone what he really could do. He was hesitant to show that side of him.

"Ah!" Pyrrha yelled in pain as one of the Death-Stalkers pincers caught her with a backhanded blow, sending her tumbling a long the ground.

"Move away!" Jaune screamed as he flicked the coin into the air, and stretched out his arm.

"But..." the orange haired girl started to object.

"Get the FUCK away from it! NOW!" Jaune screamed as he focused. The pair backed off as Arcs of electricity started to jump about and around Jaune's form. Jaune gave a smirk as he thought how this should shut up Yang... real hard.

The very sound of the shot echoed about the forest, followed by the blast as the super heated token slammed into the Death-Stalker... obliterating it entirely.

"Can you do that again?" Yang yelled as her group dodged a way from another volley of feathers turned javelins.

"It's TOO high!" Jaune yelled back as he looked up at the circling form of the great Grimm. "I have nothing that could reach it!"

"Jaune!" Pyrrha shouted as she transformed Milo from its sword form to its javelin form. "Would this work?"

"It might." Jaune shouted back "But I'm going to have to charge up."

"We'll keep it busy!" the girl using a scythe shouted.

"Fine, I'll try." Jaune shouted as he took a wider stance and began to ramp up his ability. "When I say now, toss it in front of my face."

Pyrrha nodded as she moved closer and crouched down just outside of the growing storm of electrical Arcs surrounding her partner. She half watched Jaune and half watched everyone else doing everything they could to keep the Nevermore distracted...

"NOW!"

Pyrrha didn't wait as she tossed Milo up and n front of Jaune's face...

Table of Contents

#rwby #a certain scientific railgun #yang xiao long #jaune arc

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jeannereames · 12 days

Note

What should we make of Alexander I and Perdiccas II both having long 40+ years long reigns, only for all of their successors having substantially shorter ones? And, if you are in the mood, who do you think was the better ruler between the two?

First, I thought I’d mention one of the cool things to come out of the recent ATG conference is a plan to produce an edited collection: Alexander I and the Making of Macedon. It’ll be a while, but if I can get us a publisher, I’ve got the contributors.

Also of note, Sabine Müller and Johannes Heinrichs are producing a monograph on Alexander I in English. She has a great one on Perdikkas but it’s in German, so I was very happy to hear this.

Finally, I've got a number of racked-up Asks. This answer will answer about three of them. I'll link it to the other questions. :-)

To the questions: it’s really hard to compare Alexander I and Perdikkas II simply because they were dealing with very different circumstances. Alexander I had Persian assistance holding the throne, while Perdikkas was tossed off his throne at least once.

The biggest difficulty is a source problem. ALL our info about these guys (outside archaeology) comes from Greeks, who were chiefly interested in them only when they intersected with the southern Greek world. There’s a fair bit about Alex I’s internal politicking that we just don’t know. What we call “Lower Macedon” probably only goes back a couple generations, despite the mythical king list. We find a MARKED change in burial practices c. 570 BCE, which is before Persians were mucking around up there. This suggests a change—or more likely consolidation—in the lowland Macedonian ruling elite, both west and a bit east of the Axios River.

If Alexander I took over c. 500-495 (coin above), and his father Amyntas (about whom we know nothing but a name) ruled for 20/30-ish years before, then Alexander’ grandfather (Alketas) or great-grandfather (Airopos) would have consolidated the area around Aigai. Yet ALL names before Amyntas I are essentially fictional. Certainly the “founder’s” name changed across time. It’s Perdikkas when we first hear of it in Herodotos, but may have shifted to Archelaos later (see Euripides’s play of that name). Later yet (under Philip), it seems to have become Karanos. If Bill Greenwalt’s theories are right. This is not a real person in any historical sense.

The problem with dating Alexander I is that we neither know for sure when he took the throne nor when he died. It was convenient for Alexander to blame his father for any concessions to the Persians, but he—not Amyntas—married his sister Gygaia to a Persian (Bubares, son of Magabazus and distantly royal).* More likely he was already on the throne in the 490s but may have been quite young. He seems to have used the Persian presence to further consolidate the (new) Macedonian kingdom—against Paionians and others—adding territory as far away as Amphipolis, at least temporarily, and thus, getting hold of both silver and gold mines to mint coins. The Echedoros River also held gold. All the gold in pre-Alexander Macedonia was pacer mining (panning), not from the gold mines of Mt. Pangaion. Yet gold, while present in the rivers, only became important in graves in Macedonia c. 570…it’s part of that startling shift in burials that we see.

We also don’t know exactly when Alexander I died and Perdikkas took over. He was still king at the end of the Persian Wars in 479/78, but dead by 450. His death may have been closer to 460, or even earlier. So his reign was probably more like 30-35 years. Perdikkas perhaps reigned longest of all—one reason he’s exceptional. I wonder if the Peloponnesian War itself may have contributed to his success: for all he had his challengers, if Macedon wanted to survive as an independent political entity, they needed to rally around him.

Yet he faced his share of opposition from other Argeads as well as the very powerful Upper Macedonian kingdoms of Lynkestis (Lynkis) and Elimeia, not to mention predatory Illyrians. That’s why Perdikkas sought an alliance with Brasidas of Sparta, but apparently couldn’t even control his own troops enough to keep them from deserting when facing Illyrians. That earned Brasidas’s wrath. As a result, Perdikkas (coin below) had to make nice with Athens.

That’s just one example of Perdikkas’s deal-making during the war. He had quite a job of diplomatic shuffling—no doubt learned from Daddy Alexander. Neither had a kingdom anywhere near strong enough to fend off Persia, or Athens and Sparta later. The fact Perdikkas didn’t end up a client king to either Sparta or Athens is a testament to his diplomatic skill.

