#if you put a fighter and a barb in front of me and make me choose I am never not taking the fighter it's just how i am | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

qvid-pro-qvo · 4 years

Note

hello :) would you mind writing something for barba x reader where she's part of svu and get's hurt on the job and he's with her during it and afterwards in the hospital? wishing you a lovely day! xx

rafael barba x female!reader.

word count: 1907

rating: mature, for the moments that are spent doing nothing but praying for a miracle (tw: canon-typical violence, guns, blood, hospital, food. hurt/comfort).

There were a lot of things that Rafael Barba was thankful for, and one of them was you.

Not… directly for you. No matter what Rollins tried to tell him, tried to convince him of, it wasn’t you. It was your skill on that stand that endeared you to him. You were always prepped, and you were always ready to blow the jurors’ minds. You didn’t have a temper like Rollins, stubbornness of Fin, or Carisi’s… existence. You were you, and you held yourself to a brilliant standard. If he could have you on the stand, you were always your first choice.

This case was a shitshow, and as always, you held yourself to a higher standard. You were brilliant, you were incredible, you probably singlehandedly saved the case. But he wasn’t going to tell you that. No. He met you outside the courthouse, he shook your hand, and thanked you for your work.

“You did well” was his only remark. He shook your hand. A little too long. For some reason Rollins appeared in his head, and he shook her off. He didn’t have feelings for you. He appreciated you.

“Thanks. I got directed well,” you countered, and he smiled, a little quirk of his lips. You gave him something brilliant, a grin, and an elbow. It made him swallow, tightly.

Right. No feelings.

Suddenly your eyes closed, and you sighed. When you opened them again, there was something solemn, somber in them. “Barba, it’s only gonna get worse.”

He had tried to look away, ignore the feeling that your smile settled in him, but found himself glancing at you anyway. In this light, the heat of the summer, your face shined in the sun. You looked up at the sky before looking back at him, quirking your lips. He couldn’t help the way he noticed your coordination – his handkerchief, his tie, the color of your lips. A pretty deep pink. Impossible to pull his eyes away from.

He didn’t have a thing for you. But he was grateful for you. For you looking him in the eyes, and telling him again. “It’s going to get worse. The people who hurt our victims… they’re not gonna stop until every single one of them are behind bars.”

“We got one,” he countered. The two of you paused on the steps in front of the courthouse, a press conference a few feet away discussing the very case the two of you just ended. “It’s a start.”

“I know.” You turned to face him, and you gave him a smile. “I know, just. Just thinking.”

There was a sudden rush of movement. Rafael didn’t see much, didn’t feel much. But he heard. Heard you shout his name. Heard the scuffle on the stone steps of the courthouse, heard you announce yourself.

“NYPD, stop!”

And he heard the shot. He heard the shot, and he heard the gunfire, and all he saw, all he could do, he… he watched you fall.

Fall in front of him.

Because you took the shot. The one meant for him.

There was a commotion. A tackle to the ground. The screaming man was shouting at Rafael, for putting away the bastard he just put away, and you… you were on the ground.

You were fucking bleeding on the ground, god –

“We – we need a medic!” he shouted out. His voice was too hoarse, so he shouted it again, and again, until he couldn’t breathe. “Someone, please!”

“Barb – Barba.” You were choking on something, something a lot like blood, and that face that was shining was so damn pale. You lips were still that perfect pink, and Rafael’s hands were red, reaching out to press his own jacket to the wound. He had flashbacks to a courtroom scene, his hands tending to the wound in the judge’s side, but he blinked and they vanished. You weren’t a judge. You weren’t Rafael. The bullet missed, and the bullet hit you.

“Stay with me,” he begged you. “They’re calling an ambulance.”

“Are you h-hit?” you asked him, and his laughter was shocked out of him. It took him too long to answer, with a shake of his head. No hit. The only blood on his hands, on him, was yours.

You smiled, and there was red dripping from the corner of your lips. “Good.”

And then your eyes fluttered shut.

There were more things that happened. Liv showed, pulled Rafael back as the medics swarmed the scene. She looked to Rafael, scanned him. Asked him, more than once, if he was hit. But he’d already answered you, hadn’t he? It wasn’t him who’d gotten the bullet, even though he was the one who had been the target. The bastard had screamed his name.

“No,” he finally told the lieutenant, watching your body get taken away. He could only watch after all, because they were treating you. They were treating you, and you’d be fine, wouldn’t you?

Wouldn’t you?

“Rafa…”

His sharp look could’ve killed a weaker person. He turned the full force of his anger to Liv because there was nowhere else to put it. No other option. “No, but I should’ve been! God, I – I should’ve been.”

But Liv wasn’t weak. Not like Rafael. No, Rafael crumbled as soon as he spoke, and Liv stood beside him, held him up with her presence as the sirens faded away.

The beeping was incessant. Unending. Infuriating. Your heart, reduced to a monitor on a machine. He supposed he was grateful for it, knowing that you were alive, but if anything it just reminded him how lucky you were. That that steady rhythmic beeping didn’t stop.

It’d been three days since you got shot. Three days. The first day was spent in limbo, waiting in a room reserved for others in just as much pain as Rafael. That’s where the whole team waited, where Liv sat with Rafael when a case didn’t take her away. Waiting for news, waiting for the doctor, waiting for something. Anything.

When the news came, it was filled with platitudes. With good, good things. But all Rafael could think about was the cardiac surgeon who walked in along with the trauma specialist, the fact that a whole team was gathered around your body and fighting to keep you alive.

“The bullet shattered a few ribs, and nicked some of the arteries surrounding the heart and lungs,” the doctor told him, her smile tight. Her mask was around her neck, and her hair was contained under her hair net, but the lines remained – the place where her coverings had sat for hours while they stitched and poked and prodded. “It was a close call, but.”

“Will she make it?” Rafael asked, before he could stop himself.

The other doctor twisted his lips, too. “She’s a fighter. But it’s still a fight. It’ll be a few more hours before she’s truly stabilized, but. At this point the prognosis is positive.”

They discussed the details. A prolonged ICU stay. Sedation, while your body healed. A couple of calls, to the father, to the brother. Next of kin, after all.

When Rafael returned to the waiting room, a couple more of the squad had camped out there. A call from Liv had brought them.

“What’s the word?” Rollins asked, brow furrowing.

Rafael just blinked, realizing that her question was directed at him. Not Liv. Not anyone else. Him.

“Uh, she’s – she’s still in surgery,” he told her. “But the prognosis… positive.”

The nod from her was small, and Carisi reached out to hand him what was in his grip. A warm cup of coffee.

“Liv told us you’d been here, and, uh. Wanted to make sure your caffeine addiction didn’t get left behind.” It was a weak joke, but Rafael huffed anyway, shaking his head as he took the Styrofoam with the plastic lid.

“I’m sure my headache thanks you,” he returned.

The second day was the transfer. The move from the operating room to the ICU, the transition from waiting room to bedside. Rafael was the sole sentinel, sitting while Liv and Carisi and Rollins and Tutuola kept saving lives, kept fighting outside while you fought inside. Every so often, Barba was doze, only to startle awake to something he thought was you.

The second day was the realization. The feeling that overwhelmed him as he sat there, reaching for your hand. The moment when he made the call to Liv, asking for a change of clothes, a collection of files.

“Don’t you think you should take a break?” his friend asked him. Meaning well, a tentative reach. “I can only imagine what your back will be saying after sitting in those chairs.”

But it wasn’t a question. As long as you were here, asleep, he would be watching over you. “The clothes are in the closet in my office. The files are on my desk. Carmen can help you organize them.”

The hours passed. Liv brought clothes, like he asked, brought files, like he asked. Brought food, and water, and more coffee.

You slept.

The third day was the guilt.

The third day was the day he spent on his figurative knees. Files around him, stacked and gathered and scribbled on. Three legal pads of various states of decay in his vicinity. And all he could think about was you, still so still on the bed.

He watched you for a while. Alternated watching you and working.

And in the end, he prayed. Prayers he didn’t remember learning, platitudes and pleas to God from his soul.

He gripped your hand and he prayed for strength. For you, for him. He crossed his heart and prayed for forgiveness. It was him after all. His fault. His fault, his fault, his fault, his fault –

“Barba.”

An answer to prayer. Your skin, sallow, your eyes glazed over, but your mouth quirked up. The vision of you there in the bed collided with the memory of what you looked like on the courthouse steps. The bandages, the bruising, all combining to create the sight of you.

But your eyes were open. And that’s what mattered.

His guilt could wait.

He was sure he looked just as much of a mess. Bags under his eyes pronounced. His suit broken down, until even his tie was tossed across the beside table.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, and the question seemed silly. After all, his voice was hoarse, with the hours spent repeating prayers in English and Spanish. But you managed a smile, a groan, and he scooted closer.

You hadn’t let go of his hand.

“Like I got shot,” you hissed. “But. You’re okay, right?”

“Me?” Astonishment. How could you… how could you think about him? “I.”

Another squeeze, from you. It felt strong, felt like you. You smiled again.

“I’ve been here,” he finally admitted. The realization settling into every bone. The sight of your smile bringing it full circle. Rollins would say that she told him so, and Carisi would probably laugh at him. And Liv would just shake her head, but.

In the end there’d be you. He’d make sure of it.

“Boring, I’m sure,” you whispered. Your eyes met his, and when you blinked there was something you seemed to be pushing away. “But, uh. I’m good, now. If you need to leave.”

“I think I’ll stay a little bit longer,” he assured. “If you’ll have me.”

#prompt fill #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba #female!reader #law and order: svu #my fic #tw gun mention #tw blood #tw hospital #tw food mention #canon-typical gun violence

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insomniac-arrest · 5 years

Note

When my heart felt volcanic

Have you ever noticed that there’s this trend in book titles that go “The X’s Daughter”? Things like The Clockmaker’s Daughter, The Emperor’s Daughter, The Scavenger’s Daughter, The Madman’s Daughter, so on.

It’s never called “The Clockmaker” and about just the daughter. It’s always her dad that teaches her how to beat up guys in masks or fire a pistol or fly a fighter jet. Sometimes she even has 7 or so brothers who bully her into being tough and stoic, a boys-girl. You know, like a tomboy but hot and you also never have to deal with any feminine interests she might have. It’s always the daughter.

Well I was the daughter of a narcoleptic. It didn’t make me any more likely to wear short-shorts and kick bad-guys in the chest like if I was in a movie. It also didn’t make me any more knowledgeable about sleep besides the obvious bit about human bodies being mysterious and full of vindictive whimsy.

Mostly, it just made me angry.

For as long as I could remember my dad would be reading me a bedtime story, maybe about Mr. Toad and friends or Harry Potter or the Hobbit. I don’t think we ever made it through a single chapter.

His eyes would flutter shut, sometimes there would be some buildup, like tides slowly easing onto the beach, or sometimes it would be like a light being blown out. And he was gone.

We would be eating breakfast and he would slump down in his chair. We would be watching a movie and he would never know the ending. My mom and him would be at my softball game and I would look back over to the bleachers to see my dad fast asleep with a foam finger on his hand. My mom told me to have some compassion, it was a condition.

But all I knew was that other girls didn’t have to kick their fathers to stay awake at their back to school nights.

Of course, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Some people have it a lot worse: drowsy all the time, barely able to hold down a job, chronically nodding off in a space between dreams and reality. My dad only sometimes was lost to us.

The condition wasn’t that bad he said and he was a doctor after all- the serious type. The type for heart disease and lots of charts on the walls and the reason my mom didn’t have to work either.

My aunt once tipsily told me my dad developed it in college. He worked a job and went to medical classes all at once and he messed with his sleep schedule so much he never really recovered. I suppose that softened my heart a little bit, but then I saw him asleep at my 14th birthday and the irritation seized me all over again.

It was 14 and growing in all the wrong directions- a puzzle with the pieces being jammed in their wrong spots. I was yelling that day.

The car was cramped and smelled of hand sanitizer and yogurt I spilled on the front seat months ago. The air felt yellow with spring heat and a dusty country road in front of us. I threw my hands in the air emphatically.

“I need them.” Most of my family’s serious discussions were had in the car going from place to place. “It’s important.”

My father got that “thinking” look on his face where his features paused and his soft chin dimpled. “You’re young.” He said with dust in his words, “I think it’s a little early to think about drugs.”

I rolled my eyes, “Mom says they’re safe.” I sniffed loudly, “And I bet it would make my grades better.”

My dad glanced at me through his wire-frame glasses, “Grades aren’t everything, bumblebee.”

I rolled my eyes, “You always say that, but do you mean it?”

“I’m a doctor,” he said with a heavy sigh, “I know about the human body. Teenagers sleep schedules can be naturally irregular. It doesn’t help with the school making you get up at god awful hours.” He complained.

My dad was against most systems in a moral sense. He didn’t like school systems or government systems or even the health care system. But he was also neatly soft-spoken and orderly and a contradiction all by himself.

I crossed my arms over my chest, “It’s not normal.” I hissed because I had sleep problems too and my heart felt volcanic for it. Burning. Exploding. I never asked for this. “I just want to go to fucking sleep for once instead of staring at the ceiling for hours.”

“Language,” He said in the same dusty way and I shook my head.

“Listen to me!” I pulled out the stops as I jerked upright in the chair and gestured fiercely. A tree passed and the rolling fields in all directions gave a certain feeling of yawning loneliness around us. “It’s not your decision. It’s mine. I want to try the pills!”

My father just continued to frown. “What about a more regular schedule?”

“That’s always your solution.” I grumbled, “I don’t see yours helping you at all.”

My father wilted slightly, “Brooklyn…” He said my name as a warning.

“Yeah, yeah,” I waved a hand through the air. “But I don’t want however it is you live your life. It’s like you’re not even trying to not have it.” Maybe I knew it was cruel at the time. I’m not sure if I meant to be cruel. Maybe I wanted to be, needed it, but it happened all the same.

I had barbs at that age.

My father grew quiet as he usually did when he was hurt and we drove in silence to my doctors appointment one city over. It must have been ten or fifteen minutes when I saw the car start to veer to the side of the road.

“Dad…” I said softly as the car gently crossed the center of the road. I twisted toward him and my eyes flew wide open as his chin was nestled on his chest. “Dad!”

His eyes were closed and the car precariously descended toward a ditch. “Wake up!” I shook him violently but not before the nose of the car aimed into the ditch and sent shock waves up my arms.

“Ah,” I yelped as the seat belt tore across my chest and I bounced back against the seat.

My dad jerked the wheel to the side, but it was too late as the car rumbled down into a sudden stop against the ground. We jerked with a painful lurch and I held onto the seat belt with both hands.

We took deep gasping breaths for a long second as the hood of the car was crumpled and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see smoke leaking from it soon.

My father threaded a hand through his thin hair. “Are you okay?” He turned to me and his voice shook. “Are you okay?”

I nodded again and again. “I’m fine, it’s fine.” He looked off into space and seemed to be seeing something I couldn’t.

That was the first time in my whole life I saw my father cry. He nudged at his watery eyes with his hands and I watched as tears fell like meteorites down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.” He croaked and he put his head and hands on the wheel with limp wrists, “I never thought it would come to this.” More tears made tracks across his face.

I didn’t know what to say, so I reached over and patted his shoulder weakly as he gathered himself up again. I had never seen my father cry before. I wasn’t sure he could.

That was the year my dad gave up driving. And I started a few trials for sleep problems.

And I forgive them now. I forgive people who walk too slowly on the sidewalk and cashiers that count my money out wrong and people who tell me the same joke three or four times. I forgive people for being late to meetings and others for canceling plans. There’s nothing else to do.

I am The Narcoleptic’s Daughter.

#asks #flash fiction #my grandpa was a narcoleptic so that's what this is based on #writing #youreguiltyofnothing

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billhaderlovebot · 5 years

Text

beep beep (3) - richie tozier.

(how fucking babey is this man?? i??? hhhh???)

@ceruleanrainblues @the-star-above-you @a-second-hand-sorrow

ok! so! some like, violence type stuff? some fluff, some angst, richie being babey, bad language, sex references. here we go lesbians.

---

it had taken richie everything in him not to break when he had returned from the arcade. not to just unravel in front of you and let himself go.

but he didn't. he couldn't.

and he couldn't, now, either.

when pennywise, with gnarled, elongated hands and fingers that almost looked barbed, lifted you from the ground.

ripped you from richie's arms and held you struggling in the air.

"always the hardest to scare." It said, and you groaned in discomfort as It's hot breath fanned the back of your neck, its clawed, twisted hand tightening around your waist. "always the fighter."

