#that boy hangs onto life with iron fists he wants to survive + live so badly

[helianthus21]

rip to the vincenzo writers but i recognize the final girl energy Han-seo has

[unbridgeabledistances]

Prompt: mickey is walking with Franny when Terry shows up. Mickey protects Franny. Franny runs home where ian and family are and shouts that a man is hurting uncle mickey. Basically hurt mickey, protective ian. Ian conforting Mickey afterwards!

anon this is so GOOD !!! i LOVE some mickey & franny content, plus gallavich comfort :’) this is somewhat intense and got way too long lol, but the whole thing was so fun to write and i hope u enjoy <3

also my asks are open for more prompts! (since i am on winter break & bored out of my mind lol)

& ofc, tw for homophobia and physical violence

--

“C’mon kiddo! Bet you can’t catch me!”

“Yes, Uncle Mickey, yes I can!”

The sun was beating down onto the slushy pavement of the South Side, reflecting off the gritty late-winter snow that remained on the sides of the road and nearly blinding Mickey as he tried to lightly jog down the slippery sidewalk, just outside of Franny’s reach. Franny, who was a tottering bundle in her thick winter coat, a scratchy-looking red woolen scarf Tami had given her for Christmas, and a pink sparkly winter hat Debbie had forced over her ears before Mickey took her outside to play, was running as fast as she could to stay on Mickey’s heels.

Mickey hadn’t meant to take Franny as far away from the Gallagher house, into the winding South Side neighborhoods, as he had—Debbie was having some sort of meltdown about her business going to shit after a situation with organic snacks and climbing out a window (Mickey wasn’t even going to ask)—and sensing tensions were high, Mickey had pulled Franny out the back door to run around and play “gangsters,” her new favorite game, with the toy guns he’d gotten her for Christmas. They were going to stick to playing in the backyard, mostly because it was fucking freezing and almost dark outside, until Franny was about to encroach on Mickey’s fictional gang’s territory under the porch stairs, and of course Mickey couldn’t have that—so now they were racing through the streets, with Franny giggling and practically tripping over her own clunky winter boots every few steps.

“Is that all you’ve got, Wonder Woman? Come and get me!” Mickey called to Franny over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna get you! I will, Uncle Mickey!”

Mickey chuckled as he kept running, and felt his heart soften. As shitty as he’d always been with kids, and how often he always froze in panic anytime he’d had to take care of Yev back in the day, he had to admit that goofing around with Franny was pretty fucking fun.

And that also just made him depressed, because he knew that she was going to grow up surrounded by all of this bullshit—the dysfunctional family, Frank’s shenanigans, the drugs and beat downs, the mom with an ankle bracelet. Right now, Franny was just a kid—the neighborhood hadn’t taken its toll on her yet.

Luckily, Mickey didn’t have shit to do all day—he barely had a job aside from security for Kev and V’s practically non-existent pot side business, so he had plenty of time to play with Franny. If he could do anything with his life right now, he could make sure that Franny had some happy memories to cut through all the bullshit life was inevitably about to throw to her.

Mickey continued to run, lost in thought, until Franny caught up to him and sharply tugged on the back of his coat.

“I win, Uncle Mickey, I win! Now I’m gonna blow your face off!” Franny said with a playful scowl as she held up her toy gun.

Mickey chuckled and put his hands up in the air in resignation, turning to face Franny. “Alright, kid, you got me. Nice work.”

He held his hand out for Franny to high-five, which she gave willingly before pulling off her sparkly pink hat and throwing it on the ground.

“I’m too hot. Uncle Mickey, can we go home now? I think I know the way back.”

Mickey ruffled her hair. “Sounds good, kiddo. Lead the way.”

Just as they were about to start walking in the direction of the Gallagher house, a gruff voice came from behind them, mingling with the blowing wind.

“Mickey?”

Oh fuck.

Mickey turned around slowly, giving a quick mental prayer to whatever god that existed, if god even did fucking exist, that the voice he heard wasn’t the one he thought he had.

In the end, it was as bad as his worst nightmare.

Terry stood six feet in front of him on the ice-caked sidewalk, a lit cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth (just like it always was), his hands visibly curled into fists by his sides. Mickey took in a sharp breath, and tried to quell the wave of panic overtaking him. Calm the fuck down. Mickey tried to remember the checklist of what he always had to do when he saw his dad, a survival tactic he hadn’t had to think about for months: Keep your eyes down. See if you can smell alcohol. Look at his waistline and see if he has a gun.

Mickey’s eyes flickered to Terry’s pockets. No gun, thank fucking god. He slowly reached out behind him to take Franny’s tiny gloved hand, mentally cursing himself for letting them walk this far from home. Then he looked Terry in the eyes and swallowed. You can do this.

“Hiya, pops. What’re you doing over here on this beautiful Tuesday afternoon?”

Terry’s eyes narrowed, his stance still aggressive, but he remained rooted a safe distance away. “Don’t make fucking small talk with me, fairy boy.” He paused and took a drag of his cigarette. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here.”

“Well, I guess today’s your lucky day. About time for a family reunion.”

Terry gave a bitter, menacing chuckle that sent a shiver of remembrance down Mickey’s spine. “Who’s the kid?”

“Uh. It’s Debbie’s kid.” My niece, he bit back. My husband’s sister’s daughter.

Franny looked up at Mickey, not in confusion but in wide-eyed understanding. Franny was only five, sure, but she wasn’t stupid; she’d seen her fair share of violent shit go down on the street in front of her, and she knew what aggression looked like—what it looked like when someone was about to attack. Mickey looked back at her, and ever-so-slightly raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a warning. Get ready to run, kid.

“Huh.” Terry threw his cigarette butt on the ground, slowly grinding the ash into the slush with the toe of his shoe. “Funny that you’re out here with her, all on your own. No one else on the street, not for blocks.”

Mickey exhaled, attempting to still his racing heart. On a different day, when he wasn’t so caught off guard by Terry’s presence, he would have ended this here and now; pulled a gun and put a bullet right through his father’s homophobic skull. But Terry was right—there was no one outside for miles, no one stirring behind the curtains of the houses lining the streets, no one to call for help if Terry physically overpowered him and kicked the life out of him. And Franny was still holding his hand.

“Yeah, well. We’re just goin’ for a walk. And we’re gonna head back now, if you’re… done.”

Terry held Mickey’s gaze, unblinking. When he spoke, his voice was low and ice cold. “When the fuck was I ever done with you?”

It all happened in an instant, but also in terrifyingly smooth slow motion—Terry charged at Mickey, fists raised, skidding across the ice in a blur.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, you deformed excuse for a Milkovich!”

Terry was seething with the same fiery anger as when he flipped the table at Yevgeny’s christening, the night he found out that Mickey was gay—as he raced across the pavement, all Mickey could do was think about how to get Franny out of here before his father’s fist connected with his face. He gently shoved Franny behind him towards the sidewalk leading to the Gallagher house.

“Go, Franny, go!” He choked out, before Terry thrust a punch to his stomach and Mickey doubled over, kneeling on the damp sidewalk.

Terry’s shadow hovered over Mickey, and he knelt down, grabbing the hair at the scruff of Mickey’s neck. Mickey could smell his breath, all stale cigarettes and burnt coffee, like it had been for the past thirty years of his life.

“Been waiting a long time for this,” Terry said through his teeth. Mickey gathered every ounce of strength that he could— thank you, Kev Fit membership— and crashed his own head into his father’s, toppling him over and pinning him down. He quickly glanced over his shoulder, and saw Franny’s bootprints leading down the street, saw a flash of a red scarf turning the final corner a few blocks down. Thank god.

Terry squirmed under Mickey’s iron grip on his wrists. “Get off me, assfucker!”

“Sorry, Dad, no can do.” Mickey could almost grin. All he had to do was knock his dad out cold, and this whole thing could be over—

Out of nowhere Terry’s right arm broke free, striking Mickey’s side and toppling him onto the pavement.

“I’ve got you now,” Terry drawled, and that was the last thing Mickey heard before Terry’s boot stuck into his side and he saw stars.

**

The sun had almost set beneath the clouds, casting a warm glow through the front windows of the Gallagher house. Ian and Carl sat in the living room, engaged in particularly immersive debate about the accuracy of cop drama TV shows in an attempt to drown out Debbie’s continued melodrama of reading her bad Yelp reviews.

“Nah, man, I’m telling you, there’s no way an EMT would actually get to the scene that quickly anyways—"

There was a soft series of frantic knocks at the front door, so gentle Ian barely would have heard it if the TV volume wasn’t turned to a low hum. Ian sprang up and swung the front door open to… Franny?

A tear-stained, snow-soaked Franny, with matted hair and a scarf hanging half off her neck.

“Uncle Ian! Uncle Ian, we have to go help Uncle Mickey!”

What the fuck?

“Franny, what’s the matter?” Ian tried to gently guide her inside out of the cold, but Franny stomped her boots and shoved Ian’s hand away.

“We have to go now Uncle Ian! A man is hitting Uncle Mickey! We have to go quick!”

Ian froze. Shit. There were plenty of people who wanted an excuse to beat the crap out of Mickey, most of whom Mickey could take— but regardless, Ian didn’t want anyone fucking up Mickey’s parole.

“Oh, shit. Okay. Franny, can you take me to Uncle Mickey?”

Franny fervently nodded. “He’s up the street. I was chasing him when we were playing.”

Ian turned to call over his shoulder. “Hey, can anyone help me back Mickey up in a fight with some dude?”

Carl put his hands up in resignation. “Don’t look at me, man. I should be a mile away from any instance of Mickey breaking his parole.”

Sandy darted into the living room, from the kitchen where she had been consoling Debbie. “Mickey’s in a fight?”

“Apparently. He was playing with Franny down the road and now Franny’s back here.”

Sandy looked at the disheveled Franny standing in the doorway. “Shit. I’ll grab my shoes.”

“Uncle Ian, we have to go now!”

“Okay, we’re coming Franny. Lead the way.”

**

Franny guided them down the sidewalk, the three of them casting dark shadows onto the roadside piles of snow as the sun disappeared beneath the clouds. “This way!”