Perdikkas’s eldest son Archelaos wasn’t the “illegitimate” son of a slave but of a lesser wife, which is why the younger (unnamed) son initially inherited. Archelaos quickly did away with him (plus an uncle and cousin), then proceeded to continue the modernizing work of his father and grandfather. Until he got run through in a hunting “accident.” After that, the kingdom dissolved into a mess.

The problem of a fast turn-over of rule owed to their inheritance system: any Argead had a claim on the throne. Kings also practiced royal polygamy, although two wives (at most three) seems to have been typical until Philip II. In some ways, it worked well, as it produced multiple heirs from which a strong king could emerge (by surviving).

That was also its problem: no clear method of succession, even if the sons of higher-status mothers apparently had a leg-up. Perdikkas himself was not Alexander’s eldest son. He had two older brothers and two younger ones. Yet either his mother was the most prominent or he showed the most promise (or both). Despite Archelaos’s age and apparent ability, he was initially passed over, although Plato (who tells the story) means to paint Archelaos poorly. That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill competing Argeads to take the throne. So had his father, and probably grandfather too (we just don’t hear about it).

Yet Archelaos’s unexpected death led to a continuing crisis until Amyntas III, Phil’s dad, took and kept the throne. He came from a collateral Argead line descended from Alexander I’s youngest son. The other lines killed each other off. For all Amyntas wasn’t a terribly prepossessing king, he managed not to die. But he, too, was run off his throne at least once, maybe twice. When he did die, it was in his bed of old age—not a common thing for Macedonian kings. His reign was the first tolerably long one after Archelaos, over 20 years.

By the time Philip came to the throne, there weren’t many Argeads left thanks to the catch-as-catch-can method of succession: Philip’s two older brothers were dead and all three of his half-brothers. It was down to just him and his brother Perdikkas III’s infant son: Amyntas.

This is the inevitable problem when lacking a clear succession. Yet a clear succession can create its own problems with incompetent heirs, who don’t always recognize they’re incompetent. The free-for-all gave a better shot at a strong king—ostensibly why it developed—but it also meant the kingdom ran out of “spares” after a couple generations. They went from more Argeads than you could shake a stick at following Alexander I’s death, down to just three at Philip’s death, and two at Alexander’s death** in a matter of 5-6 generations. Within those 5-6 generations, 12-14 kings reigned! And we have no idea how many brothers/cousins/uncles Alexander I had, and perhaps killed, before he became king. We hear only about the one sister.

Stability was not a hallmark of the Argead dynasty.

——

* The story of Alexander killing Persian emissaries is much later fictional propaganda. Didn’t happen.

* Alexander’s son Herakles by Barsine might count as a third, but the army doesn’t seem to have considered him viable for whatever reason.

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wavesoutbeingtossed · 25 days

Note

Re: parallels

Do whatever you like, but I have to say that my fav are themes and lyrics

OK well there is WAAAAAAAAAAAY to much material to draw from still 😂

Let's go with lyrics:

This is painful, but I love the full circle parallel between "I'm fastening myself to you with a stitch" in Glitch and "Stitches undone / Two graves, one gun" in So Long, London. You've got one song about the beginning of a relationship that wasn't supposed to last but somehow has, being so in love with a person you want to like, inhabit their physical being, and then the inevitable end of the relationship where you have to sever all that tied you together to save yourself (or both of you).

(I actually think TTPD is full of so many parallels to older work that I could like, quote the entire album.)

I'm also fascinated by all the fire/ashes parallels, in a way I want to discuss and feel wholly unable to. It comes up quite often, and they don't all refer to the same themes, but I love how she uses it to symbolize ruin, but also the passage of time. E.g. "And if I’m on fire, you’ll be made of ashes, too" in MTR and "I am ash from your fire" in hoax, to "I'm getting tired even for a phoenix, always rising from the ashes, mending all her gashes" in You're Losing Me to "Every single thing to come has turned into ashes," in BTTWS to "Get the matches, toss the ashes off the ledge." Even though they're presumably inspired by different things, those lyrics alone could tell a story: someone hurting you but hurting themselves in the process, being left on your own to nurse your own wounds in the fallout, still feeling hopeless at what the future holds as a result, then finally leaving that life behind to start fresh.

(Also just realized the MTR lyrics are basically a different way of saying "two graves, one gun.")

Another one I love is "He built a fire just to keep me warm" in CIWYW and "I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm" in peace. Even taking the ~discourse~ out of it, I just always loved how those were two sides of the same coin, someone loving you when you're down and you doing the same for them when the tables are turned.

There are so many more but I'd be here all night!

(I'd love talking about themes but I'd definitely need a prompt, I'm very much no thoughts head empty right now)

#Pouring out my heart to a stranger but I didn't pour the whiskey #Anonymous #lyric parallels #<- that tag has some of my favourites on my blog #although tumblr tagging sucks and there are tons more the tag hasn't captured welp

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not-a-big-slay · 7 months

Text

Until it doesn't hurt

kaz brekker x fem!reader

summary:betrayal leaves some wounds behind, but even more questions when you can't figured out from whom it really came from.

warnings: violence, cursing

type: fluff

part: 12/13

previous part: part 11 masterlist

a/n: please, please, PLEASEEUHH im SO SO SORRY! it has been almost a FUCKING YEAR SINCE THE LAST CHAPTER?! HELLO?! WHO TF DO I THINK I AM? i need to keep myself in line cuz this aint normal! i have been hiatus for soo long i need to pull it together. anywayy, its finished finally. its long ahh hell and im gonna be working on another part immediately so it wont be another 50 years dw. dont mind any grammar mistakes, english is not my first language and i have written one half of this in 2023, so i really dont feel like redoing it lol. i dare you if you can recognize where exactly i picked this draft up again. anyway, pleasee enjoy!!

also, sike, its not the last part hehe, there will be part 13 AND an epilogue

taglist (hi yall :'))

@chickencouncilrep

@venomsvl

@happy-nico

@twlegit

@ravenmedows

@blathena

‎

She had lost again.

