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aquaquadrant · 2 years

Text

nature’s productions - chapter three

Rated T for: Strong language, canon-typical violence and gore, minor character death

Summary: Three years after the disaster at Jurassic World, Claire Dearing and Owen Grady are contracted for a mission to save as many dinosaurs as possible from the impending eruption on Isla Nublar. But when they arrive, they experience an unexpected complication; six teenagers who were left stranded on the island when the park closed.

Surviving has left the campers scarred in more ways than one, and they’re pretty sure that their would-be rescuers have less than good intentions. But with a volcanic eruption at their heels, they’ll do whatever it takes to get a ride home- and save the dinosaurs while they’re at it, because that’s kind of their thing.

A/N: Hey readers, it’s good to be back! My first year of vet school is over and I’m SO ready to get some writing done. Thank you all so much for your patience and your continued support- it’s been lovely reading your comments. This time, as promised, we’ve got some ACTION so I hope y’all enjoy, please reblog/comment if you do! - Aqua

This fic is also posted on my AO3 account (same name).

~*~

chapter three - natural selection; or survival of the fittest

~*~

“You’re headed the right way now, we’ll let you know when you’re close.”

Claire’s voice is tense as she relays Franklin’s instructions into her radio, her eyes glued to the digital map. Both seem incredibly nervous, for people who aren’t actually on the mission to capture a raptor. Sammy finds it touching that they care so much about their friends. If the campers were still uncertain about this group’s intentions, this would’ve been a strong indication that they’re good people.

But they’ve already come to a consensus that Claire and Franklin can be trusted. Owen and Zia, too- Sammy figures that’s why Darius had the herd split up, so that they could make sure everyone in the group gets off the island safely. It’s been hard to follow a plan that changes as they go, like laying tracks down in front of a moving train, but they all trust Darius’s judgement and are used to thinking on their feet.

The campers have considered warning Claire and Franklin about what’s to come, but they don’t want to be overheard. The tunnel leading outside is still open, allowing the occasional sounds from the troopers to filter in: radio feedback, low muttering, and the rumbling of truck engines. Leaving their engines on is a surefire sign that they expect to clear out pretty quickly, probably as soon as Wheatley has Blue.

So it seems like this double-cross will be a ‘left for dead’ situation instead of an ‘attempted murder’ one, which is much more preferable.

Sammy’s a little disappointed that the troopers seem fine with leaving them along with Claire’s team, but she’s not surprised. Having six random teenage witnesses would probably put a wrench into their plans. She just hopes that the betrayal on Darius’s side goes just as smoothly, and none of them end up getting hurt.

Yaz has taken it upon herself to keep watch by the exit, leaning against the wall. If the troopers do decide to make a move, at least they won’t be taken by surprise. Sammy catches Kenji’s gaze and nods towards the pair at the monitors; they should take advantage of this time to establish a good rapport with Claire and Franklin, earn their trust.

It’ll make things easier, when they all have to work together to get off this island.

Kenji takes the hint right away, casually wandering over towards the control station with his hands in his pockets. “So hey, this is pretty cool,” he says appraisingly. “Something like this def would’ve come in handy before. How’d you know how to work it, Geek Squad?”

It seems to take Franklin a second to realize he’s the one being addressed. “O- oh! Um, it wasn’t that hard. Claire’s palm scan allowed me to bypass all the security measures, and at that point, it’s pretty user-friendly.” And then his eyes widen, and he hastily adds, “Not that I’m saying you guys are dumb, cause I’m not! Cause you’re not. Dumb, I mean.”

Kenji shares an amused look with Sammy. User-friendly, their ass. Back when they used the security system to counteract Mitch and Tiff, it had taken a lot of collective brainpower to figure out how to work it. What did Jurassic World have against labeling their controls, anyways?

But of course, they can’t share that particular bit of information. Not while they’re still pretending they haven’t had any human contact since being stranded.

Kenji claps Franklin on the shoulder, making him jump in his chair. “Hey, relax, we don’t bite,” he laughs. Then he pauses, in contemplation. “Well, Ben might if you sneak up on him.”

Franklin manages a weak laugh.

“He’s not joking,” Yaz chimes in from her post, without taking her eyes off the exit.

“Oh.” Franklin gulps.

“But seriously,” Kenji continues, some of his humor giving way to sincerity, “I know we look like a super intimidating, super awesome team of badass dino rangers, but we’re still just a bunch of kids. Or, actually, me and Yaz might’ve had our eighteenth birthdays pass by now, but you get the point.”

“Right,” Sammy agrees, “we’re just so relieved to actually have, y’know, actual adults around!”

That gets Claire to look over at them, her brows pinching together. “I can’t imagine what you all have been through,” she says sympathetically. “I promise, we’ll get you on that boat as soon as we can.”

Sammy gives her a warm smile, though inwardly she knows it’s a hollow promise. Claire might not know it, but she has little say in the matter. “So…” Sammy drawls, subtly changing the subject, “I couldn’t help but notice you an’ this Owen fella seem… close.”

Claire jolts in surprise. “What?”

“Am I right?” Sammy grins, noting the way Claire blushes. “Ooh, I betcha I am!”

Yaz snorts. “Sammy’s good at picking up on these things,” she says amiably. “Trust me.”

Claire tries to cover up her reaction with a laugh. “No, no, no, we aren’t- well, we were, but-”

“I knew it!” Sammy pumps a fist in the air.

“It was a long time ago!” Claire protests.

Kenji tuts. “Hey, don’t be embarrassed!” he tells Claire earnestly. “That dude is built.”

Yaz scoops a pebble off the ground and thwacks it at Kenji’s head. “Don’t be gross!”

“Ow!” Kenji rubs the back of his head, indignant. “What, I’m just stating a fact! I have a boyfriend, I’m not blind.”

“For the record,” Sammy cuts in swiftly, “I think y’all make a cute couple.”

Their antics have only made Claire flush even more. She makes a noncommittal noise. “Owen and I just… didn’t work, okay?” Her eyes trace one of the dots on the digital map- the one representing Owen’s signal. “We were together when Jurassic World fell. After that, we got together, but… I don’t know. I still care about him as a friend, but that’s all.”

“If ya say so,” Sammy hums.

Yaz straightens up, taking a sudden interest in the conversation. “It felt like you didn’t actually have anything in common with each other, except for what you went through, right?” she asks quietly. “Like… there was nothing keeping you together except mutual trauma?”

Claire raises her eyebrows. “... I guess you could put it that way, yes,” she murmurs, taken aback.

“Mmm.” Yaz nods thoughtfully; she knows the feeling. “Word of advice?”

Claire blinks. “Of course.”

“Maybe you’re right, maybe not.” Yaz shrugs. “But someone who understands what you’ve been through- who’s actually been through it themself- is incredibly valuable to have in your life.” She briefly catches Sammy’s eye, and a gentle smile pulls at her lips before she turns back to Claire. “Even if you’re just friends. So don’t run away from it, okay?”

Claire’s expression softens. “That’s… thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Hey guys,” Kenji breaks in, sounding bored, “if we’re done with all the lovey-dovey talk, those dots are getting kinda close.”

Sammy would admonish him for ruining the sweet moment, and for acting like he’s too cool for romance when he acts so darn smitten with Ben, but he’s not wrong; the two dots on the map, Owen and Blue, are starting to converge. She doesn’t know what scale the map is using, but it’s an abrupt reminder of the reason they’re here.

“They’re a mile out,” Franklin reports, before Claire has a chance to ask.

“Okay.” Claire takes a deep breath and reaches for her radio. “Um, Owen? You’re about a mile out now, better to go on foot from here.”

Sammy exchanges a private smile with Yaz; she noticed the slight flutter in Claire’s voice when she said Owen’s name, too.

~*~

Darius hops out of the truck, landing on the ground with a soft thump.

The troopers are all gathered in a loose huddle, awaiting instructions in tense silence. Zia’s already forced her way out of her truck to meet them, clearly insistent on not being left behind. Darius offers her a smile, which she returns somewhat faintly- even though she volunteered to come, it’s obvious she’s way out of her element. That makes Darius respect her decision even more.

Slipping through the crowd as politely as he can, Darius makes his way to Ben and Brooklynn, who are standing a few feet away. Ben is surveilling as always, his keen eyes watching the troopers as Brooklynn listens to the jungle around them. They both acknowledge his arrival with a brief glance before returning to their business. Now that Darius is beside them again, he feels his nerves start to settle. He trusts their abilities far more than these troopers, and even the knowledge that they’re about to walk into a raptor’s den can’t shake his faith in them.

Imminent betrayal or not, they can handle this.

“Alright, listen up,” Wheatley calls, loud enough to get everyone’s attention but still hushed out of wariness. He then claps Owen on the shoulder, inviting him to take over.

“Okay, here’s the plan.” Owen jerks his head over at the campers. “Me and these three are going alone. Everyone else stay within range, but do not get close enough for her to hear or smell you. Once we find Blue and I’ve calmed her down, I’ll give you the signal to move in.”

One of the troopers scoffs. “You’re bringing the kids?” he demands, his disbelief evident.

“I can draw her out,” Ben explains evenly, staring the trooper down with folded arms. “And these two stay with me.”

“Besides,” Brooklynn chimes in with a deceptively sweet smile, “we know our way around dinosaurs a lot better than you guys. No offense.”

Offense is clearly taken, but Brooklynn doesn’t feel bad for it. She’s right, after all.

“Once I give the signal,” Owen continues pointedly, before more complaints can arise, “I want one man to approach and administer the tranq. Don’t all come rushing in, or she’s gonna spook. As soon as she’s out, our doc’s gonna take a quick look at her to make sure she’s alright before we load her up.” His stern gaze drifts around the group. “Does everyone understand?”

The resulting chorus of ‘Yes, sir’ sounds a little begrudging to Darius’s ears; clearly, they don’t like taking orders from Owen. Probably because they’re plotting to betray him. That seems like the kind of thing that’d put a damper on workplace relations.

“Good.” Owen looks over at Darius. “You three ready?”

Darius nods, only half-listening. He’s laying out the plan in his mind, envisioning each step unfolding. If the troopers keep out of the way, getting Blue down should be the easy part. Wheatley will probably wait for Zia to give the all-clear before turning on them- that’d make the most sense, anyways.

So once Blue is down, Darius will have to alert Owen to the situation somehow, make sure he’s ready to run in case Wheatley plans to kill them instead of just leaving them for dead. They might have to help Zia get away, too, if she doesn’t react fast enough. They can scatter into the jungle- it won’t be worth Wheatley’s time to chase them down, not with the eruption brewing- and meet up with the others at the security building. Most likely, the troopers will just abandon them once they get confirmation that Wheatley has Blue. Yaz, Sammy, and Kenji should be expecting it, and will make sure Claire and Franklin don’t get themselves killed.

After they get that far, then Darius will worry about how they’re going to sneak onto the boat.

“Alright Claire, where to?” Owen asks, putting a hand to his earpiece. He listens for a moment. “We’re headed northeast,” he tells them. Then, he shoots a final look at Wheatley. “Don’t move in until I signal.”

“I got it,” Wheatley huffs, waving him off. “Get moving.”

Ben’s lip twitches- he’s only just stopped himself from scowling. Darius lightly bumps his shoulder before following Owen. The troopers part to let them through, faces impassive, and it feels an awful lot like walking to an execution.

Darius keeps his eyes forward, focusing on Ben and Brooklynn’s presence behind him. They’re okay. They’re gonna be okay. They can handle this.

They forge into the jungle in silence. Owen is better than most at moving quietly, but every accidental twig snap or ruffled fern makes Darius wince. Their own movements are so silent, Owen keeps checking behind himself to make sure they’re still there.

Brooklynn is almost entirely concentrated on listening, and is relying on Ben to guide her, following in his cautious footsteps with one hand on his arm. After all, the biometric system is only tracking Blue, and there could be any number of other dinosaurs out here that Claire won’t be able to warn them about. Brooklynn’s hearing is the best warning system they’ve got.

After they’re a few minutes out from the rest of the convoy, Darius debates warning Owen about the impending trap. They won’t get a chance to speak in private again once everything goes down. But Owen’s communicating with Claire through a frequency that might not be private; Wheatley and all the troopers had radios, and there’s no way of knowing if they’re being listened to. Owen’s mic could pick up anything Darius says to him.

Too risky. They’re just going to have to roll with the punches as they come.

Eventually, the jungle gives way to a decent-sized clearing, bordered by lush ferns and vine-strangled trees. The thick jungle canopy stretches above them, allowing only scant rays of light to peer through and leaving them cast in dappled shadows. An overturned jeep lay nestled among the foliage, tires long stripped from the rusted metal frame and the Jurassic Park logo faded and peeling. They’re definitely getting near the old park now. They could probably go a bit further, but it’ll be best to confront Blue in an open area.

Ben’s already scanning the treeline and Brooklynn’s listening for anything beyond the normal jungle sounds. Together, they give Darius the sign for ‘All clear.’ Heart starting to race, Darius signals them forward. Cautiously, the three of them creep into the middle of the clearing, shifting until they’re back-to-back. Weapons left in their sheaths, they slowly lower themselves onto their knees- in a way that would allow them to spring to their feet readily, if needed- and keep their arms lax by their sides. The goal is to look as unthreatening as possible when Blue arrives.

Darius catches Owen’s gaze from across the clearing and gives him a reassuring smile- he’s looking very alarmed, quite frankly- before glancing sideways at Ben. Their eyes meet, and Darius nods.

Ben takes a deep breath, and cups his hands to his mouth.

The spitting imitation of a raptor pierces the air; several short, high-pitched trills in rapid succession. Ben’s uncanny knack for vocalizations and Darius’s knowledge of raptor calls have, after many practice sessions, yielded the ability for them to call for help.

A call that Blue, a lone raptor missing her pack, won’t be able to resist answering.

Owen’s look of pure bewilderment almost makes Darius forget about the incredible danger they’re in. Ben finishes the call and falls silent, watching Brooklynn for confirmation. If they’ve fooled Blue, she’ll answer, but if she’s far away, he might not be able to hear it.

Tense silence. And then, a near identical call rings out- it’s faint, but it sends chills across Darius’s skin anyways. Brooklynn hears it loud and clear, of course, and squeezes Ben’s arm. He takes only a second to process this development before returning the call again.

‘Help. Help. Help.’

Darius does some quick, rough math in his mind. Raptors maintain an average speed of about twenty-five miles per hour, but can sprint in bursts of up to forty. If Blue’s within a mile of their location, she can reach them in less than two minutes.

Owen’s looking very anxious, now. “She’s coming our way,” he whisper-yells, barely audible from this distance.

Darius reaches for Ben and Brooklynn’s arms, giving a light squeeze as if to steady them, telling them to hold. They’re so used to running from dinosaurs that just sitting here, out in the open, goes against their every instinct. But if they start running, Blue’s prey drive will kick in, and she’ll most certainly give chase. They need this encounter to happen on their terms, not hers.

Seconds trickle by. Darius’s heart is pounding in his ears, making him appreciate Brooklynn’s hearing even more. Every sound has her twitching- tree branches swaying in the wind, sudden bird calls from the canopy above, even the faint rumblings of the volcano in the distance.

All too soon, Brooklynn is glancing towards the jungle, her breath catching. Darius follows her gaze and sees movement- rustling in the bushes.

Except the rustling is way too low to be Blue. A heartbeat later, and Darius is proven right- a small group of compies darts out of the underbrush, their little clicks and squeals as irritating as ever.

The compies barely give them a second glance before moving on, racing off into the jungle. That’s the first sign that something else is coming. The second sign is Brooklynn’s head snapping back towards the treeline, her whole body going rigid. And finally, Owen’s hand goes to his earpiece, his face paling.

She’s here.

The raptor emerges from the jungle almost leisurely, her sides still heaving as she catches her breath from her run. Shadows ripple along her turquoise scales as she steps out into the clearing. She notices them right away, of course, stopping in her tracks. The wicked talons of her feet tap rapidly against the ground, the infamous clicking sound muffled as they dig into the soil.

Darius is well-accustomed to reading dinosaur body language, especially when they’re as expressive as a raptor. He can almost see Blue’s thoughts spelled out in the slant of her eyes, the way her nostrils flare, the position of her head and tail as she circles them.

She recognizes them. She knows they’ve never hurt her- in fact, actually helped her before- so they’re no threat. But she wasn’t expecting to find them here, deep within her territory when she was following the call of a raptor. She also doesn’t quite know what to make of their submissive posture, shifting her weight uncertainly, claws scraping the soft earth beneath her.

She’s eaten recently; there’s fresh blood stains on her teeth and lips, and her stomach is ever-so-slightly distended. That’s good. She won’t waste energy hunting them, and will only attack if threatened. They just really have to make sure they don’t threaten her.

Moving slow and careful, Ben lifts his hands to make one final call- just so Blue knows it was them.

Blue jerks her head back in what can only be described as surprise. Small, chittering sounds bubble up from the back of her throat. She’s curious- why call for her? How do they know her tongue? Her lip curls- she doesn’t like it. But she wants to know why and how, and for the moment, it’s outweighing her uncertainty.

Blue dares to take a step closer, towards Ben. The raptor sniffs at him hesitantly, rumbling a low warning deep in her chest. Ben remains perfectly still, his eyes lowered so as not to pose a challenge. Brooklynn has her face turned enough to watch, ready to act if Blue looks like she’s going to make a move. Darius takes the opportunity to find Owen’s gaze across the clearing, taking in his wide eyes and clenched jaw, and nod.

Owen takes the cue, emerging from the underbrush.

“Hey girl,” he says, voice soft and low, “you miss me?”

Instantly, Blue forgets about the three of them. Lowering her head, she stalks a wide path around the clearing, circling Owen as she hisses. She’s agitated, clenching and unclenching her razor-sharp claws, but the chirping sounds she’s making are inquisitive. Her head jerks to the side, examining Owen in that bird-like manner of hers.

“Easy…” Owen murmurs, shifting slowly to keep Blue in front of him. One hand is held out, placating, and he doesn’t flinch when Blue suddenly snaps at the air. “Hey! Hey,” he says sternly, as if chastising a misbehaving child.

Darius can’t tear his gaze away. He’s seen it with Ben and Bumpy, but to actually witness this kind of communication between a human and a raptor is astounding. It’s clear Blue isn’t- and never was- actually tame, but she certainly recognizes Owen. The fact that she’s letting him get this close is a testament to the bond they once shared.

“Brought you something,” Owen says, slowly reaching into the pack on his belt. He withdraws a shred of dried meat, which makes Blue draw up short, nostrils flaring. “Here you go. That’s right.”

He tosses the treat at Blue; she lets it hit her lips and drop to the ground. A low growl starts up in her throat as she narrows her eyes.

Owen blinks. “... Okay.”

Blue’s lips peel back into a snarl, and she takes a faux swipe at him, testing him.

“Hey, nope,” Owen chides her, voice firm but still low. He’s got something else clenched in his fist- suddenly, mechanical clicking fills the air. “Eyes on me, yeah?”

Blue pauses, dropping the growl as she tilts her head. Her eyes widen in clear recognition, and she mimics the clicking sound, which Owen then repeats.

Darius can barely hold back his grin. Jurassic World never made their raptor training protocols public, proprietary information and all that, but he’d always theorized a clicker training system could be extremely effective due to the raptors’ innate ability to differentiate and replicate a vast lexicon of sounds-

Brooklynn is giving him a look, as if saying, ‘Only you could be nerding out right now.’

Darius gives her a sheepish smile; ‘Guilty as charged.’

Owen is less than a foot away from Blue. “Yeah, yeah… you know me.” Carefully, he stretches his hand out towards her nose. He’s inches away. “That’s right… that’s right…”

Darius holds his breath- and then Brooklynn stiffens, her head whipping around.

A tranquilizer dart flies through the air, embedding itself in Blue’s neck.

~*~

“Owen? Owen, what’s happening?”

There’s nothing but static from the radio. Claire’s heart is racing; she’d only just told him that Blue had arrived, and then there was some sort of commotion before the line went dead. The digital map is still showing the signal’s location, along with Blue’s, but Owen simply isn’t responding.

Sammy’s watching her with no small amount of concern. “I don’t suppose the batteries just died?” she asks hopefully.

Claire shakes her head. “Something’s wrong.” She tries to push the worst-case scenarios from her mind and focus on what they can do. “Franklin, can you try another frequency? See if we can reach anyone else who-”

“Not to alarm anyone,” Yaz says suddenly from her spot near the exit tunnel, “but the troopers are all getting into their trucks.”

Claire’s mind comes screeching to a halt. “They’re what?”

Franklin stands up from his chair, looking panicked. “What are they doing?”

“Well, my dear nerd,” Kenji drawls, waving an arm for dramatic effect, “this is the part where they betray us and leave us to die.”

“What?” Claire’s heart jolts, and she starts running towards the exit. “Hey! Wait-”

Yaz grabs Claire by the arm before she can pass. “Hey,” she hisses, “do you want to get shot? Because that’s how you get shot.” Point made, she lets go and folds her arms. “Just stay put for a minute. We’re lucky they decided to ditch us instead of trying to kill us.”

Claire rubs her arm- Yaz has a strong grip. “You… don’t seem very surprised,” she notes, her shock starting to give way to dread.

“Believe it or not,” Kenji chimes in, almost sounding amused, “this isn’t the first time we’ve been betrayed by adults we trusted to rescue us. We’ve been expecting this.”

Claire feels like she’s been punched. “You have?”

“Wait,” Franklin says, brows furrowing. “You mean other people have come to the island before?”

Kenji actually laughs. “Uh, yeah! No way people could resist the last living dinosaurs on earth.” He starts counting on his fingers. “First it was the trophy hunters, then it was Dr. Wu and his merry band of mercenaries.”