Ian didn’t really know what he was expecting to see as they turned the final corner, the street almost totally enveloped in darkness— maybe Mickey pinning some guy up against a wall, or in the back of a cop car. But he was certainly not prepared to see Mickey as a static heap sprawled on the sidewalk, while the unmistakable figure of Terry Milkovich stood above him, pummeling Ian’s husband.

Sandy noticed Terry’s presence before Ian could even react to what was going on. “Uh, Franny, hey, can you walk back to the house please?”

Before he knew what he was doing, Ian’s feet were sprinting down the street. “Terry! Get the FUCK off of him!”

Ian could barely register his body’s movements as he smashed his fist into Terry’s nose and tackled him to the ground. Terry spit in Ian’s face. “Fucking Gallagher!”

Ian hit Terry once again, keeping him pinned down. He struck him over and over, not stopping to process if he was even moving, or breathing, or fighting back.

“Hey! Everyone calm the fuck down!”

Ian looked up over his shoulder—Sandy was standing above them, pointing a gun directly at Terry, whose face was now bashed and bloody.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, my dear Uncle Terry,” Sandy said in a sickly-sweet voice that didn’t match her iron gaze. “Ian’s going to get off of you, and you’re going to stand up and walk down the street back to your shithole house. And you’re going to watch your fucking back, because you never know when I could decide to come home one night while you’re asleep and make you regret everything you did this evening. Are we clear?”

Terry’s eyes narrowed, panting as he stayed pinned beneath Ian. “Those Gallagher queers got you too, huh?”

Sandy cocked the gun even more aggressively in Terrys direction, her thumb teasing the safety.

“That’s not how it works, dumbass. Unlike some pieces of garbage in this neighborhood, the Gallagher family actually cares about each other. Now—are we clear?”

Terry scowled at Ian, and gave a curt nod. “Get the fuck off me, fag.”

Ian didn’t budge. “Sandy, no,” Ian snarled.

“Ian, we’ll deal with him later.”

Ian looked up at Sandy, who met his eyes with an expectant gaze, still holding the gun directly at Terry. It took every ounce of strength Ian had to kneel and rise from the ground—it would be so easy to knock Terry out, to tell Sandy to pull to trigger, to put all the pain he’d caused behind them. To finally feel safe.

Terry immediately stood, and looked at Mickey on the ground, practically unconscious and his blood mingling with the snow. Terry opened his mouth to say some final retort— but Sandy clicked off the safety of the gun, steadily pointing it in his direction, and Terry promptly closed his mouth again. He turned and walked away.

Ian was immediately at Mickey’s side. “Fuck, Mickey, fuck.” Ian choked out. “Hey, look at me.”

Mickey had definitely hit his head, hard—there was a gash on his forehead dripping blood down his face, just like the night of Yevgeny’s christening when they’d watched Terry be forced into the back of a cop car. He looked up at Ian, his eyes drifting in and out of focus. Ian quickly scanned the rest of Mickey’s body—aside from a few solid kicks to the ribs, his head injury seemed to be the only major issue. Ian gently ran a hand through his hair.

“Mickey, hey, can you stand up? We’ve gotta get you home.”

First, get Mickey home— only then could Ian actually let himself process everything that had happened, and swallow down the bile rising from his stomach. First, Mickey had to be safe.

Sandy leaned over next to Ian. “Do you think we’re gonna have to carry him?”

“Uh, yeah I think so. Can you grab his legs?”

**

Mickey forced his heavy eyelids open, hazy and disoriented. He blinked, trying to clear the sleep out of his eyes. The blurry outlines of he and Ian’s bedroom, cloaked in darkness, slowly came into focus. He could feel the scratchy crocheted blanket on top of him, but aside from that his limbs were so heavy and numb he could barely move. A dull pain throbbed in the back of his head. Fuck.

“You awake?”

Ian was curled next to him in bed, not touching any part of Mickey’s aching body but leaning in close, nearly a centimeter away. Ian’s hand reached up and gently wiped a damp piece of hair off of Mickey’s forehead. Mickey winced.

“Sorry. How d’you feel?”

“I’ve definitely felt better,” Mickey croaked. “What time is it?”

“Almost 1 a.m. You’ve been out for a few hours,” Ian replied in a low voice.

“Shit.” Mickey closed his eyes. They were silent in the darkness for a few moments, but Mickey could feel Ian’s eyes on him. “My head fuckin’ hurts. What’s your prognosis, doc?”

“You definitely have a concussion. It probably won’t be a big deal in a week or two. You don’t need stitches or anything, though. And I did some EMT magic on your ribs, which mostly just means I put ice on them while you were sleeping.”

Mickey smirked, his eyes still closed—partially from the headache, but partially because he didn’t want to look Ian in the eyes yet. “Franny okay?”

“Yeah, she’s all good.”

“And, uh. Terry?”

He could feel Ian stiffen beside him. “Probably at home, being the same lowlife asshole he always has been. Sandy pulled a gun on him.”

Mickey opened his eyes, and could see through the darkness that Ian’s own eyes looked puffy and worn. It killed him to see Ian suffering, once again, because of him— it felt like they were always battling something at every turn, sure, but in Mickey’s case, it was almost always Terry they were fighting against.

“Fuck. When I’m less tired, and my body feels less like shit, remind me to go kill him, yeah?”

Ian laughed bitterly. “Yeah, I almost tried that tactic myself. I think Sandy scared the shit out of him, though. We’ll figure out what to do if he… acts up again.”

Mickey knew it was a lot more complicated than that, and that in the morning he would probably be seething and grabbing his guns and marching down to Terry’s house with fire in his eyes, but they didn’t need to dwell on that right now. Right now it was quiet, and Ian’s body was pressed against his, and Mickey was wrapped in a warm blanket in a bed with his husband. They were safe.

“I’ve thought I’d lost you thousands of times, Mick, but tonight really scared me” Ian softly whispered, cutting through the silence. “I thought… I don’t know, when I saw you on the sidewalk, I thought after all the shit your dad has said, I might’ve been too late.”

Mickey took a sharp breath in, making his ribs sting, while Ian kept talking.

“When you were in jail, or in Mexico, I knew you were always out there, and I guess knowing that always kept me going. But knowing I could have lost you again tonight—I don’t know, it scared the shit out of me,” Ian said, his voice breaking.

Mickey mustered all the strength he had, and slightly shifted his weight onto his left side to face Ian, whose eyes were glassy. Beneath all of Ian’s macho shit the past few weeks, it was so easy to look at him and forget that he was still also that tired, scared kid from the South Side that Mickey met ten years ago, one who didn’t know if good things could be permanent or if other people could stick around. Mickey put his hand up to Ian’s face, running his thumb up and down his cheekbone.

“Hey. C’mere.”

Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey—gently at first, like he was gliding his fingers over something precious, and then fully wrapping his arms around him, and burying his face in the hair on top of Mickey’s head. Mickey could feel Ian’s heartbeat through his thin t-shirt, feel the warmth radiating off of his biceps that encircled him. Ian pressed a kiss to the top of Mickey’s head, where his forehead met his hairline.

“I’m here, Gallagher,” Mickey whispered into Ian’s skin. “I’m not going anywhere. No one’s gonna change that shit.”

[anonymous0writer]

You’re Alright II JJ Maybank

Author: @anonymous0writer

Request: Yes!

// I forget the request rn, but it was for a songfic based off the song “All You Wanted” by Michelle Brand. Thank you anon, I hope you like it!

Warnings: Physical fighting. I don’t even think there’s cursing..

A/N: Sorry this was so late! More will come and sooner :)

Taglist: @jayjaymaebank @rudys-pankow @maaybanks @everydayimfangirling @outrbank @thelocalpogue @decap-quadrant @ahhireallydontknow @never-ever-too-many-fandoms @kylosleftbuttcheek @insanitysparkles @divcrdown @youfookendonut @dpaccione @outerbanksbro @jjs-housekeeping​ @teenwaywardasgardian @traumaflavouredjuulpod @sarapage89 @danicarosaline @timmyswrld @gmwlover100 @bxbyyyjocelyn @teamnick @jjmbanks @thesurfingsnail @lulubutton34 @obxsummer @katiaw2 @yeehaw87 @poguecollins @notaninstagrammodel @koufaxx @talksoprettyjjx

Sorry I keep forgetting my tags! Sadly, I couldn’t tag all of my taglist, so if your name isn’t in bold, message me and we can figure it out!

Lyrics look like this

I didn't know that it was so cold And you needed someone to show you the way So I took your hand and we figured out that When the time comes I'd take you away

JJ looks up at you, blue eyes flashing as his jaw clenches. Your fingers tap his cheek, forcing him to keep his head still. You clean up his shallow wounds, your heart squeezing painfully as purple blooms across his face like a flower showing its face. You swallow your feeling about the abuse littered over his skin- he doesn’t need you to get emotional. You stay strong and continue cleaning him up, and finish with a kiss to his hair.

“You’re alright,” You whisper against his hair as his arms encircle your waist and his face buries into your stomach. You hold him close, fingertips brushing his hair lightly. Sobs rack his body as he starts to cry. You grip on him tightens and you whisper comforts into his ear. 

“It’s alright, baby. I’m here- I got you. You’re safe now.” 

Your hands trace soft patterns into his bare back, sure to dance around the dark bruises and fading yellow ones. You glare at the patches of abuse and pain traced onto his skin, but keep your lips firmly pressed together. 

“You’re okay, J.” You murmur, pulling away from him slightly to cup his face to force him to make eye contact. “You’re okay, I’m right here. And guess what? I’m not leaving.” 

He nods as you brush away the tears staining his cheeks. You sit on the bed and pull him toward you. JJ’s face lays on your chest as you play with his hair and his arms lay across your stomach. 

“I love you so much,” He whispers against your shirt and you kiss his dirty blonde hair again as you return the sentiment. 

The boy falls into a dreamless sleep while you worry about his home situation. You wish you could take him away. Away from all of this.

If you want to I can save you I can take you away from here So lonely inside So busy out there And all you wanted was somebody who cares

“JJ, stop!” You screamed, the words ripping from your throat. Wind blew your hair away, drowning out your screams. “JJ, please!”