That would be the third time tonight. Her change was getting thin and she predicted it would take one more game before she had to go kill someone for free again. So much for making a ton of money with this job. The girl watched her opponent spoon the coins from the table with one hand, laughing: "One more game and I'll have to dig up another grave, Y/N." Others laughed, so she wasn't the only one thinking that after all. It was logical, she really had to stop playing with grown men, they wasted away their old nights playing poker at this very table and she had other, young people things to do. It would be wise to get up and leave, no one would judge her for that. They would maybe even cheer her on, finally making a rational decision, no one ever seen that before when it came to her. Yet the thought of doing so was being blocked by a high indestructable wall, one that never goes away and will only be built higher.

If she does leave, she has to go home.

Her mother is probably fast asleep already, it is possible she could go to bed unnoticed and leave early in the morning. This option she used very little as Y/N never wanted to come back there. A year ago, after her mother left her blood soak through the wooden floor, Y/N made promise into her scars that she will never lay eyes on mother again. She successed in that for a year so far, becoming a hitman that was quite infamous in town. But her fame started growing from mockery, as she was really addicted to poker.

Her eyes gazed on Tim, the cemetary worker, the buryer as she liked to call him. He was one of the granpas at this table, but one of the peaceful people in town. He never wanted her to kill, just to help him with his work, although Y/N hated it more than the murders, she didn't like the aftermath of her work. Tim, being satisfied, started organizing the coins on the table. No, she cannot go home tonight.

"So what's it gonna be, kid?" asked the other player, Miyka. Her green eyes stared on Y/N's face, her wrinkles scrunched in excitment. Oh, how she hated all of them. The girl faked thinking about it before tossing dramatically her last money onto the table. "I bet 20." It didn't sound as good when she started that low, but it was all she had left. Intstead of the usual giggle and witty lines and jokes they threw her way before following up on her bad choices, they sighed, almost in dissapointment. It frustrated her, it seemed like they cared what she does instead of what amount of money she holds. It seemed like they cared about her. A wave of fear pushed her like a tsunami at this thought. People that cared ended up hating her, hurting her.

"What!" she snapped. Miyka looked at Lios, her brother, in concern, while Tim silently reorganized his coins. She looked around the table, frown getting deeper and frustration blooming wider. What was wrong with them. "Well, Y/N" Lios began, "We are just kinda...worried about you. That's all." Miyka took the word next- her previous question has been an obvious tease, the girl was dissapointed. "You clearly have nowhere to go, so you are spending your time here which is.... we get it, but." She sighed, trying to find the right words. "It's not good." Tim helped her and smiled at Y/N as if it would calm her. It did not in fact, she felt more and more anxious about their care, anxious situations made her angry. She wondered why she didn't kill them all instead of those free targets, she would never have to pay another debt again, because there would be no poker players left to play and her addiction would dissapear. "So that's it, huh? You ain't gonna play because you are scared I could actually win?" she said in her defense. Nonsense, she knew, but her heart was sweating and she was glad it didn't blow up yet. "We just care, Y/N, that-"

"Care?! Remind me Lios of just how many people I killed for you, then talk about caring for someone's life!" she spat as she stood up. Lios was more than content to her way of paying, she had no idea why he apparently cared when he could have another enemy at his feet if he just played one more game. Miyka tried to calm her down, touching her hand softly only for Y/N to flinch, hard. Her vision began to blur, the floor shook beneath her and sweat poured on her face. It was like the room was on fire, but she was the only one feeling it. Other people at the pub, being entertainted by the game or simply just hanging ot there, looked worried, some even disturbed by her behaviour.

What was happening to her?

She leaned on the table with her palms, the wood trying to ground her as she closed her eyes to not feel theirs. Voices of the players echoed her head as sounds in a cave and they felt distant, but still could make her more nervous with their caring attitude. They soon fell in whispers, driving her insane. Then, she caught one voice that silenced all the muttering, it was clear, quiet yet she felt as if its breath was in her ear. "Why play, when you can take a life for the exact amount of money laying on this table?"

She recognized the voice, it belong to the fourth player, Haltt. His voice was known only in the game. Hearing him say a sentence was unusual and therefore very powerful. It was deep, low, hard. It had authority and respect and it didn't need to ask for it. He had everyone's attention, he controlled the room with only his silent voice.

Y/N's eyes looked into his dark ones, she had to find them in the shadows floating around him, as if he commanded to them as well. "What are you saying?" she asked carefully, not knowing why. Haltt observed the table, his salt-and-pepper- although more salt than pepper- short beard surrounding his mouth as it counted the cash, then let out a little chuckle that brought goosebumps to everyone close to him. "920 Neredi. Being a hitman, a respectful hitman, would make this amount your pocket change." He grabbed the rest of her money she threw on the table and looked over to Tim. The buryer shook his head hesitantly, knowing what Haltt wants to do, but all it took was the man's neutral gaze for Tim to fold. Y/N watched him slowly scooping the money and anger took over. She pinned his hand to the table, not looking away from his face. She could hear people drawing breaths in fear, but she was free from all the anxiety now, she was grounded by his scary presence, she liked it even.

Haltt's head slowly turned to her direction, his eyes creating a straight path to hers, his eyebrows climbing up as he said softly: " You want this?" When she didn't respond, he stood up, took her hand off of his gently, not letting go as his freed hand reached behind his back, pulling out a gun. She observed quickly, it was an older model, it was small and only one bullet fit into it- however she knew a man like Haltt would only ever need one bullet- he then rotated her hand and placed it in her palm. He released her only when she seized it. Y/N let her hand warm the handle before looking up at Haltt again. "Then go make it." he finished his statement and sat back down in the shadows. Y/N checked the inside of the gun and she confirmed her knowledge about it.