"you get the fuck off of her, right the fuck now." richie gritted his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists. yeah, he was probably going to throw up.

richie loved you.

obviously.

he had loved you every single day of his life since he was fourteen fucking years old. every single day.

he knew, now, staring at you, your body curled around his protectively even though you were so much smaller, that his wretched heart would continue to love you for every moment of the rest of his life (plus two or three weeks, for good measure.)

often, when you were kids and you'd nap together in his bed because his parents were out (they were always out) and you needed to be near each other, he would fall asleep after you, just so he could lay awake and watch you breathe. watch you exist so serenely and look so fucking soft in his arms that he could have cried. you looked frightfully vulnerable when you were asleep, though, which always bothered him.

now, years later, you were no different. breaths coming slow and warm and ghosting across the crook of his neck where you had buried your face. so small. so vulnerable.

richie subconsciously held you a little tighter.

he would do anything for you, good lord.

even if it killed him.

you'd been asleep for about a half hour, but richie couldn't drift off.

richie hadn't told you about his artefact because the guilt that came with it sat on his chest like a fucking dumbbell. guilt, because he hadn't told you something very, very important.

you were not his first love.

but eddie kaspbrak was.

and he was guilty. guilty because he had moved on and because he had hidden such a huge part of his life from you. you, who wasn't his first love, but would undoubtedly be his last.

you, who was the love of his life.

eddie had been the first person he'd ever felt any sort of love for. when they were young, before you, and eddie would obsessively straighten the collars of his hawaiian shirts and clean his glasses for him and put band-aids on cuts and scrapes and used curse words that rivalled his own. eddie was the only one to care about him when his parents didn't. richie loved him so, so much and it had awakened a part of him he'd been ashamed of ever since.

it had been a sort of relief when he had met you, really, because he could pass himself off to the world as a normal guy with a normal girlfriend and a normal life. normal.

and oh, how he would do anything for you.

the girl who swore like a fucking sailor and held him tight and got so stoned she couldn't walk while listening to the cure on her portable radio. you'd been his distraction, to begin with, but he found himself falling fast and hard for you.

it scared him, how much he loved you. he'd never fallen so hard. he'd never given so much of himself to another person, bearing his soul to you because you were the only person he wanted to see it.

he'd come to you for solace and comfort, and had ended up loving you so much that nothing else mattered to him. and the day he'd kissed you in the clubhouse was perhaps the best decision of his life. the towering tsunami that was his love for you, crashing over him in almost overwhelming waves, kept him going for two fucking decades.

there was a smaller wave, though, too. smaller, but potent, lapping at his ankles and reminding him that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, as normal as he wanted to be. as normal as he willed himself to be. because... he loved you, but once upon a time, he had loved eddie kaspbrak. so much.

he had carved your initials onto the kissing bridge the same day he had kissed you for the first time, bigger, and far away from eddie's, as if it would erase what had used to be.

it couldn't erase it, of course. erase what was, and always would be, a part of him.

richie tozier was...

he was different.

and he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why it had happened to him. he had always been told it was wrong.

wrong, wrong, wrong. run, you fucking fairy.

and he had run. so fucking far. even now, when his job was to be controversial, he couldn't fucking say it. he could think of nothing more controversial than being b...

than liking both.

i mean, he could, but after years of being told how fucking weird and perverted and wrong it was by people who didn't even know him, he expected a certain reaction. richie glanced over to his jacket hanging on the back of the door, where the arcade token sat in the pocket. well, fuck.

you stirred a few minutes later, looking up at him with sleepy eyes and a tired smile, and, in that moment, everything was okay.

he kissed you, then. softly. ever so softly and almost like he was afraid you would break.

"what was that for?" you asked after he pulled away, heat rushing to your cheeks.

"i just... love you. that's all." his voice was quiet. "im so fucking in love with you."

you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary until tears welled in his eyes, his lips shaking as he held something back.

"richie? what's-"

"marry me." richie whispered, wiping his eyes and leaning his forehead against yours.

"huh?"

"let's get married, baby."

"yeah. yeah, okay."

----

you had gone absolutely fucking mental when richie had been caught in the deadlights, his eyes clouding and his face devoid of any emotion. beverly had had to hold you back to stop you from going right after him, screaming for him at the top of your lungs because he was floating.

he was floating away and you were going to lose him to the jaws of hell.

"RICHIE!"

"stop!" bev had pleaded. "stop it, you can't do anything! he's too far up!"

you hated her for that. for just a split second, you hated her. and you were kicking and screaming and crying, hot tears sliding down your face faster than you were sure you could make them.

and before you knew what was up:

"BEEP BEEP, MOTHERFUCKER!"

eddie had yelled, launching the monster-killer right down Its fucking throat. and then richie was on the ground, disoriented and spluttering, and, bev, with a sigh of relief, let go of you. out of the corner of your eye, you saw It, struggling and vomiting what might have been actual lava but also looked strangely like blood. your mind cast back to richie and then you were by his side, shaking him awake.

"richie! fuck!" you were aware of just how loud you were sobbing, grabbing him and holding his head to your chest. "you fucking idiot, oh, fuck, i love you." and he was wrapping his shaking arms around you, panicking and probably crying because he had been caught in the deadlights and what the fuck.

"rich!" eddie was ecstatic, kneeling beside the two of you. "i did it, richie. i think i killed it, guys!"

"EDDIE, LOOK OUT!"

you didn't know what was going on, really, until a colossal, razor sharp claw dug itself into the rock where eddie had just fucking been.

and you were sure you'd never been more thankful for ben hanscom and his intuition.

"holy shit, eds." you just about shrieked.

"it's not dead!" richie was suddenly alert, dragging the three of you to your feet as pennywise crawled up from the ground, the spikes it had fallen on making a wet crunching sound as It tore itself off of them.

everything was happening so fucking fast, and you must have zoned out or something, because all of a sudden you were in the fucking air, torn away from a screaming richie. the sharp, jutting bones of it's long fingers dug into your torso as you were lifted, flailing.

"always the hardest to scare. always the fighter." pennywise all but giggled.

"you get the fuck off of her, right the fuck now." you knew what it sounded like when richie was trying to keep his cool, and right now, he was not doing a very good job.

"are you scared now?" It asked you, grinning from ear to ear. "are you scared, richie's girl?"

"FUCK OFF, YOU BIG DUMB ASSHOLE!" any attempt to kick and struggle was cut short by It's tightening fist, and the sharp ridges of It's fingers cutting into you.

oh, and, yeah, ouch, that was a cracked rib. fuck.

"you are." It growled. "i can smell you."

the losers on the ground stared up in frantic horror, flocking around richie and eddie.

"maybe i should take him, instead. your richie."

"YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!"

"i told you i'd get you, richie's girl."

it flicked a long, black tongue over its razor teeth.

"AND I TOLD YOU THAT IM NOT FUCKING AFRAID OF YOU, YOU STUPID CLOWN."

it's face dropped.

its eyes rolled back into its head.

it fucking smiled.

and then, as if you were a ragdoll it was tired of playing with, it tossed you aside.

richie heard it. the fucking sound. the crunch as your body collided with the jagged rocks at the other end of the sewer. he retched and heaved and his legs didn't seem to be working anymore.

he saw your body crumple, and the scream that erupted from his throat wasn't quite human.

---

"you need to wake up." richie held your hand in his own, the wires protruding from your wrist making him feel sick. "you gotta wake up, baby." the steady beep of your heart monitor was the only thing stopping him from going completely fucking insane. "cmon, we're getting married, so... so you gotta come back to me." richie ignored the bile rising in his throat at the sight of you with tubes and wires spilling from every part of you that wasn't cast in bandages. you looked so fucking broken. "we've already lost so much time... and we need to catch up." richie couldn't find it in himself to crack a joke. this was the first time he'd been really, truly happy since he was seventeen, and now it was all hanging in the balance.

richie had heard from bill the morbid account of your injuries. the doctor wasn't able to tell richie, directly, as he was going on a fucking rampage outside, throwing trash cans and yelling and such.

you'd almost died in the operating theatre twice, he had also heard from bill.

"sh-she had uh, bad in-internal b-b-bl-bleeding. they almost c-couldn't stop it."

but they had stopped it. and now you were here. you were alive. but you'd been out for a good three days, and every hour that passed, richie was less and less sure you'd wake up again.

beverly had had to coax richie into a bathroom to clean himself up, bringing him a clean outfit, because he flat out refused to go back to the inn and shower and change. he wouldn't leave you here. she allowed him to cry on her shoulder, and she knew that he only cried in front of you, which threw her, but she held him and let him cry until he couldn't anymore.

"mr tozier?" the nurse who came in regularly to change your feeding tube and medicine and such was stood by the door, clipboard in hand.

"yeah?" he croaked, not making a move to stand up.

"there's someone here to see you."

richie was sure it could have been the queen of fucking england, or freddie mercury risen from the grave, and he would have told them to fuck off.

"will you, uh, send them in?" richie requested. he hadn't left you for more than ten minutes the whole time you'd been admitted. "i don't wanna-"

"of course, mr tozier." said the nurse, nodding sympathetically and backing out of the room. the door clicked shut behind her.

moments later, richie heard a voice.

"sorry, but, who exactly are you?" said the voice. richie looked up from your hand, which he was still holding, by the way.

a smallish, mousy brown-haired man stood at the door, his hair slicked back with far too much wax that didn't do anything for his terribly receding hairline. "and why are you holding my wife's hand?"

ah. the husband. fuck.

"oh, yeah. right." richie didn't let go of you. "you must be, uhh... umm..."

"timothy. timothy milo." the man said with an air of superiority. richie would lay this guy the fuck out.

"oh, yeah, of course." he nodded, squeezing your fingers gently.

"forgive me," said timothy, pulling up a chair. "forgive me, but, my wife has been missing for almost a week, now, and i get a call saying she's here, in... in derry? is it? battered, and... and comatose."

richie had only known the guy for all of thirty seconds, but he'd knock out those perfect, sickeningly white teeth in a heartbeat. "yeah, there was... an accident-"

"and richie tozier, big-shot comedian from malibu, is holding her hand and looking like... his whole world has been torn down."

timothy was becoming increasingly irate, and richie found it more than a little bit funny. he raised his hands in defense.

"look, man-"

"i ask you again, tozier, who exactly are you? to her, i mean."

and richie had... no idea what to say. for once in his life. no sarcasm, no witty comebacks. nothing.

"well... i fucking love her, man." was all he could think.

and then, with a crunch, timothy milo's manicured fist collided with the side of richie's face.

---

you didn't remember much.

the only thing you could fathom was a faint beeping sound, and a warm, calloused hand on top of yours. you cracked one eye open (with great difficulty) and sighed in relief. it was him.

your richie. disheveled and distraught, but your richie, all the same.

"r-r-r-" your throat was so fucking dry. it hurt to speak. "rich..." was all you managed, your fingers twitching under his hand.

"holy fuck." the smile that lit up his face was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. he had a rather large bruise on his left cheekbone, and his eyes were red and puffy, but he grinned so big and so bright that you could have burst into tears. "you're awake."

"and y-you're... beautiful." you croaked.

"woah, how hard did you hit your head?" he joked, sniffling, a tear slipping down his cheek. he kissed your hand, mindful of the tubes.

"that... that looks like... a punch, richie." you noted, eyeing the purple bruise that started on his cheekbone and ended below his eye.

"you should see the other guy." richie sniffed, a sad smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. it hurt you.

"wh-who?"

"timothy fucking milo." richie scoffed, rolling his eyes in a manner that reminded you of stanley.

"he was... he was here?" your head fucking hurt.

"yeah. gone now. after i told him what was what. fucking asshole."

"wh-"

"another time, babe. you're not up for it."

and you knew he was right. you'd only properly processed about half of the words he'd said.

"i've been outta my fucking mind waiting for you to wake up, yknow. don't do that again." richie said, dragging his hands down his face and rolling his shoulders. his back hurt from sleeping here for just under four days, leaning over the cot and holding your hand.

"it wasn't... my fucking fault... you asshole... it was... oh my god. It."

"we won't dig that up now, huh?" richie interjected. "you rest up a little, i'll chat to you about boring shit, you'll perhaps give me a sympathy hand-job, and when you're a little less drugged up, we can talk about the heavy stuff."

"okay." your attempt at a nod was feeble as fuck. "and... sympathy hand-job?"

"yeah. for making me fight your husband and cry for three days. in no particular order." richie explained, as if it were obvious.

"do you want me to... pull your dick off with my medicine tubes?"

his eyes widened.

"no, ma'am."

"then... shut up." you whined, breathless. your chest burned and your side hurt and you didn't even want to talk about your legs.

"i need more drugs, trash-mouth." you groaned, and he leaned over you to press the red button to alert the nurses.

"believe it or not, you've said that to me before." richie snorted. "no chance of a hand-job, then?"

"beep beep, richie."

#it richie #adult richie #richie tozier #richie tozier x reader #it chapter 2 #it 2019 #losers club x reader

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the-big-nope · 5 years

Text

Been rewatching Vox Machina in fits and spurts over the last few months (currently on The Kill Box), and recent meta has me comparing how it might have gone if it was the Mighty Nein in this Kevdak fight (or something very similar).

Bless that person that said Vox Machina fights like individual heroes vs. Mighty Nein who fights more as a unit, because it feels damn accurate in the Kevdak fight. As a whole, VM is FAR more DPS focused than the M9. You’ve got Grog, Vax, and Percy, who are pure damage dealers. You’ve got Vex, who’s got access to spells but mainly uses them to boost her damage/number of attacks. Even Pike and Keyleth, who are what most people consider more support-based classes, tend to lean toward attacking more than anything else (Pike favors guiding bolt, spiritual weapon, and healing when needed, while Keyleth tends to spend large chunks of battle in beast shape or otherwise using big damage spells like call lightning, sunbeam, and blight. Keyleth’s broad utility tends to shine outside of battle, but she’s definitely a fighter druid once they do get into scraps). The only dedicated supporter VM really had was Scanlan, and that tended to be single-target focus: hold person, modify memory, counterspell, and bardic features that aided one person at a time. VM was a crowd of hard-hitting badasses whose fights were epic as hell when it came to straight up slug-fests that they could bash their way through, but who could fast get into trouble if the odds outweighed their DPS output or there’s some magical trick to them.

Compare to the Mighty Nein, aka Team Debuffs McGee. I’m not CritRoleStats, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the impression that VM were probably putting out better damage at this level, given their sheer focus on it. However, it feels like Matt gets more frustrated by the M9 steamrolling through his encounters this campaign because the M9 are such a tough nut to crack when they’re all together. They have Jester and Caduceus stacking buffs and debuffs (power combo Bless and Bane, Incite Greed, and single target stuff like Command and Polymorph) like crazy, with the workload split allowing Jester to focus on damage and Cad on support. They have Caleb also on support and control, with some big broad damage spells that can wipe adds damn quick if Episode 86 was anything to go by. Nott’s mainly DPS with some of that Scanlan-reminiscent single-target control like Phantasmal Force and Hideous Laughter. Fjord’s just unpredictable as fuck: he can deal damage, move players around the battlefield, drop a demon on a boss’s head, and now with Paladin spellcasting he could even get in on the buff/debuff action. Even Yasha and Beau, the primary tanks and DPS, have some control and support abilities: Sentinel’s been crazy useful at times, Yasha can buff her entire team for a round, Beau can stun AND find out vulnerabilities to exploit in an enemy. They’re a VERY well-balanced team with some pretty solid strategies they tend to lean on. All together, the M9 are near iron-clad, but take away a member or two, or turn them on each other, and they’re much more vulnerable.

So in looping back to my original thought about the Kevdak fight and how it would look with the M9 in place of VM. Put them at an equal level (12), accounting that VM knew what they were getting into and had time to prepare their spells, and ignoring variables like how the dice rolls are going, I feel like this is the type of fight the M9 would be kinda killer at.

There are very few magic factors in play, mostly just melee fighters and archers. Good news for all the M9 magic users, since their enemies’ mental stats probably aren’t going to be stellar, making it easier to get save spells through. There are one or two druids that mostly served as healers, but with multiple M9 members able to counterspell, not as big a threat. The druids would probably see more combat use in this scenario, but then that splits into two alternatives: they stay in normal form, but they’re not the tankiest and don’t halve damage, so a few bolt shots from a hidden Nott would probably be enough to take them out; or they go into beast shape, making them able to take more damage but eliminating their spellcasting element. Since the fight ended when Kevdak died anyway, their staying power doesn’t matter as much.

There are a lot of adds in play, but the M9 have a wizard available with AOE/multi-target damage spells on hand specifically made for clearing crowds. Granted, those adds are tougher than the average minions (mostly barbs), so them getting up in a party member’s face beforehand isn’t good, but the M9 all tend to have countermeasures for that (Cad can go invisible and run, Fjord and Jester can teleport, Beau and Nott can disengage, and Caleb can turn into a giant fucking ape). Of course, if Jester can get off an Incite Greed in the middle of a crowd, that takes care of a good portion of them for a while.

Position Cad in the right place and he is set to ruin Kevdak’s day. Crit cancels, can inflict vulnerability so his barbarian resistance is null, Ray of Enfeeblement, Bane. Just make sure he doesn’t get swarmed and Caduceus is a serious drain on a boss’s effectiveness.