The boy either didn’t hear you or ignored you. His fists rained down on the Kook’s face, and they tumbled, grunts and fists flying. Sand kicked up as the crowd circling the two brawling boys tightened, a tall, broad shoulder guy stood in front of you. You pushed in front of him, another yell spilling from your throat.

“JJ, please stop!” Desperation lined your voice.

But JJ couldn’t stop, and he wouldn’t stop until one of them dropped. And by the looks of it, it was him. The Kook was straddling him, weight keeping JJ from wiggling out of his iron tight grip. He grunted, pain splashing against his face in waves as the boy on top grew more desperate. JJ had learned that desperation was more the cause of fighting than anger. Or atleast, when the anger faded from your veins, the only thing that kept you going was desperation. And that’s what was happening to the Kook sitting on him. Anger had fizzled out of his blood, leaving him high and dry. The only thing left- desperation and the primal instinct to survive, to live. And while the scuffles and fights he got into were nothing as dire, the instinct was the same. Soon his vision goes hazy, spots burning into his eyes. JJ knew he was on the edge of blacking out, but he didn’t stop. He grunted, shoving his suddenly heavy arms at the boys chest, catching him off guard. JJ took the opportunity to roll out from underneath him, coughing violently into the sand as he crouched on all fours. His lungs rasped for air as he coughed, blood mixing with the spit and landing on the ground.

His cerulean eyes flickered up to meet yours, watching you stare at him, in front of the crowd, mouth slightly agape and brows tugged into a disbelieving glare. He couldn’t hold your gaze, because he couldn’t handle your angered words and lectures. The Kook was catching his breath and cradling his possibly broken nose. JJ smirked. Though he almost got the shit beaten out of him, JJ broke his nose. And by now, the boy knew exactly what point to hit and how hard to hit to make the bone snap.

There was no denying the fact that the blonde was hot headed and impulsive. But fighting was a type of escape for him. The solidarity of focusing on the person in front of you, the rush of survival in your veins, the one goal- winning- provided an escape. Something about the task to win seemed to calm everything roaring in his ears. It was when the blood pumping in his ears and everything in his life faded away. But the reality of his loneliness settled in once he was left gasping for breath and pain covering every inch of skin.

You crouched in front of the boy, eyes worried. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

JJ blinked. Your words weren’t the normal ones of your lecture, they were worried. And that’s when JJ realized, really realized. You cared.

All you wanted was somebody who cares If you need me you know I'll be there Oh, oh, oh, yeah

JJ struggled to pull air in and out of his lungs, eyes glassy with tears. He tried to regain his bearings, vision focusing in and out. Until they rested on the phone on the table. His ribs were bursting with pain each time he took a shallow breath, but he fought through the familiar pain to try and bring the phone closer. 

You were on the other side of that phone, ready to help and hold him. You filled his mind with the countless nights you cared for him and lay with him, whispering comforting words in his ear until he fell asleep. 

He knew he could count on you. But as his fingertips grazed the home button, he stopped.

Would you be happy to be woken up at midnight to come and help him? Would you want to see him like this yet again? Would you be willing to help him? When you’d been asked to do this so many times already? Would you still care like you used to? 

His fingertips stalled, but the questions swirling in his pain along with the pain were pushed aside by your voice. 

“If you need me,you know I’ll always be there. No matter what. I will always be there for you.”

So JJ grabbed the phone and pressed your saved number. You picked up on the second ring.

I'm sinking slowly So hurry hold me Your hand is all I have to keep me hanging on Please can you tell me So I can finally see Where you go when you're gone

He was leaving again. His figure fading into the horizon. His feet carried him away and you danced down the steps of the Chateau, heart squeezing painfully. Your feet hit the dirt of the driveway and you reached out, desperate.

“JJ!” You called, voice hovering in the air. “Please, stop!” 

You stalled, knowing you spoke those all too often. You swallowed and continued on, feet not carrying you fast enough to reach him. 

“Please?” You begged.

The boy turned fast on his heel, eyes hard. “Y/N stop. Just stop.” 

You came to a halt, blinking in surprise. You met his eyes and your heart tugged again. 

“Leave me alone.” He spoke and started down John B.’s driveway again. 

This time you were rooted to the ground, feet growing roots and digging into the dirt, keeping you still. Your lips parted, and you called after him again. 

“Where are you going?” You asked, knowing the boy had a stop absolutely no one knew about that held his storming thoughts. You swallowed, worry rising in your chest. You hated when he left, and the fact that he’d flee for a day or more, keeping his spot secret made you ask. But the boy didn’t answer your desperate question and soon he faded away. You frowned deeply, worry dissipating into dejection. 

And just like that, he was gone.

Please can you tell me So I can finally see Where you go when you're gone

You pushed the brush aside, ignoring the dull sting of the blackberry bushes against your shins. You broke through the shrubbery, coming to stand in a small clearing. The ground beneath your scuffed shoes was a mixture of sand and rocks. The sand led to a littering of bigger rocks that could sit you, which broke away to the water. It was a small beach on the edge of a heavily wooded area. And on top of the rock sat a familiar figure. 

JJ was staring at the water, and when you softly called for him, his head turned and you met his glassy eyes. A fresh bruise and cuts littered his face and a tear made its way down his cheek. The scene broke your heart.

“Oh, J.” You whispered and rushed forward, reaching for him. You wrapped your arms tightly around him as he buried his head into your stomach. You rubbed his back as he sobbed, hands gripping your shirt. 

“You’re okay, J. I’m here. I’ll always be here. You’re gonna be alright.”

[daintykeith]

RUN KID RUN

Title: Run Kid Run

Summary: Dutch and Hosea are trying to teach John how to read but he runs off after they got frustrated and Arthur goes deep into the woods looking for John.

Word count: 2298

Notes: mild cursing | brief scene despicting an almost hanging | feedback is appreciated!!!

Tags: @onlytherocksliveforever

Happy late Christmas and Happy new year! I’m sorry I’m so late, this took me forever; I’ve been giving it a long thought and decided to comply to your second item in your wish list!

2) i love DUMB ASS John Marston and his better looking brother Arthur; give me a slice of life with the two of them pre-canon, or a story about them helping the other thru a tough time.

I’ve decided to combine both ideas and so this story came to be.

When Arthur was twenty-three, he saw a boy—dirty, savage and with a look in his eyes that had given up on living. This boy was with a rope in his neck, ready to be hanged. Dark gray with no reflection but death itself; no tears, no regret. Dead Eyes that held onto dear life with a fierceness reflected in his fists.

Next to the boy, an unnamed man spoke words of dead wisdom and nonsense which to the eyes of Arthur was meaningless.

“We have come to see the of law enacted. We will not sit idly by as people take the law into their own hands!”

Heavy kind of bullshit that Arthur didn’t enjoy a bit.

The crowd of the town roared loudly in excitement and agreement. For them, it was only entertainment, a show that made Arthur’s gut churn with anger. He tilted his hat lower and turned around, ready to move on. However, Dutch’s hand landed on his shoulder and stopped him.

“He looks like you did, a while ago,” Dutch said with a smirk before the gun in his hip shot the rope on the boy’s neck.

“He doesn’t.”

The boy’s shine returned in a glimpse that Arthur caught with both his eyes and heart. A will to fight and survive, to get the hell out of the mess that was about to start.

“What the hell Dutch?!”

“He was not meant to. Not yet.”

A sense of relief in his chest appeared with a long deep breath. He was glad for the boy that had gotten a chance to live, what was Dutch and Hosea thinking when they brought him into camp?

Arthur got wounded in the dirty fight they had in town for freeing the boy and he was resting in his tent, with Susan on his side cleaning his injuries. When Dutch and Hosea walked in, he asked: “What took ya’ so long?” with a warm grin that quickly faded into disbelief.

The boy stood between the two men, pouting his lips, frowning and crossing his arms as means to make himself more intimidating. The way Dutch smiled, looked and treated him with his gentle gestures and Hosea had given his jacket to protect him from the chilling breeze of that night was so familiar to Arthur; he had been in that place after all. What was that boy doing in camp? Similar to himself in the past, why did they needed to bring someone as intense and dumb as him? Wasn’t one dumb enough? He wondered.

“What’s your name, kid?” Arthur asked after he noticed Dutch’s gaze on him.

The boy stood silent.

“Come on boy, tell him.” Dutch crouched to his side and whispered words to him that Arthur wasn’t able to hear.

He remained silent.

When Arthur was twenty-four, he met the boy. A month had passed from his rescue and Arthur’s birthday quickly arrived with the cold and mean air of winter. There was no snow landscape yet, the skies had become dark and gray like the boy’s eyes and the fallen leaves

“John Marston,” the boy said with a mean streak that left Arthur with a bad taste in his tongue.

“Arthur Morgan.” He extended his hand to greet but John had already abandoned and left him with the words unsaid in his lips.

Arthur sighed and placed his hands on his gun belt; he could see John’s silhouette far away, hiding somewhere where he thought no one could see him, and grinned. A part of him still refused to acknowledge John, prouder than a bull and wilder than a cougar in a midnight sky, and another part of him found itself in that boy who slept with a knife under his pillow.

“John, come here!” Dutch called the next morning.

Arthur was laying in comfortably in his bed, with his worn-out leather hat covering his eyes, thinking about what to draw in his journal. A bird? A flower? An herb? His imagination was as dull as dishwater and his brain couldn’t tell skunks from house cats. Boredom was partly guilty of the dullness, too.

“John, come on.” From his closed tent, Arthur saw how Hosea’s figure grabbed John’s arm and took him somewhere beyond the reach of their shadow. A loud growl, from the boy, echoed through the whole camp that Arthur scoff. The boy was that stubborn?

The blue-eyed man closed his journal, stood up from his bed and walked out of his tent to do the chores of the day. As he chopped wood, he could see Dutch and Hosea, with John between them, sitting together in one of the round tables near the food station with a book in hand. This was going to be fun to see, Arthur thought.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” Dutch said firmly. “Read this part here.”

“No,” John scowled.

“Why not? It’s not that hard if you try. Here. The king in his…” Hosea slowly talked

John went silent.

“Boy,” Dutch lowly growled.