For a moment, Claire is certain she heard him wrong. “Wu came back to the island?” she asks, stunned. “He disappeared after Jurassic World fell. When was he here?”

Kenji shrugs. “Like, six months after the park closed? Dude trashed the boat we found and left us for dead.”

“Yeah,” Sammy agrees matter-of-factly, “just ‘cause we wouldn’t let him recover the research he needed to make more monsters like the Indominus and Scorpius Rex.”

“Wait, wait- Scorpius Rex?” Franklin repeats, his eyes wide. “What’s a Scorpius Rex?”

“It was Wu’s first attempt at a hybrid,” Yaz explains. “Turned out to be too unstable, so he was ordered to destroy it, but he decided to put it into cryo-freeze instead. Containment failed after the park shut down.”

Claire rubs her temples, struggling to take in all this new information. After the Indominus brought about Jurassic World’s downfall, Wu was faced with heavy scrutiny for his genetic experimentation. But technically speaking, he hadn’t broken any laws. The general consensus about the Indominus was that it had been a fluke- an unanticipated result of reckless scientific pioneering.

However, the fact that Wu had already made a hybrid in secret, seen first-hand how dangerous it was, but decided to keep it alive anyways and proceed with his next attempt… that displayed an almost willful ignorance for safety and due diligence. No wonder he disappeared.

And abandoning six teenagers on an island full of dinosaurs… knowing that they were still here, still alive, and telling no one… that was just evil.

“Is it still loose?” Claire asks, fearful of adding another problem to their list.

Yaz shakes her head. “That freak of nature threatened all life on the island, almost killed Sammy, and ended up making a second Scorpius through some weird frog cloning thing. We had to take them out.” A smile pulls at her lips. “Blue gave us a hand with that.”

“Why didn’t you bring this up before?” Franklin asks, his voice strained.

Sammy makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, we weren’t sure if y’all were workin’ with Wu or not. Can’t be too careful.”

Claire stares at the teens. It’s like she’s seeing them for the first time. “I can’t believe… you’ve known they were going to betray us this entire time? And you just… played along?”

Sammy gives her an apologetic smile. “Yeah, sorry we didn’t say anythin’, but we didn’t want ‘em to catch on.”

Claire exhales slowly, running her hands through her hair. These kids instinctively knew that there was foul play afoot, and managed to pick out who they could trust while not letting on that they suspected anything. They’ve been planning for worst-case scenarios and figuring out their next move completely on the fly, with little to no need for outright communication between their group. All with the threat of an imminent volcanic eruption hanging over their heads.

To say Claire underestimated them is an understatement.

“So now what?” Franklin asks frantically. “We’re stuck on the island right as a volcano is about to erupt?”

Kenji puts a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “Chillax, dude. Darius has a plan,” he assures him. “We’re gonna meet up with the others and sneak onto the boat together.”

This doesn’t comfort Franklin. “That’s a really vague plan!” he protests.

“We can handle it,” Yaz snaps. She glances out through the tunnel. “Look, the troopers are gone, so we can start heading out. We’ll meet up with the others and go from there-”

The computer monitor suddenly starts beeping, and a warning flashes up onto the screen, reading, ‘Proximity alert.’ Franklin jumps at the noise, whirling around to scan the screen in confusion.

Then a roar sounds from outside.

Suddenly, Yaz is pulling Claire by the hand. “Get back, away from the door,” she says lowly, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

Sammy and Kenji have already moved to meet them, expressions deathly serious and every muscle in their bodies tense. That alone abruptly makes them look much older. Claire glances back at the screen, and her blood runs cold; a new red dot has appeared on the digital map, and it’s slowly moving closer to their location.

“It’s the T-Rex,” Franklin whispers, his face paling. “It’s the T-Rex, it’s the T-Rex, Claire, it’s the T-Rex, it’s the-”

“It’s not the T-Rex!” Yaz hisses.

“It’s Chaos,” Kenji says, his voice suddenly devoid of emotion as he stares at the exit tunnel.

Claire’s stomach drops. “What?”

“The Baryonyx that clawed my face off,” Kenji explains, almost dangerously calm. “Chaos. I’d know her sound anywhere.”

“Oh my god,” Franklin breathes. “Oh my god-”

Another roar rings out, much closer than before.

Sammy sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Claire, Franklin, you might wanna get between us.”

All three teens have drawn their weapons. They’ve fanned out in a line with their backs to the wall, Sammy and Yaz on either side of Kenji. When Claire and Franklin squeeze in between them, it leaves both sides protected by an armed teen.

“Okay,” Claire whispers, “what now?”

“Hold formation,” Yaz says tersely, her eyes on the tunnel. “If we stand our ground, she’ll decide we aren’t worth it. With the volcano erupting, she’s got other things to worry about.”

“How can you be sure?!” Franklin asks, sounding near hysterics as his voice hits a pitch Claire didn’t think was possible at his age.

“Deep breaths, Franklin,” Claire murmurs, her heart pounding in her ears.

The gravity of the situation is starting to sink in. They’ve been abandoned by the people charged with keeping them safe and getting them off the island. They have no way of knowing if the others are alright. They’re trapped in a room with only one exit, that’s about to be blocked by a large carnivorous dinosaur. And the volcano is sounding angrier by the minute, reminding them that they have very limited time to escape.

Claire really hopes these teenagers know what they’re doing, because the tunnel suddenly echoes with the sound of approaching footsteps.

~*~

Blue shrieks, whirling around to face her unseen assailant.

Her tail whacks Owen right in the gut, throwing him head-over-heels into the dirt with a shout. The campers scatter, darting out of range from the furious dinosaur. They can’t go far, though, because the entire clearing is now surrounded by troopers, led by Wheatley.

Darius’s mind is racing. He didn’t think they’d go for the double-cross now. Why wouldn’t they wait until Blue was fully secured? What are they doing?

Owen’s scrambled back onto his feet, hands held out as he desperately tries to calm Blue. “I told you to wait for my signal!” he hisses at Wheatley.

Blue thrashes her head from side-to-side, trying to dislodge the dart. She’s also become aware of their new audience, snarling and bristling in a way that just screams danger. This doesn’t appear to dissuade the troopers, however, because they start to move in, guns at the ready.

Oh, this is bad.

“Back your men up right now,” Owen says urgently.

Darius glances over at Brooklynn and Ben. They’ve managed to stick beside each other, standing back-to-back as they try to face both the approaching troopers and the pissed-off raptor. Their eyes are wide and panicked, and he can read the question in their expressions loud and clear.

‘What do we do?’

‘Wait,’ Darius signs, his gaze darting around the clearing. If they make a break for it now, while Blue is so agitated, she could be goaded into attacking. And sure, maybe they wouldn’t be the ones getting attacked, but it’s too risky.

The troopers press in, and one of them seems to cross the invisible line that is Blue’s tolerance. Screeching, the raptor runs past Owen and leaps at the trooper, slamming him onto the ground. His screams fill the air as Blue tears into him- one foot on his chest, the other his neck, claws digging into flesh, jaws snapping against his helmet- and raises his gun.

Wheatley finally reacts. “No, no, no, don’t shoot her!”

Desperately, Darius scoops a rock off the ground and hurls it at Blue, screaming, “Hey!”

The rock connects on the side of Blue’s neck. That gets her attention; she pulls away from the trooper, head whipping around to look at Darius. In the split-second that their eyes meet, Darius can almost swear Blue looks betrayed.

And then a shot rings off.

Blue screams as the bullet tears through her side, sending up a spray of red. The raptor staggers back a few steps and collapses with a heavy thud. Panting heavily, she writhes in the dirt, quickly becoming stained with blood.

Darius stares, his breath caught in his throat. Two bodies bleeding out on the jungle floor- how did things go so wrong?

Owen’s eyes darken with rage. “Wheatley, you son of a bitch!” he roars, charging at Wheatley.

Wheatley raises his gun and fires a dart into Owen’s chest.

Owen stops short, shock flashing across his face as he looks down at the dart. He sways in place for a moment, and then crumbles to the ground.

Darius freezes, his mind struggling to stay calm. Things are rapidly getting worse, but at least they didn’t kill him. It does mean, however, that Owen certainly isn’t getting out of here on his own. They’ll have to figure something out.

“Owen!” Zia pushes past the troopers and runs to Owen’s side. “What are you doing?!”

She falls to the ground next to Owen and snatches the dart out of his chest, checking his breathing. For a brief second, Darius can see the panic and confusion flash across her face, before realization settles in, and it gives way to a calculating expression. And then she grabs the gun from Owen's holster, standing up to aim at Wheatley.

Every gun in the clearing points at Zia. Wheatley rolls his eyes, exasperated, and lifts his own gun.

Zia doesn’t flinch. “You shoot me,” she tells him lowly, “and that animal dies.”

Wheatley smirks. “I think we have the drop on you, sweetheart.”

“She’s losing blood,” Zia says firmly, her jaw clenched. “And if I don’t treat her, she’ll never make it back to camp.”

Darius immediately recognizes the move for what it is; insurance. She’s making herself invaluable to Wheatley so he doesn’t kill her. That’s smart.

Wheatley sighs, lowering his gun. “How about this? That animal dies, I shoot you. You’re gonna take care of her.”

Zia lowers the gun as well, her expression stormy. Without another word, she turns on her heel and rushes over to Blue, slinging her backpack off her shoulder and starting to rummage through it as the troopers move in.

A plan is starting to take root in Darius’s mind. Having someone on the inside will make it easier for the others to sneak aboard- but they can’t rely on Zia for that. She has to look after Blue, and she isn’t keyed into their plans, anyway. She doesn’t know how they operate. It has to be one of them.

But they can’t all go with Wheatley. With dinosaurs around and an erupting volcano, Owen is a sitting duck out here. Someone has to stay behind and help him get to the others. It’ll take more than one person to move him in this sedated state- and if two are staying behind, it has to be Ben and Brooklynn. They need each other to be safe.

Which means Darius has to leave them.

‘Plan?’ Ben signs, tilting his head to turn it into a question.

Darius’s heart has turned to lead. He doesn’t want to leave them. What kind of leader just abandons his herd-

‘Plan?’ Ben signs again, more insistent. He can tell right away that Darius has a plan and just doesn’t like it, which probably means it isn’t self-sacrificing enough for his taste.

‘You stay. Help,’ Darius answers reluctantly, subtly jerking his head over at an unconscious Owen. ‘Meet later.’

‘You?’ Brooklynn asks, her jaw tightening as if already dreading the answer.

Darius grimaces. ‘Go, bad. Sneak help.’

It’s a crude translation of his meaning- for some peculiar reason, they never thought it prudent to make signs for things like ‘spy’, ‘betrayal’, or ‘double agent.’ But Brooklynn and Ben understand anyway, exchanging a somber look.

‘Careful,’ Brooklynn tells him. They’re all capable on their own, but Darius will be walking right into the enemy’s den with no one to back him up. It’s not the most dangerous situation he’s ever put himself in, but it’s still enough to make Brooklynn anxious.

The troopers are almost done securing Blue, fastening a muzzle over her jaws and leather straps around her limbs as Zia packs the bullet wound with gauze. It won’t be long before they remember the campers are there.

‘Split up,’ Darius signs, while keeping his other hand as, ‘Wait.’ He gives Brooklynn and Ben a few precious seconds to plan their escape route; if they get grabbed, the only way out will be by fighting, and that could get messy very quickly.

“Hey,” someone calls, “what’s with all the hand puppets?”

Darius changes the sign to, ‘Go.’

Brooklynn and Ben take off in opposite directions, vanishing into the jungle before anyone can react.

A couple of the troopers startle, moving as if to follow, but Wheatley waves them off. “Let ‘em go. We’ve gotta get this raptor loaded up.” Then he looks at Darius, as if just realizing he’s still there. “What about you, jungle boy? Not gonna run off?”

Darius swallows, shaking his head. “I c- can… I can uh, I- I can help h- her,” he offers, holding his hands up as a show of good faith.

Wheatley raises an eyebrow. “You still want a ride home, I’m guessing?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips.

Darius gives a hesitant nod, letting his expression settle somewhere between sheepish and hopeful. No threat here, just a poor dumb kid who really wants to get off this island.

Wheatley looks him up and down. “Fine. Help her, and stay out of our way.” He turns to shoot Zia a crooked grin. “You two keep your heads down, and you might just survive this.”

Zia scowls and turns back to her patient.

Darius gives an emphatic nod. “Y- yes, s- s- sir.”

He doesn’t believe for a second that Wheatley intends to spare them. They’re witnesses, and as soon as they cease to be useful, he’ll dispose of them. But Darius has bought himself some time; time he can use to plan his next move, and figure out how he’s going to get his herd onto the boat.

The troopers are lashing a bunch of thick cords around Blue, preparing to drag her back to the truck. Zia snaps at their every movement, reprimanding their carelessness, so for the time being, their attention is fully occupied.

As casual as he can, Darius wanders over to the fallen trooper, kneeling beside him. He’s clearly dead; Blue’s talon cut a deep, thick gash across his throat, compromising his airway and spilling dangerous amounts of blood- even now, it’s still trickling out to stain the soil. It was probably the lack of oxygen to the brain that killed him. Painful, but quick.

His face is hidden behind the visor of his helmet. That makes this… easier, even if only a little.

Darius knows that Brooklynn and Ben are still watching him from the jungle. He doesn’t dare look for them, lest he give away their hiding spots. But he does make sure to move slowly, so they don’t miss anything. He places a deliberate hand on the dead trooper’s helmet, waiting a few seconds before moving his hand onto the combat vest. Then, he curls the fingers of his free hand into the sign for ‘Take.’

They’ll make a good disguise for Owen, and that alone might help them sneak onboard.

“Nothin’ we can do for him now,” Wheatley calls over, mistaking Darius’s stillness for shocked grief. “He knew the risks of the mission.”

Darius nods and straightens up, glancing over at Owen’s prone figure. He’s still breathing, but completely motionless. Hopefully the full dose of tranquilizer didn’t get into his system, and it’ll wear off soon. Brooklynn and Ben are strong, but if they have to drag him all the way to the security building, they might miss the boat entirely.

Part of him wishes he could go and check on Owen, but it’d look suspicious. Plus, he doesn’t want to redirect attention onto Owen, lest Wheatley decide to finish him off. So Darius turns, jogging over towards Zia- she’s watching the troopers start to drag Blue away- and lifts his hand in greeting.

Zia regards him tersely, saying nothing as she stalks off after the troopers. Darius supposes that makes sense; she probably doesn't know how to feel about him, uncertain as to where his loyalties lie, whether he can be trusted or if he'll do anything to ensure Wheatley takes him home. From an outsider perspective, he’s ditched his friends and his morals for his own safety. Like a rat abandoning a sinking ship. That’s alright- it doesn’t matter what she thinks of him. When they’re alone, he’ll explain the situation to her.

But in the meantime, he’s got to figure out how to help his herd escape a volcanic eruption without tipping off the murderous mercenaries, while somehow making sure a raptor that suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen doesn’t die on his watch, despite knowing very little about first aid and working with a pissed off paleo-vet who thinks he’s a traitor.

… Whatever it takes, right?

~*~

#jurassic world camp cretaceous #jwcc #camp cretaceous #jurassic world: fallen kingdom #my writing

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lasquadrasfuckhouse · 3 years

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Okay here's a question for you: turn ons for LA squadra? Like, things you do (or wear) that just get them going?? I need to tease these men so badly

-✨ anon

SPARKLE ANON MY BELOVED U ARE SPEAKING MY LANGUAGE

things that will tease la squadra 👀

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

risotto ✂️

call him capo in a teasing, flirty tone. he will be trying Very hard to maintain his composure

you know when you wear tight clothes or something with straps or elastics and it presses into ur skin just enough to make it dip? Yeah

if you wear one of his hoodies in the same way he wears them, that being with the zipper undone over ur bare chest, WELL. ur keeping it on.

prosciutto 🚬

absolute sucker for eveningwear. show up in a sharp suit or a slinky backless dress with a slit up the side and he'll be fighting to keep his hands off you all night

ESPECIALLY if, after a while, you take off your blazer and roll up your sleeves, or the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder

garters, stockings, heels (especially stilettos), CORSETS. make a sharp, pretty picture for him and he'll go fucking nuts

subtlety gets him goin. sly smirks, grazing touches to his hips or waist, quick wit too

pesci 🎣

get wet. go swimming or come out of the shower or bath in a towel with droplets still on your skin and hair. HOOH BOY.

kind, soft, demure touches. gently touch his arm with a sweet smile.

honestly pretty turned on by strength, if you heft something over your shoulder with a huff, work with ur muscles flexing until there's a bead of sweat on your forehead, he'll go red

formaggio 🧀

booty shorts (he's an ass man). bend over in booty shorts and arch ur back a little. his mouth will water

be playful and touchy and cuddly, hug him with ur hands under the back of his shirt

u kno when u shake a champagne bottle and pop it and it splashes all over ur chest and hands and face? Yeah

illuso ✨

wear nice perfume or cologne and brush past him with a grazing touch. the scent of it (or ur shampoo if ur close enough) will make him linger for a moment

likes seeing you in slinky, soft, flowing fabric that accentuates every movement and slips easily over ur skin, or jewelry that glitters and chimes as u move

there's something about seeing his partner soft and unguarded for him. like if u wake up in the morning with ur hair all mussed, roll onto his chest with ur shirt riding up, blink the sleep out of ur eyes to gaze at him and everything is all soft and warm and sensual..... you won't be leaving bed for another hour at least

melone 🍈

i think the better question is what DOESN'T turn melone on but here are some top picks

draw attention to your mouth: wear shiny lip gloss, pop bubblegum really cheekily, lick your fingers or your lips. if you suck on a popsicle he'll die

feet and legs too obviously. strappy heels with pretty painted toenails make him go nuts, but so do thigh high leather boots

speaking of which: leather and latex. anything skin tight

ghiaccio ❄️

cute, frilly lingerie with thigh highs. anything cute and ruffled and cheeky really. if you flounce around in just a fluffy bathrobe that's barely keeping closed, it'll be off you before u reach the bedroom

WORKING OUT. seeing ur muscles flex as you lift weights, wearing clothes that cling to every angle and curve, with a thin sheen of sweat over you, breathing heavy, looking concentrated? he'll accidentally grip his water bottle so hard it sprays him in the face

trail ur hand up his thigh while he's driving. he's pulling over right now

sorbet and gelato 🔪🍦

they like things messy. if you come back from a mission all roughed up, they may be fucking you against a wall before you can even wash the blood off (whether it's yours or not)

play with knives or a lighter or matches. Hell Fuckin Yeah.

honestly? they both love big, stomping, shit-kicker boots. show up in hefty ladder-laced docs and they'll probably want you to step on them

they do love it when you play innocent, though. give them a sweet, doe-eyed look with gentle touches, and they'll either want to take care of you or wreck you, depending on what you're all feelin for the evening

#consider this a taste of the broader not safe fw hcs post im working on >:)#not safe fw #la squadra #la squadra x reader #risotto nero #prosciutto #pesci #formaggio #illuso #melone #ghiaccio #sorbet #gelato #vento aureo #ask #✨ anon

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vluepapers · 3 years

Text

Reaction to Rejection

Characters: Venti, Noelle, & Barbara

Heads up: The relationship dynamic with you and each character is pretty different. So how heavy one's reaction doesn't reflect on all characters cause of that. (Also it'll depend on my knowledge of each character cause the more I know em the more heartbreak-ish it'll be. Thanks and hope you enjoy!)

Contains: fluff, angst, some spoilers for stormterror, & minor (?) spoiler's on Barbara's lore.

Smol Summary: How they’ll react to being rejected by you romantically.

Venti:

- Mah boi is h u r t

- How could you do that to the (self-proclaimed[and possibly true]) cutest and most talented bard of Mondstat??

- Other than that, of course, Venti didn’t expect the rejection. He really believed that there was a spark between you two. Or at least a hint of chemistry. Everyday felt like a fresh breeze when he was with you. Even the simplest of pleasures, such as playing the lyre, humming a tune, or simply having a drink, is much more enjoyable when he has you around.

- Didn’t you feel...the same?

- He thought you liked his child-like gimmicks and his little pranks. Even though you are an adult, the youth inside you never passed away. Which was how you two could get along so well in the first place. You have your own life, job, and bills to pay, so he understands that you can’t always be a part of his life. But he loves that despite your busy schedule, you make time and put in the effort for him to be a part of yours.

- Venti believed that you wanted him to be a part of your life but...it's rather sour that you'll only ever mean it as friends.

- He’ll probably be in shock for 5 seconds and then you’ll see the gloomy aura in his eyes as he tries to laugh it off. Fails, but gives you an apologetic smile and says sorry for the awkwardness. As you try to stop the heart-broken bard, he disappears into the wind.

- Off to the bar he goes...

- To buy a few bottles with whatever amount of mora he had in his pocket. Which was empty, great.

- Expect a lot of wailing, weeping, whimpering, and stuttering when he teleports to Dvalin and tries to explain the situation as he stuffs his mouth with an apple to lessen the pain. Might not talk to you in a few weeks, but hopes you two can still stay as friends.

Noelle:

- Noelle only said her true feelings in the heat of the moment.

- She couldn’t hold it in any longer, but it’s not like she expected a relationship. She believed such things will get in the way of her training, but the way you carefully treat her wounds, listen to even her strangest ideas, and how you were able to make even the shortest of breaks seem so lovely in her memories. It was hard for her to not fantasize the ‘what if’s’ in her head.

- And that’s how it ended, unfortunately.