Grog was VM’s only real front-liner (Vax was more of a hit-and-run artist and Keyleth wasn’t always available). The M9 has at least two in Yasha and Beau who would likely be on Kevdak. Not nearly as tanky as Grog, but action economy’s in their favor to take the heat off each other a bit. Beau has stun, and while it’s not likely to succeed, it’s always a possibility, and she is great to stack attack buffs on: haste, holy weapon, enlarge, etc. Additionally, they don’t have to stay alone if the situation calls for it: Fjord can also be a front-liner, Jester’s duplicate can cast touch spells, and if Caleb gets freed up then he can serve as Ape Tank.

Nott/Veth just does a shit ton of damage, and it’s much easier for her to hide and get sneak attack now that she’s a halfling again. It would probably be easy to pick off the mooks, and if she combos with Cad’s path to the grave, Kevdak takes full sneak attack too. Her spells are also great for distraction, and again, a crowd of mostly barbarians probably chose to dump the mental stats.

And those are just their typical strategies! There’s so many individual spells or tricks available to them that they’ve used before to great effect: Banishment, Antilife Shell, Cat’s Ire for grappling purposes, Slow, Summon Greater Demon, and the ever chaotic Polymorph. You never know what the M9 is going to pull out of the bag.

The Kill Box was a hell of a fight for Vox Machina, in large part because of the sheer amount of enemies, since Kevdak was paralyzed for a good chunk of the fight. If it had been just them up against Kevdak, they probably would have whittled him down super quick, but without any way to manage the large amount of minions aside from pure damage, things got tight with the action economy stacked against them. It probably would have been even MORE gnarly, if not unwinnable, without Scanlan and the essential control elements he provided. If it had been the Mighty Nein, it probably still would have been a challenge, but I don’t think nearly as much. Their plethora of options for controlling the battlefield, pulling themselves out of sticky spots, boosting their team’s abilities while reducing their enemies’, and without many opposing spellcasters to counter them, the Mighty Nein would probably be in their element in this fight.

#nerding about dnd mechanics #don't mind me #critical role #vm #m9 #vox machina #mighty nein #cr spoilers #long post

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comicgeekscomicgeek · 3 years

Text

Their Hero Academia – Chapter 78: Conversations and Revelations

Presenting the next installment of my on-going, nextgen, MHA fic! Earlier chapters can be found here

Katsumi was absolutely not tired. And she was definitely not worn out and exhausted from pushing her body and her Quirk all day. She was definitely not spent from using her explosive Quirk on bigger and bigger objects, infusing the liquid she generated into greater and greater objects. And she really wasn’t already sick of Windbag and his high and mighty friends from his fancy-pants Hero school. She absolutely wasn’t going to end up beating the shit out of the muscle girl by the end of things.

Which, for some reason, Izzy had tried to warn her off of doing. Izzy was typically very direct and this had been no exception. She’d been extremely explicit that Katsumi stood a very good chance of getting her ass beat if she tried to fight her. Of course, Izzy had couched it in slightly politer terms, worrying that she might get hurt and emphasizing the damage to her pride if she lost. Izzy, of course, had expressed every confidence in her abilities, but still didn’t want her to get hurt.

Even with Izzy’s direction suggestion that she not fight the Shiketsu girl, there was something more going on there. Katsumi didn’t like that, not at all. And Izzy hadn’t been more forthcoming beyond that.

It wasn’t damn frustrating, not at all.

As if she’d ever lose a fight. Not counting her hard-fought loss against Izzy during the Sports Festival. Which wasn’t going to happen the next time. The bigger they were, the harder they were going to fall.

At least her old man seemed happy. Dad was always happy when he was yelling at people, and he’d gotten to do a lot of that today. Apparently, he’d even lit into Toshi for being predictable and unimaginative with his Quirk. Good. It was about time someone tried pounding some sense into his green-haired head. The guy was a damn good fighter when he put his mind to it, but there was considerable distance in how he fought with his Quirk and without it.

“Okay people,” she heard Katsuma—Bioshock, she had think of him and Mahoro by their Hero names when they were in teacher mode—call out. “You’ve all had a long day and tomorrow’s going to be even longer. You’ll be rising at 0500 and we’re going to be spending the whole day putting you through your paces.”

“And we aren’t going to listen to any whining about you being tired!” Mahoro—Vanish Veil—added. “So if you’re sluggish, it’ll be your own damn fault!”

Bioshock sighed. “Thank you for that,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“But she is right! You’ve got twenty minutes before lights out. Make the most of them, then get a good night’s rest! Sleep is vital to a growing body!”

“Stop talking like a health class video! Why are you such a dork?!”

Katsumi just shook her head, getting up to head to the barracks. A voice from behind stopped her.

“Pardon me, but you and I have unfinished business.”

***

She’d been expecting, maybe even anticipating, a confrontation with Tatsuma, the overgrown Shiketsu girl. So Katsumi hadn’t strictly been paying attention to who the voice had belonged to. When she spun to face her attacker, her punch went high. A good blow to the face or throat would disable most people very quickly.

In fact, if she hadn't been so sure Tatsuma was going to be the one picking a fight, she'd have registered that the voice came from about a foot lower. As things were, her blow sailed right over Monoma’s head. She’d given him a little credit though. He only barely flinched.

A smug grin spread across his lips. “Quite the hair trigger you’ve got there, Kirishima-Bakugo,” he said. He eyed the extended arm as if to say, “Really?” She let it fall to her side, then crossed her arms.

“You want something, Monoma?” she asked. Of all the things she needed today, he was way down on the list. He’d mostly been leaving her alone lately, but his audible smugness was more than making up for it. “I’ve probably got enough time to deliver an ass-kicking if that’s what you’re looking for.”

He chuckled at that, gesturing dramatically. "Oh I'll happily offer you the chance to try," he commented with a smirk, "but I don't think this is the time. I do want to make time for your gauntlet throwing, though, at some point in the near future.”

“Delayed ass-kicking, got it,” she said. She cracked her knuckles noisily in a show of intimidation. This time, to his credit, he didn’t flinch.

He frowned, eyes narrowing as his shoulders relaxed. “Look… May I speak plainly?”

She narrowed her own eyes, setting her mouth in a hard line. “Get on with it.”

“I was… very broken, after the Sports Festival,” he told her. There was an earnestness in his eyes that surprised her. A raw level of emotion she hadn’t expected of him. “I wanted to succeed so badly, to show you that I was worthy and to show the world that my class was worthy. But I screwed it all up. I focused too much on showboating and spectacle. Midoriya and the rest of your class… you had it figured out.”

He looked down. “I gave as good an accounting of myself as could be expected against Kocho. It was simply a bad match-up for my skillset. And I am glad to see the Hero course recognized her abilities.”

Monoma pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes flickering downward and flashing a shade of displeasure before he continued. “And then there was my failed confession. I’m not sorry I did that—don’thitme—and I think you may have said some things I needed to hear, although your delivery may need some work. And then, during my Internship with your father and Uncle Tetsutetsu… I froze up when the Nomu attacked. My Quirk isn't something I can turn off, and... Everything I was seeing of the creature was just so profoundly wrong that I couldn't take it. I shut down. I had to be carried away by Shoji, like a child.”

Okay, that one she hadn’t heard about. Papa definitely hadn’t mentioned it. Of course, gossip about anyone like that wouldn’t have been manly, so it was not a surprise.

“And from there, I just fell apart,” Monoma said. He wasn’t looking at her now. Instead, he was looking into the distance. “I can admit that now. I was certain I had a weak, worthless Quirk and that I had no place in the Hero course.”

“Now wait just a damn minute,” she snapped, pointing aggressively at him. “You’re a bastard, but your fancy pants flippy Quirk is still useful. No reason you couldn’t kick a moderate amount of ass.”

Dammit, she was not feeling sorry for the Copycat Bastard. But she remembered her own Internship, how useless she’d felt watching that man die right in front of her, while her Quirk, even her muscles, couldn’t do anything… Aunt Ochaco and Izzy had talked her back from that edge. She didn’t think about it too often. Hadn’t had the nightmares in a while.

“I’ve come around to that line of thinking,” Monoma said. “But I appreciate the vote of confidence. Especially from you. But I was ready to quit after the Final Exam. Just long enough not to leave my class in the lurch. But Midoriya said some things about success and helping each other that stuck with me. And we passed.”

He stopped, actually smiling and looking more than a little proud. She’d give him some credit. If 1-B’s exam had been anywhere near as challenging as theirs—and Kana assured her it was—then he deserved a little pride.

“And then for reasons I’m still not entirely sure I understand, I ended up speaking with Kaminari and she got me looking at my Quirk in a bit of a different way. Trying to string my moves together better, weaving a whole song out of them, rather than single shots to be fired and discarded. So I stayed.”

“Is that why you’ve been making goo-goo eyes at her?”

He sputtered, turning red and avoiding her gaze. “I thought we were being more discreet than that.”

“Oh, please. Your dramatic ass wouldn’t know discreet if it bit it,” she told him. She tapped her wrist, as though checking a watch, giving him a glare. He got the hint.

“Regardless of mine and Kaminari’s situation,” he said, quickly, as though eager to move away from discussing it, “I want you to know I still want to prove myself against you. Not for any romantic pursuits anymore or even in some attempt to prove I’m better than you.”

Monoma shook his head. “I want to prove I’m your equal. That I deserve my place here. You’re one of the fiercest, most skilled fighters in our school. We’ve had an adversarial relationship since we were big enough for you to put me in a headlock. You’re the mark I need to challenge myself against.”

Okay. She definitely hadn’t been expecting that. But for all she could erupt at a moment’s notice, Katsumi could occasionally control her expressions enough not to show surprise. She knew she was tough and talented, but hearing him admit it, not in some kind of lovey-dovey star-eyed sort of way, but in actual respect, with none of his usual barbs, well, to say it was a surprise was putting it mildly.

“So, what do you actually want?” she demanded. “Get to the point already.”

Monoma looked her straight in the eye, a steely determination there she hadn’t seen before. “When the camp is over, when we’re back at school, I want to fight a match against you. A true test against one another. Bring whatever support items you like, and, as the challenged, the right to choose time and place is yours. I'll make the arrangements with our respective homeroom teachers that it will be a sanctioned training exercise. May the better person win."

It was a more respectful challenge than she would have expected out of him, all things considered. It looked like Monoma had found his spine after all. And besides, she could go for bouncing him around the ring like a basketball for a few rounds. “You know what, Monoma?” she said. “You’re on.”

***

Akaya had the distinct impression that she was being watched. Not maliciously, she didn’t think. She certainly didn’t feel like she was threatened, but she was also fairly certain that someone was paying more attention to her than usual. Over in one corner of the room, she could see Kaminari, Mika, and Anime whispering together in a fashion that seemed almost conspiratorial.

Her opinion of the matter did not improve when she saw Ojiro go over and join the group. But even with counting several of the girls among that group as dear friends, she certain, somehow, that they were discussing her. She wasn’t completely unused to being talked about behind her back, the girl with the strange religion and stone-skin, but she would not have expected it of her friends.

“They’re talking about you.”

Akaya looked over to her left, where Chiasa Kamakiri, her vaguely mantis-like friend from 1-B, was standing by her bunk. Chiasa held up a hand, showing that she was missing two joints from her smallest finger on her left hand. Her Quirk allowed her to split apart her body segments and transform them into tiny duplicates of herself that shared a hive mind. Very useful for espionage.

Chiasa’s face split into a grin. “Do you want to know what they’re saying?” she asked, playfully.

“I do not traffic in gossip,” Akaya said simply, though she was also feeling a little hurt. Why were her friends talking about her? She didn’t think they had any ill intent, but…

Chiasa continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “They’re trying to set you up with Aoyama!” She giggled with delight, clapping her hands.

Ah, of course. Their usual romantic pursuits. She wasn’t surprised, especially now that Ojiro was involved. The invisible girl was nothing if not committed to the idea of “shipping” people she knew. It had only become worse since she and Anime had become friends. Still, she hadn’t thought that Mika particularly liked Aoyama, so why was she…

Wait.

Akaya mentally replayed that sentence again.

“What?”

Chiasa nodded rapidly. “Mineta is leading the pack. Sounds like it might be her idea. They haven’t noticed my mini-me’s yet.”

She was clearly missing something here. Akaya frowned in confusion. “I must have heard you wrong.”

“Nope,” Chiasa said. “They’re gonna set you and Aoyama up. They don’t have a plan yet. Fukidashi and Ojiro are fighting over which tropes to use. Mineta’s encouraging all of it. Kaminari is telling them they’re all insane.”

None of this made any sense. Aoyama had certainly never displayed any kind of interest in her. Oh, of course, he did seem far more civil with her than almost any of their other classmates. And he never had any cross words for her like he did for almost anyone else. So what if he always made an effort to speak to her? What difference did it make that he always seemed to respect her opinion, even if he didn’t listen to anyone else? And, of course, he had reacted more violently than everyone else when he’d found out she’d been the target of Quirk discrimination…

But certainly none of that meant he was interested in her! Not when he was traditionally good looking, prettier than even some of the other girls, and could have easily had his pick of anyone, if he’d just let his guard down around them the way he often did around her…

“Akaya?” Chiasa asked, mouthparts clicking together. “You okay? You kind of zoned out on me while I was talking.”

She managed a nod. “I’m all right,” she said. “Just taken by surprise.” She looked over to a corner of the room that had been partitioned off with a curtain. Petal Princess had told her that they’d set it up so that she could have a private place to pray, if she so desired, being unsure if she was comfortable praying in front of others. Akaya appreciated the consideration. “Though I do need to say my prayers before I turn in.”

It would give her a moment to think, at the very least.

***

As Akaya entered the small, privacy curtained space, she realized that it was already occupied. It was one of the Shiketsu girls, the one whom she had overhead a few times speaking to Tatsuma in a foriegn language that she couldn’t properly identify.

“Oh,” she said, “my apologies. I didn’t realize anyone else was here.” Though it varied from individual to individual, the average person in Japan was not especially religious or deeply spiritual. And the number of people who were any variety of Christian was smaller still.

The girl though, seemed as surprised to see Akaya as Akaya was to see her.

"It is no trouble," the girl assured her, her Japanese flawless. "I was finishing up anyway." As she stood up, a necklace with a familiar cross could be seen hanging around the girl's neck.

Well, that was indeed surprising. She had heard there had been some additional friction between some of the Shiketsu students and her classmates and the others. Perhaps she could help ease that by finding some common ground with one of them?

“Please forgive my forwardness,” Akaya said. “But you are Christian? I rarely encounter anyone who shares a faith with me.”

That seemed to surprise the girl for a moment, before she looked at her necklace as if remembering it was there.

"My parents are practicing Presbyterians," she answered, somewhat shyly. "I would not go so far as to say I am, but there is much about Christianity I admire. It's comforting to know there's an all-powerful being that actually gives a damn about you out there."

“My mother’s family is Catholic,” Akaya explained, “as am I.” Her father and little brother, Rikido, were not, but it had never been an issue in their family. Both she and her brother had been allowed to explore faith options and choose for themselves.

“It is reassuring. It is often a troubling world. Having somewhere to turn to often helps me to ground myself.” She offered the other girl a small smile. “I am Akaya Koda.”

The other girl seemed to think a bit, as if wondering if she should say anything. Her face softened as she appeared to make a decision. "My name is Seung Park. It is...nice to meet you." She tensed a bit after saying her name.

The same sounded Korean to Akaya’s ears, though she couldn’t say for certain. Though Park was not Japanese, that much was apparent. She knew that foreigners didn’t always have easy lives in Japan, but given how flawless her Japanese was, Park had to be at least second generation. Which did come with its own issues, of course…

“It is nice to meet you as well,” she said. “How are you finding the camp so far?”

"So far I do not see what can be done here that we can't do elsewhere," Park admitted with a stern frown. "I can only assume the teachers are likely going to make us do something to pit us against each other for some ‘clever’ reason. Why else would Shiketsu be invited, given the asinine rivalries that are encouraged."

“Not an impossibility,” Akaya agreed. Park, it seemed, was not afraid to be a bit bold in her declarations. Would that she had such confidence. “But I have been told that the Rookies are among some of the best trainers in the country, so I trust in our teachers’ judgements. Perhaps they simply mean to push us all. A little bit of rivalry can be healthy… though there are those among my fellow students who take it to an extreme.”

Shiro, for example, had already declared that the rivalry between Class 1-A and 1-B was in a temporary state of truce, until they had proven U.A. to be better than Shiketsu. She wasn’t certain if that was a sign of maturity on his part or not, but at least he was trying to channel his energies in semi-positive directions.

"I have considerably more faith in Our Lord than I do in "Hero instructors.’" Park stopped, took a deep breath, said something in Korean, and then let it out. "I apologize. I am not as good a Christian as I would like to be."