Arthur swung his axe over the log and splat it in half. When he was putting the wood aside, he peeked at John. The boy had his arms crossed, frowning and giving the book in the table a deadly gaze. Did he hate reading that much? Arthur laughed to himself and got caught by Hosea who looked at him with disapproval. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. He tried to slowly walk away, feigning ignorance, but the older man approached quicker than he predicted and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Arthur.” Hosea squeezed hard the shoulder blade and grinned in a way that created grimace in Arthur’s expression, “wanna’ join us? I thought I could show you the new book I got!”

Arthur grunted.

Just great. He knew Hosea’s way of scolding Arthur and thinking about it annoyed him, however, he didn’t expect to see Dutch vexed, red-faced and squeezing the book with both his hands, yelling to John.

On the other hand, Hosea was perplexed. He dragged his hands over his now tired face and sighed.

“He wasn’t this troublesome!” Dutch said to Hosea, referring obviously to Arthur.

Something in that statement made Arthur chest puff in pride. Oh boy, he really liked that. Even if he refused to acknowledge this feeling to everyone else, he liked it when Dutch or Hosea praised him.

Arthur remembered the days when Dutch and Hosea were teaching him to read. Hot summer days, mosquitoes everywhere and that smell he couldn’t forget, berries and lemon, which brought his mind ten years back, when he was a thin, small and young boy. He grinned to the loveable thought and looked at Dutch fighting with John.

“Dutch, what’re ya doin’!? Don’t ya’ grab him like that and rub his head!”

“I know he can do it, but he’s not even trying!”

Something Arthur knew is that Dutch would take as “true” whatever he assumed; and hardly took back his words—standing for what he believed, a true blessing for the wise and a curse for the ignorant. Later on, Arthur didn’t know which of those Dutch was. A true mystery until the very end.

“Dutch, calm down, you’re gonna scare ‘im…”

“But I know he can—"

“Shut up, you pair of dimwits!” Susan yelled from afar as she sewed one of Arthur’s shirt.

And before any of them could say any further word, John slammed his hands against the table and ran away into the woods that surrounded the camp.

“Get back here, boy!”

What a mess. When Arthur saw no signs of Dutch calming down or Hosea backing down, he decided to look out for the now goner.

“John! Where are ya’!?” Arthur yelled as he stomped over some broken sticks. Definitively John.

“Ya’ damn bastard, dontchu’ ever get tired?” he whispered to himself, wondering as he furrowed his brows and rushed his pace.

As he walked deeper into the woods, the stars that normally would be faded under sunlight, had come out without any shame, telling Arthur to hurry. The breeze got colder and the sky darker and even if he found clues of where he could have gone to, the boy sure knew how to keep out of sight. He was going nuts; what the hell was the kid running from?! He had nothing to run from and nowhere to go, what was he thinking?

“John!” He called once more before he heard a gasp to his side.

The moment he turned his head, he saw a terrified boy who had fallen into the ground. Unlike the first time he saw him, fierceness shone in his eyes despite of the fear that his thin body could not hide—however, that didn’t mean it wasn’t agile. He quickly got up into his feet and started running towards the glowing moon.

“Oh no, you ain’t!”

He could hear John’s broken breathing and how he gasped for the air he didn’t have; it broke Arthur’s heart.

“Watchu’ running from, kid?!”

Arthur got closer with every step he took and grabbed without any restrains John’s wrist to stop him, quite brusque for his liking but there was nothing he could do. Those iron eyes gazed at him with the loathe and anger he deserved which left a sour flavor in his mouth. John struggled to free himself from Arthur’s grip but it only got stronger.

“Lemme ask you again, kid. Watchu’ running from?”

John struggled again and Arthur grabbed his other wrist. He took a deep breathe and closed his eyes for a moment. Was it this hard for everyone else to deal with him? Being a kid in the streets wasn’t easy, it roughens you up in a way that shatters what you truly are, breaking and eventually rotting every corner in your mind. But he was no kid in the streets no more, he could finally begin living and not just survive.

“He wanted to kill me,” John replied in a quick low whisper.

Arthur raised a brow. “Dutch was shootin’ his mouth off and by now Hosea and Susan must have given ‘im a black eye for that.” He tried to sound reassuring.

“Let go!” John fought with all his strengths to free himself; Arthur tightened his grip.

“Listen to me, kid. You got nothing to run from; here you got a bed, food and people who want ya’—”

“Dead…” John interrupted.

“Let me finish! Goddamit—as I was saying. None of ‘em want ya’ to be a goner.”

“How can I trust you? They all said I was an idiot, useless. They all hate me and they’ll kill me. It’s better if I’m gone.”

“We’re family.” Arthur meant it. He had found a part of himself in the little black-haired boy that wanted to keep running; running to never look back, from all the things he didn’t deserve.

“We ain’t.”

“Listen to me you little piece of…! You became part of us the very moment Dutch cut that rope on your neck and brought you into the camp.”

“Still; that doesn’t mean I can trust you guys. You’re outlaws.”

John wasn’t buying a single bit of what Arthur was saying. Shit. At this rate he was gonna run off by himself and God knows what would happen to him.

“They took me in when I was your age.” John’s eyes widened in curiosity; “I… well, my momma died when I was real young and my daddy… let’s say I wish he did too. They taught me how to read and Hosea taught me how to draw.”

Despite of the nervousness inside him, Arthur took the journal out of his satchel and gave it to John without letting go of one of his wrists. He eagerly flipped through the pages and stopped to look at some of the drawings it contained; some of the graphite stuck into his fingers, but it didn’t stop him from eyeing with detail each illustration.

“Why didn’t ya’ read? Back then, when Dutch and Hosea asked you to.”

There was a long pregnant pause. “I did—read it, I mean. I, uh, wasn’t sure to er, say it out loud.”

“Really?” Arthur smiled from ear to ear. “See? You’re smart, John! Ya’ ain’t that bad, there’s potential.”

John blushed at Arthur’s praise and kept looking at the drawings until he reached the last one, that page that had remained blank for the whole day.

“They are family to me. Family is everything; I’d die for it.” His voice didn’t shake even once.

John closed the journal and gave Arthur a gaze full of admiration that Arthur wasn’t worthy of. He could be one nasty son-of-a-bitch, rash to anger and emotions; unfamiliar to giving inspirational speeches like Dutch would do or smooth-talking like Hosea the Conman.

“And I will…” he stuttered, “I, uh…”

“You what.”

“I won’t let them kill ya’; just in case.”

A mischievous grin appeared in John’s face. “That won’t stop me tho.”

Arthur had let his guard down. John escaped from his grip and started to run the fastest he could. Where the hell was he going to and, most importantly, where the heck had he gotten all that damn energy from?

“Cuz’ I’ll kill ya’ myself, you little piece of shit!”

“Thank you, brother” John screamed in the distance.

“You ain’t got the right to be my brother!” Yet, he wanted to say but kept it to himself.

That day, when Arthur was twenty-four, his family grew by one member. Even if mocked him every now and then and behaved like assholes, it was the most important thing to Arthur. It was everything he had—not like money or gold; those two could go straight to hell unless Dutch and Hosea gave the word.

[pvremichigan]

You’ll Always Be My Son. [Hell Arc Drabble 6]

The shrieking of demons behind her grew louder the more she ran. Damn it all to hell - ironically - that she was still unable to see them. All she could hear was the rumbling, the clawing and smacking on the pavement behind her. Some even seemed to hop onto the chain fences that lined the sides of people’s yards here and there. The rattling and chaotic noises echoing behind her, the whispers barely human and the screeching only growing closer and closer, as if teasing her demise before retracting and watching her continue to run for her life without pause. The exhaustion was growing, she had been running for far too long. Sometimes the calls would draw her towards certain streets, but she’d have to find a back road knowing damn well these things would be able to cut her off if she had made specific turns. The chase felt like it had lasted a lifetime, which has been a trait Mich has noticed here. Every moment of fear, agony, misery, despair... The time seemed to drag on, turning seconds into minutes. Far more than that phenomenon in real life, it was far slower than the brain could realistically perceive during moments of panic like that. As if this hell was taunting her views on time, such as nothing lasting forever and her having all the time in the world. Hell was truly tearing down her ideals... Not in a humbling way either.

The streets that she had passed were unfamiliar. Despite this resembling her neighborhood vaguely, nothing she saw was connecting. It all seemed the same and different at the same time. As if this was a hallucination, or she was in a state of delirium. Nothing made sense, nothing was recognizable. However, she was at the point where she had to make a choice.

The redhead took a risk, turning one of the corners that she knew would cause her to get cut off by the blood thirsty beasts taunting her every step. The fact that they weren’t visible made things far worse than she thought it would, but her strength in her senses proved to be more helpful in the end. She heard the crash of the wire fence to the side of her. From the impact, it seemed like the demon hopped towards it to propel itself off as it lunged at her. Using this prediction, she lunged the crowbar upwards, hoping to get it right this time.

This exact situation, exact route and running had happened nearly 8 times in a row. Each time resulting in her getting caught and mauled, torn apart piece by piece. Then... She’d have to restart and try all over again. Never once in those attempts did she get her timing and aim right with the crowbar... So this was truly just her hoping at this point. She didn’t know how many more reruns she could go through before she had to give up.

With the resistance of the impalement and the blood dripping onto the pavement, the plan seemed to work. How odd... As soon as the demon started to bleed as it fell to the ground, the other beasts stopped and surrounded it. Mich glanced back to see what was going on, slowing down ignorantly to observe. The beasts, from what it sounded like, were tearing the injured demon apart and feasting. The screams and wails of the wounded one were nearly deafening. When she assumed they were blood thirsty, she was never prepared to realize that it could be any blood.

Pausing, now thinking on it, was a terrible idea. Once they were done with that one, of course they’d be after her again. Only this time, she wouldn’t have the crowbar. And there was no way she was going through it ALL over again.

And yet...

They were finished too early. The beasts cried out, never once did they keep their eyes off of her it seemed, as they caught her off guard and lunged. Sparing the details, every nerve in her body seemed to seer and scream until she appeared... Right on that sidewalk with her crowbar.

And did it all over again, running for her life.

Having impaled the one yet again, Mich didn’t stop to look this time. She kept running down that street, no stopping even for a moment to check. Looking around, it seemed that breaking that loop caused a break in the uncanny aura to the street. The houses grew more and more familiar, discoloration still apparent but less so now than before as she could mentally note exactly whose houses were whose. The call of the soul grew louder the more she ran down the street, practically screaming once she got to the most familiar house of them all.