- She knew, deep down, that everything you’ve done for her was because you had a good heart. Because you saw her as a good person. One who helps the people, so you hoped to repay her kindness, even just a little.

- Listening to her troubles, engaging in small talk, reminding her to take care of herself, tending to her wounds. Everything you’ve done is what a good friend would’ve done as well. But did you ever consider Noelle even as a friend? Noelle doesn’t know and, to be fair, she wouldn’t like to,

- ‘You were just a crush, weren't you?’

- ‘Our conversations aren’t that long and I’m mostly the one talking...’

- ‘But I know your name, hobbies, and the basics but...with this level of knowledge, aren’t we only acquaintances?’

- ‘It should be true, right? Shouldn’t it?’

- ‘Yet...why does it hurt?’

- Expect a few tears running down her cheeks, but she’ll most likely wipe them off completely as they start to multiply. Excuses herself as she speed walks past you. Will completely avoid you for a few weeks and cuts your conversations even shorter. Might try to cope with overworking herself to a certain point to get you out of her head, then starts to realize that this isn’t very healthy.

- Kaeya would lessen his ‘requests’ and might offer her a drink or some company for the time being. Amber and Eula would probably try to give her advice though whether it works is a...different question. Though of course they'll do their best. Sooner or later, I'm sure she'll move on with everyone's support. Though things might still be a little awkward between you two...

Barbara:

- You did what to who?

O h b o i

Albert’s boutta beat someone up-

- Aaaaaanyways, you’ve always been Barbara’s #1 supporter, even before she was the ‘Beloved Deaconess of Mondstat’. In the past, when she only considered herself to be the black sheep of the Pegg family, she felt helpless. Of course, Barbara is a natural optimist, but she finds herself always lacking compared to her sister. Whether it be combat, grades, or anything else. She was but an atom in the cosmos compared to her galaxy of a sister. Though she never lets it get to her and keeps moving forward. With every step she takes, and every fresh path she finds, she’s simply happy to have you along for the ride.

- Compared to Jean, she lacks many things. Yet she’s glad that at least to you, Barbara as herself was enough. When she first started singing idol songs, you were at the square poorly moon dancing. Treating her first patient? “YEAHHHHHHH THAT’S OUR BARBARAA! TOP TIER HEALER EXTRAORDINAIRE- Oh no shouting outside the Cathedral? Okay-” After she gained her vision? You just kept on smirking to no end while being a broken record repeating “I told you soooo” over and over. Though before all that happened the validation she gained from the people couldn’t compare to the amount they showered on Jean. Heck, it couldn’t even compare to the compliments you received for being one of Jean’s spar buddies at the time.

- You had a thing for swordsmanship, while it wouldn’t compare to Jean’s level. Despite being younger, you could almost surpass her. (Okay by almost I mean barely-) This made you and Barbara the two little kids who always challenged Jean to battle. Whether it be one at a time, two at a time, or maybe if you're both feeling bold, a surprise attack. In the end, you both always seem to get the shorter end of the stick, yet it never tasted bitter for any of you.

- Though as Barbara grew, she decided to find a new calling and became a healer. If she wasn’t fit for the front lines, then the next best thing was to support those who are. One of those people, being you. She wanted to support you with all her might, in the same way you supported her through all these years. She always considered her feelings for you as platonic, but to any outsider's point of view, it was anything but. The way she looks at you with such gentle & loving eyes, how she holds your arm with a kind grip, and how whenever she talks to you, it’s as if you're the only person in her world. It was as clear as day to everyone that she loved you.

- If only you felt the same. She confessed her love for you while you rested at her lap, but wouldn't think that you'd hear it. Usually you'd pretend that you didn't hear a thing but it was too late...she noticed. You were at a lost for words and felt nothing but pity for the girl. You loved her too, but not in the way she loved you. Deep down you knew how she felt even long ago, but you never wanted to ruin the friendship you had now. “...I’m sorry Barbara. Is it okay if we just stay...friends? Maybe?”

- Barbara looked stunned. She didn’t want you to hear anything, but her heart couldn’t hold it. She quickly apologizes yet before any words escape, her eyes couldn’t help but water. Her teardrops landing on your cheeks. She knew how she felt and knew even better that you didn’t feel the same.

- Yes, at first, she wanted others to recognize her, but as time passed, most of all she wanted you to acknowledge her, not as a friend, but as someone that could be so much more. So she kept trying and trying, but nothing ever worked. Healer? Idol? Vision holder? She’s grateful for all, yet none of it turns your head. A good personality, a good friend, and has a bright future?

- She’s blissful to have it all and yet she can’t have you. So she just thought that maybe it was for the best, and that she should accept her role as your best friend. Supporting you as you had supported her but...why isn’t it enough? Why do your words hurt so much?

- She expected this, she always knew yet- the tears aren't stopping. You reach out to dry her tears but it’s too much for her to handle, so she quickly flees the scene. She couldn't believe that the friendship she cherished yet despised the most was evaporating before her very eyes.

-Let’s just say...it’s going to take a possibly long while before you two are on good speaking terms. You may or may not be on Albert’s hit list though considering he’s always been a loyal fan of Barbara and so have you, I’d say he’s more disappointed than pissed. You both seem to actively avoid each other in public, you do it to give her space, and she does it since she doesn't know what to do next. Most likely visits the cathedral more often looking for advice from the Anemo Archon.

-Venti probly heard the news of the two cutest-supposed-to-be-couple and is attempting to cheer Barbara up with some tunes. Kaeya & Lisa probably trying to give some advice, Jean’s comforting her, Amber offers her some Sticky Honey Roast, and Rosaria’s most likely is going to go softer on her.

- Wonders deep down if you two could ever be anything again. After all, anything beats nothing, right? Maybe being 'just friends' wasn't so bad after all... Though you know Barbara, she's strong enough to take anything in life. This will pave new paths for her to take...but this time, you won't be there to walk alongside her.

- For now...at least.

#genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact #genshin impact venti #genshin impact barbara #genshin impact noelle #venti headcanons #barbara headcanons #noelle headcanons #venti x reader #barbara x reader #noelle x reader

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piceuscelus · 2 years

Text

do it right (monday) by piceuscelus

Chapters: 1/1 (7,726 words) Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Underage Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Dara Characters: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Dara (The Witcher), Minor Original Characters - Character Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Age Difference, Sex Pollen, Fuck Or Die, Magic, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Multiple Orgasms, POV Multiple, Knotting, elves have different anatomy, Kissing, Hen Llinge | Elder Speech (The Witcher), Discussion of Pregnancy, Discussion of Abortion Series: Part 1 of ciri week 2022 Summary:

“Now, are you still willing?”

He gapes for a moment. “Willing?” he asks, and then he catches up. Can we help her? We can, if there is anyone willing.

Sweet fucking Melitele.

“Yes,” he answers.

An elvish ritual has an unintended effect on Ciri, and it falls to Dara to help her.

full fic also below the cut! (the italics didn’t copy over, though, as usual, so it’ll probably read a bit more smoothly on ao3)

Ciri is…a little uncomfortable amongst the elves.

Of course, she’s grateful that they’re letting her stay – sheltering her alongside Dara, keeping her hidden from the Nilfgaardian forces combing the countryside. After everything with the doppler, it’s a relief to know that at the very least they’ll have some warning from the camp scouts before any further chaos.

She knows that at least part of the discomfort is just the background human-elf tension, that no matter how long they stay most of the group will always keep her at arm’s length and out of circles. And that – it’s fine, really. Mostly, at least. It leaves her feeling unmoored and unsteady, if she thinks too hard on it, but it’s not…it really can’t be fixed, least of all by her alone. Add in that the elves know who she is – because she and Dara had been found bickering while burying the body of a doppler, and the camp had, rightfully, had some fucking questions – and she knows that the basic level of civility she’s treated with is more than a gift.

Still, though, it’s…awkward, is probably the best way to describe it. And it’s particularly noticeable on nights like this, when she’s left alone in the tent she and Dara share with a few other strays this camp has taken in. She’s the only human in the camp – or at least, the only full human in the camp, and tonight the elves are out in the woods doing…something. A ritual, is all Dara had said, and it had been clear that the vagueness was on purpose, so she hadn’t pressed.

And it’s not really that she feels left out so much as she’s not really sure what to do with herself. Earlier in the day, while most of the camp was still preparing, she’d kept to herself and done laundry, and then helped gather water with some of the other refugees. But by now, dark has fallen, and unlike during the day, the loneliness feels…more real, now.

There’s an irrational part of her that thinks they might have abandoned her, but she knows full well it’s irrational; if they were going to abandon her they’d send her out to forage and be gone when she got back, or they never would have let her stay. They wouldn’t plan for a ritual, let Dara tell her that it was happening, and let her help gather water for it. It’s just not practical.

All the same, she feels unsettled in her skin, and the longer she stares out into the darkness of the empty camp, the worse it gets. Finally, she can’t stand the feeling anymore and stands, intending to…well, she doesn’t know – she’s intending to do something about it, but standing outside the tent and listening to the moths buzz around the last sputtering candle lanterns isn’t terribly inspiring.

And then she hears singing.

It’s faint, at first, and then louder, and she realizes that it must be coming from the elves, deeper in the woods – wherever they’ve gone to do their ritual, whatever it is. For a split second she considers going back into the tent and maybe trying to sleep, but that thought it gone nearly the moment it comes, and she realizes that she’s…moving toward it. The sound, the elves.

She shouldn’t, she knows. She should stay at the camp, should leave them to whatever they’re doing, because if they wanted to include her, Dara would have told her that. She’d be there, if she was welcome – but she’s not, so she isn’t.

All the same, her feet keep moving without her permission, and soon enough she’s seeing the light in between the trees, soft and golden and flickering but bright, and large – a bonfire, maybe, she isn’t certain. All she can see right now is the light, and the trees, and when she steps a little further, the silhouettes of the elves.

Finally, she’s able to force herself to stop moving, to not go any further and actually interrupt, crash their – whatever this is. Party feels…disrespectful.

This – it’s magic. She can feel it in the air, the faint buzz and crackle; Mousesack’s magic was different, but similar enough. The longer they all sing, the louder they get, and the stronger the charge in the air. She knows some of the words, but she can’t piece them together, and as she watches the light gets somehow brighter, and her head starts to spin.

She squeezes her eyes shut against the glow, but finds she can’t escape it; the brightness glares through her eyelids, and bringing her hands to her face barely helps, either. She stumbles back, then, turning until she can face away, but it’s like the light follows her, and the singing is even louder now, as if the elves are shouting. She scrapes her hand on bark as she stumbles again, but she doesn’t stop moving, just keeps trying to stumble away, the light and the noise following along, as if it’s chasing her.

Soon enough it’s not just the light and sound, either, it’s heat, and she collapses to her knees, moss and rotting leaves under her hands. She can just see the outline of her fingers, splayed on the ground, but barely, and soon enough she’s squeezing her eyes shut again as if it could help her escape the burn.

It’s like a fever and a sunburn and standing too close to a hearth all at once, sharp, prickling heat with no sweat to cool her and no cover to protect, and soon she’s shuddering, even the veined red shadow of her eyelids starting to spot and swim.

She faints.

– – – – –

Dara can’t say what leads him away from the ritual, why when the priestess stops their singing he turns and stumbles into the woods, but he knows it’s important. It’s like there’s a hook in his gut, and the line attached has started to pull, and then, when he’s far enough he can only barely hear the priestess speaking, it yanks.

Of all the things he expects to find in the woods, Ciri is not one of them.

At first, he’s angry – it had been clearly implied, he thought, that she was not to follow them, that she was not welcome. That this was theirs. That he and his people have already given her so much, she ought to let them have at least something to themselves.

But then he actually sees her – how she’s collapsed into the undergrowth, fingers pressed into furrows they must have dug there, cheeks scarlet while the rest of her skin is near translucently pale, and his anger is immediately dashed away by fear, bloodcurdling and cold.

“Ciri,” he calls, but she doesn’t so much as twitch. Her chest is barely moving. His heart skips. “Ciri.”

Still nothing, and when he goes to his knees beside her prone form, he can feel the heat pouring off of her, hotter even than the fire the priestess had been feeding. Touching her almost hurts, but he has no choice; she’s as limp as a corpse as he gets his arms around her shoulders and under her legs and lifts.

It’s not the first time he’s carried her, but it is the first he’s realized just how small she really is. His heart skips painfully again, and he turns back toward the faint light of where his fellows are finishing up the ceremony.

They’ve broken apart and are gathering things, when he stumbles back into their midst, and he feels how the air seems to freeze along with them.

“I found her,” he says, and doesn’t bother trying to explain how or why, “something’s wrong.”

“She’s just dh’oine,” someone scoffs, and Dara’s panicked enough he can’t even pin their voice, “she’s probably fallen ill. Take her back to camp.”

“This isn’t sickness,” he insists. “I’ve seen her and other humans sick – this is different.”

He pushes through their loose gathering to reach the priestess. Farryn, is her name, and he already knows that she’s the sole reason he and Ciri had been allowed to stay with the camp; he’d have been allowed, possibly, but without her say, Ciri would have been shunned. He doesn’t know what reasons she had for convincing the others to let Ciri stay, but he hopes that whatever they were, she’ll help her now, too.

Farryn’s eyes sharpen when he’s near enough that she can see Ciri properly. “Where?” she asks, and then steps back, gesturing to the stone dais they had used for their offerings. It’s still wet with wine, but he doesn’t hesitate to place her on it, cradling her head against the rough surface.

“Between here and the camp,” he answers, finally, tearing his eyes away from Ciri’s deathly pale face to look at Farryn. “I just – I left, something called me, and I found her lying there. Is this a fever?”

Farryn steps closer and passes her hand over Ciri’s face, then down her throat and to her sternum. She’s frowning in concentration, and Dara holds his breath as if he might shatter her focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the others forming a bubble around the dais, slowly inching forward to stare.

“It is,” Farryn says, softly. “But not one I’ve ever seen myself.”

“Can we help her?” Already, Dara is wondering how close Nilfgaard is, or if maybe they’ve moved on from the area by now – he knows there are healers in nearby towns, and if he has to carry Ciri to each one individually, so be it.

As far as anyone gathered here is concerned, he and Ciri are the same age; his years count barely thirty, and while hers are less than half that, his kind live for so much longer. When they met, he hadn’t stopped to consider that she may consider it differently, and now that he thinks about it, he’s not even certain she knows. If he covers his ears, he looks very much like a human teenager.

But he’s not that, and as he cradles Ciri’s head and feels the heat rolling off of her, heart rabbiting, he feels…responsible. Whatever has happened to her, whatever this fever is – the others have no obligation to help her, but he does. He brought her here, and as much as he’s always considered himself at her same level, he’s lived many more years, and more of them in the shadows and mud; between them, he’s the one with any kind of experience.

Farryn hasn’t answered his question, though.

“Can we help her?” he asks again, and Farryn looks up at him. Her expression is sad, and her eyes are a little haunted.

“We can,” she says. “If there is anyone willing.”

Dara frowns. “Me,” he says, because he’d thought that would be obvious. “Of course, me.”

Farryn’s frown deepens. “We’ll see,” she says, softly, and then she’s turning away and barking orders at the others. They all startle and scramble, some heading back to camp, some deeper into the woods, and others begin unpacking the things they’d begun packing up.

Dara can barely make himself listen or watch, he’s so focused on Ciri. Her breathing is still quick and shallow, her chest barely rising, and it feels like the fever is worsening, though he’s not certain if it actually is or it’s just the contrast of the cold stone against them.

Farryn returns to them after a moment, carrying a curved blade. “Het ichaer,” she’s muttering, “I never should have done it with her here.”

“What?” Dara asks. “What about blood?”

Farryn barely glances at him as she sets a bowl next to Ciri’s limp arm. “Hers,” she answers, as if that explains anything at all. He watches with his heart in his throat as she picks up Ciri’s hand and uses the blade to draw blood from a fingertip.

“Her blood?” he asks, once he snaps his attention from watching the bright red drip into the bowl. “Never should have done this? Farryn, what’s going on?”

“She’s – different,” Farryn murmurs, and turns to grab something that one of the others has brought from the woods. It goes into the bowl with Ciri’s blood. “I’m not certain what it is. Or, well, I have a hunch, but it’s so far-fetched I won’t say it to you.”

“Would you speak plainly, please?”

Farryn finishes doing – something, Dara doesn’t know what, with the mixture she’s got in the bowl, and then she looks up at him. “The ritual,” she says. “The blessing. It was just meant to be a call for fertility, to help us when we struggle so much to conceive.”

“I know that.”

Farryn shakes her head. “You think you do,” she mutters, but before he can ask about that, she’s continuing. “She’s…something else, though, and I think it’s had the same kind of reaction a curse might.”

“Something else? A curse – what kind of curse?!” Dara tries not to panic audibly, but all the same his voice raises and cracks, just slightly, on the inflection.

“She’s human,” Farryn says, “at least mostly. It’s her blood that’s different, her lineage. As far as the curse, well – you’ve heard of the foilé minne geas haven’t you?”

Dara blinks, and if he weren’t so highly strung and shocked all at once he’s certain he’d be flushing with embarrassment. “It’s – a…sex curse.”

“Except that a curse implies intention, and there was no intent behind this, yes.”

“...except there was!” He doesn’t really mean to shout, but he can’t help it. “Tonight, the ceremony, the offerings – the intent was fertility, conception. So you – ”

“Do you think I would have actually done it if I knew she would end up like this?” Farryn asks, cold, and Dara’s teeth click painfully as his mouth snaps shut. “I thought it might have an effect on her, too, like it hopefully will the rest of us. I thought it might even be a little stronger. But if I had thought, even for a moment, that she would end up dying from foilé minne, I wouldn’t have done it. Not without sending the two of you away first. Humans have nothing but my contempt, but she’s barely more than a child, Dara.”

Dara swallows the lump in his throat and nods. Ferryn nods back, a sharp, decisive thing.

“Now, are you still willing?”

He gapes for a moment. “Willing?” he asks, and then he catches up. Can we help her? We can, if there is anyone willing.

Sweet fucking Melitele.

“Yes,” he answers, as steady as he can get it, because what else can he say?

This was never Farryn’s fault. It’s because of him that Ciri is here.

“Good. Now, sit her up. She’ll only be lucid for a few minutes – you’re going to have to explain quickly.”

“Why not – ”

As if reading his mind, Farryn cuts him off with a, “Because if the both of you make it out of this, it’s not me who is going to have a half-elf bastard out of it.”

Sweet fucking Melitele.

– – – – ��

The first thing Ciri registers is that something thick and gritty is sliding down her throat, and that her mouth is filled with the taste of blood and crushed herbs. She chokes, coughing, but there’s a hand on her mouth as soon as she does.

“Swallow, girl, you need it,” a voice says, and she pries her eyes open to find her vision swimming. Slowly, it stills out into still-blurry focus, though, and she recognizes –

“Farryn?” The name is muffled beneath the priestess’ hand, but when it doesn’t move, she swallows pointedly. The elf squints at her for a moment, then removes her hand. “Wha’s….”

She’s suddenly shifting, and she lets out a yelp.

“Sorry,” Dara says, suddenly in front of her. It’s him holding her up, she realizes, though she can’t really parse how. She just recognizes the feeling of his hands on her. He looks…scared.

“Dara?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly.

Ciri frowns, because what could he be sorry for? She…doesn’t know where she is, or what’s happening, but she remembers following the sound of singing and then heat, and…. Dara wasn’t there. Not with her, at least. She…must have fainted. Yes, she fainted, she sort of remembers her vision swimming, but….

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Dara repeats, but she doesn’t think it’s because he thinks she didn’t hear. “Look, I don’t – there’s not a gentle way to tell you this. The ritual we were holding, the ceremony – it was a fertility blessing, and it…. Something happened to you. Is happening.”

Ciri frowns harder. “What?” she repeats. Her skin is starting to crawl with heat again, but at least this time there’s sweat, too, though the adding tingling in…uh. That’s…unexpected and a little uncomfortable.

“It’s a sex curse,” he finally says, sounding a little pained. “At least, more or less. You – we. We have to have sex.”

“...what.”

Dara’s laugh is even more pained. “You’re dying,” he says. “The ritual, it – something reacted, in you, your blood.”

Suddenly, violently, Ciri is thrown back to an open field and mangled bodies – the Time of Madness and the Time of Contempt: Tedd Deireádh, the Time of End. The world will die amidst frost and be reborn with the new sun. It will be reborn of Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of the seed that has been sown.

A seed which will not sprout but burst into flame.

“Dying?” Ciri whispers, vision swimming again.

“I won’t let you,” Dara says, sharp and firm. “I won’t, Ciri, I just – I have to, we have to – to save you.”

He’s asking, she realizes, in a sort of distant way as heat and tingling continue to crawl up her spine, through her body, til her head is spinning again. He’s asking, and she thinks if she says no, he’ll…let her.

Let her die.

Her breathing is labored, and she finds the only thing she can really focus on is Dara’s hands; they’re cold against her overheated skin, and his palms are smooth but his fingertips are callused. Like a string player. For a split second she’s distracted, wondering if he plays an instrument, but his voice calls her back.

“Ciri, please.”

She trusts him. Despite all of their bickering, the horrible things he said about her and her grandmother, she trusts him, because – because he’s earned it. He came back, after the doppler, and saved her where she was helpless and tied up. He helped her kill that monster masquerading as Mousesack. He helped her chip into the frozen ground deep enough to bury the corpse, even as he spewed vitriol the whole time.

He said he wouldn’t leave even if the elf camp turned her out. That he’d stay with her, like he did when she left Brokilon.

“Okay,” she says. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” And then he’s – kissing her.