There was a sore point there, Akaya was certain. For a Hero student, Park did not seem to have much faith in Heroes themselves. Or at least, not the ones running the camp, she wasn’t sure. That seemed to be a bit of a paradox, but she did not wish to deny the truth of whatever experiences Park had lived.

She shook her head and held up her hands in an apologetic gesture. “No apologies necessary. Even if I don’t agree, I won’t deny you your feelings.”

Park looked surprised at Akaya's response. Clearly, she was not used to people giving her point of view any kind of credence. "I appreciate that." Her eyes seemed to be looking elsewhere, as if she were looking at a place completely different from where they were. She shook her head, actually forming a small smile. "I do not wish to hold up your talk with God. I hope you don't aggravate him as much as I likely do.”

Akaya offered the girl another smile as she left, before kneeling down to begin her own prayers. She would need much of His grace and guidance to get through this camp.

***

Takiyo tapped a few keys on the control panel built into his sleeping pod, causing the hatch to open with a slight hiss. Inside, it looked comfortably padded and had a control panel built into the other side of the hatch as well, so that he could open it when needed. It would be one hundred percent light proof. It was good of the Rookies to provide it, though he would have expected nothing less. U.A. had been very good at meeting his unique needs to far.

His cursed, cursed needs. His damn Quirk that caused him to absorb light constantly, necessitating that he discharge it in regular intervals, that he keep himself covered to minimize absorption, that his dorm room and his room at home be equipped with blackout curtains and more. It required him to be aware of his state of being every second he was awake.

His damn Quirk that had caused him too…

No.

His Quirk that he was going to use to be a Hero. To make up for… what had been done. No matter the costs to him. It was suited for it, where unleashing dazzling light, pushing back the darkness, or projecting devastating lasers. He would make it a Hero’s Quirk.

He had actually exhausted his light-stores under the Rookies’ training today, focusing on both his output and control. It was rare situation. Usually, he had to purposefully discharge it by the end of the day, just for the sake of discharging it. He had started to absorb more light immediately afterwards, but for the moment, he was just barely glowing, a faint sparkle outlining his skin.

“Ahem.” A voice shook him from his introspection and he looked up to see Monoma standing next to the sleeping pod.

He’d barely spoken two words to Monoma that he could recall, in his entire time at U.A. The other boy was vain, arrogant, obsessed with his looks, and not especially self-aware. He was, somehow, friends with Koda, which confused Takiyo greatly. Mineta, he could understand, but he thought Koda was better than that.

“Yes?” Takiyo asked.

“<Can we speak French?>” Monoma asked. Takiyo had been vaguely aware that the Monoma family had some French ancestry, much like his papa also did. He himself was only culturally French to some extent, but the language came easily enough. Monoma cast a significant glance over in the direction of Sero, Sato, and Tsuchikawa.

“Oui,” he replied. The secrecy was puzzling, he had to admit. What could be so important that Monoma did not want anyone overhearing?

Monoma nodded. “<Let’s be clear,>” he said, pointing. “<I don’t like you and you don’t like me. That’s fine. But no one deserves what’s headed your way.”>

Takiyo raised an eyebrow at that. “<Pardon?>” he asked. A threat to his person? Was that insufferable Tsuchikawa planning something? But why would Monoma warn him about that?

“<Mika, Yoarashi, and Fukidashi are planning to set you and Akaya up. Kaminari knows about it to. I don’t think she can stop it.>”

They were going to… what?

Monoma went on. “<Mika claims that it’s obvious you two are very sweet on each other, but that neither one of you would be willing to make the first move. I don’t know if that’s true, but with Mika and Fukidashi teaming up, it’s bound to be a ‘zany scheme.’>”

Koda… who was always kind to him, even when he let his anger and irritation get the better of him. And who forced him to be civil and interact with others, even when he wasn’t doing a particularly good job of it. Koda, who was a sweet, kind girl, who did not deserve the cruelties she had recently endured and seemed to still carry with her.

“<So as someone who has been pulled into many of Mika’s well-meaning, but disastrous schemes, I felt you deserved a warning,>” Monoma added. But his expression turned hard as steel. “<But rest assured, should you still chose to pursue a relationship with Akaya… You will treat her properly, or I will break every bone in your body.>”

With that, Monoma turned on his heels to walk to his own bunk, leaving Takiyo standing there, still trying to process what had been said.

“Hey! Aoyama!” He turned and saw Sero giving him a wave. “Didja loose the blond pretty boy contest or something? Looked pretty serious there!”

Takiyo’s lip pulled back in a snarl. “SHUT UP!”

***

While the barracks for the kids had been relatively Spartan, the facilities in the main compound of the Rookies’ complex were surprisingly nicely appointed. Most of them had gone to bed already. Lady Luminous and Bezoar were in charge of waking the kids up for the next morning’s training session, but they’d all have to be up fairly early. It was late, eleven p.m., long past when Katsuki usually went to bed. At least he’d been able to slip away earlier and call Eijiro and Tai. It’d been a long time since he hadn’t at least called to say goodnight to his son. He wasn’t going to allow himself to miss it for a ‘good’ reason. Because he if he missed it for a ‘good’ reason, then it was a short trip to missing it for a bad reason.

And he was never going to be that kind of parent. His parents had never been truly neglectful—though it had taken a lot of therapy to overcome and course correct his sometimes-toxic relationship with his mother and his enabling father—but they had often been gone. He’d been left in the care of babysitters or ‘Auntie’ Inko as a child more often than he cared to remember, including one particularly disastrous time when he’d been ten and left in the care of his then-teenage shitty cousin Yu, and later to his own devices, when they’d been gone on some photo shoot or modeling expo.

Katsuki had been in a lot of fights over his life. But his toughest fight was the one he fought every day to be a better parent than his own had been. Thank whatever gods existed for Eijro. It was easier to be the better person when you had someone who believed in you that much.

The damned hobo had already gone to bed, but Katsuma, Mahoro, a Rookie he didn’t recognize, and Fujii were still up in floor’s kitchen. And damn did it make him feel old to see people he’d known when they were children as fully-fledged adults and Heroes in their own right. They’d both done good, he admitted, with Katsuma working with Deku for a time and Mahoro training with Camie and even working as one of his Sidekicks for a time. And sure, he hasn’t that much older than either of them. He had less than ten on Katsuma and only five on Mahoro…

But even with their own experiences with that bastard, Nine, he’d had a lot more years of hard living than them. It added up. He certainly felt older than his forty-one years. Now, more than ever.

“So,” he said as he entered the kitchen, “one of you want to tell me why we’ve got Shiketsu students here? Was the Hobo right? Are they dropping their problem kids on us?”

The Rookie he didn’t recognize spoke up. He was a dark-skinned man with his hair in tight cornrows and seemed a bit younger than the rest. He had a red and yellow uniform, with a key-shaped insignia on his chest. “They’re a little rough around the edges, but they don’t seem like problems to me.”

“You haven’t been doing this as long as the rest of us, Takagi,” Katsuma told him. “And you haven’t seen the complete files.”

Mahoro let out a laugh. “You say problem children like your kid isn’t one, Katsuki.”

Katsuki shot her a glare. Katsumi… He was proud of his daughter, loved her more than almost anything in the entire world. She’d gotten some of the best of him. But she’d also gotten some of his worst too. Her anger, her reluctance to properly grapple with her feelings or complex emotions. She might have finally resolved her long-standing hang-ups around Izumi, and she definitely had a better relationship with Toshi than he’d had with Deku, but he still saw some of his school-age self in her. “You take that back, brat.” But he also wasn’t going to let anyone else point it out.

“You going to make me?” She gave him a glare of her own, as though challenging him.

“How have you not matured any in twenty-five years?” he shot back.

“Should… should we be stopping this?” Fujii asked, looking vaguely panicked. The rubber-bodied Hero looked over at Katsuma as though to say ‘please, stop this.’

Katsuma pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mahoro, please stop antagonizing Katsuki. If you two wreck the kitchen, it’ll take forever to get it repaired. And Hiyori will pitch a fit if she can’t have her waffles.”

He pushed back from the table and stood up. “I already had conversations with All Might and Aizawa about this, but you’re not far off, Katsuki. It’s not a random delegation of students. We were asked to take them on specifically.”

Katsuki just rolled his eyes. “Of fucking course.”

“Hey,” Katsuma said. “No need for that kind of language!”

“Yeah, you better listen to him, dammit,” Mahoro said. “We’ve got a swear jar and everything.”

Katsuki wanted to yell, to pop off a few explosions that would rattle Katsuma into realizing what a mistake he’d made in not telling him this immediately. But instead, he sucked in a breath and shook his head, grinding his teeth. He didn’t like being blindsided like this, but anger wouldn’t do him any good. Keeping track of the thirty-three U.A. students was enough of a challenge, even if he hadn’t known some of them since they were in diapers. (He’d changed so many diapers. His shitty-haired husband had a bad habit of offering to babysit for their friends without consulting him first.) He didn’t need any surprises, especially not in his first few days on the job.

What could be so bad that Shiketsu was dumping their kids on U.A.? Sure, the dragon kid was angry, but he’d been worse. And that didn’t explain the rest, especially Windbag’s kid.

“Tell me everything.”

***

Katsuki took a seat at the table, as did Fujii, and Katsuma sat back down. Takagi remained standing, leaning against the kitchen counter. He crossed his arms and set his face in a scowl. To their credit, neither Katsuma nor Mahoro flinched. Mahoro even copied his gesture and expression, the scowl looking only slightly silly on her face. Takagi, though, definitely flinched at the scowl and impending sense of doom both he and Mahoro were giving off.

Good. It was good to see that even hobbled as he was, he could still be intimidating. Still, he felt a little bad. The guy probably didn’t deserve it.

“Okay,” Katsuma said, “so where do you want to start?”

“Tatsuma,” Katsuki said. “I can already tell she’s walking around with a hell of a chip on her shoulder. What’s up?”

“Chie Tatsuma,” Katsuma went on, “daughter of the Dragoon Hero: Ryukyu. Her Quirk allows her to transform into a humanoid dragon form. Class Representative, winner of their first year Sports Festival. Scary strong Quirk. I’ve looked at her file and her scores in the Shiketsu entrance exam were off the charts. They had to recalibrate their threshold because she scored so many points everyone else in her testing area was below the cutoff.”

“Kind of reminds me of you, Blasty,” Mahoro said, jabbing him in the side with her elbow. Katsuki had to admit, she wasn’t wrong. Not that he’d let her have the satisfaction of knowing that.

“Okay,” Katsuki said. “She’s powerful, she’s arrogant. I can work with that. What else?”

Katsuma frowned. “She’s also got a small but building disciplinary record. She’s extremely dissatisfied with the Hero Rankings and the whole ranking system in general. Of which she tends to me very vocal about. Not a lot of respect for most of the top ranked Heroes.”

Fujii tapped a finger against his chin. “Didn’t Ryukyu drop in the rankings really quickly? I remember when I was a kid, just after All Might retired, that she dropped a spot…”

That was putting it mildly. Once a young and rising star, Ryukyu had never been the same after the incident with the Shie Hassaikai. Round Face had said it was like she’d suffered a crisis of faith, lost a step somewhere. She’d slipped pretty steadily, year after year, ranking after ranking. And so people had stopped believing in her. You hear that kind of bullshit enough, you internalize it, and it just feeds a vicious cycle.

“And, of course, she’s got the kids of a shit ton of high ranked Heroes with her here,” Katsuki growled. “Wonderful. Let me guess… wants to make a name for herself and redeem her mom, but hates the system that’d make that happen?”

“Got it,” Katsuma said. “Think maybe you can help direct her anger some?”

“I’m the Number Four Hero,” Katsuki snapped. At least until the next Billboard Chart ranking. Not something he was looking forward to. It was only a “leave of absence.” Best Jeanist had been the same ranking as he was when he’d suffered a nearly career ending injury too. That had turned out all right for his old mentor, but he wondered if he’d be able to say the same. He was going to file that under things he wasn’t going to think about. “She won’t listen to me.”

“Aizawa said he’d talk to her,” Mahoro said. “Underground Heroes don’t get ranked at all. Maybe he’ll get through. And besides, he managed to focus you.”

Katsuki let her have that one.

“Let’s see,” Katsuma went on. “I assume you’re familiar with Shinji Yoarashi?”

“You really want to ask stupid questions?” he shot back. “I’ve known Windbag’s kid for ages. I’m guessing his being here has something to do with his unauthorized rescue mission back during the Nomu mess?”

The kid had likely saved Katsumi’s life, Round Face’s too, with that stunt. Even if it’d been technically illegal and on extremely dubious grounds, Katsuki couldn’t blame him too much for that. Sure, he was as annoying and loud as his dad, but his heart had been in the right place. Sometimes, intent mattered more than the rules.

“Pretty much,” Katsuma said with a nod. “His teachers want us to focus in on following the rules and proper procedures.”

“Does that include knowing when to break them?”

“No,” Katsuma said.

“Yes,” Mahoro said at the same time. The two exchanged glances.

“Got it,” Katsuki said.

“Good,” Fujii added. “…Explain it to me?”

Katsuki did not dignify that with a response.

“Okay,” he said, “what about Tsuchikawa?” He still couldn’t believe Pixie-Bob had a kid. Apparently, she adopted him after stopping his villainous parent. Word around the rumor mill, or wherever Pikachu got his nonsense from, was that she was still just as promiscuous and flirtatious as ever, having made the complete transformation into a full on cougar. She was supposed to have a daughter too, he recalled, though the father wasn’t known.

He shuddered at the memory of the woman at Class 3-A’s graduation, sitting front row, giving him, Deku, IcyHot, and Glasses looks he never wanted to see again.

“Ego and lack of teamwork skills mostly,” Mahoro told him. She gave him a pointed look. “Definitely your department.”

“Ooooh, she’s got you pegged,” Fujii said. The rubber-bodied man grinned for a second, before wilting under Katsuki’s glare.

“How has Aizawa not killed you yet, you glorified gacha prize?” His former teacher didn’t suffer fools gladly and neither did Katsuki. And yes, while he was relatively young, Fujii did have an impressive career as a Pro-Hero behind him already. Never more than a “friendly neighborhood Hero”, he was nevertheless liked by many and had saved a lot of lives. And very popular with children to boot. Tai had an action figure of him that actually bounced.

He was just damned annoying.

“I’m pretty much indestructible!”

Katsuki growled. “You want to put that to the test?”

“…No.”

“What about Park?” he asked, rather than get drawn into anything else with his fellow teacher. “Korean, right?” Something tugged at his memory and he frowned as he tried to place it.

“Another one with a lot of anger,” Katsuma admitted. “And even more distrust for Heroes than Tatsuma. Tatsuma, at least, only disagrees with the ranking of Heroes and the spectator sport part of that. Park isn’t entirely convinced in the Hero system at all. Impressive Quirk though… uses bioenergy to enhance her physical attributes. Short bursts of power or speed. She’ll make a good Hero if she can get past her issues.”

He looked a little defeated by the prospect of it. Katsuki remembered what he’d been like on Nobu Island, a lot like Deku had been at the same age. So full of love for Heroes and faith that they could solve everything. He’d even admit he’d been like that at one time, before he’d been kidnapped and forced to reckon with his own limitations. Before he’d seen so much of the seedier side of the world, and the problems that punching something or unleashing an explosion in its face couldn’t solve.

“Any idea what caused it?” Fujii asked. “Everybody likes Heroes. It’s kind of Japan’s thing.”

“The Ignition Incident,” Katsuki said, as the memory floated itself up into his mind. Up until Endeavor’s public confession, it had been the biggest scandal in Hero history.

“The what now?” Fujii asked. His rubberized features twisted up in confusion. “I don’t remember any Ignition Incident.”

“Then you either weren’t paying attention or had a crappy Hero History teacher,” Katsuki growled. What the hell were they teaching in schools these days? That American idiot, Skyline, taught Hero History at U.A. He’d maybe he’d have to sit in on a few classes to make sure they were getting it right.

“Wait,” Takagi said. His eyes went wide. “I know about that one. Shit.”

“Anybody going to clue me in here?” Fujii asked, looking furtively from face to face. “I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So this was about twenty years ago,” Katsuma explained. “Ignition was Suguru Dian, a U.A. grad from the class behind Deku and his friends, with a powerful flame Quirk that basically let him set anything on fire. He went from Sidekick to full on Pro in almost no time at all. People called him the second coming of Endeavor.”

Katsuki remembered the guy, having worked with him a few times, both professionally and when they’d been students and the then Class 2-A had done joint training with the new 1-A. Arrogant as all get out, but with the talent to back it up. Of course, Aizawa and Deku had ended up having to pry him and Katsuki apart…

“So Ignition is half-Chinese and a rising star,” Mahoro said, taking over from her brother. “And being a rising star like that, the HPSC, in its infinite wisdom, thinks it’s got an “in” to help better police some of the Chinatown communities, especially with the Rising Sons Triad starting to fill the void the Shie Hassaikai left behind. Unfortunately, he’s got daddy issues, on account of his Chinese dad abusing him and his mom. Which boils over into some pretty self-hating racist stuff too.”