Her own.

The only moment she paused was to take one good look at the front of it, both figuring if it was a trap or not and also to bask in the moment that she hadn’t recognized her house for a long time... And seeing it for the first time in a while and being able to click in her mind that this was her house, recalling all the details... The warmth of home was there. She could really feel the safety she yearned for there, even if she still was in hell.

No time to spare, the woman stepped up on the very small concrete slab-like porch she spent a lot of time smoking out on, and reached towards the door handle. Opening the front door and stepping in, it really did feel like home, however there was a heavy sadness and emptiness in the air that weighed down the moment she walked in. The couch to her right right underneath the window with the loveseat to the right of that, pressed up against the wall. The staircase immediately to her left as soon as you walk in, with the tv atop the wooden bookshelf right in front of her. The door that leads to the garage and cellar... Right to the right of that. Dining room table to the right of the loveseat. The small kitchen to the right of that. Everything was in order, everything was there. Every little detail recognizable and observed for years. God... This was home. So why was the atmosphere so dreadful? Was this what she’s been feeling for years? What the house had been filling with for so long..? This is what she felt, what she had to endure... The weight was nearly crippling. How was she able to handle this for so long? Looking back, she still lacked an answer that could make sense to her. At least, a good enough answer that wasn’t simply an excuse. Looking out the window, it was pitch black outside. A drastic difference from just moments ago where it was a dreary yet light gray everywhere. Pitch black... And the beasts that had chased her were nowhere to be heard. As if she entered a different dimensional plane simply by entering a door.

After paying mind to the aura of the room, the bright glow of her soul lay right in the middle of the living room. The moment she approached, it disappeared. The frustration grew immensely, the feeling of defeat growing more than before. What was she doing wrong?! Was this a trick!? Why was she not able to reach what she’s needed to for so long now!?!

Her fists clenched as she turned around, frozen at the sight before her.

Her adopted son, Lance... Grown up... With his bags in hand and backpack over his shoulder, hand on the front door. She remembers now... Those same tears, more guilt fueled than anything, began to build. Though her heart didn’t sink, it throbbed. Painfully... But there was no dread.

The day he left... She had already been sinking to her lowest. She barely said a thing other than ‘Take care.’

To her own son... She can’t even give a proper goodbye.

Seeing what happened prior to this with Ryan, she had a feeling she knew what she had to do.

“... You did always wonder if I was mad you wanted to be human. I acted poorly, Lance... I was barely there for you, I was there even less after Ryan had vanished. Your energy gave me so much joy, despite I never showed it. Oh honey... I was never mad. I just... Didn’t express my sadness and acceptance well enough. You always loved hanging out with the other kids, you always wanted to go to school. You wanted to live. I was teaching you how to survive.”

The boy that stood in front of the door barely moved, but she could tell that - despite it not being him unsurprisingly - he was listening. These obstacles that she had to face... It was never physical because she held very little physical burdens. These problems were always mental and emotional. Facing them like she is now... It was the only way to heal at this point. Unresolved business, problems she avoided facing from the start... It was killing her just as quick as not having a soul.

“I want you to know, I was never mad at you. I supported you then even if it didn’t seem like it. I love you dearly, even if this is the last time I remember you. You were my pride and joy, Lance. My capital. You were what I had when I had nothing. I’m sorry I wasn’t always there. I’m sorry I missed out on so much... I feel like I barely got to see you grow as a person. I’ve missed so much in your life and I want you to know that you’ve grown up to be a wonderful man. You’ve grown up... I see it now. I see you now. I... Know there’s distance in every single way between us. I’m sorry you never had a father figure, I’m...”

And just as predicted, the tears fell. The guilt that fueled them was accompanied by the love she has for this boy, the love a mother has for her child. These tears... Were far less painful. They were a comfort she’s felt before. Just recently... She’s felt this type of love with another. Jack... Someone she can be better to, someone she can be there for when she never was for Lance.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother. You had so much potential and it hurt to let you go, but I want to tell you that I’m.... So... So proud of you. So very proud. You’ve done so much... You’ve accomplished your BIGGEST dream. Lance, I know you’ll never hear this, but feel it in your heart if you ever can that I love you and I’m proud of you. You’ll ALWAYS be my son, even if we don’t know each other. You’ll always be my son...”

Mich walks forward, the warmth of home and the tenderness of having her son there with her, despite him never facing her... Only facing the door... She felt far safer in here than she ever had. Even in hell... She still had the compassion in her heart to weep with joy and guilt for her son. Hell can’t be her downfall, she has too much within her to drag her down to the pits. There’s always a fight in her heart, she’s always ready to fight for her life and then some.

The proud woman reaches a hand out, resting it gently upon her ‘sons’ shoulder.

“Guess this is our last goodbye too. I never got to say goodbye to you... I never got to say any of this to you. So here I am. Not because I have to... But because I’ve had it in my heart this entire time and only now am I able to relay the message. I love you, Lance. I hope your new family loves you just as much if not more than I did. I hope your dreams never die out. I hope the world someday knows your name. If I can’t remember it... The world has to. I will let no one let your name die out with history. Go make a difference... Go change the world if you need to. Go have fun and please... Please enjoy your life. I’m so proud of you...”

“You’ll always be my son.”

The figure took a moment after she stopped, the silence lingering a moment too long as the heartbreak began to crack in again. After the extended silence, he hung his head not in disappointment, but it seemed to be in preparation for the world. Turning the door handle, there was a nearly blinding light that flooded the room the more it opened. Without looking back, the boy walked forward into the light and didn’t stop, shutting the door behind him. The light that had flooded the room was dragged out, leaving Mich in an uncomfortably dull and dim lit living room. The weight... Still remained. What a suffocating atmosphere... She could feel old habits itch at her, her feet heavy as she dragged herself over to the couch. The soul had disappeared yet again, Ryan was gone, and now Lance was gone for good. Hunched over, she put her hands against her face and wept silently to herself. This... Really did last hours this time. After all of this pain and fear and those obstacle ridden streets... She took a moment of apparent safety and calm to weep. Really let it out as if it were like taking a breather after a long run. She needed this...

She needed this.

Hours passed, there was only a brief period during the end where she was able to sit in silence and breathe. The silence was abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door. She didn’t trust it. It froze her in fear and anticipation, eyes locked on the door as her breathing slowed, barely blinking. The knock came again, but softer this time. There was no way she could trust this... But after a soft yet firmer third time, she realized that if she opened the door and got mauled, when she woke up she just... Wouldn’t answer the door again. Mich was exhausted, she was now resorting to reckless experiment.

Standing up, though hesitation slowing her down, the woman made her way to the door. Gripping the handle tightly, there was yet another instance of hesitation before she finally worked up the courage and let the door slowly open. Before her... Was a glowing essence.

Her soul...

She didn’t trust it this time, looking around to see if there was yet another emotional or mental obstacle. There was nothing in sight... Which caused her to grow skeptical of this situation. This could easily be fake, a trap... But those thoughts washed away like dirt once she felt and heard the call. The weight of the atmosphere in the room had blocked it out. But now... Her tear stained eyes had no more tears left to give.

Kneeling down, she very slowly reached her hand out to the essence. She was... Able to feel it. It felt so familiar, more recognizable and familiar than anything she had pieced together in hell. The thing she could recognize the most...

Herself.

Within a moment of feeling her soul, the light wrapped around her arm, sinking into her body with an intense wave of energy that had felt very overwhelming internally.

Mich’s eyes widen at the realization. There was no weight... This felt so... Different but as if nothing changed all at once. She felt like herself. For the first time in three years, she felt like herself. She felt everything she lost, there was so much going on that she couldn’t explain or pinpoint or anything. It was just... Her.

She was back.

A genuine smile grew on her lips, a shaky exhale before that smile was wiped away quickly. The tears fell yet again, but these tears differed from all the rest she had shed in this realm. Relief... Relief, accomplishment, success, joy, victory... Her hands began to shake as the overwhelming energy really took over.

This joy only lasted for moments as she stood on her porch, as she now glanced around at her surroundings. Things were all too familiar, but even worse... What she saw was something she wished she was still unable to see.

They were visible.

Well...

“It’s time to leave.”

All the energy she had thought she lost pushed itself into her nerves as she dashed off her porch and began her run. She ran for her life as these discolored fleshy beasts, all different shapes and sizes and forms, chased after her in animalistic ways. Time felt like it ran in slow motion though this time... It really didn’t. She was running now, but this time she was running for the exit. Where it was? Well... That’s the hard part. However... Her soul gave another calling. Perhaps this was towards the end... And hopefully it was tracking what Carter had set up. She just prays it’s ready.

For now... She’s running like she’s NEVER run before.

[chaseatinydream]

treasure: brothers forever || j.yh (atz)

He could hear the screams.

It used to disgust him, the bloodthirsty screams of the monsters beyond the stone walls. With each of their roars, lead coursed through his veins and a cold fury burned in his heart, the revulsion that brewed inside him as potent as poison. The voices of the demons, he used to believe they were, and he swore he could glimpse hellfire burning behind their ash-strewn eyes.

Once, when he was younger, he hated them, was sickened by them, was repulsed by them. Every one of them were the spawn of the devil, curled horns and forked tongues hidden behind human skin and rouge that only reminded him of blood dripping from their lips. The expensive furs and beads couldn’t fool him, even if they could beguile the eye of everyone else.

Back then, he had refused to let himself be hoodwinked, to lose himself in this arena of the mind.

There was the clattering of heavy iron chains slithering across the ground, rattling and groaning as the gate before him began to rise. His fingers tightened around the shaft of his spear, feeling the rough wood under his touch, and his other hand raises his shield.

Once, when he had been a child, he pretended that he was a great warrior, about to charge onto the battlefield, ready to sacrifice his life for a noble cause.

The screams started again, vengeful and hungry for blood, bleeding with frenzied excitement. He closed his eyes against the sight before him, and took a single breath.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

He could feel the two silver rings in his hair, their comforting weight resting against his temple. Yes. He would return. He would not leave him behind.