She scoffed. "One bullet" Haltt nodded as if he answered to her statement. "That's all you need, I know your skills." his glass clincked when his rings touched it, raising it to his lips. She waited until he drank the remainings of his whiskey, having the suspision he might continue. "You kill the target, you'll get double of this." Her surprise was voiced by everyone around her, gasping and unbelievably whispering. Lios looked at Haltt, telling him he cannot do this. But Haltt only looked at her. "No one here wants you to play. You made them care, something a hitman shouldn't do." She squeezed her free hand into a fist, knowing his eyes are reading her like cards on the table. He leaned in: "Take your reputation back, make them fear you instead." he said quietly and it seemed only she heard it. He retreated back into his seat, letting her simmer in his words.

She knew people stopped perceiving her as a threat, a force to be reckon with, a fearful killer, and started to look at her as a 15 year old that sometimes threw tantrums. People smiled at her, old men laughed at her when they drank beer at the bar, as if she was their granddaughter doing silly things. Once, she was feared, but now she behaved like an old woman trapped inside a teenage body with gambling addiction and alcoholism. Everyone treated her as a kid she never was, but Haltt seemed to remember who she was 6 months ago, to trust her potential, her skills she never lost, but used them to not drown in debts, not to her job. She suddenly became so connected to him, she was hypnotized. The sound of the chatty room blurred again as she explored the gray ocean behind Haltt's eyes. He let her, grinning as he watched her back straighten and her nose breathing in deeply. Then came the question:

"Who is the target?"

Halt's smile stabbed through his cheeks as he answered.

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

Inej didn't allow herself a break until she got the that exact building Y/N told her to. She was nervous to say the least. If everything goes right, Pekka Rollins will be dead. It was unbelievable to even think about. The moonlight caressed her back and the salty wind danced around her in excitment. Ketterdam is cheering for them, it will be better off without Rollins. She thought of ways how to carve his heart out, she wanted to make a heart-shaped hole, but it was too complicated making the curves, it would take too long and she didn't want him to die before she was finished. She needed something quick, but symbolic. After all, when the stadwatch will find his body, her work should be admired. Or Deln's work, she hated he will take credit for it, but it's definitely for the best.

Soon, the spider heard two sets of footsteps beneath her. She looked down carefully, confirming it's Y/N. In the dark, she couldn't much see her 'friend', but she could feel the disgust and fear Y/N had from above, suspecting he might not be an actual friend after all. Another secret of hers she wished to uncover after this is over. The way Jesper talked about this girl is riling up an interest in her. She wanted to get to know her better, her fate might not much differ from her own and she would like to hear her story, she would like to see why Kaz seemed to hate her so much. She also hoped Y/N will stay with them after this. For Jesper's sake and maybe for Nina's nerves as she looked worried about her.

As Y/N dissapeared into the alley, Inej grabbed her knife, Sankt Petyr, that she sharpened moments before. The wind picked up and she stood motionlessly at the edge of the building. She watched lightened windows in the Smeet Residence, hoping no one will think about looking outside tonight. The house reminded her of one she encountered at the southern colonies of Novyi Zem. It was in a horrible shape compared to this, but it was a haven for the citizens there, they admired it like people in Ketterdam admire The Exchange. It was luxurious given the state of the land.

Her train of thought stopped before it reached a station, because her ears picked up a subtle voice, then a laugh. The sounds got louder as they slowly approached her. Rollins must be pretty nervous of the meet-up if he talked to himself, or he was not alone. A slight panic rose in Inej's chest and she prepared to make the uninvited dissapear. If Rollins truly had some company, she would have to wait until he saw Y/N to take it out, otherwise he might see her and change his mind. If we won't do it, somebody else will brought out fire in her stomach. The girl was right, if they won't try the lovely dessert of revenge, others might eat it whole with no crumbs left. She suspected Pekka is the main character in many unfinished death threats and planned out vengeances.

The Wraith took a deep breath as her eyes closed, slowing down her rapid heartbeat filled with excitment. When she opened them, the bright windows from the residence, along with the dimmed lights on the streets aluminated two beings walking. One was definitely the leader of one of the most dangerous gangs in Ketterdam.

And so was the other one.

She silently gasped, panicking again, her heartbeat picking up. What the fuck is Kaz doing here? And why was he bent over with Rollins' hand around his neck. Even though they were right across her, Inej was oblivious to their conversation- well, monologue if she was more accurate- because she was way too busy feeling the plan fall apart. This wasn't supposed to happen, Kaz was meant to know nothing and then just cheer and celebrate once they'd be done. Why did he always took matters into his hands?.

When she came back to reality, they were almost in the alleyway. The spider quickly followed them, never taking her eyes off of Kaz's helpless form. Her hands always gently grazed any surface she incountered, her feet always landing on the tips of her toes, her moves inspiring every ballerina in Kerch, yet now her hands were sliding off roughly and she had to bent her knees to make the landing silent. Her fear of her friend manipulated her body and she almost fell over the edge when the sharp turn of the building made an appearance, luckily she awokened from the feeling and stopped herself.

She was above the meeting place now.

On her right was Y/N with the strange man. Y/N was anxiously pacing around, obviously worried as they all were, even the man next to her who stood still as a pole was taking almost unseeable shuttered breaths. When the girl faced her direction, Inej wanted to warn her of the unexpected turn of events, but she wouldn't be seen anyway. As it turned out though, she also wouldn't have the time to catch her attention in time as the target slowly showed up on her left side, Kaz still in his grasp. Up close she could see the knife he held to his neck, already cut into the flesh. The man on her right stopped breathing and tried to hide his widened eyes, Rollins smirked as he saw him, shaking his head in disbelief. But the tension really sparked up when Y/N finally saw them, her eyes instantly digging into Kaz, while his were already screaming at her. Only two words bound them all together as they appeared on every present mind.

Oh fuck.