“Okay,” Fujii said. “I’m getting some ideas here, but Park’s Korean, not Chinese.”

“We’re getting to it,” Katsuma said. “So Ignition is made a part of an anti-Triad taskforce, and ends up investigating a Triad owned restaurant. The community there is already pretty involved in self-policing, so there’s a lot of resistance, insults, pretty much all his buttons getting pushed. But something inside him snaps, total breakdown. He thinks he’s taking down Triad agents, and instead he’s fighting innocent civilians with an extremely dangerous Quirk.”

“People died, man,” Takagi said. “Dozens more injured, massive property damage, the works. Public relations nightmare and international scandal. Global news for months.”

“There was a big show trial,” Katsuma added. “Ignition was stripped of his license. As far as I know, he’s still locked away somewhere. The HPSC made a big show of providing additional sensitivity training for Heroes, better psych screening, community outreach, all the kinds of things that would reassure the public.”

Katsuki remembered it all well. He’d only been solo a year or two at that point, not long after a stint sidekicking under Beast Jeanist. His late mentor had been appalled by what had happened. He’d been disgusted too. Especially by the way the HPSC reacted.

“It was all smoke,” he snarled. “They didn’t prohibit it, but they did stop specifically assigned Heroes to “ethnic” neighborhoods. And sure, plenty of Heroes still went in and did their damn jobs. But it broke a lot of trust. They left a lot of people to fend for themselves, instead of cleaning up their own act.”

Even Deku had wanted to do more, but he’d been too new still, too hamstrung by the rules and regulations. He’d done more than any of them though. Deku was one of the few Heroes pretty much beloved across all communities in Japan.

“Things got better, eventually,” Katsuma said. “Political winds shifted, Commission members turned over, policies got reversed, and we started working with people better. But there’s still a lot of people out there who remember or who felt the effects of being abandoned. The general consensus in a lot of those communities is still not to trust Heroes or have any faith in us being able to get the job done.”

“Well… shit,” Fujii said. “How did I not know about this?”

“Because you’re an idiot?” Katsuki suggested, but his heart wasn’t in the barb. The man seemed genuinely shocked by the news and even a bit sobered by it.

“That’s really only about half of it,” Katsuma said. “She was born here, but her parents were immigrants, seeking to escape the anti-Mutant Humanist groups in Korea. Of course…”

Right, Katsuki thought. That was a whole mess of politics and cultural issues he didn’t even feel remotely qualified to untangle. But the government tended to lump all members of an ethnic group together, in this case not sparing much distinction between new immigrants and culturally assimilated Zainicihi Koreans. With crime and politics and all that… it didn’t leave a lot of faith in the supposed chosen protectors. And when you’d seen the government turn on you once…

“So we’ve got to undo generational trauma,” he groaned. “Great. They came here, expecting the same protection from heroes Japanese citizens get, and instead they arrive into a hornet's nest due to uncaring bureaucrats desperately trying to save face while not rocking the boat.”

He let out a frustrated noise. What about the last one? Shida? The spider-girl. What’s her damage?”

“Oh, her,” Mahoro laughed. “She just wanted to be with her friends, apparently. And no one told her why the others were being sent.”

That was… that was… pretty par for the course for absurdity, where things in his life were concerned. Katsuki let out a laugh, long and loud.

“Make it stop!” Fujii wailed. “He’s scaring me!”

#my hero academia #their hero academia #fan fiction #fan fic #my writing #katsumi kirishima-bakugo #akaya koda #takiyo aoyama #katsuki bakugo #shiro monoma #mahoro shimano #katsuma shimano

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swilmarillion · 5 years

Text

The Art of Life’s Distractions

I write Castlevania fic now, apparently, Join me in the trevorcard rabbit hole. Click the title link to see the tags

“Can you even set foot in a church?” Trevor asked, grinning and fingering the hilt of his blade.

“If you can,” said Alucard dryly, “then I should be fine.”

“Fair enough,” Trevor said. “I should’ve known the bastard would hole up in here.”

“He is a priest,” Alucard said, shrugging.

The church was dark, the doors shut tight. Trevor reached out to try the handle. Alucard put a hand on the door. “Perhaps we should choose a less obvious route of ingress.”

“What did I tell you about big words?”

“It’s two syllables,” Adrian said, rolling his eyes.

“So is coward,” Belmont said, grinning again. “Let’s go.”

He’d regret it, later. He regretted a lot of things, later.

It had seemed so simple at the time. They’d heard rumors of a priest slaying demons with a lance, obliterating them into dust and earning the fear of his congregation. He’d moved onto slaying villagers, meting out justice as he saw fit.

“Sounds like a Belmont weapon,” Sypha had said.

“Sounds like a whole lot of not my problem,” Trevor had said in return.

“If you’re not going to be a Belmont,” she had said, scowling at him, “then at least have the decency to stop other people from pretending to be.”

“I can’t not be a Belmont,” he’d said, rolling his eyes. “That’s not how bloodlines work.”

“Says the monster hunter sitting in Dracula’s castle, drinking Dracula’s wine,” said Alucard, smiling his infuriating smile.

And so he had gone to track down the priest, as much to shut Sypha up as for something to do. He’d never been one for idleness, and the long weeks of inactivity had grated on him. He had actually been looking forward to getting back into the field. Had been, anyway, until Alucard had decided to accompany him.

“No,” Trevor had said, scowling. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not particularly thrilled about it either,” Alucard had said. “But Sypha insisted. She’s convinced you’ll get yourself killed.”

“I have a hundred percent track record in that department,” Trevor had protested. “And anyway, since when do you listen to Sypha?”

“Please,” Alucard had said, snorting. “Have you tried not listening to Sypha?”

Trevor had had to admit that Alucard had a point. Sypha was nothing if not persistent. Nagging, he would have called it, provided he was sufficiently out of earshot.

Which is how they had come to be in a dark, damp church, chasing down a priest-turned-necromancer who had started raising demons as a way to drum up attendance at his weekly Mass. It should have been an easy task. The man was a priest, for God’s sake, not a fighter. But the man knew his church, knew its nooks and crannies and hidey-holes, and he’d used them all to avoid an outright fight. He knew he was outmatched, and so he hid, flitting from shadow to shadow, striking out from darkness and melting away again in the face of attack.

Trevor had grown frustrated, flinging out his morning star indiscriminately, taking down chunks of the masonry and pews until the air was thick with mortar dust and debris. He saw the priest streak out from the sacristy, and he let the morning star fly. The man ducked and rolled, narrowly avoiding the whistling metal as it pounded into the stone altar behind him. Trevor pulled back, but the morning star didn’t budge. It had lodged behind the pillar of the altar and stuck fast. He wrenched it, pulling the chain tight around his hand until the metal bit into his flesh. It didn’t move. He cursed, desperately trying to tug the weapon free.

Movement caught his eye, and he watched the priest rise, the lance in his hand. The scene slowed, crystalized, running in slow motion as it played out. Trevor was stuck, hands tangled in the chain of the beleaguered morning star. The priest drew back his arm, lining up his shot. The lance streaked toward him, and Trevor swore again, his stomach dropping, fear turning his blood to ice. He tried to drop down, but he knew it wouldn’t be fast enough.

Something streaked in front of him, too fast for his eye to make out more than a pale blur. He heard a yelp of pain and a cry of triumph, and white-hot anger flooded him. He jerked his hand free of the chains and reached for his sword, feet flying over the stone floor and up the stairs to the altar. The priest scrabbled backward, defenseless, and Trevor was on him in an instant, sword whistling ominously as it swung true to its mark.

The priest fell at his feet, headless, blood spreading over Trevor’s boots and spilling down the stairs. Trevor was still a moment, panting, watching the corpse. He had seen too much to trust the finality of death. When the man didn’t move, Trevor finally began to relax. He straightened, wiping his sword on his trousers, and grinned. “See that, Alucard?” he said, sliding the sword back into his sheath as he turned. “Told you I didn’t need your—"

He stopped, words dying as his eyes found Alucard and his brain pieced together what his eyes had seen moments before. The lance had pierced Alucard’s side, traveling clean through and pinning him to a pew. Alucard had one hand on the lance, hissing at the pain of it against his palm, and his other hand on the pew. He wrenched himself forward as Trevor ran to him, pulling the lance free of the wood. He was on his knees, one hand still on the lance, the other bracing himself against the floor. His breathing sounded ragged, pained, and blood dripped steadily onto the floor beneath him.

“Don’t pull,” Trevor said, kneeling beside him. “The head is barbed. It won’t come out the way it went in.”

“Then pull it through,” Alucard said, his voice rasping in pain.

Trevor nodded and stood. He grasped the shaft of the lance and put a hand on Alucard’s back. The man was trembling, his chest heaving, and Trevor hesitated, suddenly unsure. “This is going to hurt,” he said.

“Then make it quick,” Alucard spat.

“On three, then,” Trevor said. “One. Two.” He pulled, taking Alucard by surprise, and yanked the shaft of the lance the rest of the way through Alucard’s side. It was, thankfully, a short length, but it couldn’t have been pleasant. Alucard cried out and fell as the weapon slid free, curling onto his uninjured side. Trevor threw the weapon aside and knelt beside Alucard. He pulled up the tatters of Alucard’s shirt and hissed at the sight of the ruined, bleeding flesh beneath. He watched it for a moment, expecting the quick, unsettling healing he had seen so often before, but it didn’t come.

“Consecrated weapon,” Alucard growled, and Trevor grunted in frustrated recognition.

“Fuck,” he swore. “Will it—will you—”

“Eventually,” Alucard said, trying to push himself up.

“Easy,” Trevor said, a rare softness in his voice. He helped Alucard up to a sitting position, steadying him with a hand on Alucard’s shoulder. “It’ll need to be bound, then.” He stripped off his shirt and laid it out on the ground, folding the hem over the collar and rolling the fabric into a binding.

“Really, Belmont,” Alucard, trying for his old aloofness and almost attaining it. “I don’t think—”

“I’m all for bleeding out vampires,” Trevor said, “but not like this.” He pressed the folded fabric to the wound, drawing a hiss from Alucard at the touch. “Besides,” he said, wrapping the sleeves around Alucard’s torso and tying them sight. “Sypha will kill me if I don’t bring you home.”

“Now that,” Alucard said, “I believe.” He sat for a moment, breathing heavily.

“Are you alright?” Trevor asked.

“Never better,” Alucard said.

“Can you stand?”

Alucard was still a moment more. Then he shifted forward to his knees, wincing at the pull of his broken skin. He slid one foot forward, braced himself, and stood. He stumbled forward, and Trevor caught him. “Right,” Trevor said, ducking under Alucard’s arm. “Looks like you need my help—as usual.”

“Fuck off, Belmont,” Alucard said, but he let Trevor take his weight, resting his arm around Trevor’s shoulders. Trevor slid an arm around Alucard’s waist, careful to avoid the wound at his side.

“Come on,” Trevor said, taking a careful step forward, waiting to make sure Alucard could keep pace. “Let’s get out of this shithole.”

They had left their camp a few miles into the woods. It had, like so much else, seemed like a good idea at the time. “Away from any prying idiots,” Belmont had said. It seemed far less clever now.

To his credit, Alucard walked steadily and without complaint. Still, Trevor could feel the weight of him and knew Alucard needed the help. He breathed heavily, his free hand pressed to the wound at his side. Trevor hooked his arm over Alucard’s, holding it against his shoulder to steady him. He tightened his other arm around Alucard’s waist.

They trekked the miles to their campsite in silence. It was the longest Trevor could remember being alone with someone without speaking. It unnerved him. Banter was his deflection, a stupid joke or quick insult his way of keeping the world at bay. He wanted to poke fun at Alucard, to make light of the situation if only to tamp down his own unease, but he knew Alucard would feel the need to respond, and he didn’t want him to waste the breath.

He was relieved when they reached the site and found their packs waiting, undisturbed. Alucard pulled away from him then, taking a few unsteady steps forward before sinking to his knees. “Easy,” Trevor said, breaking the silence at last. Alucard ignored him, fingers fumbling with the clasp on his pack. “What do you want?” Trevor asked, gently pushing his hands away.

“Water,” Alucard rasped.

Trevor rifled through the pack and found the waterskin. He handed it to Alucard, who drank greedily, tipping back his head.

“Jesus,” Trevor said, snatching it back. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Best get out of spewing distance, then,” Alucard said, managing a weak grin.

“Idiot,” Trevor said, rolling his eyes. He capped the waterskin and set it on the ground within Alucard’s reach. “What else do you need?

“Nothing,” Alucard said, sitting back on his haunches and easing himself to the ground.

“Don’t be proud, Alucard,” Trevor said, squatting beside him.

“Don’t mother me, Belmont,” Alucard retorted. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Asshole,” Trevor said.

“I need sleep,” Alucard said, curling on his uninjured side. “That’s all. I think I can manage that much on my own.”

“Too bad if you can’t,” Trevor said. He softened a little, watching Alucard’s hand ghost gingerly over the wound at his side. “Get some rest.”

Alucard’s eyes had already fluttered shut, and his breathing began to slow. “Thank you, Belmont,” he said, the words barely a murmur.

Trevor nodded and turned away.

He busied himself for a few hours, keeping his mind focused on the familiar tasks of setting up camp. He checked his traps and found a rabbit caught in the snare. That was dinner settled, then. He checked the other traps, the ones meant for more worrisome prey and prying eyes and made sure they were in working order. He went back to the camp and remade the fire, letting it burn as he went to refill their waterskins from the stream. He came back and skinned the rabbit, roasting it over the fire as he methodically cleaned his sword.

Only when the rabbit was crisp and dripping did he turn over his shoulder to look at Alucard. The man lay as he had when Trevor had left him, curled on his side, one hand pressed against the binding over his wound. It had grown dark, and Alucard looked paler than usual in the firelight. His hair was a tangle about his head, his shirt a bloodied mess. Trevor watched him for a moment. The man was unnaturally still, and Trevor felt a pang of irrational fear stab through him.

He stood up and crept to Alucard’s side, squatting next to him. He reached out a tentative hand and laid it against Alucard’s chest, his touch light so as not to disturb him. For a moment, he felt nothing, and panic welled up inside him. Then Alucard breathed, and Trevor let out his breath in a sigh of relief, feeling the soft rise of Alucard’s chest beneath his palm.

“Don’t worry, Belmost,” Alucard said, startling him. “You won’t be rid of me that easily.”

“Pity,” Trevor said. “How do you feel?”

Alucard’s eyes fluttered open. “Like I got stabbed,” he said. “With a consecrated weapon, no less.”

“Pretty good, then.”

“Never fucking better.”

“Well,” Trevor said, feeling a little relieved that Alucard hadn’t lost his sense of humor, “I can’t do much for a stab wound, but I do have food and water, if you want it.”

Alucard shook his head. “It’s gotten cold,” he said.

“You can move closer to the fire.” Alucard’s eyes flickered to the flames. There was ten feet of distance between him and the fire. “Come on,” Trevor said, guessing the direction of his thoughts. He slid Alucard’s arm around his shoulders and helped him up, steadying him as he had that afternoon. They walked slowly to the fire, and Trevor helped him to the ground. Alucard sat, knees drawn up, wincing as he settled himself.

“You’re going to be alright, aren’t you?” Trevor asked, eyeing him warily. “Because I can’t decide which would be worse: dragging your stupid corpse back to your asinine castle or listening to Sypha bitch at me for leaving your stupid corpse out here to rot.”

“Fortunately for you, I’m not quite petty enough to die just to make you find out.”

“Seriously, though,” Trevor said, looking him up and down dubiously. Alucard sat hunched, one hand at his side, eyes closed against the brightness of the flames. “Are you going to heal?”

“I’m working on it, Belmont,” Alucard said, opening his eyes to glare at Trevor. “It takes a little longer when there’s consecration involved.”

“Good,” said Trevor, hiding his doubt behind a grin. “Because I’m getting a little tired of carrying your sorry ass around.”

“You weren’t carrying me,” Alucard said, exasperated, turning toward Trevor. “And I told you—ah.” He winced, shifting slightly to favor his injured side. He shivered, and Trevor took pity on him.

“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his cloak and draping it over Adrian’s shoulders.

“Not necessary,” Alucard said, though he drew the cloak around himself with his free hand nonetheless.

“You should lie down,” Trevor said. “Rest some more. We have a lot of ground to cover to get back.”

“For once,” Alucard said, “you may be right.” He shifted his weight gingerly, easing himself onto the ground beside Trevor. He sighed heavily, relaxing against the ground, shifting Trevor’s cloak closer around himself. “Thank you, Belmont,” he said again, eyes drifting closed, his voice barely a murmur.