Gravel crunched under his feet, reverberating in his ears even as the cries and hollers of the monsters grew louder, trying to drown out every thought in his mind. To him, they were nothing more than the roars of malevolent beasts of the night, hounds with glowing red eyes at every turn.

Once, when he had first stepped onto this bloodstained ground, tears ran down his cheeks, pale and bloodless with terror.

He opened his eyes, not a trace of fear in his eyes as he stared down the monsters in the stands.

“May I present you, Jeong Yunho, the undefeated one, primordial of battle and war, an all round favourite of all of our patrons, the one and only Titan!”

Once, a long time in the past, Jeong Yunho would have spat at the title, refusing to accept such a fate for himself that would turn him into nothing more than a mindless killing machine. But people grew up harsh and scarred by life, and he learned that fighting against his fate would only lead to the dead end. He was no longer that starry eyed boy who dreamed of one day seeing the sea, meeting people from all over the world, tasting the air of freedom. Dreams were nothing more than lies.

And he had crushed them all.

He raised his spear and shouted into the still air.

“Titan!”

And the crowd screamed his name.

Jeong Yunho was the Titan of Vera Cruz.

In Greek mythology, the Titans had been a race of deities, the second generation of divine beings who brought the earth into creation. They were forces of nature to be reckoned with, all-mighty and godlike, their power knew no bounds. Nothing in this world could bring them down.

Yunho didn’t like to think about his gladiator title in such a romantic, fairy tale manner, but he was determined to be just like it, if not better.

The lion opposite him snarled, baring its jaws to reveal incisors the length of his fingers, but they didn’t scared him in comparison the hidden fangs of the spectators in the stands.

His spear flashed forward without hesitation.

The massive beast leapt at him, but Yunho immediately threw himself to the side, rolling away from it. Now was not the time to think his actions through, for if he did not move the second his instinct demanded him to he would be dead in seconds. It lunged for him with its claws outstretched and Yunho felt them tear through the skin of his side, warm blood dripping down his skin.

The spectators booed, demanding him to fight back, but Yunho merely ignored them, heart pounding in his chest as he eyed the lion carefully, trying to figure out his next move. Fighting the apex feline head on offensively was nothing more than folly, and if he tried that he’d been cat food in seconds.

The lion charged him once more and he could hear the screams of the spectators in the stands rise to a fevered pitch as they eagerly awaited his death. For a moment, he felt a sense of pity for the lion. It reminded him of himself in some way, such a ferocious, primal beast tamed for the mere enjoyment of humans, forced to live and fight to death in this godforsaken arena, never to see the world outside ever again.

But then again, they were also different.

“Sorry about this.” He muttered under his breath, gripping his spear tight and staring the lion in the eye as it pounced at him, leaping high into the air. “But I really can’t afford to die here.”

He slid beneath the lion’s claws in one smooth motion, his spear arcing up into the beast’s heart.

“Brother, are you awake?”

When Yunho opened his eyes, he was in his bed once more. A wooden board underneath his back, the thatched ceiling of straw above him. There was a painful burning sensation at his left side and even half awake he could feel sticky blood seeping through the sloppily done bandages. That was how the arena treated them. Mere creatures which fought for the amusement of the wealthy.

Yunho closed his eyes once more as he sank back against the filthy ground.

Perhaps he’d get infection, but at that point, the exhaustion was too much for him to bother about it.

“I don’t know.”

He could hear Gunho’s indignant little puff of air and even through the agony, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then his younger brother was shaking him by the arm, insistent on getting him to the bed.

“Brother, you can’t keep sleeping on the floor with that injury! The healer said that if the wound gets dirty, it could become infected!”

Yunho groaned, shaking his head in refusal.

“Gunho, you know I like the floor more.”

He didn’t. The floor was hard and his bones would ache after a night on the wooden planks, at night it’d get drafty and his fingers turned blue from the cold. He dearly wanted just one night on a straw mattress, no matter how thin or worn it had become. But the bed was Gunho’s. That was indisputable.

“Hyung, you got mauled by a lion! Stop trying to take care of me, I’m a big boy now!”

Yunho almost snorted.

No, he wasn’t. Gunho was only fifteen, a mere child. Yunho, barely two years older than him, had to fulfil the role as his older brother and protector, sacrificing everything to keep his younger brother safe and alive.

The rage that used to bubble up in his chest at the thought of his parents, who had sold him and Gunho to the arena in return for a single gold coin each, no longer came. Instead, he glanced over at his brother’s concerned face and wished for just a moment that they could have at least taken Gunho with them instead of leaving him in such a desolate place such as this.

But dreams were nothing more than lies, and wishing wouldn’t get them fed.

��I’m tired.” He cut his younger brother’s lengthy explanation about infection and fever off with a curt sentence. “Go to sleep. I have a big day tomorrow.”

Gunho froze at his words.

“Yeah…” There had been a fight scheduled for him tomorrow, against another of the arena’s gladiators they had grown up with, shared rice with, been brothers with. But the crowd loved this sort of drama, the tension and emotions running wild in the air as two people or more who had once been so close fought each other to the death with their own lives on the line.

Sometimes it ended up in romance if the patrons loved the tales of two star crossed lovers. Sometimes it ended up with friendship if the audience was touched by their story of brotherhood and strength.

But most of the time, it ended in tragedy.

That was how Yunho’s previous battle had gone, at least. It was clear who had survived.

“Brother…” Gunho’s voice trembled and Yunho opened his eyes to see his younger brother quiet, hands fisted in the hem of his shirt and head bowed, one silver ring hanging from his dark hair. Yunho knew its meaning. “What if it’s me?”

Yunho paused for a moment to think about it.

What if he was forced to fight his brother in the arena one day?

As much as Yunho had lain awake each night on the floor thinking this through, listening to the soft breathing of his younger brother as he slept on the bed above him, his answer had always been the same.

“Then you need to kill me, because I can’t hurt you.”

Gunho’s face crumpled at his older brother’s declaration, twisting with guilt and unease. “Brother… That’s not fair, I can’t hurt you either.”

Yunho shook his head firmly.

“I’m the older brother, I’m supposed to protect you.” He said. There was no uncertainty in his voice and deep within him, Yunho knew it rang true. As Gunho’s older brother, his entire being was dedicated to ensuring that he survived no matter the odds, even if he had to give up his own life in the process.

“But-”

“Go to sleep, Gunho. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Yunho cut off the younger boy and turned over on the floor to face the wall. He heard his brother’s unhappy sigh behind him and the shifting of the straw mattress, before something rough was being draped over him.

The sackcloth blanket.

“Gunho-” Yunho began to protest, but his younger brother scowled at him, putting his hands on his hips.

“If you’re not going to take the blanket, I’m sleeping on the floor.”

Yunho rolled his eyes at Gunho’s determination to ease his discomfort, but something in his battle hardened heart warmed slightly, softening in a way that it did only for his younger brother. It was because of moments like this Yunho didn’t care less about his own life if it meant keeping Gunho safe. Gunho was Yunho’s most precious person in the world, and Yunho would do anything to see him happy.

“Fine, fine.” He grunted, wrapping the blanket around him. His brother finally wore a content smile and went to bed, and moments later Yunho heard the sound of light snoring. The wind was strong again today, the icy drafts whipping through the cracks in the walls and causing shivers to race down his body, he could feel his toes turning blue once again. It was going to be cold that night.

He glanced at Gunho’s sleeping form.

Careful not to wake him up, Yunho got to his feet and placed the blanket on Gunho instead.

Then he went back to the cold floor and fell asleep.

The next day, Yunho stood before the cold gates once again, spear in hand. The wooden shaft was still tainted with lion’s blood from yesterday, but he couldn’t be bothered to clean it off. It would just get dirty all over again soon enough.

Who would it be this time?

Yunho checked the shield on his forearm, ensuring that the straps were done properly to prevent it from falling off in the middle of a battle.

Did it really matter who it was?

His grip tightened on his spear, his constant companion a comforting weight in his hand. Yunho had no doubt in his abilities, knew that he was far superior than most in terms of his battle capabilities, but there was always that tiny feeling of fear deep in him that he would soon face someone better.

But what he had to do didn’t change. If it was anyone other than Gunho, he’d kill them or die trying.

If it was Gunho, he’d simply die.

He could hear the announcer outside extolling his praises, declaring to the crowd of the Titan of Vera Cruz, the undefeated one, the man who had single handedly fought a lion yesterday and won. Yunho’s fingers brushed the sticky, dried blood at his side. It hurt like hell and he desperately wanted to simply keel over from exhaustion and pain, but if he did, he knew that the match officiator would simply put Gunho in the ring to threaten him into submission.

Yunho couldn’t let that happen.

So he gripped his spear, kept his back straight, focused on his goal. He couldn’t let his opponent see a trace of weakness, lest they use it against him and defeat him in battle. The gate opened before him and he stepped forward, eyes squinting momentarily against the glare of the sun as he was deafened by the cheers that echoed around him.

“Titan! Titan! Titan!”

But there was another name being called, the chanting growing louder and louder.

“Reaper! Reaper! Reaper!”

Even though Yunho thought he had been completely prepared for such a scenario to happen, he felt his heart sink in his chest.

Reaper’s true name was Min Jaeha, a fearsome warrior in the arena who’d gained such a title because of the massive scythe he fought with. He was the same senior who had first taught Yunho how to wield a spear, the man who had snuck leftover scraps to him when Yunho lost a match and had gotten beaten up for it, the same person who had guided Yunho for the early parts of his life.

Yunho closed his eyes against the memories before they could change his deadset mind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here we have your most anticipated match of the year! The fight to the death between our undisputed champion, Reaper, and our undefeated legend, Titan!”

Jaeha simply looked at Yunho’s eyes with sadness.

Both of them understood. Yunho could see his own despair and hopelessness reflected in Jaeha’s eyes, from the way his senior’s fingers tightened around his scythe painfully tight. Neither wanted to fight the other, but they didn’t have a choice.

Yunho hated his fate with a burning passion.

“Fighters, get ready!” The announcer screamed, his voice nearly cracking from the excitement. Yunho felt that same familiar feeling of guilt and terror wrap around his heart and lungs once more, except that he was so used to it now, it almost didn’t matter to him anymore.