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

Silence started perhaps being uncomfortable for Deln, yet Y/N only cared about the boy 5 meters in front of her. He wore blood, a lot of blood. His face showed bruises for every Barrel rat and every drop of blood that fell next to his feet tore a piece of her heart. But the worst thing was his expression, it was no longer hateful, nor angry. His eyes sinked into her and they washed her with almost a relief-like feeling, like he was happy to see her, or maybe upset to see her here, in a dangerous street that will be painted red by more than one person. His gaze was soft, almost pleading her to either run away or get closer to him.

He was worried.

"I told you to come alone if my memory is still serving right." Deln began the conversation, dragging both of their attention to him. He earned a chuckle from Rollins and a response as he squeezed Kaz's neck, straightening him up: "Well, I thought I might get the lovebirds back together, eh?" The knife retreated back to his pocket, revealing a red line on the boy's neck. Y/N allowed herself to let one tear roll down her cheek as an apology to him. Pekka must have kidnapped him, because there was no other explanation on why was he present. Deln was confused, he didn't know Dirtyhands as far as she knew, nor about her time with Hertzoon. "Aw, look at 'em, already pining for each other." Rollins mocked and pushed Kaz off of his hand. Y/N had a hard time keeping it together.

Deln sighed annoyingly and the hitman was glad he kept the plan on track. It was hard to admit he was actually a big help to her. "Whatever, let's talk business shall we? It's cold tonight. Don't wanna be out late." he said offered and Rollins laughed in his face again: "What, gotta read the slaves a goodnight story?" If she wasn't still in shock from Kaz, the plan would skip to the killing part very quickly. "Well, not anymore since you took 'em all away, didn't you." the slaver stated and wiped the smile off of Pekka's face quickly. Y/N had to admit he played the role she made for him perfectly and let the conversation rest in his hands, as she continued to worry silently about the bloodied boy.

The Dime Lions' leader seemed to get upset about Deln's forwardness, he probably thought he could talk his way out of it with his disturbing charm. He put his hands on his hips and shrugged. "It ain't my problem you keep 'em in a dirty warehouse. I offered them a room with a comfortable bed and good money if they were willing to smile. That ain't no crime, lad."

"I'm not interested in your architectural opinion on my slave-keeping. I am upset you stole my property." Y/N was very invested in the conversation she almost forgot her role was against Deln. Her tied hands turned him to her side by the shoulder and pierced him with her eyes. "Don't speak of them like that." she warned and he simpy scoffed her off. It wasn't much, she must admit, but it was enough to voice her stand in this matter. "HA! And what do you think you'll be after we're done here? You will be lucky if I allow you to work in my brothel." the last sentence was a warning, he could be so much cruel to her, like he was in his house. She was present finally, all worry stepped aside to make space for the anger she held and the focus she held earlier tonight sat back down on her mind.

"You won't touch her."

Ready to speak, Y/N was taken aback by his raspy voice with scary undertone. He spoke to her like that, not long ago. It was almost unreal he was defending her. As much as it brought shivers down her body, Rollins was unfazed by the threat. "You can barely stand, boy. What can you possibly do to me." he stated the obvious and continued once he looked her way again. "Besides, she really isn't worthy of your protection." He put one foot in front of the other slowly, walking over to her. She was on alert, if she had the opportunity, she wouldn't wait anymore and strangle him with her tired hands and her desire to dig his grave. He stopped few steps from her and reached into his pocket again, pulling out something else than a knife this time. "Lost this?"

A thin, almost not visible in the dark, black string was held between his fingers. The bracelet she lost. The one Kaz gave her on the last day they saw each other. She lost it in Rollins' office. Her temptation to reach for it was unseen by Y/N as her first instinct was to look at Kaz, who also drowned in the vision of the string. She broke her promise, a childish one, sure, but it destroyed her still. It always served as a reminder of her failure. How she failed to warn him and Jordie, how she wrapped his heart around her finger without knowing it and allowed Hertzoon to shatter it. The girl promised herself to not mess up this promise, at least one thing she could keep. In the end, she lost it too.

How does she deserve to live after destroying all good in her life?

"Yeah, cruel isn't she? Do you really think she cares about you, or anyone for that matter?" he talked to Kaz that was still mesmerized by the sight in Rollins' hand. Deln was silently watching the scene, the situation out of his hands now, the plan off of track. "You don't know anything about her, boy-". " You're wrong." she interrupted him. He turned to her, waiting to elaborate, the string still lifted between his fingers as if he was trying to hypnotize them. "I told him everything." Y/N continued as she silently wished with the last bit of hope he would take the bait. He didn't:

"Everything, eh?" he echoed as he turned his back on her and focused on Kaz fully. As he reached his personal space, his hand streched to him, giving him the bracelet. The boy fixated on it, swaying with the wind due to his trouble standing on the one good leg for this long. Rollins watched him closely, feeling Kaz's hand taking it almost immediately. When his coffee-like eyes reached his snake ones, Pekka uncovered Y/N's lie:

"Do you remember Ms. Hertzoon?"

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"...You what?"

"Don't you dare be offended, you manipulated her and then left us. You're as bad as I am."

That made them punch her strongly in the stomach. Funny, Rollins wanted to watch her suffer, but was too lazy to torture her himself. They were on this for 2 hours now, or she at least thought so, she couldn't tell if the ringing was only in her ears. Rollins had her sit on a chair and then asked questions. The first were stupid and simple, almost like a small talk: Did she rob him, why is she back, when did she get back, etc. She earned 5 different punches in this round. Then the latter began. They wanted to know what happened after the con trick- as he called it- which resulted in her split lip and first blood drawn. Then another small talk, remembering all their time together and then, the truth. "Where is your mother?" it began and ended in countless of other painful things she couldn't be bothered to remember.