It feels – incredible. And it’s not just pleasure, the illicit thrill of it, though it’s that, too, it’s…she’s so hot, skin crawling with the fever, and his hands on her back and her face and his mouth on hers is like being dunked in cold water. Like the time in Skellige that she jumped into the sea along with the rest of the clan, sharp-stinging cold that jolted her into a new kind of awareness.

There’s no jolt into awareness, here, but she feels like she might be swimming toward it, finally.

She’s clumsy, as she tries to kiss Dara back, but he doesn’t seem concerned. She vaguely notes that he seems – confident. Smooth, like he knows what he’s doing, and for the first time she wonders how old is he really? but then Dara drags his mouth from hers and to her ear and she’s distracted from considering it.

“I think – I think I can feel it, too,” he murmurs. “It’s – not the same, not what happened to you, but….”

If he has anything more to say, he doesn’t continue with it; instead, he drags his mouth down her throat. She gasps at the zing of pleasure that strikes her core, and he seems to notice, kissing back up the stretch of her neck and then back down, letting his teeth scrape across the sensitive skin.

Now she’s whining. It’s an embarrassing sound, but she can’t stop; she barely has any control of herself, really only enough to cling to the stone she’s sitting on and Dara’s thigh. She can’t seem to figure out what they’re sitting on, or how he’s positioned in relation to her, but he distracts her once again by dropping kisses further down, along her collarbone and even further.

She remembers, suddenly, that she’s only in her nightclothes. She wonders, distantly and vaguely, why that hadn’t occurred to her when she left the camp, that she was hardly dressed, but it doesn’t matter now.

Mostly, it’s lucky, because it means Dara only has to shift a little and tug at the large, scooped neck to bare her breasts, and his mouth is following along quickly.

The pleasure of all of it has been shocking, really – his mouth and his hands and how well her body responds to him, how slick she is between her thighs – but this is something else entirely. The noise she makes is broken, caught in her throat as she tries to writhe, nails scraping rough and painful against the stone.

Dara shifts again, and this time when her nightgown moves it’s because he’s pulling it up, uncovering her thighs and belly and then her breasts again. She struggles to help, letting go of his leg when he tugs at the sleeve on that arm, and then lifting the hand she has braced on the stone to let him pull the whole thing off, finally. Her hair is in her face, but that hardly matters when he kisses her again, still moving but in a way she still can’t seem to figure out.

Until, of course, she’s suddenly being lifted. She yells, heart jumping to her throat, but Dara’s grip is sure and he’s murmuring soothingly as they move. Her vision is still too blurry to make anything out, never mind the fact that it’s dark and she doesn’t know where she is, but she thinks he turns them. She can tell he only takes about a dozen steps before he’s lowering her again.

It’s…a fur, she realizes. A smaller one, as her legs rest on moss and undergrowth, but a fur all the same, soft even where it sticks to her tacky skin. As soon as she’s laid out on it, Dara is laying over her, his hips pressed between her thighs and his elbows on either side of her face.

She…expects to feel his cock, expects him to tip her hips up and just – get on with it, really, but that doesn’t happen. His cock does press against her hip, blood-hot and hard and…a little oddly shaped for what she expects, actually, but she can’t really focus on that when he’s kissing down her throat and murmuring.

“So beautiful,” he breathes, “wish it wasn’t like this, that I could do it right.”

“Right?” she asks, feeling marginally clearer with so much of his skin pressed to hers. He responds to the way she rolls her body up against him by dropping a little more of his weight onto her, pressing her further into the fur and the soft ground beneath.

He chuckles against her throat, but it’s strained. “I – you’re a princess, Ciri,” he says, and she…kind of gets what he’s saying, there, but also….

“Not anymore,” she reminds him, pretending it doesn’t make her chest go tight, and he shakes his head, though he doesn’t actually disagree.

“Even so,” is all he says, and then, after a momentary detour to mouth at her shoulder, “This is – something like this is…a gift, at the least. Sacred, at best. Having to do it like this…you deserve better.”

And she’s still hazy, still sort of trailing behind him, but that – it hits her and she snorts.

Dara leans up to give her an incredulous look.

“It’s a chore,” she counters, echoes of a dozen maids in her childhood echoing in her head. “Not – not always, but….”

He just sort of blinks at her, and then shakes his head. “Not for us,” he says, finally, and then he’s ducking back down to kiss her again, and this one feels…different. Softer, hotter. She whines into his mouth, and he sucks gently at her swelling bottom lip before he pulls back and puts his mouth back on her chest. She almost doesn’t catch how he murmurs, “Not to me.”

Something about that is….

Too much, she decides, unsure what to do with the myriad of emotions swirling in her gut and her chest, on top of the way her body is screaming a new, unfamiliar need at her.

“Please,” she murmurs, entirely unsure what she’s even asking for. She knows the fundamentals of bodies and the basic mechanics of sex – her grandmother was protective, but not shy – but that’s all, really. It seems clear to her that Dara at least knows those and a bit more, so she ignores the way her stomach is twisting with uncertainty and gods know what else and just…trusts him.

He nuzzles against her breast and hums, the same sort of soothing as when he lifted her, and then he’s shifting his weight to balance on one arm instead of two. It pulls his weight off of her, mostly, and she whines, but he just kisses at her sternum and hums again. His freed hand trails down, over her shoulder and across one breast, pausing for just a moment to circle a fingertip around her nipple as she shudders helplessly, and then over her ribs and to her hip. Once there, he circles the touch in with gentle strokes, until he’s resting his palm over her mound, fingers held lightly against her folds.

Just as helplessly as the shudder, her hips buck, and that movement seems to be what he was waiting for. His mouth finds her nipple, and then his fingers are spreading her gently before just sort of stroking over the slick flesh there.

The sound she makes is close to a wail, loud and sudden and then choked, when he just sucks at her nipple and that stroking touch turns into his fingertips gently circling her entrance. Her hips buck again, and his fingers move back up, until that gentle circling is at her clit.

Her skin feels electrified, and the heat is worsening but it’s good, now, it feels right. Dara’s mouth moves to her other breast, and he presses his fingers just a little harder against her, sending a shock of pleasure through her so intense that she jerks, the leg she has bent around Dara’s tensing and forcing him a little closer.

With the way he shifted to touch her, his cock is pressed between his belly and her thigh, and he grunts when her leg forces him tighter to her, his own hips rolling and grinding his erection against her. This time, she can sort of pin what seemed odd about it – it’s more tapered at the top than she’d expected, and she can’t really tell if it’s just that feeling is different than seeing, or if his cock is actually oddly tapered.

…or maybe that elves have slightly different anatomy than humans, because now that she’s thinking about it, she’s fairly certain none of the scholarly writings and sketches she’d seen ever talked about elves at all.

The movement of his hips doesn’t stop, either, and she can tell there’s – texture, almost, though that’s…not quite right. His skin feels just like any human’s, but it’s underneath the smoothness of skin. Soon enough, though, he’s shifting his fingers and thoroughly distracting her by holding her spread open with two while a third strokes directly over her swollen clit.

She loses her breath, and then her vision goes, too, everything spinning and black-white-starry. She’s trembling, but Dara isn’t stopping, isn’t moving away; instead, he’s just firming the touch against her clit, moving faster, starting to bite messily at her breasts in between panted encouragements.

“Like this, just one, I promise I’ll give you what you need, but this first – ” he rasps, still grinding his cock against her thigh, the movement growing slicker with sweat or maybe precum, she doesn’t know which. He keeps murmuring, some of it choked, but she loses track quickly, the trembling turning into quivering into shaking, until the jittery tension finally snaps and she’s coming.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the small part of it that isn’t drowning in heat and pleasure and somehow worsened need, she realizes oh, so this really is why people do this so much.

There’s knowing, objectively, that orgasms are enjoyable and that people like them, and then there’s feeling it – the spiraling heat and seeping tension, how her heart hammers and then settles alongside a sudden lassitude in her limbs. She lets out a sigh she’s almost embarrassed of, it’s so – wanton.

“Gorgeous,” Dara is whispering, forehead pressed to her collar as he rocks his hips against her. “Gods above, look at you, want to do this again, later, when I can take my time and give you everything – “

Her stomach twists again, much more pleasantly this time, but already the heat is coming back with a vengeance to steal the afterglow, her hips cramping as they jerk up against his stilled hand.

“Please,” she breathes, and her voice is startlingly raspy – she wonders if she was screaming, and pretends that the heat flooding her face is just more of the effect the ceremony had on her and not a blush. “I think it’s – I need….”

She knows what she needs, now; she needs him to fuck her, properly, but the words stick in her throat. She swallows against them, opens her mouth to try again, but still nothing comes out.

Dara says something she doesn’t catch, Elder Speech, she thinks, but his hand is moving then. “Okay,” he says. “Just, first – ”

His fingertips circle her entrance again, but this time instead of just being an electrifying tease, one of them is sinking slowly inside her. She makes another incredibly wanton noise, but can’t even bring herself to care about it, angling her hips up as if she could force that single digit any deeper.

“Please,” she gasps again.

“I know,” he murmurs back, kissing from her sternum to her mouth. “I know, I have you, just – let me, just for a second.”

She makes a vaguely assenting noise against his mouth, clenching down on the finger he’s rocking in and out of her. He grunts, and then there’s a second finger singing into her, and it’s – a stretch, one she can feel, like when she reaches above her head too far, but there’s no pain. She moans.

“Fuck.” Dara sounds almost pained, but he kisses her again before she can try to ask, and his fingers are moving faster now, pulling almost all the way out before he sinks them back in, and it’s – good, it’s so fucking good, better than she ever though possible, but it’s not enough.

“Dara,” she pleads, voice pitchy, “Dara, please.”

He curses again, in Elder this time. His fingers slip out of her with an obscenely wet noise, and she whines in loss even as she realizes he’s moving to give her what she needs. It takes more effort than it rightly should, but she manages to lever herself somewhat up on her elbows as he settles on his knees between her thighs, wanting to actually see him now, at least as much as she can in the blurry dark as clouds pass over the moon.

She loses the thread of her thoughts, though, when she does look. He’s – handsome, even pretty, she knows that. She’s known that since the first time she saw him anything resembling cleaned up, the first time they had to bathe together in a freezing river after the Cintran refugee camp had been attacked. But she realizes now that it had been purely objective, then, seeing his chest and the cut of his hips and his fine bone structure and knowing that he was conventionally attractive.

What she’s experiencing now, watching him breathing hard where he’s poised between her legs, his cock in his hand, is anything but objective. Especially once her eyes land on his cock.

With everything so shadowed, only the occasional beam of moonlight to highlight edges and base colors, it’s hard to really see, but she can get an idea – and she was right, earlier, with the assumption that maybe elves’ anatomy is different than humans.

It’s not unrecognizably different, the same basic shaft and head shape, but his cock is much thinner at the top than the sketches she’s seen of human men, and the whole shape is more tapered. Also, along the sides and bottom, thrown into more relief as he strokes himself and his fingers shift, are some sort of – ridges. The texture she’d felt, earlier.

She swallows, and even if she feels a little unsure, the longer they sit in this sort of tableau the harder it gets to breathe and think so – she shoves it aside.

“Dara,” she says, again, less of a plea but still very much a request.

His eyes drift up from where he’d been staring between them, and at least he looks as off-kilter as she feels.

“Yeah,” he says, as if his name had been a proper question, and then he’s shuffling closer and leaning over her again, their hips still separated but only just. Ciri gasps at the feeling of his cock twitching against her belly and lets him steal the breath right out of her with a kiss, the most desperate of them so far.

“Please.”

– – – – –

He really doesn’t know what to do with how hearing Ciri plead makes him feel, so he shoves it pointedly aside and instead focuses on the here and now, the fact that no matter what trepidation he feels he cannot back out and risk her life.

Especially since he’d really rather like to give this a shot when it’s not life-or-death, if she’ll have him.

It’s easy, really, to slot their hips together, feeling the heat radiating from her cunt. She pants into his mouth when he kisses her again, and then whimpers when he shifts and drags the head of his cock over her folds. She’s so slick he has to keep a grip on himself to control the movement, and his heart hammers in his chest, wondering how much of that is the ritual, the effect on her, and how much of it is just her natural response.

“Please,” she whispers again, lips still against his, and he kisses her again, shuddering at the sensation as he rubs his cock over her hole.

“I have you,” he murmurs back, when he has to pull back to breathe.

She just whines and hooks her legs around his waist properly, knees at his sides and feet crossed against his lower back. The movement rocks him forward, pushes just the tip of his cock inside her cunt, and they both freeze for the space of one rapid heartbeat.

“Dara,” she moans, outright moans, like the neediest whore, and any real control he was trying to exert is gone.

“Ciri,” he murmurs back, biting at her jaw as he sinks inside her with one smooth thrust. The searing heat and pleasure must scramble his brain, too, because the next thing he whispers is, “En'ca minne, yeá elaine.”

He has no idea if she even knows enough Hen Llinge to understand that, and he also doesn’t know if yes or no is the worse answer, so he bites his tongue and focuses on moving. Slowly, at first, at least as slowly as he can manage with his instincts beating at his chest to just take, to move faster and rougher.

Needing to do something with that urge, he leans his weight to one side and drags his opposite hand between them, plucking at her nipples for a moment before he moves down, until he can get his fingers on her clit. She jolts and clenches so tight around him he’s afraid for a split second that he’s going to flare at just that, but the moment passes and he’s able to concentrate on moving his fingers and his hips in tandem.

Beneath him, Ciri falls apart beautifully, seeming to melt everywhere except where she’s gripping onto him, hips tilting so he can shove just a little deeper. He hisses and bites at her throat, knows he’s leaving livid purple marks on the fair skin, and resists the urge to bite harder.

Encouraged by the way she’s rocking her hips in tandem with his rhythm, how she’s gasping his name and please and arching into him, he moves faster. When she just whimpers and asks for more, he finally lets go, stops worrying so much about the pace and instead fixates on making her come on his cock.

She’s so responsive it’s almost easy, and each new pleasure seems to overwhelm her in the best way, so he sets to it; rubbing consistent, tight circles on her clit, tilting his hips so his cock grinds against the sensitive front wall of her cunt, and when he can get his back bent the right way, sucking at her nipples until she wails. It only takes a few minutes of that dedicated attention for her to shatter, her wails turning into breathless screeching as she clenches down so hard he’s forced to stop thrusting.

Instead, he just grinds against her, struggling to breathe as his knot starts to swell – not to the point of a flare, not yet, but so close, and he doesn’t want it to happen yet, wants to make her come again first, really let her wring all of the pleasure out of this possible.

It takes several minutes of deep breathing as she comes down to get a grip on himself, but he manages, and soon she’s rolling her hips against his in a wordless demand. It makes him laugh, as strained as it is, but he moves.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmurs, and Ciri makes a noise in response, but he couldn’t say what it means. He doesn’t worry about it, instead just rolling his hips a little faster again, until he’s fucking her properly once more.

He knows that even if he wants to he won’t be able to control himself this time; he’s going to come right with her. He shifts carefully, until their hips are more properly aligned and he can get his arm under her shoulders; she helps, unintentionally or not, by throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling herself up to cling.

“One more like this,” he murmurs, lips pressed to her ear since she’s buried her face in his throat. He can feel more than hear the way she’s still whining, clearly overstimulated but still needing. “One more for me, en'ca minne, just like this.”

“Dara,” she mewls, and just like that she’s coming again, barely anything more needed than the steady roll of his hips and a little gentle pressure against her clit. He bites down on her shoulder to keep in a vicious noise, sliding his hand up her belly and then to the side, til he can curl his fingers around the space between her waist and her hip and steady her frantic movement as she trembles through it.

“Fuck, Ciri,” he practically growls it against her throat as his knot finally flares, and he grinds as deep into her cunt as he can get, entire body jolting and head starting to spin when he feels how she squeezes around the intrusion.

Human women don’t lock properly, not like elves, but it’s as if their bodies know to try anyhow. All the same, bodily instinct or not, the sensation is clearly enough of a shock that Ciri’s mind objects.

Luckily, the grip he has on her is enough to keep her from jerking away and hurting either of them.

“Shh,” he soothes, “it’s okay, minne, it’s alright, shhh.”

“What is – fuck,” Ciri whines, voice cracking, and seemingly without her input her hips are rolling against his, cunt clenching even tighter around his knot. The sensation of her squeezing like that, and the way she’s trembling as she grinds his cock deeper inside herself, has him shivering and whining himself, fingertips pressing little point bruises into her soft skin.

“Knot,” he says, shorter and sharper than intended as she squeezes again. “Just – don’t try to pull away.”

“I – fuck, yeah, okay,” she mutters, clearly distracted. He can sympathize.

It takes a bit of effort, but he’s able to sort of scoot his knee higher on the little fur Farryn had laid out for them and then twist, lifting Ciri off of it so he can continue to turn and drop back on it. Unfortunately, the movement means that his knot just presses deeper, almost to the point that he knows he would be locked because of the shape of her pelvis.

She gasps and then mewls, and with a mind-bending little movement of her hips, comes on his knot.

He loses his breath, hips jerking as if he could ever get any deeper than this, with all of her weight pulling her to the very base of his cock. She just makes a cut off little noise, almost a sob, and sort of collapses down onto his chest, still shaking through the aftershocks.

It takes a long moment for him to regain any of his thoughts, but when he does, he notices that she’s cooled off considerably – in fact, she’s shivering now, the sweat they’re both covered in probably chilling her something fierce. He tugs her down, grunting at the shift, and wraps his arms around her. He can’t do much else, pseudo-locked and out in the woods. He’s sure Farryn probably left more than just a single fur for them before she started herding the others back to camp, but he would have to look for that, and that just circles right back to the fact that Ciri is still caught on his knot.

At least the fever is gone, and as her breathing settles, he can practically feel her overactive thinking returning.

“Shh,” he hushes, preemptively, but she isn’t deterred.

“Dara,” she says, softly, and her voice is serious enough that he surrenders and lets her sit up a little. He hisses at the movement, cock twitching inside her, but they both ignore that.

“Mm?”

“...you said fertility ritual. Before.”

“Mm.”

“Dara, I – I have a cycle. I can – this is….”

His stomach drops out. Because if the both of you make it out of this, it’s not me who is going to have a half-elf bastard out of it.

He had known, of course, that it was the risk he was taking in saving Ciri’s life. But she hadn’t, not really.

“Elvish fertility isn’t great,” he offers, and it must sound as weak as it feels, because Ciri whacks his chest.

“With other elves,” she says, and she’s unfortunately right. Human-elf pairings are so much more likely to create offspring, and everyone knows it.

“It’s still possible you won’t take,” he says, and catches her hand before she can hit him again. He can’t resist the urge to kiss her fingertips, though, and he watches as her frown softens.

“But if I do?”

He swallows. “If you don’t want to carry my child,” he says, carefully, refusing to acknowledge the emotional reaction to that that rises in his chest, “then we’ll go to the temple, or one of the healers in the cities. As long as we go early, they can get rid of it.”

Her eyes go wide, at that.

“You would – ” she starts, and then cuts off, looking away. “I know half-elves are frowned upon, but – ”

“Children are…revered,” he interrupts. “And mothers the same. I told you, this, this act itself – it’s a gift, a sacred one, and….”

“...and?”

“And I wouldn’t make you carry a child you didn’t want.”

No matter how desperately I want it, how much my people need children and hope.

She pulls her hand from his, just to turn it and cup his face. Her palm is small and smooth, her skin the kind of soft that tells of her origin. Her thumb strokes over his cheek while she looks at him. After a moment, he can’t take the intensity of the stare, and she doesn’t say anything when he closes his eyes and turns his face into her hand.

Finally, though, she moves, and first he feels her lips at his temple, and then on the bridge of his nose, before her mouth finds his. The kiss is chaste and soft and sweet and his chest aches over it.

“Look at me,” she whispers, against his lips, and he goes cross eyed at first when he obeys, but she just leans a little back and smiles.

“What?” he asks, after another moment of silence where she just smiles softly at him.

“No temple or healers,” she murmurs. “...at least, not for several months.”

Her meaning takes a long moment to sink in, and then he feels like he’s been punched in the sternum.

“You – Cirilla.”

“That’s my name, yes.”

He laughs, then, even as tears gather in his eyes. “Ciri,” he breathes, and tugs her back down into another sweet kiss. “Really? Even if it means that a half-elf has a right to the throne of Xin’trea?”

Her smile widens into a grin. “Better than Nilfgaard, isn't it?”

The tears are spilling over, then, as well as the laughter again, and she shakes a little as she starts to giggle, and he can’t possibly do anything except roll them back over, her back in the undergrowth, and kiss her until the sun comes up.

#celus writes #dead dove #dead dove: do not eat #ciriweek #celus wrecking ciri #celus age difference CW #celus sex pollen CW #celus overstimulation CW #celus pregnancy kink CW #celus breeding kink CW

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whumpinggrounds · 3 years

Text

All Caught Up

woohoo here for day 1 of @whumptober2021 with some superhero/sidekick content :) as i’m sure you’ll figure out, this is for the barbed wire part of the prompt

tagging @whumpy-writings, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed :)

CW: barbed wire, (duh), blood, field medicine, cuts, pain, crying, sidekick whump, environmental whump (kinda??)

The mission is going well, as far as August can tell. He’s been relegated to recon, which is a nice way of saying that he’s spending the night running circles around the action. Beck, ever the diplomatic leader, makes sure to talk up the importance of it, emphasize how August is keeping them safe by watching everyone’s back. August, young and green though he might be, is smart enough to know that it’s a little less dramatic than all that. At least he’s contributing, August tells himself. Mercer, his fellow trainee, is back at the compound with the medic girl, Valerie. Perhaps it’s only because August’s power is more useful, but he’d like to pretend it’s a little deeper than that.