He lowered his spear into a fighting stance, and Jaeha did the same.

The moment the official announced the beginning of the match, Yunho lunged forward with his spear, attempting to catch Jaeha off guard. The older man spun, knocking the tip of the spear to the side and swinging the scythe about, the razor sharp blade whistling dangerously close to his head. He could see a few locks of his brown hair flutter to the ground.

Yunho dove to the ground just in time to avoid getting beheaded, jabbing his spear at Jaeha’s legs. His senior was more fast, more skilled, a better fighter than he was, not someone he could beat at his current standard.

Almost crippling fear crept over him, but he forced it down violently, leveling his spear at Jaeha without hesitation.

How could he win this match?

The other gladiator leaped above the weapon, bringing the scythe down on Yunho’s head. He managed to roll away, glancing around him for anything that could help him. First blood had yet to be drawn, but if he kept up this offensive stance for much longer, he’d have his head separated from his shoulders before it happened.

The second time Jaeha swung at him, he ducked and ran for the opposite side of the stadium.

The crowd booed and screamed at his cowardice, some tossing rotten tomatoes and eggs, but Yunho ignored them all. He could hear Jaeha’s footsteps behind him, thundering against the sand of the arena floor, and he glimpsed his goal, one of the armed statues used to decorate the circumference of the stadium.

Yunho sprinted for it as hard as he could.

He didn’t know whether it was luck or simply primal survival instinct, but there was a sudden violent tugging in his chest and he moved with it, throwing himself to the side as hard as he could.

And not a second too late, because the massive scythe barely missed his head. Yunho could see the entire blade appearing right next to his head, the cruel glint of steel reflected his eyes that were filled with silent terror, and suddenly something warm gushed from his shoulder.

He had almost died there and then.

Pain exploded at the wound and his feet stumbled, he crashed into the ground and rolled to a stop before the statue. It was holding a spear too, he realised, through the hazy tint of red in his eyes. Then he realised blood was soaking through the sand, turning it black, and he could feel himself starting to get light headed at the blood loss.

Agony ran down his arm and he gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing himself to his knees. The limb was badly injured, the spear he had been holding lay in the sand a few feet from him. He was weaponless and completely vulnerable.

The world swayed around him and he could see Jaeha approaching him with that massive scythe slung over his shoulder, his mouth pressed into a grim line. The man came to a stop between him and the statue.

For a moment, the name Reaper couldn’t have been more accurate.

“End him! End him! End him!” He could hear the entire arena roaring for blood, the air was thick with the sound of their maniacal excitement, and for a moment, he truly felt like giving up. How could he survive, against all these odds?

“You need to always come back to me, Brother. Promise me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Yunho.” Jaeha murmured softly under his breath, so that only Yunho could hear him. His apology was sincere, genuine and true and Yunho’s determination shattered into pieces. “But I have my younger sister to take care of.”

Yunho bowed his head. He understood only too well.

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” The spectators screamed, but in that moment, it was as if everyone else had disappeared, their voices fading into the background. There were only two of them in that entire arena.

Jaeha closed his eyes, unwilling to witness Yunho’s death, and lifted the scythe.

And in moment, Yunho lunged forward, ramming his shoulder into Jaeha’s stomach.

The older man got thrown backwards by the sheer force of Yunho’s strength, right against the statue from earlier. His body jerked as he crashed into the stone, before he stopped, unmoving, hanging limp. The scythe slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground, the massive weapon as still as its master.

There was complete silence in the arena as Yunho staggered to his knees, crumpling to the side in sheer exhaustion.

And then the audience was screaming for Jaeha to move, to get up and finish Yunho, but he was the only one who could see the red running from the corner of Jaeha’s mouth.

The Reaper was dead.

The tip of spear the statue had been holding had run his senior through from the back, shattering his ribs, puncturing his lung and destroying his heart.

“I’m sorry, Jaeha-hyung.” Yunho rasped as the match official ran up to them to inspect his opponent. The official froze in shock as he saw what happened, his fingers coming away sticky with Jaeha’s blood. Then he turned around to announce the results of the match.

“The Titan is once again victorious!”

The audience, who seconds ago had been screaming for his death, burst into applause, calling his name and hollering praises.

Bile rose in his throat and he forced it down, glancing once more at the corpse of his senior, dead by his hands.

“I promised.”

And then he passed out.

When he came to once again, he was shocked to find he was no longer in his usual cell with Gunho. For a moment, panic rose in him as he whirled around in alarm, searching for any clue where he might be. Then he realised that he was shirtless, not dressed in the rags that he usually wore, clean bandages wrapped around his shoulder and side. From the sharp smell of marigold at the wounds, he had been treated. Properly treated, in fact, and suspicion stirred in him.

His damn owner wouldn’t have given a shit if he died.

He was on a straw mattress, kept miles better than the one Gunho slept on, in an empty room which he assumed was an infirmary. The air here was clean and didn’t smell of misery and defecation, but before he could ponder why exactly he was here, the door opened.

“Ahh, you’re awake.”

A man stepped in, dressed in a crisp suit with a gold topped walking stick in hand. From the make of his suit and the way with which he carried himself, this man was a rich business owner. Yunho’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you want with me?”

The man sat opposite him, shaking his head. “Is that anyway to speak to your redeemer?”

Redeemer?

The word echoed in Yunho’s head over and over again, bouncing about in his skull as he took in the severity of the word. Redeemer? As in, a man who had bought his freedom from his owner? The person who’d made him a free man?

“I saw your match yesterday. Very clever strategy, if I say so.” The man smiled a little faintly and Yunho’s heart sank as he remembered the events of what had happened. “I used to support him greatly for his prowess and I was intending to buy him yesterday… until you stepped in.”

Crushing guilt swept through him, but he couldn’t let his emotions show in front of this man.

“I apologise, sir.”

“The one you should be apologising to is already dead, so I suppose that there’s no point in your apology. I will take care of his sick sister, however. That is the most I can do for him.” The man rose to his feet once more, turning to leave the room. “Anyway, Titan, you are a free man now, so you may go as you please.”

There was a click as the door shut behind him.

Excitement overpowered every other emotion in him as the words sank in. He could go as he wished, leave this wretched, desolate place of pain and suffering, finally see the world out there with his own two eyes. He was his own man, the chains of his slavery had finally been broken, and he was free.

But then he paused.

Gunho.

How could he leave Gunho behind?

Dashing from the room, he realised that he was in the business side of the arena. He ran down the halls to the wing where the other gladiators were kept, the same thought echoing in his head over and over again as his feet slapped against the glossy marble floors.

I can’t leave Gunho behind.

Then his toes felt rough dirt once more as he entered the gladiators’ quarters, the guard at the front a man he recognised by face and had spoken to on occasion. The man smiled at him. “Congratulations, I heard you got freed-”

“I need to see my brother.” Yunho gasped desperately from his unexpected exertion, he could feel a sting from his shoulder and wondered for a moment if he had reopened his wound, but he couldn’t be bothered with it right now. The guard’s face faltered a little, his grip on his spear shifting.

“You know the drill, I can’t let anyone who isn’t the boss or a gladiator into this section…” He trailed off uncertainly, but Yunho immediately sank to his knees, ignoring the way his side twisted in pain, pressing his forehead against the ground.

“I’m begging you. Please let me see my brother.”

The guard glanced around a little desperately, clearly torn between wanting to let Yunho in but afraid of what consequences he might suffer if he was discovered. Then he quickly pushed open the gate, ushering Yunho inside the gladiators’ quarters urgently.

“Tell no one about this.” The guard whispered and Yunho slipped in gratefully, bowing to the guard as the gate shut behind him.

“Thank you.”

The guard waved him off and returned to face the outside.

He walked briskly down the hallway, the same as he had always done after finishing a match. And yet this time it was different, because he was a free man.

Or was he?

He stopped outside the cell his brother was in, fingers at the bars as he searched for Gunho.

“Brother.” Gunho smiled at the sight of his older brother, stepping to the gate. Yunho’s fingers reached for Gunho’s desperately through the bars, their fingers intertwined and Gunho squeezed tight, tears falling from his eyes. “I’m glad you made it.”

“I promised.” Yunho’s voice cracked and suddenly everything hit him all at once like a tidal wave. He’d killed Jaeha, his mentor and senior, the man who’d taken care of him much like he took care of Gunho. Fat tears fell unbidden from his eyes, and he momentarily closed his eyes to fight off the pain welling up in his heart.

Gods, it hurt so much.

Warm, thin arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. Even through the bars, Gunho still comforted him, pressing their foreheads together as Yunho sobbed against him, guilt clawing at his insides.

“It was you or him, hyung. You can’t blame yourself.” Gunho pat his older brother on the head soothingly, trying to comfort him. “I’m happy you were the one who made it.”

Yunho merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Then he felt his brother smile against his cheek.

“I heard you got freed. Congratulations, hyung.”

Yunho could hear the pride in his voice, the happiness at his brotehr’s success, but sensed the underlying sorrow running beneath. If he left, they would be separated, and Yunho wouldn’t be able to take care of Gunho like he was supposed to.

Gunho would be utterly alone in this place.

Yunho made up his mind.

“I’m not leaving.” Yunho said firmly, shaking his head. “I’m going to stay here with you.”

“What?” Gunho’s face flashed with fury for a second and he yanked himself away from Yunho, fuming with anger. Yunho flinched as if he’d been slapped across the face. Gunho had never shouted at him before, no matter how angry he was or whatever argument they had been in. “Don’t be stupid, hyung! You’re free, so go into the world like you’ve wanted to your whole life! Don’t let me drag you down!”

Yunho hated how much he just wanted to agree with Gunho. He yearned to be free, to leave this prison, to be a free man able to make his own choices. But how could Gunho possibly ask him to abandon him here?

“I can’t, Gunho.” Yunho beseeched his brother, hoping he’d understand. “I can’t leave you. You can’t expect me to walk off into the sunset while you’re still trapped here being forced to kill people everyday, and enjoy my life out there while you’re suffering!”

“Then go out into the world, make enough money to buy my freedom and come back to me.” Gunho told him forcibly, unrelenting in his words. “I’ll be waiting for you, hyung.”