"How." he almost whispered, it was so dramatic that Y/N would laugh if she wasn't wheezing with every breath. "Oh, please. Like you care." she fully expected the hit for that one, though it still hurt like hell. "How!" he ordered her and watched her grow a grin with her painted-red mouth. She could still feel the little gun in her little hand, standing at the foot of her mother's bed. She watched her sleep for a moment before she truly aimed. Haltt was right, it did get back her reputation. He gave her the money and she counted every single coin to make sure it really was doubled. Fortunately, he was an honest man.

"One bullet was all it took."

To say she regretted it would be a lie, the biggest one in history maybe. She second-guessed it on her way home, sure, but she more doubted Haltt's promise than her actions. However, once she really saw her mother's chest rise and fall, nothing was easier than to pull the trigger. If she was a monster in her eyes, she would become one in her memory.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH!" was the last thing she heard from him, then her ears were filled with ringing and also pain when her nerves couldn't take it anymore. Everything went dark after a while, she was sure she couldn't breath and her eyes zipped themselves tightly, but even though she lost consciousness, she was sure she never stopped smiling while it lasted.

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He always suspected some part of her story was left out, it would be unwise to tell him everything and she was not stupid. While Kaz did predict that something happened with the mother, he didn't expect this. He answered her eyes as they asked for connection and tried to assure them of his unchanged opinion. So what? He also done horrible things, they all have, especially Rollins. Such a hypocrite, that man. When he finished re-telling the story of Y/N's torture, he retreated from the boy's space, fortunately for him, because Kaz would have no hesitation in twisting Pekka's neck. Everything was silent for a while, the wind whispered cold around them as they all studied each other. Kaz looked at the building's roof next to them, seeing only darkness, but feeling her presence. He hoped that whatever Y/N planned to do with Inej would be useful. And what did he know, maybe this situation is going extremely well for them.

"Well, that is truly shocking, but unfortunetely, Y/N's dead mom won't solve this conflict. So let's solve it ourselves, shall we?" The slaver spoke and grabbed the girl next to him by the bicep, dragging her with him closer to Rollins. Kaz took a small, unnecessary step forward as a move to help her. Seeing Deln's hand on her made the water rise around him, he could feel her discomfort and felt it himself. They stopped and he threw the girl in front of him lightly, so she wouldn't fall, but aggressively enough, so she would sway. "Pay me for the slaves and she's yours, as promised." the boy's fist turned white at that, wishing he could hang Deln's organs at the lamppost. "Hmmm" groaned Rollins in thinking. "How much do ya want?"

"3000 kruge."

"Pardon?"

Deln rolled his eyes. "It was 100 slaves you stole from me, every slave is expensive and believe me, I'm giving you a discount right now." Rollins nodded at his explanation. At this point, Kaz thought about getting out of there. He was being ignored and would be forgotten in a while. Rollins couldn't see him, Deln could, but he doubted he would care. However, she could too, and his heart radiated an unfamiliar feeling at the thought of dissapearing without Y/N. If this situation happened with anyone else, he'd be already at the Slat, drinking shots and drowning in silence of his room. Dirtyhands planned the escape, Kaz refused to go through with it. He refused to leave her. "Alright, alright. How about this." Rollins spoke his thoughts. "I'll give you half of what they make me from now on and if you ever wander in the Sweet Shop, you won't have to pay." Deln was silent, but he was clearly concidering it.

"Huh? Sounds good?" Smiling Pekka streched out his hand and waited for a handshake. Every set of eyes watched Deln's movement, from his step closer, closer to Rollins, closer to Y/N, until he squeezed Pekka's hand, reflecting his expression. "That's a deal, then." said the robber. "Deal." said the slaver. Kaz didn't know what that meant and from the girl's face, he could tell the confusion was shared. Although, he truly realized this wasn't part of their plan after Deln quickly reached for Y/N's belt with the same hand that just closed a deal, pulling out a small gun, one that could barely fit a bullet, and aiming it at the hitman. She was frightened, taking steps back, but she didn't got very far when Deln grabbed her by the collar, holding her close to his body.

"Like mother like daughter."

He was instantly on the move, as fast as he could, trying to prevent what was about to happen. The bullet was faster though. Before hearing the gunshot, they heard Deln's scream. Y/N felt to the ground and Kaz was at her side immediately. His eyes panicking, trying to find the wound while his heart sounded the alarms and awakened fear. Not like this. He couldn't lose her like this. He soon found the gunshot and without thinking threw his hands to press it down. They never made contact with it, Rollins' knife already found its way back to his neck, pulling him away from her. "You didn't think I forgot about you, did ya?" he laughed in his ear before Kaz threw his head back, hitting him in the nose. The grip got loose and he turned around, sending his anger and frustration in his fist. Rollins tumbled and he kicked him on the ground, getting him closer to the place he belongs.

Deln moaned in pain and the boy finally saw the reason. Below his bent over form, a puddle of blood formed and in it swam his thumb, right above Sankt Petyr. The corners of his mouth lifted a bit, he couldn't remember how did he survive all this time without Inej watching over him and the crows, it made him grateful she is back for now. His eyes were set to find Y/N again, but he only saw a red trace from where she laid. She must've gotten away. Good girl.

He couldn't follow her steps, because Rollins already got up from the cobblestones, ready to strike. He breathed heavily, supporting the place Kaz kicked him in with his hand. He couldn't understand why Rollins always came back into his life. He tried to avoid him all his time in Ketterdam, yet life always brought them together. Or death, he wasn't sure, maybe they were destined to destroy each other. Pekka Rollins was like a mosquito bite: itching to be noticed and when Kaz does so, he feels a brief satisfaction before the itch comes back and is worse than before. He was also as annoying. It needed to be finished right here and tonight

The boy braced himself and waited on the mosquito's move, straightening himself. Little did he know, the shadow from above already closed in on the man. Kaz watched as she kicked his knee from the back and caught his hair, stopping him from falling fully on the ground again. Sankta Lizabeta could be soon visible above his heart, the tip waiting to be pushed in. Only then, Dirtyhands quietly sighed in relief.