“Rest,” said Trevor in answer, turning back to the fire.

#castlevania #trevorcard #trevor/alucard #my writing #enemies to friends to lovers #canon typical vampire bullshit

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pepperonyspizza · 4 years

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Let’s see how long I can keep this up

Day 1: Fantasy AU (Skyrim AU) also posted on Ao3!

No Warnings, Pepperony, Humor

Riften is even dirtier than Pepper expects it to be. The water underneath the bridges has long ago lost its blue colour and has instead turned brown. Trash is littering the city and no one seems to pay it any mind. She sees someone disposing of a half-eaten apple right in front of a guard and nothing happens.

But not only the city itself is dirty. Honestly, the place is a dream compared to its residents. Pepper already had to nearly cut off a Nord’s hand after he tried to help himself to the contents of her pockets. One look at her sword was thankfully enough for him to get the message and quickly hurry along his way.

Pepper wishes she could leave this town and carry on with her journey but the truth is that she’s tired and in desperate need for a good night’s sleep. For this one night, this place will have to do. She’ll leave first thing in the morning and get back on the road.

The sun is just beginning to disappear behind the town’s large walls when she decides to take a quick look around the market. She’s running low on provisions and her armour has seen better days as well. Not that she expects this place to have much to offer but it can’t hurt to make sure.

The worst thing that can possibly happen is someone trying to rob her once again. Riften is rather famous for its thieves guild after all - but that poor soul will learn that it’s not the wisest idea to steal from her. With any luck, the sword proudly displayed at her side will keep any potential threats away.

Pepper has just finished paying for the chicken breasts when someone clearing his throat not too far away catches her attention. She turns to find herself face to face with a young man, his hazel eyes as captivating as they are dangerous. She not so subtly rests her hand on the handle of her blade, an action that causes the man to grin.

“I’ve never seen you around before. First time in Riften?”

“Yes and hopefully the last,” she says with as must disgust in her voice as she can muster up.

The vendor gives her a dirty look for the comment before turning her attention to another customer but the man seems to be unbothered by it. If anything, the grin on his face widens. Pepper doesn’t want to admit it but he does look rather handsome, especially in the current light of the disappearing sun.

“I figured. You don’t look like someone who belongs in a place like this.” He makes a vague gesture towards her blade. “That fancy sword you’re carrying suggest so at least. What brings you here? You got some business with the Jarl? Or Maven even?”

“A lack of options,” Pepper admits reluctantly. She has a feeling that if she doesn’t, the stranger will just keep on guessing. “I needed a bed for the night and there aren’t a lot of those nearby.”

“Well, you’re in luck. The Bee and Barb has the best beds around. I mean, I wouldn’t know since they always throw me out but Keevera seems like someone who only sells the best of the best.” He pauses for a moment, apparently even annoying Imperials have to take a breath every now and then. “What brings you this far east?”

“Work.”

“Are you one of those companions that live in Whiterun? They also all act like they’re better than anyone else.”

Pepper’s head is starting to hurt and she has the feeling that this man is the cause of it.

“My apologies,” she says even though she isn’t sorry in the least - but if this is the fastest way to get rid of him, so be it. “It’s been a rather stressful day and I’m looking forward to my warm bed.”

The stranger’s eyes light up in an instant and he takes a step closer, leaving barely any space between them. Neither the displeased noise Pepper makes, nor the unimpressed look on her face are enough to discourage him.

“You know how that bed could be even warmer?”

It takes every single bit of her self control not to punch him. She isn’t going to deny his good looks, but the arrogance with which he carries himself does nothing but irritate her. She wants to tell him so but he’s finally being quiet and without the annoying chatter, his brown eyes are enough to keep her from lashing out.

That is until she can feel the slightest movement from her bag and knows what is happening.

Pepper has her blade unsheathed and pressed against the man’s abdomen in seconds, dragging a shocked cry out of his mouth. The sound is music to her ears, as is the strangled gasp he lets out when she takes step after step forward until he's pressed against a wall with nowhere else to go.

None of the people nearby seem to be bothered by the confrontation which only goes to show that her earlier assumptions about this place were right.

“What’s your name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The man’s reluctance to tell her vanishes into thin air as soon as Pepper puts just a little more pressure on the blade still pressed to his stomach. “Ah, alright! Anthony! Easy with that, you’re going to ruin my good looks. I can’t work with a bunch of scars all over my body.”

“Now that would be a shame. Then you wouldn’t have any tactic to steal from people.”

“Exactly,” Anthony mutters, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. “Do you know how much trouble I am going to get into with the guild if I don’t bring anything home anymore? I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Forgive me but I am having a hard time feeling any kind of sympathy for a thief that tried to rob me.”

“I am sorry about that. I should have known better. I was the one to get carried away by your looks.”

She doesn't respond to that and Anthony holds her gaze for only a moment longer before his curiosity gets the better of him and he drops his head to stare at the weapon that’s keeping him in place. There is a slight pause in which he takes it in and then his eyes are growing big, even bigger than they are normally, and he looks back up at her in apparent shock.

“By Ysmir’s beard, you’re a Blade! I thought you people were extinct.” The smile from earlier is back on his face but this time it appears to be… genuine. He continues talking before Pepper has the chance to contribute to the conversation. “You said work brought you here. Were you tasked to slay a dragon? Did you succeed? Is it still alive? Are you-”

“Alright, that’s enough,” she interrupts his rambling when the words start to blend together in her ears. “You seem unbothered by the fact that I could kill you any second. None of the guards have stopped me so far, which can only mean that they aren’t all that concerned about your well-being.”

All Anthony does is shrug.

“Given my status, they probably wouldn’t do anything. But you should listen to me before doing anything rash. I have a proposition to make.”

“Oh?”

“Take me with you.”

Now, it’s Pepper’s turn to smile. He can’t be serious. The world outside is dangerous enough, even without actively searching for fights - which is exactly what she does for a living. The thought of Anthony battling a dragon is amusing, though the reality of it would be anything but.

“I know I’m not much of a fighter but I know a thing or two about people. I could help! Not to mention that, if we ever have trouble with gold, I can-”

“You’re not going to steal from people,” Pepper says as if she’s actually considering his absurd request. She isn’t, at all.

“Not even the bad guys that deserve it?” She simply glares at him. “Alright, no stealing then. But I know this land better than anyone. I know all the hidden paths and hideouts. Give me a chance and I’ll be of good use.”

She doesn’t know why she hesitates with her answer. The logical thing to do is to say no. No, he can’t join her because he’s most definitely going to get killed in the first conflict he finds himself in. No, he can’t join her because he’s tried to steal from her and she can’t trust someone like that.

By any means, saying no should be the easiest thing to do.

But the hope sparkling in his eyes is the most real thing in this forsaken town and the truth is that she could use someone who knows the landscape since she has never been here before. Tony is right about why she's here. She's been tasked with killing a dragon and so far, she hasn’t had any luck locating it. Which is ironic, given how gigantic the beast is described to be but she has a distinct feeling that it’s hiding in the nearby mountains. She won’t have a problem killing it, it’s the tracking it down part of the journey she can use assistance with.

Anthony is still staring at her, holding his breath in anticipation. Whether or not he’s waiting for her answer or a stab in the gut, Pepper isn’t sure. Either way, she can’t believe what she’s about to say next.

“I’ll think about it.”

The noise of triumph he lets out should feel like a loss but strangely, Pepper isn't bothered by it.

#pepperony #tony stark #pepper potts #my writing #au_gust_2020 #skyrim au

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kingdomofbretonxrpg · 4 years

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Parties: Our Villain and Kit Chareonsuk

Date: September 30th

Location: Starts on streets of Vannes

Triggers: violence, abuse, kidnapping, threats and generally nasty behaviour

@kit-chareonsuk

ooc// Our saga continues.

Villain

He was over this ridiculous game. He wanted to get back to some plain, old assassination. Murder was far easier than this kidnapping bullshit. He shifted his hat to cover his blackened eye. The little girl he tried to take just a few days ago had been one hell of a fighter and he was still astonished at how quickly she had managed to slip out of his grasp. Little bitch. It was time to bring the pain to someone who actually deserved it - that little pissant bastard and his pretty little lover. About fucking time.

He leaned back into the shadows, using the fading light and the curve of the building, protecting him from being seen, at least not too soon. Looking toward the entrance of the building, he waited for that pretty little lover boy to step out and walk into the fading light of day. The streets were quiet now. That thought amused him since the majority of those people meant shit to him. Then he straightened imperceptibly as he spotted his target.

Kit:

It was a relief when the end of a long work day came, Kit walking out onto the street with just a hint of a headache behind his bleary eyes. Hours of fixing malfunctioning robotics software could do that. He sent a quick text to Aramis, letting him know that he was on his way home, and tightened his grip on his messenger bag as he walked down the street towards the nearest bus stop, not knowing that there was anyone lurking nearby on the mostly quiet street.

His anxiety never really left him these days. It was always there, reminding him that Aramis was in danger. It made him move a little quicker, wanting to get home to his lover, back to the little bubble of feigned safety they’d created for themselves.

Villain:

As usual, he had parked the car a short distance away, in a blind spot from local surveillance cameras. Like most cities, Vannes thought itself something special with its security system but it was generally weak and haphazard, resting on laurels rather than reality. Of course, this only made his job a little easier and he had no real reason to criticize and yet still, internally they scoffed at their foolishness. He tried to move forward with ease and confidence, yet after the prior failure, he didn’t have the same spark for the whole exercise as it was previously.

As he advanced, he considered the young man, moving with haste toward him. Not toward him of course. Toward the stop, he suspected, although he could be meeting someone. A meeting that he would rather insist his target would miss. He moved in front of him and came to a halt. The fold of his jacket parted just enough to make the nozzle of the handgun obvious. A dark blight against the backdrop of the well-dressed man. “Turn around and don’t make a fuss about it. I absolutely would not object to leaving you on this sidewalk in a pool of your own blood, in fact I’d frankly prefer it.”

Kit:

Kit looked down at his phone, sure that Aramis would have texted him about what they were having for dinner. He’d be cooking them something by now. But when Kit looked up from his phone, there was a figure before him, face slightly obscured by the brim of his hat. Kit was startled first by the sudden appearance, but then again when he realized what the stranger was holding.

His throat tightened with anxiety at the words that followed this realization. Scowling, he slowly turned around. He wanted to shout, to do something, but there was no way he could do that with a gun pointed in his direction. Turning around, he tried to discreetly use his phone to call Aramis, slowly moving his thumb across the screen as he held the device at his side.

Villain:

“That’s a good little boy.” he crooned, amused by the obedience. He was a pretty thing now wasn’t it. “Let go of the phone boy. Just let it drop.” He instructed firmly, unable to resist pressing the nozzle of the firearm firmly into the young man’s back, hard enough to bruise. “And just keep walking.” He snarled. Just a short distance now. The vehicle loomed. This would be the last one, he prayed. He was tired of these particular creatures and keeping the hostages alive. It was tedious.

Kit:

That’s a good little boy. Kit wanted to throw up. A lot. “Fuck you,” he snapped as he dropped his phone, peering down at it, his last text to Aramis on the screen. He had no idea what was about to happen to him, and he was scared out of his mind. But when he felt the gun pressed against his back hard, he reflexively swung an arm back to try and push the stranger off of him. He couldn’t just let this happen.

Villain:

“Maybe later.” He replied with a thread of satisfaction that he had gotten to the submissive. As he passed the phone, he brought his foot down heavily on it. He noted the screen had shattered before kicking it into the gutter. He hoped they found it later and figured out that he had gotten that bastard’s pretty lover boy. When the arm swung back it hit a bruise left by that little bitch from the other night. He snarled and wrapped a hand into Kit’s hair and pulled back roughly. “Try that again and you’ll end up in the gutter like your fucking phone.” he snarled. “Now move.” He shoved Kit forward, releasing his hand on the other male’s hair and using the nozzle of the gun to urge him onward. “Just open the backdoor and slide right on in, little bitch boy.” He ordered. The back seat of the car didn’t look special but in fact it was geared to being a prison cell. No handles, no ability to exit and a thin mesh preventing anyone in the back seat from getting into the front. It was a trap and all he needed was this submissive to climb right on in.

Kit:

Kit gasped as he felt the hand pull him back by his hair, trying hard not to let his panic show, swallowing his anxiety as best he could. He really did not want to end up in the gutter with his now shattered phone. So when he was pushed forward and further encouraged with the nozzle of the gun, he regained some level of his composure and walked, even if his heart was beating hard enough that he could hear it in his head. His will to survive, however, didn’t quite keep his mouth shut. “Who’s really the little bitch boy out of us? You’re just an errand boy for Armand, aren’t you?” When they reached the vehicle, Kit glared at the man behind him before sliding the door open. This was it. Once he got into this car, it was over. But it was either die here now or try to survive a little longer, so he got into the car, immediately crossing his arms. He surveyed his surroundings, noticing the changes made to the car, his current prison. There was no escape from here.

Villain:

The barb struck home and his jaw tightened. The little shit. He slammed the door closed behind the submissive and has to restrain himself from doing damage to the pretty little bitch. Sliding behind the wheel, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, clenching hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He forced himself to relax after his wrists started to ache from the strain. The vehicle turned into the early evening traffic and he began to drive. Although the temptation to head straight out of the city was strong, he knew better than that. He took a twisting path, heading out of the City and then back again in different routes. He refused to look in the backseat at the pretty little bitch boy. Stupid Aramis. Fucking asshole gets this pretty thing and he was still alone. Bastards all of them.

Kit:

If Kit had learned anything from a nearly lifelong friendship with Dean, it was how to get under people’s skin. His best friend was incredibly gifted in this regard. Kit eyed the driver of the car, his captor, noting how tightly he held the steering wheel. “So is your job just like...failing to kill targets and kidnapping people or do you also have to get Armand off after too? Does he pay you a lot or are you just like in it for the craft?” Kit’s eyes peered as best he could through the front windshield to watch where they were going, but the winding trail was hard to track. “Or are you being forced into this too? Do you need help? Blink twice if you need help.” He kicked the back of the man’s seat. “No, guess not. You seem to like being Armand’s bitch too much.”

Villain:

His jaw clenched so hard that his molars started to crack. Little fucker. Finally, on a back country road, the car screeched to a stop and he whipped around, his hand weaving into the mesh. If the mesh didn’t exist, his fist would have been buried in the submissive’s face. “Listen here you little shit. You’re nothing but trash I have to pick up to make a fucking point. Now shut the hell up or I’ll go back into this fucking city and get someone else after fucking burying your body in that field. If you’re lucky I’ll kill you first. Got that!” he snarled.

Kit:

When the car lurched to a stop and the arm went for the mesh keeping them apart, any bravery Kit had been feeling disappeared and the anxiety that normally had him lashing out, now had him silently glaring at the man through the mesh. This man could really kill him. “Oh, did your master tell you it was okay to kill me? Or do you like it when he punishes you?” Kit leaned back in the seat, slumping slightly as he crossed his arms, still openly glaring.

Villain:

His fist pounded against the mesh and if looks could kill, Kit would already have been six feet under. He would have loved to have killed him. It wouldn’t have been hard even. This keeping them alive bullshit was way more fuss than it was worth. “He just said to get a few. You personally don’t matter at all. To anyone. I bury you out there, they’ll have forgotten about you by the time they are putting up the Christmas decorations you little slut. Now shut the fuck up.” He growled before turning around.

Just as quickly as it has stopped, the vehicle roared to life. He didn’t bother with any more fiddle faddle, driving around bullshit. Instead he took the side roads that would lead to the cottage where the other prisoners waited. The annoying girl who supposedly couldn’t hear and the big pretty bitch. The road became jerky, hurling the vehicle around as they bumped, shimmied and ground over the harsh, rutted road. Pulling into the garage as night descended around them, he waited until the doors had closed completely before exiting the vehicle. If he had it his way, his three ‘guests’ would be in shallow graves out back soon enough. Until then, he needed to be patient. God help him.

Kit:

You’re wrong, Kit thought. Aramis will find me. In fact, that was exactly what he feared would happen. Aramis would search for him. And find him. And get himself hurt. He could only hope his boyfriend took his advice and went to Katarin for help. He hoped Aramis didn’t give this man an opportunity to hurt him. With this thought, Kit continued to glare at the back of the man’s seat as he started the car up again.

Kit’s gaze drifted out the window, trying to get a good look at where they were going. As the road got bumpier, he took note. They were going further out than the main roads, obviously. Not surprising. When they reached their destination, Kit watched as the garage door closed, perhaps his last view of the outside world for a while. Maybe forever if this guy was seriously thinking of killing him. Watching the man as he got out of the vehicle, Kit positioned himself as far away from him as he could in the back seat, wary of what was about to happen.