By his fifteenth lap around their perimeter, August has to call his wishful thinking what it is. He’s not any more capable than Mercer, and certainly he’s less useful than Valerie. He’s just convenient for the current mission, which, by the way, he doesn’t even get to know about. After just a few minutes of the task, he has to admit what he’s really doing, which is running pointless circles around a warehouse in the dark, keeping his eyes open for anyone suspicious.

“What kind of suspicious person should I be looking for?” August had asked, overloaded on adrenaline as Beck and Donovan briefed him on the mission. Beck had nodded at the question, but Donovan had looked nothing short of disgusted.

“We’ll be at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city in the middle of the night. Anyone shows up, they’re suspicious. Is that simple enough for you?”

After weeks of training with him, August was well used to Donovan’s digs, but hearing it in front of Beck made him flush like it was the first time. He ducked his head, cringing from the friendly pat Beck tried to land on his shoulder.

“Don’s just stressed,” Beck had explained with an apologetic smile. August had forced a smile. If that was true, Donovan’s spent the past several weeks stressed, every minute of every day.

The memory of the conversation cheers August, just a little. It reminds him that he’s out here, jogging easy laps around the warehouse, instead of inside, within range of Donovan’s caustic comments. At a steady, sustainable lope, August cuts through the clear, slightly cool night air like a knife. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, including a mask pulled down over his face that hides his spiky, strawberry blonde hair. When he first dressed out like this, August had been tempted to ask what would happen if someone thought he looked suspicious, skipping around dressed completely in black. Before he got the words out, though, he imagined Donovan’s withering response, and Beck’s awkward pity. August decided it was better just to keep his mouth shut. Now he focuses on watching the world around him, scanning alleyways and empty roads in widening circles. It’s easy, meditative, the most familiar motion August knows.

Around him, the night is thick and silent. His footsteps echo down quiet streets, only the sound of buzzing streetlights and distant sirens there to keep him company. Of all the sketchy parts of the city, August wouldn’t have picked the warehouse district for a criminal hotspot – most of these places are legitimate shipping contract, complete with a rent-a-cops posted outside their chain link fencing. This building is on the edge, though. August examines it on his closer loops, trying to glean from the outside what must be going on within. He has a lot to learn, and it’ll take him twice as long if Donovan and Beck won’t explain things to him outright.

They’ve been in the area almost an hour when a new noise makes August’s ears prick up. Something rattles in one of the side streets, a way that’s been empty the last three times August checked it. Tightening his circle, August trots toward the sound, not sure whether he should hope for a stray dog, or something a little more exciting.

As he draws closer, August tries to note the ways the alleyway might’ve changed, but he just hasn’t been paying enough attention in all this quiet. There’s a bottle, gleaming empty, in the center of the alley, which may not have been there before. Slowing to a walk, August scans both sides of the way carefully, making sure to check the window sconces above him. He gets to the street on the other side, ready to give up, when he sees him. Across the way, there’s a man watching him – dark clothes, shifty eyes. Their eyes lock, and August feels his heart rate pick up.

Before he can say anything or start to move, the other man is turning and running. Despite himself, a smile spreads across August’s face. Perfect.

Springing into action, August throws himself into the chase. After all the casual jogging, it feels so good to run – muscles firing at top speed, peak efficiency. The world blurs past his face as August’s legs pump beneath him, fine and strong. Fully confident in his abilities, August charges forward, fighting the urge to grin.

Up ahead, the stranger doesn’t look back. Presumably, he can hear August’s footsteps, catching up to him in leaps and bounds. The guy darts into a nearby building, dodging through dilapidated rooms, no doubt as a last-ditch attempt at evasion. Smirking, August tears after him.

The only thing that keeps the man out of August’s reach are the doorways and minor obstacles that block August’s path. He has to slow down to dodge, and the stranger pulls ahead again, fleeing out the back door a few precious yards before August. Growling, August hurls himself forward again, springing off the bottom steps of the house. He takes two massive strides and then –

And then August is on the ground, for seemingly no reason. Heart pumping hard, adrenaline surging through his veins, August tries to bounce back to his feet without even checking what might be wrong. That’s when the pain hits.

It’s stinging, at first, in his legs, and then a strange, metallic rattling sound. August lies still, brain still trying to catch up to what exactly is going on. Slowly, tentatively, he tries to separate one leg from the other, and then sucks in a breath as the tearing pain sharpens. Peering down, he whimpers as the source of his agony is revealed.

A bunch of old, rusty strands of barbed wire are wrapped around his legs. He must’ve run into them, almost full speed. If they were stapled to something before, his momentum must’ve carried him straight through, but it’s just as likely that the coils were just sitting there. Either way, the wire is now wrapped tight around his legs, digging in with every little motion he tries to use to escape.

Okay. Okay. August tries to keep his breathing level, but it’s hard. It’s getting shaky. Okay, he tells himself, just, just sit up-

But sitting up moves the wires, makes them tear at his skin in new and agonizing ways. Hissing through his teeth, August gives up for a second, lies panting on the ground like a landed fish. The weight on his legs makes the barbs dig in all the deeper. Whining, August pushes himself up on his elbows and, fighting pain, reaches back to try to pull the damn thing off. Every single motion makes the barbs dig deeper, rip and tear at August’s skin like they have teeth and independent, vicious will.

Despite his gritted teeth, his clenched fists, his desperate attempts to control himself, tears leak from August’s eyes. Angrily he swipes them away, panting through the waves of stinging pain, trying to think. He needs to…he needs to…he needs to get upright, so he can untangle himself.

The thought of standing, of all the maneuvering he’ll need to do, puts a sob in August’s throat. He just wants it to stop hurting. Adrenaline is draining from his system, leaving him with helpless, useless pain. August wants someone to come help him – but even if Donovan and Beck are out looking for him, he has no way of knowing when they’ll find him. Besides, he’s a full-on adult. He’s supposed to be a superhero. He’s supposed to help on this mission, not hinder. August needs to fix this himself.

Drawing in a long, unsteady breath, August steels himself, eyes closed. He can’t fix anything from his current position, facing the ground and unable to see just how bad the knotting is. Trying to stand is going to dig the barbs even deeper into his thighs and calves. Flipping over on his back will tangle him further in the loose strands of wire. There’s no good option, but he can’t just lie here on his face and let the barbs bury themselves in his skin, hoping someone finds him soon.

Gritting his teeth, August makes his move fast, giving himself no time to chicken out. Throwing his body to the side, he flips himself onto his back, dragging the strands of wire with him.

The pain is blinding. Either the wire is still attached to something, or its own weight resisted August’s move – whatever it is, the wire wrapped around his legs drags hard against August’s flesh. Caught off guard, August screams, a harsh, ragged sound that echoes loud into the night. He screams just once, and then bites down savagely on his cheek, pressing a fist to his mouth to muffle his sobs. Below the waist, his pants grow wet with blood.

Fuck. Fuck. It hurts so bad his body shakes with his tears. It hurts. Inside his head, August is wailing, but on the outside, all he can do is lie on the ground shaking, pressing his fist so hard against his teeth that his knuckles split and bleed.

Fuck. Fuck. Just breathe. He has to breathe. He has to breathe, and then he has to get it together, and then he has to fix this.

After a few minutes of regaining his composure, August sits up gingerly. In the dim glow of flickering streetlights, he looks at the mess wound tight around his legs. Just seeing it makes his stomach drop. He has no tools with him, nothing that could be used to cut spiky steel wire. August will have to sit here and peel each piece away from his skin by hand, even as tugging at one strand pulls another strand tighter.

It's going to be agony. But August doesn’t have another choice. Already, his pants are damp, and it won’t be long before a puddle starts to form. He can’t just sit here and weep until his mentors come to save him.

With one shaking finger, August tries to trace the wire, to figure out where and how to start. Eventually, he abandons that idea – he’s held by at least two, maybe three separate pieces of wire, and they’re all twisted together, a chaotic tangle that engulfs his legs in too many different places. Locking his jaw together and vowing that he won’t scream, August sets out to free himself.

It feels like it takes forever. A few times, August wishes dizzily to pass out from blood loss, or pain, but though the barbs cut deep, he’s not losing a dangerous amount of blood. The pain, rather than knocking him out, seems determined to keep him inescapably, unbearably present, aware of every little agony that razor wire can cause. Every shift, every tug, every careful little motion sends searing pain reverberating through his body.

Driven to distraction by the pain, by gritting his teeth and reducing his screams to grunts, August casts around him, finally landing on an old cardboard box collapsing in on itself nearby. With greedy fingers he hauls it to himself, folds it into a packet as thick as a wallet, and stuffs it in his mouth. Cringing from the taste of earth and mold and damp, August draws in a difficult breath around the mouthful and then attempts a particularly hard yank.

Head falling back, August yowls into his makeshift gag, biting down so hard he chokes on his trapped tongue. Coughing, crying, keening into the cardboard like a wounded animal, August works an especially tight strand away from his calves, not letting himself stop, no matter how painful or loud the going is.

When the loop is finally loose, August lets his teeth creak apart. His jaw aches from the clenching, and his teeth have worn deep, blurred impressions in the old cardboard. His hands are trembling, stained with blood from his legs and from where he’s cut his palms heaving at the wire entrapping him. Swiping a bloody hand across his mouth, August tries to get his breath back, all the while moaning, letting out little repetitive whimpering cries, like an animal caught in a trap and begging for aid. Distantly, he’s surprised at himself – he’s never heard these little pleading whines before and wouldn’t have thought it was something he would do. He’d always thought of himself as a yeller, before, someone who outright bellowed their pain. Tonight, he’s timid and pathetic as a child.

By the time Beck and Donovan find him, August is working on the last round of wire, surrounded by the bloody remnants of his prior successes. He’s too exhausted and pain-sick to focus on anything but freeing himself, so he isn’t alerted to the presence of the other supers until he hears Beck’s murmur. “Oh, fuck.” The leader sounds horrified, sick. “Oh, fuck, August, what happened?”

Too weary to have dignity, August just opens his mouth and lets the cardboard fall out, hands dropping to his sides and away from the barbed wire still stuck in his legs. “Saw som’n watchin’ the warehouse.” It’s been so long since he tried to talk that August isn’t sure why he’s slurring – maybe exhaustion, maybe the pain. Maybe because he’s been biting down so hard on cardboard his jaw feels like it won’t work right ever again. “Trieda chase ‘em. Didn’ see…didn’ see the wire.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Don’ know. Feels like…a long time.”

August looks up at Beck with total, hopeless, bottomless despair. Swallowing hard, Beck drops to his knees beside August, hand slipping down to his toolbelt. In seconds, he has a pair of wire cutters out and ready, and August feels hysterical laughter well within him at the thought of how easy this all would’ve been if only Beck had been around.

From another street floats a familiar, four note whistle. Beck replies in kind through his teeth as he brings the clippers to rest against the wire. August grits his teeth, steeling himself for the snap, the sudden retraction of the coils. Hesitating, Beck peers at him. “This…this could hurt.”

“’ve peeled…plen’y of it off m’self,” August grits out. “Jus’…hurry.” He drags in a shaky breath and wills himself to be brave. “…please.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, August remembers the cardboard too late. Without it, he lets an agonized grunt escape his lips as the wire cutters sever the last loop. Even the minute relaxation of his newly released legs is enough to jerk cruelly on the barbs embedded in his thighs. Fresh tears spring to his eyes beneath his mask, and August wonders wretchedly if Beck can see them.

If Beck does see his youngest trainee crying, he’s good enough not to say anything about it. When August peeks through slitted eyes, he sees his leader bent over the wire, focusing hard, drawing each barb out carefully and trying not to jostle as he does.

It hurts only a little less than August’s work on himself, but it’s over blessedly quick. When Beck finally sits back on his heels, August is left panting and bloody, but finally free. For a long moment he just sits there, leaning back on his elbows, trying to catch his breath. Opening his eyes, he discovers that sometime in the last few minutes, Donovan arrived, and is now staring at him, green eyes unreadable under his mask.

“August was trying to chase down a possible spy and ran into some razor wire.” Beck’s voice is low, distracted. “Maybe night vision goggles next time? Or-”

“Or the trainee learns not to run into shit like fences, walls, and goddamned barbed wire.”

“Don-”

“Can’t teach common fucking sense, Beck.” Donovan snorts. “Or maybe you can, but you shouldn’t waste your time.”

Letting his head drop, August bites his lip hard to avoid dissolving into tears. He’s tried so hard to be brave. When he speaks, his voice comes out as a wavery, exhausted whisper. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long silence from his two mentors. “Come on, Donovan.” Beck sounds tired. “He’s lost a fair amount of blood.”

Donovan just grunts, and crosses the courtyard, and scoops August up in an effortless bridal carry. He isn’t especially gentle, but he isn’t especially rough either, and he carries August, bloody and teary and exhausted, all the way home.

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peachiimilquetea · 3 years

Text

i’m back!

hi everyone!! hiatus is officially over!!

so a few new housekeeping notes!

i changed my name!

i mostly did this in accordance with my side blog (which i’ll be talking about more in a little bit) but i also hated the name for a while and i think this suits me just a little bit more! all my links have already been changed so if anything on my masterlist is broken/leads to nowhere please let me know!!

i also changed my tags! so anyone who has my old nsfw tag blocked might want to update that, altho it might not be an issue later on down the line, as you can see by my next heading

i’m highly considering stopping making nsfw content

i think this is the biggest change that might be coming to this blog tbh. i’ve been thinking about it A LOT and the discourse is super conflicting on what is right and what’s not right

as much as i love to write smut, and nobody has directly come after me for writing smut, i keep seeing opinions and takes that are starting to make me want to quit it altogether. like apparently as a minor there are legal implications for me writing smut? which??? idk how true that is but it’s enough to make me more wary

the discourse around aging people up is also conflicting and confusing and the last thing i want to do it be on the wrong side of how to interact and behave in fandom spaces, especially being so new

furthermore, people don’t really go feral on my blog? like people don’t interact with my nsfw content all that often so i feel like it’s just there idk. maybe i’ll split the content into two blogs, maybe i’ll just private all of it and become purely sfw, idk im still thinking about it but i’ll let you know when i come to that decision

i will not be as active as i previously was

i hate to be so frank but the tumblr writing community is dying. nobody gets the interaction or hype that they deserve and it’s a huge blow to a writer’s morale to write something and barely get recognition

it’s not selfish for writers to feel this way and for this reason i won’t be posting as often or as regularly as i did previously. when i finish all requests and i open them up again, you probably won’t be getting it as quickly as you’ve seen in the past.

school is also starting up for me and it’s a very important one (senior szn or whatever) so i’m gonna be super busy with college stuff and AP classes and all the fun stuff that comes with being on the verge of adulthood

requests are actively being finished

this isn’t really a new thing, but i know there are at least two event requests that are in progress rn and one request for an orginal piece i wrote at the very beginning of my blog

i’ll tentatively open my requests up again really soon (probably with slots tbh) and we can move from there

i promise they’ll be done (one is already fully finished and formatted in my drafts), ive just been burnt out and really not feeling writing (hence the hiatus)

i’m making a sideblog!

yayyyy smth a little bit more lighthearted! i made a side blog! its callled @peachiimilquecoffee (see what i did there) and it’ll be a little bit more laid back, more behind the scenes, and maybe i’ll post more WIPs and sneak peeks there as well as the stuff that interests me so i don’t clog up your dash with random pointless stuff

i’m also probably gonna talk more about my original content, and post about my other interests. if you’re into that kinda thing just check my navi and it’ll be up sometime soon! i just finished setting up camp and getting my tags situated there and whatnot so come hang out!

closing

when i started this blog, i didn’t think i would get this far or even meet so many other people that i enjoy interacting with and seeing! i do want to stay here for as long as the site will let me, and as long as i feel welcome.

like i said previously, the writing community on tumblr feels like it’s dying, and it’s hard to make fan content unless you have a shit ton of followers that interact with you every day (and honestly some big blogs are struggling with a lack of boundaries as well).

all this to say, it often feels like there’s no winning. this is a tentative comeback, and i really hope something will change soon and making writing as fun as it was in the beginning for me. the hiatus was good for me to reset and be more inclined to get back in the groove.

thank you sm for your follows and your support! i really appreciate every single one of you and im looking forward to writing more stuff!

#important #[🍑]peachiimilquetea #[🍑]peachiiwrites

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kookicat · 4 years

Text

Consequences That He Renders

He's shaking hard enough for her to feel, fine tremors running through his hands, his arms and it's freaking her out because as a rule, Eliot Spencer isn't a man who shakes. The last time she'd seen it was after a job went majorly, horribly bad, when he'd been so battered and bruised and bloody they'd actually managed to get him to visit a hospital. It's too dark in the car to get a proper look at his face, but the streetlights offer glimpses and she'd swear on a stack of hundred dollar bills that he's pale, eyes shadowed, gaze fixed at some point miles past the glass.

The car hits a pothole, hard, and he grunts, lip curling, one hand creeping up to cup his left shoulder. It's the one he favours first, some nagging remains of an old injury, and it makes the tension in her stomach curl a bit tighter, like a snake burrowing into the sand for the night. She's a thief; she's trained to notice the smallest detail because it can be a matter of life and death if she misses something. Another piece of the mental jigsaw she's building clicks into place when he shifts, jaw tightening as some sore spot somewhere presses against the seat.

"Eliot," she starts, resisting the urge to poke him, to see how badly he's hurt this time in favour of leaning over a little.

"Parker," he says, voice hoarse with exhaustion, and turns towards her. He can't quite meet her eyes. Another piece. Something bad happened. She's not great with emotions but she's learning. It's not shame on his face, but sorrow.

"Are you okay?" She gives into the urge and presses her hand against his arm, half expecting him to move away.

He doesn't, just blinks tiredly at her and dredges up a weak smile. "I'm fine," he says and she lets the lie slide because she knows he's not fine at all.

"What happened, at the warehouse?" She keeps her eyes on his face, seeing a flicker of something before he shoves it down deep.

"I did my job. Got Nate and his Italian friend out of there." As he says the words, voice flat, the smell of cordite floods his nose, thick and bitter and choking. He can feel the weight of the guns in his hands, feel the shock of the recoil burning up his wrists as he takes the next target out. As he kills the next man, the voice in the back of his head mocks.

It had felt clear and clean in the moment, the kind of clarity only found at the right end of a gun but he's reeling, because he stepped into the kill box and didn't expect to walk back out. His life for his team's, a fair and more than even trade. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, but after the fact, he's not quite sure how he managed to survive.

"Oh," she says, voice so small, it makes him really look at her. There's a pensive frown between her eyebrows that he longs to wipe away but his hands aren't clean and he doesn't want to stain her. She needs a distraction, and he inadvertently gives her one when the car hits another bump, forcing another soft grunt out of him.

He's wrenched his back and bad shoulder all to hell and he's pretty sure that both knees are skinned raw from his slide. There's a low grade throb in both hands that he knows will evolve into a full on ache before too much longer. He knows guns, but he rarely uses them and he's paying the price.

"I thought you said you were okay!" She reaches for him, and he wards her off with one arm, biting the inside of his lip when she grabs his arm right over a growing bruise.

"I've had worse," he says, and it's true. He's pretty sure nothing is broken. He's just sore all over, abused muscles aching but it's not life threatening, just enough to make him miserable.

Something in her eyes shifts and she blinks, hard, hand tightening a little on his arm. He expects her to speak, but she just presses her lips together and leans against him gently, staying there until the car stops.

Hardison looks up from his laptop, taking in the scene with a sweep of his eyes, and gets out, coming round to open the door. Parker slides out of the other side and Eliot realises with a jolt they're all waiting for him, even Sophie and Nate.

It's going to take him a moment to get out and he'd really rather not have an audience for the performance.

"I'll catch up," he says and holds his hand out for the keys.

Parker snatches them from Nate. "We'll catch up," she says, giving Hardison a meaningful glance.

Sophie catches on and takes Nate's arm, tugging him towards the hotel entrance, casting a worried glance back at the car as she goes.

Eliot gets a good look at his friends’ faces and chokes back a sigh. They're going nowhere at least not without an argument, and he just doesn't have the energy for it right now. He swings his legs out of the car, pausing for a moment when his back spasms, then forces himself to stand. Being upright hurts, the long muscles in his abs tight and sore, back aching. The shootout ran him through the wringer and the aftereffects are starting to kick in.

"Come on, man," Hardison says and leans past Eliot to slam the car door. One hand lifts like he wants to offer assistance, but the older man shoots him down with a quick look.

They flank him, Parker on one side, Hardison on the other as he limps towards the entrance, feeling the denim peel away from his knees in a way that makes him want to hurl. His shirt is sticking to his back in a similar way and he rolls his shoulders in annoyance. It sends a bolt of pain down his spine and he stops, eyes closing until it eases.

"You're freaking me out, man," Hardison says, running his gaze over the other man, checking for blood. There's a few spots - his left shoulder is sporting a nasty blood stain, as are both of his knees, but nothing major jumps out. They've seen him hurt worse and walk it off but this time is different and Hardison just can't put his finger on why.

Eliot starts walking again, eyes fixed on the doors, but he's distant, pensive and Hardison realises with a jolt that's the problem. There's a level of quiet they only see from the older man when he's really hurt but that doesn't tally with the visible injuries and it's ringing alarm bells in Hardison's mind.

He glances at Parker, getting a nod in return. Something dreadful went down in that warehouse, bad enough that Eliot doesn't want to talk about it, bad enough that he's pulled back into his shell. The thought of what it could be sends a chill down Hardison's spine. Part of him wants to push, to needle a confession from the other man but a bigger part of him doesn't want to know. Their hitter had done his job and got everyone back safe and beyond that the details don't really matter. They won't judge him no matter what he did.