"He still can't do it without ya, huh? Tell me boy, when will you start being a man and do things on your own?" Rollins mocked them as he recognized the face, which currently held the future of his heartbeat. Kaz limped slowly closer, feeling Inej's eyes on him. He lowered his head once he entered Pekka's personal space dangerously deep. "When my brother will get his revenge in hell."

As soon as the menacing words reached Rollins, his lips twitched up at the sight of Sankta Lizabeta slowly painting an imaginery outline of the man's heart, being applauded by his blood-curling scream. Inej wasn't the one for torture, but he could see the bit of joy in her eyes and the relief on her face. She deserved to be the one that would free Ketterdam from this parasite and he let her have it, already searching for the bloody trail Y/N left behind.

His eyes alerted him when they caught it and he began to follow the path, slowly, limping as Deln's whines cheered him on.

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The stars were with her, sometimes changing their position or widening in her eyes as they waited to claim her. Salty waterdrops tapped her tired legs, reminding her of where she sat. She imagined death many times, it wasn't unusual for someone in her profession. She remembered Tim talking about the peace that comes with it, saying it is kind, so it would be easier for the soul to leave the body. For her, it was obvious. Everything would be kinder than life. However, nothing could prepare her for the last moments. Y/N realized that no matter how much you imagine it, it will always surprise you. The knowing that this is the last time she is going to exist in wasn't something her brain could comprehend. Maybe that was the mystery death held, that was the fuel for the fear in others, not understanding until it was too late.

Wind played softly with her hair while it kissed the bruises of her now untied hands, and she tried hard to feel everything at the same time. The clothes touching her skin, the numbness in her feet, her shaky breath as it entered and left her system, but mostly, she tried to memorize the pain in her stomache and the bullet inside her body. It was an intense feeling, so she wanted to feel it as much as possible, before it would fade and with it her heart.

The hitman got hit.

This is how her victims probably felt. She brought this feeling to numerous lives. Her mother felt this way too. Y/N couldn't decide if dying felt good or disgusting, but she could be certain it was lonely. Even if people surrounded her, it wouldn't be better. It was an experience for her soul, no one from the outside could empathize.

She wondered where her grave would lay as the slow footsteps got closer. Y/N heard him limp next to her and it seemed like the stars noticed him too, because they stopped moving once he sat down, as though they only wanted to be seen by her. He was visibly tired, still bleeding from his neck.

Maybe he was feeling the final presence too.

Maybe her starts would take them both.

Silence and the waves crashing made the space between them comfortable, maybe too comfortable for her liking. His breath was disrupting hers as it naturally tried to match the rhythm. The moment became so peaceful, she almost forgot about their history. It felt like nothing happened between them, they were just kids, sitting by the port, watching stars and listening to the ocean. They weren't Dirtyhands and Saskia. They weren't the Bastard of the Barell and Snowflake.

They were Y/N and Kaz. As they were always meant to be.

"Do you believe in faith?"

It felt like yesterday since he asked her that question. Every shared memory of them felt so close to her now, as if time was all messed up. Maybe death was already doing its job. Kaz was taking his time with the answer, breathing heavily, as if the air had to fill his words first before she could hear them.

"Yes...I do."

He exhaled, his low empty voice responding. Her lips lifted into a messy smile, her muscles were losing their power all over her body, but that didn't stop her from reaching into her coat and pulling out a folded, bloodied paper that her fingers swiftly grabbed from her slaver's back pocket before he could shoot her. It was almost bizzare, how a small, easily rippable piece made her revisit the demons of the past. She wondered if Deln wanted this all along. Maybe he wanted Rollins to kill her, so he could make his deal with him. Or maybe it was just faith, wanting to see how far she would go for a false sense of freedom.

"It doesn't mean anything." Y/N stated as she felt Kaz looking at the release paper. "I just needed proof that I'm not under anyone's influence anymore, but..." her eyes followed the ongoing waves. They looked like on a leash, as if someone released them, so they could explode onto the harbor's walls, only to pull them back again shortly after, reminding them they were still being controlled. It seemed torturous, humiliating. It looked like her. "...I will never be free of him."

Y/N couldn't look at the boy, even if his burning gaze could only be extinguished by an eye contact. He was right, she was a monster. She could see it now and she wouldn't hide from this fact. She would accept herself before her heart would stop singing. It was the least she could do with the very limited time, coming to terms with her own self.

The stars started moving again slowly as Kaz spoke: "He can't control you anymore..." His tone showed certainty. Inej had to claim her souvenir of revenge by now, but he still managed to squeeze out a scoff from the hitman. She couldn't believe he allowed himself to be so naïve. Rainbow won't repair the damage done by storm, same as killing Pekka Rollins won't erase his actions and the following conciquences. His influence made her do things beyond his leadership. It scarred her for life, and those scars bled onto others without the possibility to heal. She bled on him too. She killed his brother for fuck's sake.

"The things he caused precedes him." Y/N finally looked at Kaz, his eyes seemed to be glowing in her hallucinating mind. "I can't be changed." She whispered, knowing he would hear every single letter. The moon illuminated him perfectly. His features casted a soft look under its light and Y/N was glad this would be the appearence of him she would take to her grave. She was happy to become one of the stars that would continue to shine on him.

Suddenly, death seemed very pretty.

The girl saw his hand on hers before she could feel it. It was weirdly warm, even though he barely touched her. His eyes demanded her ears' attention as he spoke, slowly, so she could feel the words. "You don't need to be changed."

Her mind was confused. How could he even speak such things?

"I am a killer." she reminded him.

"Not by choice." he argued.

"I killed my own mother and enjoyed it." she was restless in making him hate her.

"Your mother's conciquences of her own actions." he dodged her attempt.