Villain:

He took a few calming breaths and tried to centre himself. Just a short time now. Then this fucking nightmare would be over and he could get back to killing people like God or … well … the Devil intended. Finally he slowly slid out of the front seat and closed the door with a snap. Then he withdrew the gun again and opened the door to the backseat. “Nice and slow, little bitch. Cause at this point. I don’t fucking care any more. Out … now.” He gestured with the gun, directly Kit toward the back of the garage where a simple door waited to lead the submissive to his fate.

Kit:

Kit really did pride himself on making this man lose the ability to give a shit. Truly. But when the gun was pointed at him again, there wasn’t much he could do to regain any sense of control he might have delusionally thought he had of this situation. He slowly slid across the back seat, balking as his gaze fell on the gun itself. He wasn’t sure he’d ever actually seen one in person before, and now it was pointed at him. He let the man guide him towards the door, not wanting to know what was on the other side of it. He stopped in front of it, limbs freezing in fear.

Villain:

“I don’t have time for you to be a scared little bitch. Open the fucking door you little shit and head on down.” He snarled moodily. He nudged Kit in the back with his free hand and then slapped the back of the submissive’s head roughly. “Hurry up. I’m already tired of your shit.” Down those stairs was the row of cells, already incarcerating the others. “Get going. Now.”

Kit:

Kit resisted slightly as he was pushed forward, letting out a yelp when he was slapped in the head. “Fuck...! Fine. Fucking asshole,” he cursed as he reached out and gripped the handle, opening the door. It was dark as he made his way down the steps. He knew it would be. He did not expect to find cells down there. He was sad to recognize both of the occupants there as he squinted through the darkness, though he was glad they were alive. This guy seemed unhinged enough to actually murder someone when he wasn’t busy being a lousy shot.

Villain:

“I’ll fuck yours later if I get bored and want some asshole’s sloppy seconds.” He stated with a loud growl. He followed the submissive down the stairs, where the row of cells awaited. Jadon’s poor bandaged arm the only evidence of any physical harm. “Step inside. First open one. Don’t test me you little bitch, I’ll fucking shoot your damned ass, just drag you into a cell and everyone can enjoy the pleasant scents as you rot on the floor.”

Kit:

“Lucky for me I’m sure you have a very exciting evening of being fucking evil planned,” Kit spat. He told himself it was probably an empty threat even as his anxiety spiked. Walking past the two occupied cells, he glanced at the occupants briefly before entering the first empty one. There was no point in fighting it now. The least he could do was try to draw attention away from the other two when he could. “You made a mistake, taking me, you know. This is how you’re going to fail.” He wished he could be as sure as he forced himself to sound, but when he didn’t arrive home to Aramis, he knew his Dominant would tear apart the whole country until he was found.

Villain:

For once, he laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was so unfamiliar that it seemed rusty and strange in his throat and to his ears. As Kit stepped inside, he reached for the door to the human sized cage and tugged it closed. It slammed closed with a loud jangle. “You’re in a cage and your little bitch boyfriend is exactly nowhere to be found. He couldn’t even protect you. I can’t wait to bury you out back and forget I ever saw your damn face.”

Kit:

This guy really was underestimating Aramis. “Give him a little time,” Kit said as he watched the door to his cell close. He gripped the bars of his cage and tried to gather any courage he had left. “I’ll be sure to remember your face so I can identify you in a lineup or point you out in court when the time comes. Looking forward to it.” He glared at the man. “When you report into your master, tell him I said hi.”

Villain:

He turned on his heel and headed up the stairs, flicking off the last remaining light as he did so, plunging the basement from semi-darkness to total darkness. He would be damned if this plan would get him killed. He was following orders and frankly three bullets and a shallow graves would appeal to him much more than this bullshit. He didn’t respond to the submissive. Frankly, he had already stopped listening to the boy. He was in his own worries now. Fucking hell…. This was bullshit.

Kit:

When the lights went out completely, Kit bit the inside of his cheek, trying to quell his fear. He slowly started to walk the perimeter of his cage, small as it was. Pacing was all he could really do other than sit and wait to either be found or killed. His heart pounded in his chest, but he had to stay calm. He couldn’t give that guy the satisfaction of anxiety attack. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself as it all really started to sink in just how much trouble he was in.

Kit sat down and let himself panic, making himself as small as he possibly could as he tried to just keep breathing.

#abuse tw #violence tw #kidnapping tw #or should we say kit-napping #kittinan chareonsuk

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loove-persevering · 5 years

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The Other Holland (Steve Harrington Imagine)

Description: Barb had a sister, that sister is you. What happens when the answers don’t add up? What happens when you find yourself smitten over Steve Harrington in the process? Will you find out why Barb was alone that night and why Nancy left her?

A/N: This is the start to a new series that Im so excited about! I haven’t seen a fic with Barb’s sister before! I think adding in a relationship with Steve (Seeing as him and Nancy were basically the reason Barb was alone) Would be a pretty big twist for the reader and how she could potentially find out! Let me know what you think! Should I continue?

Barb was your big sister, you were almost total opposites but she kept you grounded that was for sure. Ever since she went missing you could just picture her walking through that door like she usually did, you would both sit down and have dinner with your parents and talk about your day just like old times. But now that seemed like such a distant memory, because Barb had been missing a while and without her home didn’t feel like home anymore.

you remember the day you found out she was missing it was just like any other day, she had told you her and Nancy were going to the ceremony for Will Byers to show support. The only thing was you knew for a fact she wasn’t there, you were and you didn’t see her that entire night. Hawkins was a pretty small town and while the turnout was big it wouldn’t have been hard for you to find her in the crowd.

‘’Hey Nancy?’’ You ask interrupting her conversation with Steve, Tommy, and Carol.

‘‘Y/N hey,’‘ You say noticing the awkward tone in her voice.

‘‘I was wondering if you’ve seen Barb? I didn’t see her this morning and I haven’t seen her all day.’‘ You explain nervously feeling all of them looking at you.

‘‘Uh,’‘ She hesitates looking around at the rest of them, ‘‘I think she’s at the library, she had some studying to do she said.’‘ She explains to you. You nod your head giving her a small smile before quickly making your way to the library in search of your sister.

You never found her that day, and when you went home your mom and dad were both in full panic mode, first Will Byers and now Barb? ‘’Mom I’m sure she’s okay, It’s Barb!’’ You try and assure her. If you knew one thing it was that your sister wasn’t much of a fighter but she knew how to take care of herself, she was easily the smartest person in the room at all times and it showed and if she was in danger she’d know how to get out of it.

It’s been a while since she disappeared and Steve and Nancy were coming over for dinner tonight, something they had been doing since she went missing. You really didn’t understand why but you didn’t question it since you liked Nancy, Steve too. You had always had a crush on Steve but you were a year younger than them and he was head over heels for Nancy that was one thing Barb had been telling you about before she went missing. She was saying how different Nancy had been acting since her and Steve began dating and how she was scared once Nancy got in with Steve and all his friends that she would forget about her. You assured her Nancy wouldn’t do that, her and Barb had been best friends for so long that their friendship would last till they were old and wrinkly. That was only a few weeks before she disappeared.

You hear the door bell ring and you get up excited to see someone other than your parents for a change. Just like Barb you were ahead in your studies and doing really well in school but with her missing you had taken some time off and the school allowed you to fulfill your studies at home. You swing open the door seeing Steve and Nancy standing there and Nancy rushes in giving you a hug, Steve gives you a one handed hug that was pretty awkward but you appreciated the gesture. ‘’Hey!’’ You say to them both.

Your mom walks in then ushering them into the dining room already having set up for dinner, they just bought KFC. We use to have a lot more home cooked meals but when Barb went missing it seemed like any food we made in this house stopped as nobody had the effort to cook anything. ‘’I love KFC,’’ Steve says taking a bite of his chicken leg and you hold back a laugh and you see him glance in your direction giving you a small smile.

You made some small talk for a while about school and it seemed odd not having Barb around because while Nancy’s life was in full swing you couldn’t help but wonder what Barb would be doing right now if she was here. ‘’I noticed a for sale sign out front?’’ Nancy says in more of a questioning tone, ‘’I hope that’s the neighbors.’’

You felt yourself shrink back into your seat as your mom looked to your dad then back to Steve and Nancy, ‘’We hired a man named Murray Bauman, he was an investigative journalist for the Chicago Sun Times. He does some freelance now and agreed to take Barb’s case.’’ She says excitedly. You had your doubts about the man, one half hoped more than anything he’d find your sister and bring her home. But on the other hand you were scared your parents were going to put out all this money and get nothing only to be left with our hearts more torn then they already were.

‘‘That’s great!’‘ Steve says looking over the card your father had tucked away in his pocket. ‘‘That’s really great, right Nanc?’‘ Steve asks showing the card to her.

‘‘What exactly does that mean?’‘ Nancy asks.

‘‘It means he’s gonna do what that lazy son of a bitch Jim Hopper-’‘ Your father lets out your mom touching his arm letting him know he was saying too much.

‘‘Dad,’‘ You say looking at him with pleading eyes and he mutters a sorry under his breath.

‘‘It means were going to find our Barb,’‘ Your mom says and you can feel the raw emotion in her voice the mix of sadness but hope.

‘‘Is that why your selling the house?’‘ Nancy asks. She looks over to you and you nod your head yes.

‘‘Yep,’‘ You say and for the first time in a while Steve looks over at you sympathetically.

‘‘Don’t you worry about us sweetie, we’re fine. More than fine!’‘ She lies. Truth was none of you were fine you were walking around on egg shells around each other. You hadn’t been in Barb’s room since the last time you talked to her in there, you couldn’t bare to look at it not knowing if you’d ever be able to just walk in her room and talk with her again. While barb and you were different you had a special connection with one another, you didn’t look like sisters but you had the exact same personality one that was older beyond your years. You knew things your parents didn’t want to tell you, you knew how mad they were that the Hawkins police couldn’t find her.

You watch Nancy shift uncomfortably in her seat and then look to Steve who was watching her closely. She excuses herself and your left in awkward silence, ‘’It’s finger lickin’ good,’’ He says and you look at him a hint of a smile on your face. After a few minutes of more awkward silence you walk back to the bathroom wanting to make sure Nancy was okay and you can hear crying from the other side of the door. You wait outside for a few minutes and she finally comes out her eyes still filled with tears she quickly wipes them when she notices you.

‘‘I get it,’‘ You say trying to sound strong. It was one thing to be the sister of the girl who’d gone missing, people were always asking if you were okay and how your parents were doing. You hadn’t thought about how you weren’t the only person that lost someone, Nancy had lost her best friend. ‘‘You’re her best friend.’‘ You tell her giving her a smile.

‘‘She’s mine,’’ She says smiling at you through her tears. ‘‘I’m so sorry Y/N I-’‘ She begins to say but is cut off when Steve walks in the hallway.

‘‘Everything okay?’‘ He asks looking to Nancy then you.

‘‘Yeah,’‘ You say nodding at him. You look back and forth between him and Nancy not really sure what to say.

‘‘You should come hangout with us sometimes Y/N,’‘ Nancy says. Steve gives her a look, ‘‘Get your mind off everything, I can’t imagine being here all the time..’‘ She says and you nod looking around the house noticing more pictures of Barb.

‘‘Yeah,’‘ Steve agrees giving you a nod, ‘‘We can go to a movie or get some ice cream or whatever you wanna do!’‘ Steve suggest.

‘‘I’d really like that,’‘ You tell them truthfully, it would be nice to get out and do something normal. ‘’You guys are leaving soon?’’ You ask them and they both look to each other and nod.

‘‘Yeah it’s getting late,’‘ Nancy says.

‘‘Alrighty!’‘ You say and offer to walk them to the door. You walk them out and your parents wish them a goodbye, before they leave Nancy pulls you aside.

‘‘You should come to Tina’s party with us, on Halloween!’‘ She suggest.

‘‘I don’t know...I’ve never really been to a party.’‘ You say rubbing your hands over your arm feeling the cold air. ‘‘Who would drive?’‘ You ask.

‘‘I would!’‘ Steve interrupts. ‘‘Don’t worry I’m a safe driver,’‘ He says smiling admirably.

‘‘I’ll come,’‘ You say to them and they both smile and wish you a goodnight. You liked Nancy a lot, she was sweet and pretty and funny and in a way kind of like another sister to you. Since you were so close in age Barb and her didn’t really mind when you’d tag along with them, you knew Nancy had a younger brother and usually got really annoyed with him.

There was one thing you were itching to ask her though, if her and Barb were together that night then how did Barb go missing? Where was Nancy? How did nobody see anything? You constantly asked yourself these questions and maybe one day you’d finally get an answer, you could only hope that would be the day your sister came home.

PART 2 COMING SOON (Please leave feedback so I know people want more:))

Part 2

#steve x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington angst #joe keery #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #Barb #barbra holland #justice for barb #stranger things show #netflix #imagine #billy hargrove #billy hargove x reader

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fanficimagery · 5 years

Text

Tops Dogs

#144 "Well that's pretty rude of you to say."

Summary: When the Alexandrians are on their knees and waiting to see which one of them is to be sentenced to death by Negan, an entirely new group steps in and changes everyone's view on just who the true top dogs are out in the new world. SEASON 7 AU. Modern!100 AU.

Fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear courses through his veins and all Rick can think about is how this is all his fault. As his friends and family are forced to their knees, all he can really pray for is that his son lives and everything's done and over with soon so they can get Maggie the help she needs before it's too late.

"All right!" One of the people who’s captured them gloats. "We got a full boat. Lets meet the man." The same man walks up to a dusty RV and knocks twice on the door.

The seconds seem to stretch on as they wait, many of Rick's group shivering in either fear or pain. He knows now that they're in way over their head, that Gregory had led them to believe they actually had a chance against Negan. But boy were they wrong.

So, so wrong.

The RV door creaks open and a man steps out. It's too dark to really see him, but Rick can make out that the man is gripping a bat in hand while letting it lean against his shoulder. "Pissing our pants yet?" He asks. No one utters a word and the man starts walking forward into the light. Fitted jeans, a black leather jacket, and a red scarf wrapping around his neck is what makes up the man that supposedly everyone fears. "Boy, do I have a feeling we're getting close." He walks towards Eugene, smiling all the while and starts walking down the line of kneeling individuals. "Yep. It's gonna be pee-pee pants city here real soon. Which one of you pricks is the leader?"

Lexa's leaning against the door to the cafeteria, watching on as her people are served up their rations for dinner. It's been a peaceful week so far, so it's not really a surprise when one of her best scavengers comes up to her with news.

"Negan's men are hunting," Octavia murmurs quietly as she sidles up to Lexa's side. She makes sure to keep her gaze straight ahead, all weapons sheathed and arms at ease at her sides. "They've crossed the perimeter into our territory and appear to be circling a smaller group from the Alexandria community."

Lexa's jaw clenches, but makes no move to look at the younger girl. "Is Negan with them?"

"We're not sure, but that ugly RV of his was spotted driving around. It's parked now. In our territory as well."

Lexa finally glances at the younger girl, taking in her coal smeared eyes and leather jacket adorned with buckles and straps. Her hair is pulled back in what everyone started to call grounder!fashion, the sides braided back to a certain point and then tied off to hang loosely down her back. "Give me five minutes. Go and gather a group, and then tell Indra she's in charge while I'm away. We're going to crash a party."

Octavia can only grin in response, she tersely nodding once while rushing off to do what she was told.

In her room, Lexa merely pulls on a jacket over her shirt since the rest of her attire is appropriate for an outing. Then above the jacket, she pulls on a one-shoulder shoulder pad that straps across her chest and then clasps a red sash from the right side of her chest to droop down to her left hip. Her hair is already pulled back and after sheathing a sword at the right side of her hip, she paints coal across her eyes and then smears a few lines down her cheeks. A little metal, gear-like decal is placed between her brows and she's ready- ready to break up Negan's little hunting party and remind the man that he's not all he tries to be.

- X - X - X -

Hidden in the shadows with half her fighters hidden high up in the trees, Lexa watches on in disgust as an utterly exhausted group of men and women, and what appears to be one teenager, are forced to their knees in a semi-circle. Negan's men are crowded behind the group's back, all armed with long rifles and smaller handguns holstered at their waists, and holding either pipes or crowbars. Vehicles circle the entirety of the group, their headlights turned on and spotlighting the group from Alexandria.

Negan does make his grand entrance, complete in his leather jacket, red scarf and barbed wire wrapped bat, he ranting on and on about how he does not appreciate Rick killing his people or that Rick and his people killed more of Negan's people when Negan sent in more men to kill Rick's people for killing his people. It's all one big cluster-fuck and Lexa nearly feels bad for the people that earned Negan's ire.

One woman in Rick's group looks to be in dire need of help and it grates on Lexa's nerves when Negan promises that they're going to regret crossing him in a few minutes. She knows how the man works, knows how cowardly he truly is, but they've set their borders on their own claimed territory and stayed off each other's toes.

Until now, that is.