There's an elevator waiting in the lobby and they shuffle into it. The mirrored walls show Eliot just how bad he looks, and he suddenly understands why his friends are so concerned. He's pasty, dirt streaked and vaguely clammy in the air conditioning. He wants a shower, a change of clothes and a time machine, so he can go way back before this whole mess started and stop Nate from throwing them at Moreau. He knows which of those he's likely to get and leans against the wall with a sigh.

He's lucked out on this stay, managed to get a room to himself and he fishes in his pocket for the key, vaguely surprised it's still there.

Parker and Hardison are looking at him and he licks his lips, tries to dredge up some sort of response and settles for a quick, tired smile that he knows doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. "Thanks," he says and unlocks the door, "I'm going to go clean up. See you in a few."

He ducks inside, closing the door on them, knowing it's a shitty thing to do. He's pretty sure they'll forgive him, pretty sure they'd already figured out this wasn't a normal job and he's not in the mood for twenty questions. He pauses, slides the chain into place like it'll stall Parker for more than a couple of seconds if she decides she wants in.

Pain runs through his fingers as he grabs a change of clothes and carries them to the bathroom, starting the shower. His clothes stink, a bitter mix of smoke and cordite and sweat and he struggles out of them, throwing them in the corner for now. The water engulfs him, washing away the physical traces of what he did and it suddenly hits him, hard enough to unlock his knees so he ends up sitting with his back to the shower wall.

The tears are a surprise, because he thought he'd forgotten how to cry, used them all up. He pulls his knees up and rests his forehead on them, gulping in breaths when black spots swirl through his eyes. He's not weeping for the men he killed - their own choices put them in that warehouse, and none of them was an innocent - but for the man he was becoming, someone closer to the kid he searches for everyday in the mirror. They leave him aching and empty and hollow and it's going to take a while to soothe the new raw spots inside his soul.

He's chilled from sitting in the cold tile and the water is starting to run cold so he forces himself to his feet, reaching for soap and a washcloth, scrubbing any last trace of the battle from his body. It stings in places, highlighting minor cuts and knicks he didn't know he had until the lather found them, painting a map of damage to his body. He can't quite lift his left arm high enough to wash his hair and settles for doing his best one handed. He rinses, shivering, under the now cold water and steps out, wrapping a towel around his hips, leaning towards the mirror to find out why his shoulder hurts so much.

There's a splinter longer than his hand in the back of his shoulder. He can see it in the mirror but he just can't get the angle to dig it out. It hurts, a nasty throbbing ache that makes him want to tear his arm off and he tries again, flinching when his fingers just brush the wood. He's going to need help and stoops to find his phone in the pile of filthy clothes, sending a quick message.

He drys himself, slipping into soft sweatpants, draping a towel carefully around his neck to catch the water trickling from his hair. Somehow he's not surprised to find Parker and Sophie are already in the bedroom when he opens the bathroom door and steps out. There's the big medical bag between them on the couch and he pauses, steeling himself because the damn thing has to come out but it's not going to be a fun process.

"Hi," Parker says, voice just a tiny bit unsure, like she's not sure how he's going to react.

"Hey, Parker," he says, voice so rough that he winces, tries to swallow. "Sophie."

He's not sure which one of them is more surprised when she stands, wrapping her arms around him carefully.

"Thank you for bringing him home," she whispers in his ear and he nods, having to swallow hard before he can answer.

"I'd do the same thing for any of you," he says simply and lets himself lean into the hug for a second.

The towel slips and she gasps when she sees the sliver of wood lodged in his flesh. "Jesus Christ, Eliot!" she says, ducking out of his arms for a closer look. "This is not a little problem!"

He flinches, a little at her raised voice, knows they both notice. "Still needs to come out."

The room has a small table and he turns one of the chairs, sitting down slowly and resting his good arm on the back. His left shoulder doesn't want to bend and he gives in, tucking his arm in in front of him.

"Eliot, are you sure about this?" Sophie asks. "I'm sure we can find an actual trained medical professional to remove this from you."

He scoffs at that. "It's a splinter. If it was somewhere I could reach, I'd be digging it out myself right now."

"It's going to hurt," she says and if his head wasn't already throbbing, he'd roll his eyes at that. It already hurts, and getting it out before an infection sets in is his main concern.

"Just do it," he says, and put his chin down on his good arm, watching Parker as she lays out various medical supplies on the table in front of him. There's tweezers, squares of gauze, dressings, tape and wound ointment. He bites the inside of his lip, lifting his head to speak. "Grab the scalpel and stitch kit too," he says simply and she nods, one sharp bob of her head and reaches back into the bag.

Sophie presses an ice pack over the wound and he shivers under the chill, but it helps, takes some of the throbbing away and he's damn grateful for that.

Parker slips a pair of gloves on and moves behind him, reaching over him to grab some gauze and the tweezers. The closeness makes him feel twitchy and his hand tightens on the chair.

He grits his teeth as she lifts the ice pack off and probes the sliver with the tweezers, the plastic catching on the wood. It makes him flinch, muscles twitching and he feels her freeze behind him.

"I'm okay. It's okay," he says quietly. "Keep going."

"Tell me, if you need me to stop," she says, one hand brushing his bare back before she gets to work with the tweezers again.

It's a nasty sliver, maybe four inches long, jammed in the muscle just under his shoulder blade. The end is ragged and friable and every time she thinks she's got a good grip, the wood breaks off. The muscles in his back are tense under her hands, breathing deliberately steady and she knows all the poking must be agony.

"Parker," Eliot says, voice slightly hoarse, and she stops instantly. "Just cut it," he adds and blows out a ragged breath.

"Cut you, you mean?" She glances at the scalpel and shudders.

"Yeah," he says, and turns as much as he can to look at her. "That's where the damn thing is, after all." He's pale again, eyes shadowed, and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his face.

She licks her lips and nods. "Tell me what to do."

He does, in more detail than she ever wanted and her hand only shakes a little when she picks the scalpel up, trying not to think as she follows his instructions, swabbing his back with antiseptic first. Shaky doesn't seem an acceptable trait for performing minor surgery and she presses the ice pack against his shoulder until she has the shake under control. She places the blade against his skin and makes one swift cut. It frees some of the splinter and she reaches for the tweezers again but the wood still stubbornly refuses to come free.

It rips a pained grunt out of him and he swallows so hard she can hear it.

"Eliot…" Parker says, free hand on his good shoulder, thumb rubbing absent circles on his skin. She looks up, meeting Sophie's horrified gaze. It's not the first time they've had to do stuff like this and given their jobs, if probably won't be last but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Just get it done," he rasps, tacking on please as an afterthought to soften his tone.

"Okay," Parker says and makes the cut bigger, swiping away blood and letting the gauze drop to the floor.

His back is still under her hands, but she can hear the strain of it in his breathing when she goes in with the tweezers again. His good hand is gripping the chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white, head tipped forward so his hair falls past his face, hiding his expression.

Blood wells again as she gets a good grip on the wood and tugs. It moves this time, sliding out maybe half and inch and Eliot makes a noise halfway between a hiss and a grunt.

His whole world has distilled down to the throb in his shoulder, the sharp but cleaner pain from the incision, the ache down his back as he fights his instincts to stay still so he doesn't scare Parker half to death.

"Nearly done," Parker says, and he can hear the wobble in her voice that means she's crying and trying to hide it.

Must be the day for it, he thinks. "You're doing great," he tells her, because she is. It's a damn brave thing she's doing, and he's not sure how to make her understand how grateful he is for the help.

She changes her grip on the tweezers and takes another hold on the sliver, pulling slowly, easing it out from under his skin. The entire thing slides free suddenly and she feels like cheering. "It's out," she says and drops it on the table in front of him.

He swipes his hair back from his face, blinking at the damn thing in surprise. It had felt huge in his back, like a stone in a shoe, but it's actually bigger than he'd expected.

"Well, fuck," he says simply, and takes a deep breath that doesn't pull obscenely at his shoulder.

Sophie hands over a dish of antiseptic and more gauze. "It says it doesn't sting," she says and takes a minor risk, resting her hand on his arm. His muscles tense under her touch at first before he blows out a long breath and lets himself relax.

She's right, it doesn't sting at all as Parker cleans the wounds, adding wound ointment for good measure before taping a dressing securely over the top. He's glad she's being so thorough because pallet wood tends to be coated in all kinds of dirty stuff and the last thing he wants is an infection.

He's exhausted and all he wants to do is give into the pull of the bed and sack out for a couple of hours, give his brain and body chance to rest a bit but he's painfully aware of Parker standing next to him, face pale.

"Thank you," he says. "Feels better already," he adds, and it's not quite a lie.

She nods, sharply and he forces himself to his feet, accepting a t-shirt from Sophie who tips her head towards the door and slips out quietly.

"You were shaking in the car," Parker says and he sinks back into the seat. "Why were you shaking in the car, Eliot?" she asks, like it's something she can't quite square in her mind.

He licks his lips, knowing he's too exhausted and mentally fried to have this conversation right now. He also knows that he owes her. "It was a rough fight," he says simply, after a long pause, thankful there's enough cuts and bruises on his skin to sell the story.

"Did you kill someone?" She can't look at him and he feels a stab of self hatred rip through him, more painful and cutting by far than the wound on his back.

He hesitates, again, because he doesn't want her to think badly of him, but she's been brave enough to ask the question and he needs to be brave enough to answer. "Yes," he says and doesn't try to explain or excuse it. He did his job and he'll take the consequences, no matter how much they hurt.

"Okay," she says and looks at him. "You should rest," she says and a rush of gratitude races through him for the way her brain works. She's got the answers that she wanted and she's not going to press him for more.

He stands, body aching, and brushes past her, dropping a featherlight kiss on her temple on the way to the bed. "Stay?" he asks, in the same tone she'd once used on him, and she nods, curling up one one side of the big bed, one socked foot resting against his calf.

It takes him a while to get comfortable and he watches as the tension slowly drains from her face before he lets his own eyes close.

Thank you, he thinks. Thank you for not hating me. Thank you for giving me another chance when I don't deserve it.

He's not sure how or why or which God is setting up a long joke at his expense, but he's found a family and he's going to do everything he can to keep them whole.

Even if it costs him more of his already tattered soul.

That's a consequence he can live with.

Losing them isn't.

#leverage #eliot spencer #whump #hurt/comfort #parker #team as family #emotional whump #big bang job tag #minor surgery

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kaitoujokerscans · 3 years

Text

The Night the Silver Cape is Set Ablaze CH6

<6> The Lady Spy and Phantom Thief Girl

At the same time as when Spade was talking to Noir, a minor commotion was taking place aboard a luxury sleeper train coursing through a European ravine.

"Stop! Don't let her get away!"

The train shook with a clunking noise, and stern-faced men in dark uniforms trampled through the carriage. They were chasing after a tiny silhouette dashing ahead. The silhouette opened the door connecting to the next carriage and ran into the hallway. Although the hallway floor was made of old wood, the silhouette's footsteps were completely silent.

There came a loud bang from behind her. A pistol bullet streaked past the side of the silhouette.

"Tsk!" The silhouette clicked her tongue, then opened the door to the next carriage and jumped in. This was the first class carriage — a passenger car with numerous private cabins. Through the earpiece she wore, she heard an order to the uniformed men — "The target's headed towards the front! Cut her off on both sides!". She was listening in to their radio comm.

They'll be coming from the front too, soon enough...

The tiny silhouette came to a stop in the middle of the carriage. Right next to her was the door to a guest cabin.

The silhouette was a little old lady in black tights. She would have been at least seventy years old. Yet her hair was a glistening white, and her skin had a healthy sheen. Least suggestive of her age was the look in her eyes. She was keeping watch for enemies in front of her and staying cautious of enemies approaching from behind at the same time.

Her name was Agent Purple. She was a veteran spy of a country to remain unnamed and was still an active intelligence agent. Purple had just stolen a top-secret file from an influential person in a certain country. She had received intel that it was being moved on this train and, putting her petite stature to good use, had skillfully swiped the file without alerting anyone. It was an easy job for Purple.

But it so happened that a newbie spy allied with her country had been caught elsewhere and let slip that Purple was on board.

Good heavens... Young'uns these days have no backbone... Purple sighed and, focusing her attention to the front, reached for the small firearm lashed around her leg.

Anxiety bubbled within Purple. The round of enemy fire had grazed Purple's arm. It was only a scratch, but still, moving it even slightly made pain course through her arm. Usually she would have no issue with firing at this range, but if enough enemies stormed her from both front and back, she wasn't sure she'd be able to make every shot.

Though it doesn't look like I have a choice... Purple steeled herself. She heard bellows come from both in front and behind her. Just as Purple's hand hovered over her firearm... the guest cabin door swung open, and someone grabbed Purple's arm.

"...!" With her opposite hand, Purple immediately reached for the knife at her hip. But she didn't stab anything. Because the person grabbing her said this to her:

"Come with me, Grandma."

When the uniformed men stepped out of the linked cars into the first class carriage, the target they had been pursuing wasn't in the hallway. The train was chugging along at high speed. She couldn't escape out the windows. Which meant that she had to have entered one of the cabins along the hallway.

The boss gave the order to his men to search the cabins. The men didn't know anything about the spy who was their target, other than that she was short. They entered the rooms one by one and inspected who was inside. Because this was the first class carriage, the occupants all had posh appearances. None of the passengers looked like they could be a spy. But it was possible that she was disguised.

Politely and carefully, the uniformed men examined each individual guest. Eventually, they stood in front of the cabin at the very middle.

One of the men knocked on the door.

"Yes?" came a young woman's voice from inside.

"This is the railway authority. We've received word that an intruder snuck on board, thus we are presently conducting an inspection of all cabins."

"I understand. Come in," responded the female voice, not suspecting the man was lying.

Two men entered and saw that there was a girl and an old woman inside. They were sitting across from each other on plush emerald green seats. The girl, her blonde hair done up in twintails, turned to the men with a puzzled look. "Has something happened?"

The girl was wearing an aqua-colored dress. She gave off a refined air — probably the daughter of a rich family. Then suddenly, one of the men took a frightening tone and demanded, "Hey, did anyone come in here?"

"N-No..." The girl replied, startled.

"She telling the truth, Grandma!?" The man said menacingly to the old woman sitting across from the girl. But the old woman's eyes were focused outside the window and she wouldn't face him.

"My grandmother is hard of hearing. I can answer your questions!" The girl nearly shrieked.

"Check their luggage."

The other man tried to pick up the large traveling bag next to the old woman. Then the girl stood up, shouting. "Stop! Not that bag!"

"Shut up! You're hiding something, aren't you!"

"Of course not! Please, just don't!"

"You're sounding more and more suspicious to me!" The man took out his gun and pointed it at the girl. The girl gasped, her face paled, and she sat back down.

The other man undid the clasp of the traveling bag and slowly opened it, when...

"BARK BARK BARK!" A white dog bounded out of the bag and jumped at the man's face.

"WAUUUGH!?" The man threw his head back in a panic. The dog wouldn't get off him.

"Aahhh! Stop that, Corn!"

"W-What is up with this mutt!?" The man peeled the dog off his face, and the girl spoke.

"He's my pet. Pets aren't allowed on board, so I hid him in my bag..."

"Huh?"

"But now that the authorities have found out, there's nothing I can do... You can arrest me," said the girl resignedly, looking up at the man.

Then the men tsked, not having found what they were looking for. "Hey, let's go. Onto the next one," one said, and they left the cabin.

"Phew... that went well." A little after the men left, Queen stopped holding her breath and plopped down on the seat. The girl who had talked with the men was Queen.

Then Purple, who had pretended to just be an old woman, looked at Queen and smirked. "That was quite the fib. I'd give you a passing grade."

"Teehee, thank you."

"Queen, what was that 'Corn' name about?" Roko, who had been pretending to be a normal dog, asked from beside Purple.

"Well, I couldn't call you by your real name, Roko. You got your name because you liked toumorokoshi — corn — right? So that's why I called you 'Corn'," Queen explained proudly. Queen, Purple, and Roko had put on a performance so the uniformed men would pass them by. Playing the parts of a granddaughter, her grandmother, and her pet, they successfully fooled the pursuers.

"Still, I was surprised when you appeared out of nowhere." Purple turned her gaze toward Queen and broke out into a happy smile. It was a warm, gentle smile, hardly an expression befitting a cold-hearted spy. She was said to have been quite the looker once, and it wasn't impossible to imagine. According to Silver Heart, no man had been immune to her wily charms. Silver Heart himself had acted smitten whenever he recalled Purple, until he met with her again...

"You're Silver's granddaughter, aren't you? You came with us to Jackal's hideout."

Indeed, Queen and Purple, along with Silver Heart and Joker, had previously broken into the organization called Jackal, headed by Doctor Neo. Purple had been introduced then to Queen as Silver Heart's partner during his spy days.

"You remembered me."

"A spy doesn't forget intel. So, since you've come out of your way to see me, I assume you need something?"

"Yes, that's right. There's something I want to ask about..." Queen lowered her voice a little. "I want to know about someone who used to work with Grandpa. Someone called Noir."

"Noir?" Purple's pitch rose. So she was familiar with Noir after all.

"You know him?"

"Yes, he's an old friend. I know him well."

"To tell you the truth, it seems Noir took a treasure from Joker, and I was wondering if it had anything to do with Grandpa..."

"Hmm..." Purple remarked in surprise.

"Did something happen between Noir and Grandpa? If you know anything, could you please tell me?"

"Hm, well..." Purple folded her arms, brooding on something. Suddenly, her eyes glinted mischievously, and she grinned at Queen.

"W-What is it?"

"When you get to be as old as I am, you get awfully tight-fisted. Giving information away for free feels like it would be a wasted opportunity."

"Huh...?"

"It makes me want to tease kids, especially a girl like you."

"O... kay..."

"If you want to hear about Silver and Noir, then do something for me. Something that'll delight me."

"HUH?" Queen drew back in surprise, ruffled.

"Do something to entertain me. Then I'll give you the information you want."

"Ergh..." Queen's gaze veered. She wasn't a veteran spy for nothing. This wasn't going to be that simple. The unreasonable demand made Queen fall silent.

What should I do for her...? I can't tell any funny stories, and I can't do tricks like Joker can... I'm not an encyclopedia like Spade is, so what can I do...?

Queen's mind started to spin in circles. Thinking hard wasn't her forte. But then, Roko cut in from beside her. "Then how about making a funny face like the one you did recently, Queen?"

"Fu... nny... face...?"

"It was hilarious! Purple-san might just like it!"

"N-No! Absolutely not!" Queen stood up to refuse, her face bright read.

"Oh, why not, that sounds fine. Please, show me." Purple bent forward and gave a provoking smile.

"I don't want to! It'll ruin my marriage prospects!"

"Nope, I've decided. That's the only way you'll get information out of me. You can't change my mind!"

"You're kidding me...!" Queen stood at a loss for words.

"..."

"Well, what will you do?"

At Purple's prodding, she gave in. Queen took a breath and faced back towards Purple. Queen was about to forsake her prized feminine sensibilities when...

"Shh...!" Suddenly the look in Purple's eyes changed and she put a finger to her lips, shushing.

"...!" Queen and Roko immediately piped down and listened closely.

Conversing voices were coming from the earpiece Purple was wearing. Apparently she had still been listening to the radio communications while talking to Queen.

"It seems they're coming back this way... My cohort seems to have blabbed that I'm an older woman. If he makes it back alive, he's in for a real reckoning," Purple muttered as she listened, a terrifying look on her face.

"What do you want to do? Do we act our way out again?"

"No, it won't work this time. You two can escape out the window onto the roof. I'll handle the rest on my own."

"With your arm in that state?" Roko asked.

Purple looked over at him in surprise. "You realized?"

"You've been stroking your arm at moments. Probably without even realizing it yourself."

"Then you won't be able to fight those men single-handedly. Let us handle it!" Queen said, getting back up.

She threw off her disguise, revealing her usual white coat underneath. She then took out her diamond sword from where it was hidden underneath the seats. "Purple-san, if I fend off those men, tell me about Noir, okay?" Queen winked sweetly. She was sincerely relieved. Thank God I didn't have to make a funny face!

Just as five black-suited men neared the door of the room where they had seen the young girl and old woman earlier, Queen and Roko sprang out of the guest cabin.

"...!"

Queen glared at the men. The look in her eyes was completely different than the girl who had been in the room earlier. She was wearing different clothes, too, and the biggest difference of all was the great sword she held in her hand.

"She's got the secret file!" shouted one of the men. Indeed, in her other hand, Queen was holding the secret file disc case that she had received from Purple.

"Get her!" Their boss barked, and the men all fell upon Queen. But Queen and Roko deftly dodged them and ran off in the opposite direction. The men rushed after her.

There were no men in the direction they were headed. Purple had found this out by listening to the radio comm. That was why Queen immediately set off in the opposite direction — towards the read end of the train.

Queen sped through the train, passing through one car after another on her way to the end. The men followed after, shoving aside the confused passengers, giving chase to Queen and Roko.

"How long are they going to run for!?"

"Don't lose your head. There's no way they can get off the train when it's going this fast. The girl's trapped like a mouse!"

Just as he said, soon enough Queen and Roko reached the rearmost carriage. It was a coach car, with booth seats on either side. Baffled by Queen bursting in, the seated passengers began to murmur.

"Everyone out! Or else you'll get hurt!" yelled Queen, thrusting her sword up overhead.

Shrieks rang out, and the conductor and passengers all started to rush towards the forward cars. At the same time, the men in black caught up to where Queen was. Wading through the waves of passengers, the men entered the rearmost carriage. Now the only ones inside of it were Queen, Roko, and the men.