"I killed your brother." was when she knew she would win. It wasn't excusable. Nothing could possibly erase this from Kaz's mind, no apology was enough, she was certain. That was the reason she couldn't understand why Kaz's hand began to hold hers more tightly as his eyes studied the wound in her stomache, covered by her arm that desperately tried to prevent the blood from pouring out, but it became more and more hopeless. "You're dying and not doing anything about it." he aknowleged. Y/N smiled briefly, from pain and also from his slow understanding of her plan.

"I deserve it." she spoke weakly, every word felt heavy on her tongue and she was about to give in to their weight. He only observed her, as her body was slowly losing the ability to move, as her energy was being sipped by the waves below. It suddenly felt a bit scary for her, she was in the process of dying and it strangely ignited the last bit of her will to live.

Kaz did nothing, he only asked: "Why?" She looked at him, her eyes shooting fear. She guessed she would engage with every emotion before turning off. Maybe the nature granted this privilege to every person, so they would get to have the proper goodbye to their body.

"I never done anything good, I only brought pain." her lips responded, making Kaz nod slowly. Y/N gasped softly as the fear intensified. This feeling was unlike any before, like her life was slowly slipping through her body, through the wound. Her arm pressed tightly, as much as she could to slow down the inevitable, but it was too late. "Maybe it's time to change that." Kaz spoke. She wouldn't be able to change her ways if she died, the only thing she would remember about this life was how she made it difficult for everyone else.

Y/N sighed, death was almost touching her, heart was losing its music. She no longer felt the waterdrops on her legs and the stars dimmed their light. "It's too late."

The port beneath her began to sway, as if it would tip over to the ocean anytime. She gripped the concrete edge, slipping her hand from Kaz's to do so, trying to stop it from moving, only for it to sway more. She picked her eyes up at the sky, seeing only her five stars in the black treacle sky, as her body pushed closer to the waves.

Death awaited her.

Like those waves, Y/N was suddenly pulled back by someone's hands, feeling her body lift up from the port, supported in the air. Her form bounced with every other step and another warm breath kept mixing with hers. She imagined those arms were of an angel, bringing her to heaven. Or a devil, bringing her to hell. She gave into its touch nonetheless.

"I know you're not very good at keeping them, but would you promise me one last thing?" a voice asked her, a low and a tired one. One that could only belong to an angel the way it kept her dying heart beating. The girl could only hum, agreeing to the angel's request. The voice sounded serious, threatening almost, but she could hear the worry hidden behind it, as it spoke.

"Don't make me lose you."

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Nina whined, having trouble with breathing as her hands shook from the need to be put down. She saved the Dregs numerous times from a certain death, yet Y/N exceeded her expectations. The heartender tried her very best to wake her heart up, while Jesper and Wylan panicked to pull out the bullet and seize the wound, so no more blood would be lost. What wasn't helpful, though, was Brekker, constantly yelling at them for trying harder. She understood that his anger was powered by the fear for that girl, but that didn't put out the urge to fill his face with more wounds, maybe a broken nose even.

"I swear, Nina. If she dies.." he exclaimed again, not helping the situation in any way.

"It will be on you!" Nina barked at him, frustration clearly visible not only on her tone, but her tired features. Her eyes shot to Jesper and Wylan an apologizing look as she saw their hands bloodied and faces worried. The door swinged open behind her, revealing Inej. Nina felt relief wash over her as she saw her. Kaz would maybe stop being such an asshole in her presence.

"Is she breathing?" Inej asked and immediately moved to Y/N's lying form, putting her cheek above her nose. "Barely." Wylan answered stressfully. Kaz's worry shifted to fear, Nina could sense that, even when her full focus was on the hitman's weak heart. She was barely alive, but the heartender was still surprised it could beat. She was strong and Nina hoped she would continue to fight.

Jesper gasped heavily and looked at her. "The wound's sealed!" he sounded so hopeful and it brought Nina some strenght to see him like this. She had to take quick breaths before tightening her hands in the air one more time, fastening Y/N's heartbeat. Fortunetely, it worked. "She's breathing again!" Inej said with a small smile, causing Kaz to limp closer to see for himself. His own wounds weren't yet treated, but Nina didn't even try to convince him. He had trouble looking after himself when one of them was hurt, she could imagine how much worse it was in this case, where his heartbeat's fire was on the brink of death.

She could feel the heartbeat pick up to a slow pace. It wasn't yet normal, but at least she didn't have to control it now. Nina put her hands down and fell down on an armchair beside her. Everyone in the room fell victims to exhaustion, Nina closed her eyes for a moment, just focusing on her breathing. Wylan was the first to stand up and slowly make his way out of the room with the words she'll be alright, Nina, you did a great job. Jesper followed, squeezing Nina's shoulder and nodding shortly at Kaz, before the door closed after him too.

"You either let me treat your wounds or you will go and get some sleep." she offered to the man, her eyes fixated on Y/N. She was glad he, at least, wrapped his neck in a bandage during this hard time, but he had other quite serious wounds she had to treat sooner or later. Kaz allowed himself to be predictable as he stared at the hitman and then slowly limped out of the room. Before he did though, he surprised her after all.

"Thank you."

Nina's head snapped his way and watched him leave, she didn't expect that. Inej sat next to her on the armrest, following her eyes to the laying girl. "You should rest as well, I know how tired you are." the heartender studied her features with a caring look. Her friend fought the sleep well so far, which she hated to see. "I'm not leaving you alone." the spider said with a decisive eyes connecting with hers. She knew the heartender couldn't sleep herself, as she had to look out for Y/N's heart. Nina flashed a defeated smile. She was grateful for her presence, she missed her a lot, but it would ease her mind if she went to sleep. However, knowing her stubborn mind, she scooted over to the very side, creating a tiny space for Inej to sit, which her friend accepted with a smile.

"Alright then. Tell me how you killed Rollins and DON'T spare any details."

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