Not only has Negan trespassed, but he's trespassed with the intent to kill. And while Lexa does not know a single face in Rick's group, she's not about to sit back and let Negan slaughter someone in her own backyard.

Negan, of course, demands that Rick and his people give him their shit. This is another thing that grates on her nerves, this self-proclaimed bad ass scavenging from other communities by threatening to kill them if they don't cough up what they fought for. For being a very capable man with very capable men and women at his compound, they choose to take food and other necessary items from groups who worked hard to get it themselves, and that is not okay with Lexa. It's cowardly and pathetic, and she's nearly salivating at the idea of putting the man in his place in front of his current victims.

"I don't want to kill you people. Just want to make that clear from the get-go," Negan says. "I want you to work for me. You can't do that if you're dead, now, can you?"

Rick violently shivers, from both the cooling sweat on his skin and the fear gripping his entire being as he listens to what their lives are going to be like now.

"But you killed my people, a whole damn lot of them," Negan seethes. "More than I'm comfortable with. And for that, for that you're gonna pay." He pauses in his overly long speech and Rick bristles as he hears Maggie whimper. He looks down the line to Daryl and watches as his brother bravely glares up at the one threatening them. "So now... I'm gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you," Negan says as if it were no big deal to take a life.

And if the stories were to be believed, which they are, then Negan was the ultimate big bad and what he's just said was no bluff.

The gathered Alexandrian's can only watch on as the man taunts them, beaten and utterly exhausted, a bat wrapped with barbed wire leaning against his shoulder as Negan slowly paces before them.

Crickets continue chirp, twigs snap, and leaves rustle, but no one seems to pay it any attention. Negan continues to take his time to size up Rick and his people, and then..

"I'm sorry, but what was that?" A new voice, feminine from the sounds of it, asks. Rick and a few of his people's gazes are immediately drawn to the decent sized group that's crept up on them, a woman with war paint across her eyes and apparently dressed for a battle of sorts now standing just to the left of Negan’s RV. Even the group of men behind her are dressed similar, some of their faces painted as an intimidation tactic. "Who are you going to beat the holy hell out of?"

Negan freezes for a brief second, anger suddenly blazing in his eyes as his grip tightens around his bat. A false smile stretches from ear to ear as he whirls around. "Lexa, my girl, how are you on this wondrous night?"

"Cut the shit, Negan," she says. "You're in my territory and you know how I feel about you and your little merry band of cowards playing this bullshit game."

Negan's men all bristle, muttering swear words as the one Negan called Lexa smirks, and Negan narrows his eyes in anger. “Well that’s pretty rude of you to say.”

Several guns can be heard being cocked, but all Lexa has to do is whistle and then another group- this one at least thirty or so large- is stepping forward from the shadows on the other side of the RV. The female leading the second group is all swagger and nonchalance, and the men behind her are covered in furs, paint and masks which makes them at least 10X scarier than Negan and his own men.

"You and I already know how this is going to end, Negan. You're in my territory now and my people greatly outnumber you and yours." He scoffs at Lexa's words, eyeing those standing with her. Even to Rick's gaze Negan's group still looks just a little bit larger, but Lexa whistles again and Negan's back to scowling. Because not only does Lexa have men and women on the ground, but if the little fires suddenly dotting up high in the trees is anything to go by, then she also has people waiting to strike from up high. "Leave now," she threatens, "or I'll drive my sword through your heart and string up your corpse as a warning to those left at the Sanctuary."

Negan's lip curls, but as the seconds slowly tick by he eventually glances over his shoulder and nods tersely to his men. Surprisingly, the wall of men at Rick and his people's backs step away, drop the weapons they had stripped from the Alexandrians, and start climbing back into and onto their modes of transportation. Then glancing back at Lexa, Negan mockingly curtsies. "As you wish, Commander."

Negan shoulders his bat once more and then casts a glare at Rick. "Remember. You work for me now."

Rick gulps, but it's Lexa who pipes up. "Actually, they don't. If you want food, clothing, furniture and medicine, then why don't you put on your big boy pants and fetch it yourself like the rest of us."

"You're skating on thin ice, girl," he chuckles darkly while slowly turning back towards her. "They owe me. You clearly missed my speech about the crimes they've committed against me and since I'm not bashin' in any skulls tonight.." He trails off, shrugging.

"Oh, no. I heard," she assures him. "I just don't care. Alexandria is neutral ground, but since you brought your hunting party into my lands, I'm stepping in now. You will leave them alone or you'll deal with the Coalition."

Negan's lips twist into a snarl as his face darkens. "This isn't over."

"I didn't expect it to be."

As Negan barks at his men to roll out, he stomps back towards his RV and slams the door behind him. It takes a couple of minutes for the RV, trucks and motorcycles to finally leave the woods, but they eventually do and everyone just kind of breathes in relief. But having been left with a far larger and more intimidating group, Rick remains on his knees, watching cautiously as Lexa starts to make her way towards them.

Glenn scrambles over to Maggie who's looking far worse than she did earlier, and Rick mentally scolds him for the action because he's not sure how this new group is going to react to them.

"I am not a monster nor royalty," Lexa says calmly with a small grin. "You can get off your knees now." She holds a hand out to him and Rick hesitantly takes it as she pulls him to his feet. She tries to help up Sasha, but the dark skinned woman refuses and climbs up on her own.

Lexa's attention then turns to Maggie and Glenn huddled on the forest ground, he mumbling soothing words in her ear. Rick watches as the woman frowns and crouches in front of them. Abraham, the surly redhead, tries to intervene, but Rick shakes his head at his friend. "What's the problem?" Lexa asks.

Glenn glances at her, worry glinting in his eyes. "S-she's pregnant," he blurts, "and in an extreme amount of pain. We don't know what's wrong."

Lexa reaches forward and places a hand on Maggie's damp forehead, she shushing and cooing when Maggie tries to pull away. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Maggie continues to whimper and tremble, and Lexa's frown deepens. "She needs immediate attention."

Rick clears his throat as his group gathers around, casting cautionary glances towards Lexa's people still lingering by the treeline. "We were on our way to Hilltop when Negan's men started to corral us here. Hilltop has a doctor there that's helped Maggie before."

"I know the community in which you speak of," she tells him. "Unfortunately, if you wish to save the baby, she won't make it as far as Hilltop."

Glenn looks absolutely torn and terrified as Maggie starts to sob, he looking up at Lexa. "Please help us. I'll do- I'll do anything."

Rick's gut clenches at the obvious desperation, but is quite surprised to see Lexa nod. "Polis, our community, is a lot closer. You all," she says, glancing briefly at everyone lingering around, "look like you need some aide in one form or another." Then glancing back at Glenn, she says, "If you will permit it, one of my men will carry her. We are not injured nor are we exhausted, so there's little to no chance of us jostling her too much or putting her in further pain."

"Y-yeah. That's fine." He glances down at Maggie, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. "You hear that, Maggie? We're gonna get you some help, but they're going to have to carry you. It's going to be alright."

She weakly nods and mumbles out a thank you between cries, and then Lexa's standing and facing her people. "Lincoln. We're in need of your strength." A dark skinned man steps forward from behind the only other woman, at least Rick thinks there's only two women since everyone else is covered up, his clothing covered in mud as two dark streaks of war paint are painted down over his eyes from his forehead to his cheeks. Once he's standing next to Lexa, she gestures downward and says, "This is Maggie. She's with child and needs immediate attention from our home."

Lincoln nods before crouching down, but doesn't make a move towards Maggie since Glenn's staring at him in awe and/or fear. "Don't worry," Lexa grins. "Lincoln's a gentle giant. Your lady friend will be perfectly safe with him."

"S-she's my wife," Glenn automatically corrects, he then hesitantly and cautiously handing Maggie over to Lincoln. The painted man gets her situated fairly easy in his arms, he standing and then turning to stride back towards his people.

"Come," Lexa tells them. "To Polis we go."

#fanficimagery #blurred lines #crossover #the walking dead #twd #the 100 #lexa kom trikru #lexa #octavia blake #negan #rick grimes #glenn rhee #lincoln #heda lexa #commander lexa

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ask-elementalhermitcraft · 5 years

Text

A Knight’s Duty

(1.9k, angst, mod seagrass)

“No Joe on their side to rush over and give him a second wind, no soothing touch to tell him it’s okay. Just him, the blazing sky, and a grass that is starting to look too green.” [wels pushes himself too hard and it hurts.]

A gasp, a single step missed because of slippery ground, and he’s done for.

The arrow tears through him like a knife through butter, splitting his skin and burying itself deep, deep inside his side. It hurts, god, it hurts so bad. It feels like he’s going to fall apart. He’s got armor, yes, but how much does iron armor really do against the power of a fully charged fully enchanted bow that Grian’s just aimed at him? He’s a good fighter, he knows, but there’s only so much Wels can do to evade an aerial assault and Grian’s just gotten his lucky break.

He resists falling to his knees, curling over, and crying like he wants to. He’s not a fool, he knows what being down a member means, especially in a team where they’ve got less people in the first place. And…they don’t have a healer. No Joe on their side to rush over and give him a second wind, no soothing touch to tell him it’s okay. Just him, the blazing sky, and a grass that is starting to look too green.

Get up, he tells himself. Get up. Get out there. Fight.

It’d be so easy, he thinks, to just lie down and let his teammates help. Let False cover him while Impulse helps him back over, or ask Xisuma to rewind time, or just simply stagger back to base by himself (but he knows, there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to get all the way back. it’s futilefutilefutile). It’d take so little to call out, let out a pained cry like he’s biting back and have their leader command his friends to his aid.

A knight never takes the easy way out. A knight’s duty is to serve his lord, and his people, and he will not let them down. He must not fail, he thinks. Don’t let them down.

But it hurts, it hurts so bad that he don’t think he wants to be here anymore. He wants to be far, far, away where nothing can hurt him and he’s safe again just having fun with his friends and he doesn’t have to worry if the tiny winged fellow he just lent some item frames the other day could be preparing to gut him open like a fish. It hurts, doesn’t it? To see how fast everything falls apart, how fast just one mistake can lead to a world of hurt? But his job is to push past that hurt. A knight does not fall.

He thinks that it’s getting worse, he can feel the blood seeping through his fingers that he’s pressing tightly to his body like that’ll make it hurt any less. His armor and dark underclothes hide it, he hope. He prays. He grits his teeth, gingerly moves behind a hill, and prepares to remove the arrow—can’t have his team asking awkward questions.

Wels takes a deep breath, bites down on a stick, and pulls.

Blood fills his mouth, his ears ring, everything hurts hurts hurts and he wants it to stop so so bad. The arrow was barbed, the son of a bitch, and it hurts so much his skin is coming apart and soon the armor will be the only thing left. There’s a quiet scream ringing in his ears, he’s trying to see who it is before realizing he’s the one screaming and there are tears in his eyes, there are tears running down the metal, and hot, hot blood coating the entire side of his armor. He’s said that he shouldn’t show weakness, but everything hurts so much—he’s never felt this kind of pain before, never felt the kind of pain that makes you feel like you can’t move or breath or do anything for fear of it worsening and every time you move each one of your muscles screams wrong, please, don’t, not anymore, and it takes a moment for him to realize he’s the one whispering those words out loud.

He wants someone to make it better. He wants to be able to get away from it all, to be able to ask to be taken out of the field, to be able to rest at base with some water and all traces of blood gone from the shining, shining armor. Wels wants someone to tell him it’s okay, he doesn’t have to take all this responsibility.

But of course, nobody does. Why would they?

He gets up, and warm blood runs down his body and pain screams in his mind like the very action of getting up is impossible. It’s not, he tells himself, and ignores the spots flashing in his vision.

It’s over the top of the hill that he sees Xisuma, exhausted and leaning on a nearby tree, gesture to him. “You…hah…feeling alright mate?” He gets out, and gestures to his general hunched over posture.

Wels feels intense guilt rush through him for even thinking that he should ask to rewind time for something as trivial as an arrow wound. He steels himself, and shouts out, “I’m fine! Just was catching my breath for a bit.”

“Good! Actually, if you can…mind taking out Stress or Iskall over there? They’re causing us a lotta trouble…” He doesn’t know if he can even get over there. But. His teammate is depending on him, he can’t let Xisuma know his failure.

He can’t talk, or he thinks he might throw up. He gives a thumbs up, and starts to try to get anywhere near them.

Every step hurts, every step feels like his body is going to deconstruct and fling itself somewhere far into the stars and the universe. He’s not sure whether it’s his own will or the armor holding himself up at this point, but he soldiers on anyways.

He finally, finally gets near them. He doesn’t think they notice. He launches himself into the air completely ignoring the spots that flash and the burning hot-cold hole in his side and the blood drying sticky to his armor. He brings his sword down, an executioner at the table, and he doesn’t know whether he’s killing himself or the others.

It hurts, he wants to say. Please, can I have help? Can you make me feel better? But that’s so pathetic and weak and not at all helpful. He manages to get a hit on Stress before she sends him flying with ice, and that’s when he realizes that will might not be enough to keep him going.

He’s lying on the ground, ice coating his armor and the ground around him like some sort of twisted armor enchantment. It’s so cold, so so so cold and he can’t tell whether this is better or whether the burning heat of earlier is preferable. He’s just so tired.

There’s tears dropping onto the ground. He thinks it’s him. He can’t stop them anymore, can’t force them back. Doesn’t even have the energy to try to get up for a second strike.

He thinks his armor’s sprung a leak, maybe. He sees red swirl out around him, in some sick facsimile of finger paints on paper. He dips his finger in them and moves them around in the ice, forming small patterns.

He can’t move. Why can’t he move? Why did he need to move?

You can’t stop, you know, he tells himself. You’re a knight. You’re not a burden, are you? Just a pathetic weakling who can’t even fulfill his destiny? He knows. He knows he’s not quite enough, that he’s bleeding out on a bed of cracked ice and that he feels like his spirit is increasingly drifting from his body.

Joe, he croaks, but he doesn’t think he made any sound. He’s past saving, probably. Nobody around to help.

He thinks, if he can’t be of use, he could at least put Stress out of commission. He forces himself up. He can’t feel his hands.

He moves towards Stress. Jumps up with mechanical accuracy. His mind is overloading.

Brings the blade down. Twist at the last second. He’s not real, can’t feel anything at all.

Stress collapses. He starts moving, stiff-legged march, to his side of the field. He lied, he can feel the heat of the blood inside his armor.

He’s coming over the dip in the ground, marching, and he sees the sun dyed red and the grass behind him red in some weird mockery of a snow golem, and he laughs. Laughs and it hurts more so he laughs again.

His shirt is soaked, but he can’t really feel it. Just feels the weight. His armor’s a dull red.

He thinks he’s hurting, can’t tell anymore, just knows that his atoms are falling apart and his world is so bright and he’s failed his teammates.

Wels stumbles in front of Ren, still mostly unscathed, and looks at him with eyes with nothing behind them. “Please make it stop. Please. I’ll do anything, I know I fucked up, just make it stop.”

Ren takes a look at Wels, looks at the trail of blood, and freezes up. “I—man, what? Are you okay? What do you need?” His voice is pitching up in panic. “Wels, listen, we gotta get you to Joe or something. Or back to base. I’ll take you back, let me just let Doc know,--”

He’s cut off be Wels grasping his wrist with a blood-stained hand, knuckles turning white from the force. “No, they can’t know I didn’t do my job.” His voice is little more than a whisper. “I can keep going…”

Ren decides it’s not worth it. “DOC! Please, you gotta come quick man, Wels got hit or something and now he’s bleeding out here and I don’t know what to do!” He shouts across the field.

Doc looks over, distracted, and almost gets hit by Iskall. “WHAT? But Wels seemed fine when I saw him earlier—hold on! I’m heading over.”

Wels is swaying on his feet, eyes starting to go completely blank. “I’m fine.”

It’s in the next instant that Wels collapses, and Ren rushes to catch him before he hits the ground. His eyes are rolled back in his head, his skin is paper-white, and that’s before he notices the giant wound in his side. It’s—it’s bad.

He thinks he knows now why Wels was so pale and out of it.

Doc comes over, and he lets out a horrified gasp at the condition of their teammate. “...What happened? Why didn’t he let us know?”

“I think he didn’t want us to know, Doc…” Ren hesitantly says. They both sit on their heels, an awkward silence settling over the group. There’s still sounds of metal clashing behind them. “I guess, I’ll be taking him back to base?”

“God, please do. He’s so messed up, he shouldn’t have been out here fighting in the first place…” Doc says. “I’m so sorry, man,” he whispers in an aside to the completely unconscious Wels.

Ren picks up Wels in an awkward kind of side-carry, because jesus that armor was heavy, and prepares to head back to base. He thinks about what Wels was doing, and why he didn’t just tell them. He’ll talk to him after he wakes up, Ren thinks.

Until then, his top priority was going to be making sure that Wels’ wound and his stuff is taken care of until he gets better. That’s what friends do for each other.

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