Queen stood at the very back of the carriage, standing off against the men.

"Say your prayers, missy." Five suited men stopped in the middle of the carriage and took out their guns. "We're gonna turn you into Swiss cheese!"

"Now, Roko!"

At Queen's signal, Roko stepped forward. Then he unhinged his jaw and let out a prodigious cry of "ARFFFFFFFFFFF!!"

His bark shrilled in the ears of the men. Their faces scrunched up and they clutched their heads in agony. "URRRGHH! W-What was that!?"

This was Roko's ability.

Roko's throat has a special organ that enhances his canine howl. He can use this organ to vibrate ultrasonic waves and assail anyone in front of him.

While the men were gripping their heads from the pain, Queen swung her sword at them. She struck their napes with the back of her sword and mowed them all down. The men were knocked out and collapsed onto the carriage hallway with successive thuds.

"Roko, let's go!"

"Okay!"

Queen and Roko stepped past the unconscious men and ran back towards the front of the carriage. They were just a step away from the next car ahead when...

"Hold it right there!"

The two of them turned around once they heard the voice and saw that one of the felled men was getting back on his feet. The man's gun was pointed at a little girl. She hadn't been able to get away while everyone else was running.

"Wha...!?"

"Throw down your sword, right now! Unless you don't care what happens to her!"

"Bah... you really don't play fair. This is the problem with spies!" Queen bit her lip and glared at the man.

"Hurry it up!"

At his behest, Queen twirled her sword and left it on the floor.

"All right, good. Bring the disc here!"

Queen clutched the disc, vexed. Things had been going according to plan up until she knocked all the men out, but she hadn't foreseen that they would take a hostage. While Queen stood still, seemingly at a loss as what to do next, Roko whispered from beside her.

"...Queen, do that."

"Huh?"

"That thing we were talking about. Your special move! You know!"

"Whaaat?" Then realizing what he meant, Queen rejected it flat out. "Absolutely not!"

"Then do you have any other way of making him drop his guard?"

"No, b-but..."

"What are you two muttering about!? Come here, now!"

"Argh... fine!" Queen shouted in annoyance, and slowly walked toward the man with disc in hand.

"Leave the disc there," the man pointed to a seat, just as Queen spoke.

"Hey, Mister."

"Hm?"

As soon as the man saw Queen's face — he snorted out a hearty "pfft!", followed by a "GYAHAHAHA! What is wrong with your face!? BWAHAHAHA!", laughing uproariously. Queen had demonstrated her famous "funny face" to him.

As the man burst out in laughter, Queen crouched down and delivered a swift kick to the man's shin.

"Ghwaaa!?" The man's guffawing face contorted with pain, and immediately after, Queen grabbed the girl and ran back towards the front of the carriage.

"W-Wait! Bwahahahaha!" The man went after her, but was still snorting from the memory.

Without another word, Queen picked up her sword and swung it. The train's coupling split apart with a clank. The rearmost carriage with the unconscious men and the laughing man aboard lost speed and gradually became more and more distant. The sound of the man's unceasing laughter mingled with the sound of the wheels, and eventually faded away.

Roko grinned and looked up at Queen. "Nice going, Queen! Now that's what I call looks that could kill!"

"I'm not happy about this at all!" Queen puffed up her adorable cheeks and stared at Roko accusingly.

#kaitou joker #light novel

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whimsicalfay · 3 years

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The Letter - I really love this game!

So, I just finished playing The Letter for the first time and I have to say I really loved it. I think it might be becoming my new hyperfixation because I can't stop thinking about it.

I'm a huge fan of the horror genre and the supernatural aspects of the game alone made it me like it, it's a well put together horror story, not the most scariest I've read if I'm being honest, but it does keep you on edge. It makes you want to keep reading nonstop because you need to know what happens next. At least that was my case, I just couldn't put my phone down.

The story keeps you on edge because it makes you care about the characters. Even if you don't particularly like this or that one, you still care about their destiny (either because you like them and want to see them getting a happy ending or because you dislike them and want to see them suffer), you still want to know how their journey ends. You care, for good or bad.

I love that your decisions as a player actually hold weight and affect the story. How many visual novels have I played where my choices don't actually change anything? Well, in The Letter every little choice you make counts. It'll affect the story, the relationship between characters, the ending, everything. I usually play visual novels only once, even the ones with multiple endings, because most of them don't change much at the end. It's just the same ending with minor changes. The idea of playing it again just to get one different word in the epilogue it's not attractive, but with The Letter the suspense you felt the first time you played it remains for the second, third and all the times you play it.

I love that is a multi-POV story because I think that adds a different perspective not only to the story itself, but to the characters as well. A character that from one POV is perceived as frivolous and cold, in other is seen as kind and warm, for example. It adds depth.

SPOILERS AHEAD, I GUESS?

Now I'll talk about my personal opinion on the characters and ships (because yes, it has romance too, despite being a horror game).

My least favorite is probably Rebecca, and not because she's bad written, quite the opposite actually. All the characters have flaws, some even bigger than Rebecca's, the difference is that she lacks self-awareness. Her little obsession with Ash and the jealousy she felt every time he interacted with Isabella was a big indicator of her lack of self-awareness. She doesn't own up to her shitty behavior (I mean, she does, but it takes for her friends to die or for her to be in the brink of death to realize she wasn't precisely in the right) and I'm not really into characters with this type of characterization. It doesn't mean she isn't well written, because she is, it just means she, as a character, isn't my cup of tea.

Luke, for example, is the most flawed character, yet I still like him better than Rebecca because he's self-aware (and because I love villainous characters). He knows he's a shitty person and doesn't lie to himself about it. He accepts it. He embraces it, even. I like that in character. So, my problem with Rebecca is not that she's an obsessive creepy girl that wants to monopolize Ash because she firmly believes she's entitled to his attention and romantic love just because they've known each other since kids. I actually love the yandere archetype, I love obsessive creepy characters. My problem with her is that she doesn't realize she's that obsessive creepy girl. She doesn't realize she's toxic and a shitty friend to both Ash and Isabella in more than one occasion.

And this too is the reason why I don't like the Ash x Rebecca pairing. Not because I find it problematic (I actually love problematic ships, I mean, c'mon, I love yanderes) but because the ship it's not my kind of problematic. Just a matter of personal taste. So if any shipper sees this please don't get your panties in a twist, thank you.

My favorite character is probably Ashton. I have seen people say that he's the least interesting of them all and that he doesn't have a backstory tragic enough to be the way he is. I literally saw someone ask "what even is his pain?" But I don't believe Ash is supposed to be some Greek tragic character? It's not the way I interpreted it, at leat (yeah, in the true ending he, well, ends tragically, but I still don't think he's supposed to be a tragic character). All the characters are well written and their personalities make sense with their upbringing. His parents divorced when he was very young, way before he was old enough to understand that it wasn't his fault. And after the divorce each parent went to live on their own leaving him alone. He was a child and he was alone. Abandoned, at least that's how his kid's mind perceived it, by his own parents. So, to me, it makes sense for him to build up walls between him and his friends. It makes sense that he doesn't completely trust them. It makes sense that he believes that he knows better. He felt betrayed and abandoned by his own parents, and if his own parents abandoned him then why would people that aren't even related to him by blood not abandon him? He protects himself from that rejection, from that future abandonment, by building up walls. It'll hurt less to be left behind if he doesn't allow himself to get too close to anyone in the first place. I've seen some people say that Ash tries too hard to be a hero, but I don't believe he's trying to be a hero, I believe he's trying to feel worthy. Worthy of friendship, worthy of love, worthy of the people around him, damn, even worthy of being alive. Imagine the blow on a kid's self-esteem after they get "abandoned" by their own parents? If your own parents can't love you enough to stay with you, then who can? Probably no one, right? So he overcompensates. Because yes, he's afraid of abandonment but he also yearns for true long-lasting bonds. So he tries to solve everything by himself not because he believes he's some hero, but because he's trying to show to the people he cares about that he can be reliable, that they can depend on him, so maybe, maybe, they'll want to stay by his side. So maybe they won't abandon him. And each time he fails to prove that he can be reliable, that he can solve things on his own, it's to him a confirmation of his lack of worth. "He thinks he knows everything", yeah, because knowing everything is one of the few ways he knows to prove to himself and to others that he's useful, that he's worthy. I'm not saying you can't find those character traits annoying, that you can't dislike him, I'm just saying that you can't pretend that his characterization doesn't make sense. And when did this post become a dissertation on Ash's characterization? Lol.

The rest of the characters I love too. I just wanted to give my insight in my least and most favorite ones, because if I write something for the seven of them this post would be too long since I have a lot to say about them, in a good way of course.

TL;DR The Letter is an amazing game and if you haven't already played it yet then you have to play it right now, I promise you won't regret it!

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notepadsandtealeaves · 3 years

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Damian Wayne x GN!Reader in: A Most Discerning Customer

12 Days of Batmas || Day 5—Ugly Sweaters

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT || 18+ ONLY ||

↞ previous: his favorite helper elf || wrapping presents

|| ao3 version | 12 days m.list | batboys tag | main blog ||

|| dick day 5 | jay day 5 | tim day 5 ||

Well the ugliest sweater gets a prize… That, uhh, that makes the pain worth it, right? At least a little bit?”

“Beloved, I think that the best prize to be had is the retention of our dignity.”

He makes ‘bad’ look oh-so-good…

🌟 Once again these are all v. loosely connected. I guess it technically starts with Dick, but honestly you can read them in any order. 🌟 Really the only thing that connects them is the fact that it’s Dick’s turn to pick the theme of their annual Christmas Eve party and he went with ‘ugly holiday sweaters’. They’re having a competition and the winner gets to pick which movie’s they’ll be binge watching that night, so naturally they’re going all in lol.

↠ Requested By: Not a soul lol ↠ Reader Gender: Neutral ↠ Content Type: SFW fluff ((but my blog’s 18+ if minors want to consume my sfw stuff while still respecting my wishes of them staying out of this space, they can head over to my AO3)) ↠ CWs: None ↠ Betas? Nah, we don’t do that here. ↠ Total WC: 1.3k~

Headcanon || WC: 600~

🌟 He’s not here for this foolishness. Like at all.

🌟 Tbh he considers most holiday traditions to be silly at best, a waste of time at worst. If he entertains any of them it’s for your benefit (and the rest of his family’s too, but he’s loath to admit to that).

The one exception to his instant disdain is mistletoe.

Sure he knows he can get kisses from you anytime he wants, no plant needed, but there’s just something about the tradition that does it for him—but we’ll get into all of that on Day Nine.

🌟 Anyways!

🌟 When he first learns of the concept of ugly holiday sweaters he’s honestly relieved lol.

Prior to acquiring this knowledge he was v. confused about all the people he saw bopping around in really bizarre/outright hideous jumpers and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Was their sense of style just that bad? Or was this some joke/trend/meme that he was not yet privy to?

Ofc it turned out to be the latter, and while he’s glad to be in the loop he doesn’t really want to participate in things.

🌟 The only way you’ll catch this man in an ugly anything is if you, his partner who he adores with his whole entire being, asks him to don it.

You never have to beg him for anything, btw. By his estimation such actions are well beneath you, and he would never force you to stoop so low just to get him to agree to something. You only need ask him, and if it falls under the purview of what he has to give it’ll be promptly granted.

There are exceptions to this, naturally, as everyone has their hard limits and such, but so long as you’re not asking for anything that’s gonna hurt either of you or something really out there/terrible he’ll fold like an accordion lol. What can he say—he’s just really soft for you, okay?

You’re in a v. privileged position so PLEASE do not take advantage of this precious boy, I humbly beg of you…

🌟 Honestly he’d rather buy something off of the rack, but if you’re super insistent then he’ll cave and make a sweater with you.

You remember wrapping bootcamp from Day Four? Well this is the Electric Boogaloo lmao.

Remember: He’s either gonna do it Right™ or he’s not gonna do it at all.

🌟 He’ll let you take all the pictures you want, but please don’t pass them around to anyone without consulting him first.

Dames gets touchy about the weirdest stuff. He’s taken great pains to cultivate his persona and anything that can potentially damage that, no matter how silly you may find said thing, is a no-go for him.

Like I said, the man’ll move heaven and earth for you, so respecting his wishes on this shouldn’t be an issue imo (not to mention the fact that it’s just the decent thing to do).

🌟 As far as the competition goes he doesn’t take it too seriously unless something he wants is on the line.

Naturally this is Adult!Dami we’re talking about. His younger self always went balls to the gd wall whenever there was even a hint of a competition to be had. Hell, even when there wasn’t one he was still v. much a ‘anything you can do I can do so much better’, one-upper type.

Thankfully as he got older he grew out of that need to constantly prove himself. Now that he’s got legit confidence in both himself and his abilities as well as a more grounded sense of self he doesn’t feel the need to constantly show out, and honestly both he and the world at large is better for it lol…

A Most Discerning Customer || WC: 700~

“It would seem as if Grayson has finally settled on a theme for this year’s holiday gathering.”

Damian’s tone is as close to defeated as you’ve ever heard it. Between the lackluster intonation and the furious way he’d been pecking at his phone’s keyboard you’re left with the distinct impression that he’s none too fond of whatever it is Dick has chosen. When you ask him about it he just sighs and hands you the device so that you can read it for yourself.

Given all the threats about keeping all of the pictures that will inevitably be taken confined to the deepest reaches of the inner sanctum you’re not entirely sure what to expect, but an ugly sweater party probably should’ve made the list all things considered.

“I mean it’s not the worst thing he could’ve chosen,” you reason. “This is Dick, after all. He could’ve finally made his dream of a Frozen-themed costume party a reality.”

Your man’s entire existence stalls at the thought before a small shiver of repulsion works its way down the length of his spine. Like so many, the eldest Wayne child had caught Frozen Fever (once a-fucking-gain) when the second move released last November. Thanks to him you’re all well acquainted with both movies’ soundtracks and can make far more quotes and references than you probably otherwise would be able to.

Dames quiet mutter of “Small mercies” leaves you giggling a bit as you lean against his side.

“Well the ugliest sweater gets a prize… That, uhh, that makes the pain worth it, right? At least a little bit?”

“Beloved, I think that the best prize to be had is the retention of our dignity.”

Your replying chuckle is enough to pull a snort of amusement from him, at least. Though he’s being pouty—or, well as pouty as Damian ever gets anyway—you know that if he truly didn’t want to participate he simply wouldn’t. That he hasn’t outright shut things down is as good a sign as any that he’s okay enough with the situation, may even be looking forward to it a tiny bit. After all, the night’ll no doubt be good for blackmail pics if nothing else–

Grant it that’s a double edged sword, but he does like his blades…

“So how do you want to play this then?” you ask. “We can go all out and make our own…” You let the sentence trail off as you gauge his reaction. Clearly he’s not feeling the DIY-route so you decide to suggest something store bought.

“Pretty sure we could also get something custom made online,” you comment as you turn to Google to confirm your theory.

“…Are you telling me that there’s actually a market for bespoke ugly holiday sweaters?”

You shrug at that. “I mean, probably, yeah. The internet is a weird and wonderful place, my love.”

He clicks his tongue at that, but doesn’t argue the point.

The next few hours are spent with you looking through various sites and articles together. Surprisingly Damian gets more into things the longer you browse; less surprising, however, is his critical critiques. He’s merciless in his commentary, dragging everything from quality (“It’s one thing to make something ugly, but that does not give you leave to cut corners. Look at those seams—sloppy. And don’t even get me started on the beading. And they expect someone to pay for this? The audacity…”) to vision (“Really? So they think they can add a bit of jeweling and some poorly cut felt reindeer and call it ‘ugly’? I think the word they were looking for is ‘sad’, actually. How terribly uninspired.”).

His words are cutting, but meant in good fun nonetheless, and you find yourself in much the same condition that the creators would be should they ever hear him—breathless, in tears, and begging him to stop.

In the end he settles on something ‘tastefully horrendous’—a deep scarlet number that’ll look amazing against the golden undertones of his skin while beautifully contrasting with his eyes. There’s more tinsel than what you would’ve expected him to go with, but given the state of your own purchase you don’t have much room to talk. You have no idea if you’ll be disqualified for wearing something that you technically didn’t make, but you do know that whether you get the win or not you’re going to look fabulous(ly atrocious).

Up Next: 🌟 Day 6: Beautiful (Finish What You Start) || Baking Cookies

“You’re beautiful like this, you know that?”

His father always told him to never be the one to start a fight, but always be the one to finish it.

© notepadsandtealeaves, 2021 || Please do not repost, translate, or otherwise alter or distribute my works without my express permission. And for the love of god keep it away from Youtube and TikTok lol…

#((Immy does fan fiction: the Batboys))#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x gn!reader #damian wayne x gender neutral reader #damian wayne x you #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne hc #damian wayne headcanon #our boy’s got a sharp tongue that hasn’t really dulled with age #rather he’s got a more developed sense of decorum so he’s not chewing folk out every 5 min like he used to #still he likes to indulge from time to time in relatively harmless ways such as the dragging of those sweaters #it should be said as he is now he’d never be so cruel as to do that to a person’s face unless it was warranted #but anyways…

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years

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Feelings an’ Shit Ep1: Fall (Misfits; Nathan Young x Reader)

A/N: I’m not going to follow the whole continuity of the show, and most things are going to be in between/canon divergent but there’s a handful of episodes I want to do stuff with, including the first, since it only makes sense. Word Count: 2185 Rating: T - canon-typical violence, canon-typical swearing

You watched as the curly-haired kid bounced around, taunting the other one and couldn’t resist a snort of amusement. He turned back to you, flashing you a dramatic wink and waggling his eyebrows. You rolled your eyes, nodding back to Hat Guy who was still foaming at the mouth for a fight. Curly continued to antagonize, playing it up for the attention, and eventually Hat Guy had enough and went after him. After that, things became a bit of a blur of shouts and the probation worker pulling them apart. You made eye-contact briefly with the girl who’d been on her cell phone and you both rolled your eyes, laughing.

If only you’d known then that this moment was the last normal one you’d have.

“So what about you?” the curly-haired kid, Nate or whatever it was, asked, turning his paintbrush on you. “What’d you do gorgeous?”

You liked the sound of his lilt. But he needed to learn to shut up if you were ever going to get along with him, and you wanted to, if only because you were all stuck here.

You shrugged. “I think the official labels were disturbing the peace and intimidation. And maybe something about rioting which seems unfair. It was just a little bar brawl, and it definitely wasn’t my fault. Although I did glass that guy. So maybe it was.”

You tried to keep your voice nonchalant, painting away at the bench across from the quiet one, without looking up to see how the others reacted. If you were being honest, the crime you got stuck with wasn’t even the worst thing you had done, just the one that got attention. But these people, with their minor infractions and their ‘I shouldn’t be here’ attitudes (or maybe it was just the one guy) didn’t need to know that.

“What about you Weird Kid,” Curly continued, apparently choosing not to comment on your offense as he had the others. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a panty sniffer.”

You grimaced, offering him a sympathetic roll of your eyes. “Ignore him, he’s a moron.” you mouthed across the bench. The boy offered you a faint smile in return.

Curly continued his antics, trying to provoke your new friend who finally snapped, “I tried to burn someone’s house down.”

Your eyebrows shot up, impressed, as Curly whined uncomfortably, instantly backing off. You didn’t have time to comment on his own excuse for getting picked up, eating pick-n-mix, before the probation worker came back, annoyed with you all for Hat Guy’s paint spill.

Then a massive hailstone crashed into a car, and you were too scared to worry about much else. Several more fell as you all stared up at the unnatural stormcloud moving overhead, and you all took off running for the relative shelter of the building, panicked and doing your best to shield your faces and heads from the shrapnel. Some instinct made you lag behind, bringing up the rear to make sure that everyone stayed together, no one got left behind.

You were just coming up on the rest of the group, the probation worker unhelpfully taking the time to lecture them about their language, when there was a flash of light and you felt yourself get thrown backwards.

You came back to your senses a moment later, sprawled on the concrete, entire body aching like the worst hangover you’d ever had, times ten. Smaller but still massive hail smashed on the ground around you as you and the others slowly sat up or climbed to your feet.

The probation worker seemed to be having some sort of fit as you all discussed what had just happened and whether everyone was alright.

“We just almost got killed by freak lightning and hail. Fuck what anybody says, I’m outta here,” you snapped, dusting yourself off with some attempt at dignity.

“She’s right,” the probation worker groaned, making you turn to gape at him. “Maybe we should call it a day.”

The next day passed in a blur: finding Hat Guy dead, the probation worker going berserk and nearly killing you all, super powers? It was all too much. By the time you were all out digging holes under the overpass, you found the activity strangely calming.

You tried not to think too hard about that fact, since apparently Kelly could hear you. You debated offering a (metaphorical) hand of friendship to Alisha, maybe suggest some self-defense classes to help counter her fucked up powers, but seeing the way she snapped at Curtis you decided against it, for now. Then you were startled out of your thoughts by Nathan draping an arm around your shoulders.

“So it looks like just the two of us that haven’t figured out our powers yet,” he observed, leaning on you.

You side-stepped out of his grasp, causing him to stumble, nearly ending up in Tony’s grave with him, and hid your smirk behind your hand.

“What’s your point?” you asked, tired and irritated and not wanting to put up with his shit.

“Maybe we should spend some extra time together, figure it out.” He waggled his eyebrows, a behavior you were starting to notice was a habit of his.

‘This arrogant sod,’ you thought. ‘He’s really got the nerve to be standing there, not doing any work, hitting on me, while we are burying bodies. Who the hell does he think he is?’

You were furious, the more you thought about it.

Suddenly, a wave roiled up from the river, crashing over Nathan, knocking him to the ground in a sopping puddle.

“What the hell?” Alisha shrieked, jumping back from the splash zone.

“Y/N. I think you did that,” Kelly pointed out.

You stared, wide-eyed. “No way.”

“Ya were gettin’ pissed at Nathan, I heard it. Then he gets dunked on.”

“No. That’s...that would be...not fair.”

“You think having some sort of water control power isn’t fair?” Alisha looked like she was going to start something and you backed away, trying not to cry or vomit from the fear. “It’s a million times better than my shit power.”

“No. You don’t understand…” you felt like your throat was closing up. “It would be...sick. A sick joke. The universe can’t have that kinda humor.” You looked wildly around at them, five pairs of eyes fixed on you, trying to breathe and not think.

“Let’s just finish burying the bodies,” you said shakily, “forget this ever happened, and get out of here, yeah?”

The next morning you dragged yourself up out of bed, forcing yourself to dress in some ratty jeans and a tank top, braiding your hair with trembling fingers as you got ready for day three of community service. Even if there wasn’t going to be a probation worker there, even if you just went and then left, you had to make everything look as normal as possible.

“So, if anyone asks,” you heard Nathan say softly as you, Alisha, and Kelly all passed the guys on their way out of the locker room and your way in to change. “It was just a completely normal day.”

“Actually…” you caught their attention, holding them back a moment. “The new probation worker’s in there right now, digging around the office. They’re going to ask us questions, and we need to have our stories straight.”

“What story?” he protested, a little too loudly, earning a glare from Kelly and Curtis. “We saw nothing, we did nothing.”

“They’re not going to buy it. We were the last people to see either of them, and now they’re missing with no sign of where they went.”

“So what do you suggest, if you’re the mastermind with all the answers?”

You glared at him, then licked your lips nervously. “Look, I’m not going to volunteer it outright, but if we have to, I’ll tell them it was me.”

“Wot?!” Kelly asked, staring at you like you had just sprouted a new head.

“It’ll suck but better one of us goes down than all of us. I’m the one it’s most believable from.”

“No! No way!” You were surprised that Alisha was fighting you on it, expecting her to be the first to throw you under a bus in order to get away from it herself. “You’ll go to prison!”

“Or we all will. I’m just being practical. If we’re lucky, they think we don’t know shit and we all walk away. But if they start asking questions, real questions,” you set your jaw, steeling yourself for the story you were going to spin. “Tony and I got in a fight over the shit he said while we were takin’ shelter from the storm. I got pissed, and I hit him until he stopped moving. Made you help me move the body. Then Hat Guy, what’s his name, was gonna snitch so I killed him too.”

“I don’t like this,” Curtis cut in. Nathan nodded slowly in agreement, eyebrows furrowed and far more serious than you had seen him so far.

“What happens to you if we do this?” Alisha asked.

“They slap me in cuffs,” you wiggled your eyebrows suggestively, trying and failing to cut the tension. “Drag me down to the station, ask me a bunch more shit. Then I go away for a long time for murder, or they don’t believe me and I’m back on Monday.”

“Even if they don’t believe her,” Simon offered hesitantly. “They’ll be less likely to look at the rest of us. She has no reason to cover for us. We’re practically strangers.”

“Exactly.” You snapped your fingers, pointing at Simon. “See, he gets it.”

“Why would ya take the fall for us?” Kelly asked.

You considered her question for a while, not really sure of the answer yourself. Then you sighed and shrugged, shoving your hands in the pockets of your jeans.

“I’m real good at screwin’ up, and lucky I’m not already jailed for it. Least now I can use that fact for a good cause.”

Nathan watched as the girl walked over to her locker in the back, casual as can be as if she hadn’t just offered to go down for a double murder. He tried not to show on his face how impressed, or turned on, he was.

He considered staying, trying to catch a glimpse of her and see if her body was as dangerous and sexy as her mind seemed to be.

“Yer disgusting,” Kelly scoffed, glaring at him until he left behind the other guys.

The six of you stood in a line, uncomfortable and awkward as you faced your new probation worker. She introduced herself as Sally, and said she’d been sent to take over your supervision.

“Gary and my colleague, Tony, have both been reported missing,” she continued, staring at each of you in turn, as if a little eye contact could drive her point home. “Their families are really worried about them.”

You rolled your eyes, not believing for a second that either of those two assholes had anyone out there looking for them. You tried, slightly, to hide your boredom.

“Did any of you see anything unusual? Anything at all?”

Everyone glanced at each other uncomfortably out of the corners of eyes, shifting weight from foot to foot.

‘They’ve got nothing,’ you found yourself thinking with relief. ‘Everyone keeps their mouth shut and it might actually work.’

Suddenly Nathan raised a finger in the air, looking nervous and uncomfortable, one might even call it scared, and you swore under your breath. Were you really so wrong to trust them, him? Was he about to snitch? Of course an idiot like him couldn’t stick to a cover story. Your mind raced, debating if you should start running and try for a lead on the cops.

“A few days ago, I go into the toilets, Tony and Gary are in there - they’re butt naked. Tony’s got Gary by his hair - like this. He’s doing him - doggie-style,” you gaped as Nathan carried on.

“Or...we could go with that,” you muttered watching Nathan’s antics and rubbing your forehead to stave off the growing headache (a headache you suspected was going to be semi-permanent and named Nathan Young).

“I ask you - in a world of prejudice and intolerance - who are we, who are we to condemn them?”

Sally scoffed, rolling her eyes and storming off to the office.

“Who wants a smoke?” Kelly asked, nodding her head toward the stairs, and you all followed, headed for the roof.

“What the fuck was that down there?” you shouted at Nathan, gesturing angrily.

“It was me, improvisin, actin. I think I did a pretty good job, don’t ye?” he grinned smugly at you.

“I think you’re an idiot, and almost ruined the whole thing. Now even if I do try to take the fall, at the very least, your goose is cooked too.”

“So don’t try. I think we got away with it.”

“D’you actually believe that?” Curtis asked, staring dumbfounded at Nathan. “Or are you just really dumb?”

#aka the Sarah Tucker Timeline #same shit. new continuity #Nathan Young x reader #Misfits fic #(see I feel like me trying to cover/tweak the events of the episode is...not that good #I should stick to hopping about claiming bits and wedging myself in gaps)

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hypnoticwinter · 3 years

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Gamifying the Story Outline: A Simple Tool to Revamp Your Writing Process

0. What the heck is this? Ever had trouble figuring out what kind of story you want to tell in the first place? Not a fan of outlines, but end up with meandering, pointless stories that don’t do what you want them to? Do you mainly write pulp fantasy or sci fi?

This is a tool that will guide you through outlining a story using some of the same concepts as a solitaire roleplaying game. All you need is a few ideas, a pen and paper, and a six-sided die.

You also need to understand some basic concepts: This tool isn’t a substitute for creativity, and if you think you have a better idea, run with it. This tool assumes that you’re going to be writing a fairly grounded story in the vein of a Dragonlance novel or similar - hero’s journey stuff. It’s not very good for more cerebral stuff, or anything more abstract.

With that being said, let’s get started. First, we need to ask some questions and define some notions.

1. Who is the Hero? This section assumes that there’s just a singular protagonist, but there’s no reason you can’t make it work for a small group of characters.

The story is about a Hero, someone the story will focus on as they go on a journey. They’ll grow, change, face challenges, deal with setbacks, and so on. To that end, we need to know a few things about them. Aside from basic characteristics like name, appearance, etc., we also need to know:

1a. What makes them special? You could be writing the story about anyone - why them? What about them is special enough to write a story about? 1b. What are their strengths? Don’t get too cerebral here. Just list off three or four things they’re good at, and come up with a small backstory or notion for why they’re good at them.

1c. What are their weaknesses? Same thing here. Some weaknesses - real weaknesses, ones that can cause issues, and why they’re there. Remember, the more work you do at this stage, the better you’ll be equipped to move on later. 2. Who/what is the Villain? If there’s a Hero there has to be a Villain. Now, I’m using Villain as shorthand - this doesn’t necessarily mean a literal villain who’s a force for evil, it means whatever overarching force wants to prevent the Hero from accomplishing their goal, whatever that might be. Sometimes the Hero might not know who or what the Villain is, sometimes there might not even be a concrete Villain. But there has to be some kind of conflict or opposition - otherwise the Hero doesn’t have anything to overcome.

Just like the Hero, we need to know some information about the Villain.

2a. Who/what are they? 2b. What are their strengths? 2c. What are their weaknesses?

Remember, this is all the ground work. Put in the effort here and you’ll appreciate it later on. 3. What is the Hero's goal? The Hero always needs to have a goal. It's the reason that they keep going through the story. Their resolve can falter, of course, they can have doubts and misgivings and so on, but the goal has to always be present. This can be concrete or abstract, nebulous or poorly defined, but it has to be there to keep the story moving. If the kind of story you want to write doesn’t really have a goal, this tool probably isn’t going to do much for you.

3a. What is the Spark? The Spark is what some other story outlines might call the 'inciting incident.' The Hero's Spark is what gets them off their asses and starts them actually pursuing their goal for real. This is going to depend on what the goal is, what the setting is, who the Hero is, a lot of different factors, but there has to be some kind of tipping point that makes the Hero realize ‘okay, there has to be a change and I have to be the one to do it.’ 4. Creating the Timeline. The Timeline is a track of major events that will occur during the course of the story. The Timeline begins with the Spark and ends with the Confrontation. Prior to the Spark, of course, you can have as much set up as you want, and a lot of the time you’re going to not want to launch right into the story with the Spark, but that’s something you can figure out later. For our purposes, we’re starting with the Spark. In the space between the Spark and the Confrontation, the Hero will encounter Complications, both Minor and Major. Minor Complications are small incidents that stand in the way of resolving Major Complications. Major Complications are large incidents that stand in the way of the Hero's victory entirely.

You can use any number of Minor or Major Complications that you like, but I recommend 2 Major Complications between the Spark and the Confrontation, and 2 Minor Complications between each Major Complication, give or take. This can change on the fly depending on how the story goes, so remember to be flexible. Between each Complication obviously there will be time to lick wounds, make friends, develop plot, and so on, but that's something you can figure out yourself. We want to get the plot points down, knitting them together coherently is a job for later.

4a. Complications. To determine what kind of Complication you’re dealing with, roll the die. 1-3: A Complication of Circumstance Complications of Circumstance are difficulties that arise for the Hero without malice or intention behind them. Maybe the weather turns at the worst possible moment, or something is rescheduled, or sweeping changes of some other kind affect them.

4-6: A Complication of Intent Complications of Intent are difficulties that arise specifically because the Villain is targeting the Hero and trying to hinder them. They can take forms similar to a Complication of Circumstance but the cause is specifically because of the Villain. They can also take more precise forms than might be appropriate for a Complication of Circumstance, like an assassin, a battle, a conflict, etc. You can also roll the die again to refine Complication type: 1-3: General A General Complication is one that affects many people or a wide area. Blackouts, flooding, famine, wildfires, are all examples of General Complications. The Hero might be the root cause of the Complication, if it is a Complication of Intent, but it will affect many more people than just the Hero. 4-6: Specific A Specific Complication is one that affects just the Hero, or the Hero's immediate allies. An assassin, a theft, a parking ticket, and so on, are all examples of Specific Complications. Even if a Complication is Specific the Hero might not be the cause of it - it may just be random chance without interference from the Villain. 4a1. Minor Complications Minor Complications fill the space between Major Complications. A Minor Complication is an opportunity to learn more about the Hero and the other characters, to explore the world of the story, or to develop the plot in other ways. Minor Complications only have, as the name suggests, minor implications on the story as a whole and don't affect it much, BUT they do still need to affect it in some way. 4a2. Major Complications Major Complications are serious events that have the potential to change the direction entire story. Major Complications are plot points that require several chapters at least to resolve, and will change the Hero for better or for worse once completed. 4a3. Resolving a Complication At a base level, all you have to do is ask the question, "does the Hero win?" and then roll a die. Look on the below table for the answer. 1: No, and... 2: No. 3: No, but... 4: Yes, but... 5: Yes. 6: Yes, and... Now stop. Think about the answer you rolled and interpret it. Apply it to the Complication you came up with. Does it make sense? You always have the authority to roll again, or just say screw rolling and choose what happens. But sometimes it can be fun to just see what happens. You do want a healthy amount of variation, of course - the story will probably be pretty boring if the Hero manages to just effortlessly cruise through every Complication, or if the Hero is getting curbstomped repeatedly by bad rolls, but given how many Complications there are to resolve, most likely there’ll be a healthy spread of wins and losses across the course of the Timeline. Now, moving on - what exactly does ‘no, but...’ or ‘yes, and...’ mean? First, yes or no always answers the question ‘does the Hero win?’ That’s the outcome for the Complication. The story still has to move forward but depending on whether it’s a yes or a no and whether it’s a Minor or Major Complication, you might want to do some brainstorming as to the direction the story will go next. If the result you rolled has ‘but’ in it, that means the result is tempered. A ‘yes, but...’ isn’t a perfect victory, something bad happened as well, and a ‘no, but...’ isn’t a total defeat, there’s some kind of silver lining.

Likewise, an ‘and’ means that the result occurs in the superlative. A ‘no, and...’ means the Hero lost hard, just like a ‘yes, and...’ means the Hero wins hard. Whenever the Hero wins a Complication (i.e., rolls a yes), they get a Minor Boon. Whenever the Hero loses a Complication (i.e., rolls a no) they get a Minor Bane. If the roll includes a ‘but,’ they get both a Minor Boon and a Minor Bane. And if the result includes an ‘and,’ the Boon or Bane they get is Major instead of Minor. Mark down what they got and read on to see what exactly that means.

4a3a. Boons and Banes. Boons and Banes are assets the Hero gains through the course of the story that have the opportunity to render aid or cause harm when the Hero is involved in a Complication. There are three types of Boons and Banes, Minor, Major, and Superlative. Minor Boons or Banes are lost after being used in a Complication, while Major Boons or Banes remain in play but become Minor after being used in a Complication. Superlative Boons or Banes are never lost after Complications - if these are ever changed or lost, it’ll be because you the writer stepped in and changed them. The Hero begins the story with one Superior Boon and one Superior Bane, each based on the Hero's greatest strength and weakness respectively. The Villain also imposes a Superior Bane based on its greatest strength, and a Superior Boon based on its greatest weakness. Banes and Boons can only be used in Complications where they would be relevant. A Hero who has a Boon for fighting, for example, can't use that Boon if the Complication is about socializing. A Boon can be used in a Complication, if applicable, to grant a +1 bonus to the roll to resolve the Complication. Likewise, a Bane can be used in a Complication, to impose a -1 penalty to the roll. The minimum roll is still 1, and the maximum is still 6.

When you’re resolving a Complication, you can choose not to add a Minor or Major Boon or Bane and instead choose to hang on to a Boon or Bane the Hero already has that would be lost due to being used in the Complication. You can roll the die to refine the type of Boon or Bane a Hero has: 1-2: A Boon of Knowledge / A Secret Bane This Boon/Bane reflects knowledge kept secret from others. As a Boon, it reflects something the Hero knows but the Villain does not. As a Bane, it reflects the opposite. 3-4: A Boon of Improvement / a Bane of Entropy This Boon/Bane represents tangible improvement in the Hero's or the Villain's equipment, assets, skills, or talents. It can also represent the opposite - a Boon of Improvement could represent a new weakness the Villain develops, for instance. 5-6: A Boon of Allegiance / A Bane of Servitude This Boon/Bane represents an ally to either the Hero or the Villain. They may be temporary or they may become a recurring character in their own right. It can also be an organization or group rather than one person. It could also be used to mean a betrayal - a Boon of Allegiance could mean one of the Villain’s servants switching sides, or vice versa. When completing a Complication, you need to keep several things in mind: 1. How exactly did the Hero complete the Complication? 2. What did the Hero use to complete the Complication? What Boons and Banes were involved? How did they affect each other? 3. What's the explanation for Minor Boons and Banes being lost after the Complication? What's the explanation for any gained Boons or Banes? 4. How does this affect the Hero moving forward? Will they have to change their objective, or rethink things? Are they on the offensive or the defensive? Are they confident?

5. The Confrontation. When you've dealt with all the Complications in the way, you get to the Confrontation, which is the final standoff between the Hero and the Villain. Every remaining Boon and Bane should factor into this one - this is the big moment, probably the climax depending on how you structure your story, so all the stops should come out. But don't roll. Whether the Hero wins is something you have to decide, based on the story so far. This one can't be randomly generated.

And after the Confrontation the rest of the story should be pretty easy for you to wrap up on your own. The Hero either accomplishes their goal, or they don’t, and the consequences of each have to be dealt with.

6. Example. Let's work through an example. Let's call our Hero Veronica, and the Villain Louise. Veronica is good at swordfighting and archery, so she gets a Superior Boon for that, but she's shy and standoffish, and can't swim, so she gets a Superior Bane for that.

Louise is an Evil Knight. Louise is good at burning, pillaging, and fighting, so she imposes a Superior Bane on Veronica for her expertise in that, but she constantly underestimates her opponents and doesn't treat her underlings well, giving Veronica a Superior Boon for that kind of thing.

For Veronica's Spark, we decide that her Goal is to rescue her boyfriend Sylvester from Louise's evil clutches, and that the Spark, therefore, is Louise kidnapping Sylvester.

The first step for Veronica is to travel to Louise's fortress, which is a long ways away, through the Windy Woods and over the Moldy Mountains. We're going to go with the standard template, with two Minor Complications between each Major Complication and two Major Complications in total before the Confrontation.

So, to recap, Veronica is a shy, standoffish warrior woman who's excellent with a sword and a bow but who can't swim or handle social situations, who is setting forth on her trusty mount Roanoke towards Louise's Frosty Fortress to rescue her boyfriend Sylvester.

The first Minor Complication is a Specific Complication of Intent. This means that this is an action by Louise specifically targeting Veronica with the intent of preventing her from rescuing Syvester. Let's say that Louise gets word that Veronica is coming and sends an underling to go and push a boulder onto Veronica as she passes under a cliff. Now let's think about our Boons and Banes. Veronica has a Boon for fighting, but that isn't really going to help here. Similarly, her Bane for social situations isn't going to hurt her either. Louise imposes a Bane for her aptitude at pillaging, but I don't think it applies because she didn't come herself, she sent an underling. So it's going to just be a flat roll with no modifiers. Does Louise succeed and avoid the boulder? We roll a 5, which is just a flat yes, with no positives or negatives, but she'll still get a Minor Boon out of it. So, the boulder misses. For the Minor Boon we roll a Boon of Allegiance - let's say that she manages to catch the underling and convince him to join her by promising that she'll get rid of Louise. Let's call Veronica's new ally Bruce. Veronica and Bruce keep going, and there'll be plenty of opportunities to worldbuild, to expand on their character, and so on.

The second Minor Complication is a General Complication of Intent. Let's say that Louise found out what happened through her network of spies. She orders her raiding party to head in Veronica's direction and search through each village looking for her. Their paths intersect in one village when Veronica, riding through, gets stopped by the leader of the raiding party, who thinks she looks an awful lot like Veronica. There are too many of them to fight, and Veronica thinks she'll have to try and bluff her way through it, but Bruce can pretend to have captured her and be taking her to Louise himself. This is a social situation so Veronica's Bane comes into play, giving her a -1, but with Bruce as a Boon that negates the -1.

Now, here I rolled a 6, but we already had a success for the previous Complication, so I'm going to reroll it. This time we roll an appropriately abysmal 2, which is a no. Let's say that the raiding party leader wants all the glory for himself, kills Bruce, and takes Veronica hostage for real, and throws her into Louise's prison nearby. This means Veronica ends up with a Minor Bane - according to our die roll it's a Bane of Entropy. Let's say that Veronica gets hurt when she's tossed into prison, and can't fight as effectively.

Now we come to the first Major Complication, and with Veronica being trapped, there are plenty of opportunities for what it might be. We roll a General Complication of Circumstance, so this isn't anything that Louise is behind, it's just a twist of fate. Let's say that a few days after Veronica is captured, there's a raid on the prison by a group of elves who are trying to free their imprisoned friends, and they end up setting everybody free, but in the chaos the prison also catches on fire. Veronica needs to get out of the prison before she's burned to a crisp, but there's a catch - some of Louise's elite guards have been dispatched to make sure nobody gets out of the prison alive. There's no reasoning with them and there's no time to disguise herself - Veronica will have to fight. She's got a Boon for fighting, so that's a +1 bonus, but she also is hurt, which is a Minor Bane for -1, evening out.

We roll a 6, which is a 'yes, and...' Veronica manages to fight her way through the elite guards, which will be a spectacular action scene when you get around to writing it, and gets free of the prison before it burns down. The Major Boon we roll is a Boon of Knowledge. Let's say that Veronica finds a map of Louise's Frosty Fortress on one of the guards and is able to study it and determine a few sneaky ways in, as well as the likely spot Sylvester will be held in. In addition, the Minor Bane of Veronica being injured and therefore not being able to fight well goes away. It doesn't make very much sense for her to already be healed, so let's say instead that she's able to take some gear off of the elite guards and it makes up for her injury. She returns to her path through the Windy Woods and leaves the burning prison behind her with a renewed sense of determination.

At this point, we can proceed with the story as we see fit, either proceeding onwards with rolling for Complications and Boons and Banes or taking over and coming up with things on our own. This tool is meant to inspire the creative process, not replace it completely. Obviously there are limitations; if you want to write something more cerebral or abstract, while the same base system of Complications is still applicable, it'll be a little more difficult to wrap your head around. What does a Bane of Treachery mean if the Villain is Society or Nature, for instance?

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