Yunho paused for a moment. True, it would be a lot smarter if he simply left this hopeless place and made a fortune for himself in the world outside to buy Gunho’s freedom. That way, the two of them would be free.

But Gunho. Gunho would be alone.

“Go.” Gunho insisted, seeing the way his older brother’s resolve was weakening. “Please save me from this place. You can only do that from the outside.”

Yunho’s determination was crumbling brick by brick. “But-”

“I want to see the world too.” Gunho pleaded, grasping his brother’s hand through the bars. “Don’t condemn us to this place.”

And finally, Yunho nodded slowly.

“Alright.” There was cold fear bubbling slowly in him, fingers clutching at his younger brother’s like it was the last time he would ever get to do so. “You’ll be here when I return, won’t you?”

Gunho nodded, a single tear slipping from his eye. “I promise. I’ll be here. So go.”

With that, Gunho released his hand. Yunho’s arm fell limply to the side as he took in his brother’s face for the last time, brown eyes a shade lighter than his that always burned so bright with love and passion, the way his cheeks rose just like his when he smiled, the one silver ring in his hair that signified his first victory.

“I’ll see you soon, Gunho.” Yunho whispered, the vow leaving his lips. Gunho smiled at him.

“See you, brother.”

Yunho tore himself away from the face of his brother, forcing himself to move towards the door, each step taking him further and further from his brother.

Walking down the hallway felt strange. His steps were the same as they had always been, the dirt underfoot familiar, the spider in the corner in the ceiling was still there. And yet they were not the same, because they were his last over each patch of dirt, each corner. Already, he was bidding farewell to this place, the only home he had known his whole life.

The closer he drew to the gate, the more of it lay behind him, left behind in face of his freedom.

“I will return.” He spoke quietly, and continued saying it to himself as the gate opened before him without letting himself look back once. “I will.”

He stepped out into the light, feeling the rays touch his face, the warmth so sweet because of the freedom he now had.

“I promise I’ll save you from this place, Gunho.”

He didn’t know it would be the first promise to his brother that he had ever broken.

[sailorshadzter]

What if Jon gets struck by Ramsay's arrows in the leg, shoulder, and side during their one-on-one combat but it didn't bother him because his adrenaline is on an all time high. He pummels the Bastard of Bolton, as he should, and everyone is in awe, but then he sees Sansa. He gets up, his eyes get a blinding vision, he blacks out, he collapses. You know the rest 🥰🥰🥰

thanks for the request!!

i used it as an excuse to rewrite the forehead kiss scene because it just FELT RIGHT. 

anyways, i hope you enjoy!

send me prompts

He doesn't feel the first arrow pierce his right thigh.

He doesn't feel the second one either, when it pierces him through the left shoulder.

He doesn't even feel the third arrow as it embeds itself into his left side.

A moment later, his fist connects with Ramsay's cheek and now that he feels. Over and over again, he punches the monster that had taken his home, his baby brother, and his sister's light until he's just barely breathing beneath him. Ramsay bleeds from a split lip, a broken nose, every inch of his face swelling from the dozen or so punches Jon manages to land before his attention is taken elsewhere.

It's as he draws back for another hit that he catches sight of her; she's pale and drawn, red hair just barely contained in its single braid that hangs over her shoulder. Her sapphire eyes are wide as their gazes meet and her name is a whisper on his lips... Sansa... His lips move, but he cannot find his voice. And so he stumbles to his feet, staggering forward two steps before the first wave of pain rushes through him. "Jon!" He hears her voice a moment before her hands are on his shoulders, warm and strong, her grip steadying him. "Jon..." Softer this time and he can see the tears clinging to her lashes, can feel her grip tighten as he sinks towards the ground, darkness consuming him before he can say a single word.

She knows he's going down a moment before he begins to fall.

Though she holds fast to him, he is heavy, limbs like lead as he falls unconcious, and all she can do is ease him down to the frozen ground. "Take him in chains!" She commands the nearest men dressed in Stark and Mormont livery and at once they spring into action, rushing forward to slap irons on the fallen Bolton, who lays there bloodied beyond recognition in the snow. "Jon..." She whispers then, peering down at his bruised, bloody face, knowing she would never be able to repay what he's done for her this day.

"Let me help, little lady."

It's Tormund standing at her side then and she looks up into his eyes for a long moment before she finally nods. Edd appears next and he and Tormund stoop down and with Sansa's hands guiding them up, they support Jon between the two of them. "Take him upstairs, to the Lord's chambers." She says softly and they both nod, before beginning the slow walk into Winterfell, Sansa trailing just behind them.

She stops for only a moment, suddenly feeling anxious as she recalls the last time she'd been inside her home. But then she thinks of Jon and knows she cannot feel fear, not right now, not when he needs her so much more. And so she crosses the threshold and steps inside Winterfell, speaking only to direct Tormund and Edd down another hall and up a single flight of steps that lead up to the corridor where the Lord's chambers are. It's been years since she walked these halls, walked down to these rooms. Back then... With Ramsay... He had kept her in another wing, far from where anybody might hear her screams. These rooms that once belonged to her mother and father... She's not stepped foot inside of them since they once resided within.

But now, she throws open the door so Tormund and Edd can enter, gesturing for them to place Jon upon the neatly made bed. "Send someone with water and linen. Bring me wine from the kitchens," she says to Edd who nods and slips from the room without another word. "Find Agatha, ask her for a needle and thread," she tells Tormund, the oldest living maid in the palace had always been kind to her, even when commanded by Ramsay and Sansa knows she will help. Tormund hesitates only for a moment, long enough to spare his comrade a quick glance, but then he too is gone.

As she sinks into a chair at his bedside, Jon softly groans as he claws his way back into the waking world. "Soft, Jon. You're safe," she murmurs softly, reaching out a hand to brush a sweat drenched curl from his forehead. To her surprise, his hand shoots up and takes hold of hers, his dark eyes opening to look up into hers. His mouth moves as he tries to speak, but she shakes her head, shushing him quietly. "Save your strength." She whispers as she leans over him, brushing a gentle kiss to his temple.

She's like a dream come to life; she's beautiful there at his bedside, her blue eyes dark and damp with worry. He hates that she's crying for him, he doesn't deserve her tears. "Sansa... I..." He only wants to tell her he's sorry, he only wants her to know how badly he hurts knowing Rickon is lost to them. But she shakes her head, pressing a single finger against his mouth. It's as if his words are too painful for her to hear him say. In truth, they're too painful for him to say.

"Tomorrow," is all she says and Jon nods, because at least they have tomorrow still.

[ x x x ]

When he wakes up, it's to sunlight spilling in through the window.

His body is tight, aching, bandages wrapped around his limbs and ribs, though the pain reminds him that he's alive. He glances around the room, wondering for only a moment where he is; it's been years since he's been in these rooms, but he knows them to be the Lord's chambers. It's the room where his father and Lady Stark had once stayed. Back when they had been children, he and Robb would sneak into the room to steal swigs of ale from their father's jug. The room is the same and yet, entirely different. Jon knows the papers that litter the desk against the eastern wall are not addressed to Lord Stark, but to Lord Bolton. He knows that the clothes hanging on pegs on the other wall do not belong to his father, but to Ramsay Bolton.

For a moment, he contemplates destroying the room, starting with tossing the clothing into the hearth, but he stops only when he hears Ghost's soft whimper from the side of the bed. He's been so preoccupied by his surroundings, his direwolf has gone noticed where he sleeps on the floor beside the bed. "Good boy, Ghost..." Jon says softly as he leans over the bed to pat the wolf on the head, surprised to find that Ghost doesn't lay there alone.

With a thin sheet draped over her body, Sansa snores softly on the floor beside the bed, her head resting comfortably against Ghost's shaggy fur. Jon realizes a moment later that she's been there all night. A smile tugs on his lips and he swings his legs over the bed only to sink down to where she lays, tenderly stroking her hair as he softly calls her name. "You shouldn't be moving," she admonishes in a sleepy tone, breathin in as she rolls her face up to face his. Her eyes are tired and her cheeks are pale, but her rosy lips curve with a small smile at the sight of his face.

"And you shouldn't sleep on the floor," he quips back and he's elated to hear her laugh. He stands upright then and extends out a hand for her to take, which she does, and he helps her back onto her feet. For a moment, they stand there in silence, dozens of thoughts rushing through their minds. "Sansa, I..." He begins and she looks down at her feet, as if already knows what he's going to say. "Thank you," he goes on to say and her head snaps back up, surprise etched into her features. "You saved me... You saved all of us." She blushes and looks away, focusing her eyes instead upon Ghost, who's now stretching on the rug before the dying fire. "But Rickon..." Her face hardens and she shakes her head, closing her eyes against the tears that threaten to spill.

"There was no saving him." Sansa whispers when she opens her eyes, staring into his dark Stark colored ones that remind her so much of her father, of Arya, that it nearly takes her breath away. "It's just us now." Her words are sharp, hollow, and they break his heart. But she's right. Arya is missing, as is Bran, and in a world like theirs... They are most likely dead, though neither one of them wish to admit it. Robb and Rickon were already gone and that left she and Jon as the last remaining Stark's. "The last of the Stark's."

"I'm not a Stark." He says at once, but her face contorts with anger and she shakes that magnificent red head.

"You are to me." She replies forcefully, her tone daring him to disagree.

Jon can't stop the relief that rushes through him at her words, the feeling of acceptance stronger than it has ever felt between them. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." Jon finally says the only words that make any sense at all. She smiles then and nods, their father's words an echo all around them. For a moment, it was as if Ned Stark was there, guiding them on to whatever it was that would come next. There are no more words that he can say and so he cups her face into his palm and draws her closer. The space between them minimal at best, he presses his lips against her forehead, lingering far longer than he might have done only a few weeks before. When he draws back, her cheeks are flushed and his feel just as warm.

They might be alone in this world, but at least they had each other.

[gothika666faerie]

Where His Happiness Was (Bertrand x Savannah)

           There were two distinct sensations Bertrand felt that roused him from the best sleep he had gotten for the longest time now. Ever since the estate went into ruination, every bedtime was a constant tumult of tossing and turning. For the past two nights however, respite came without resistance of complaint. Just as he had when he came falling into her arms. The first sensation was the brushing, a shy yet persistent caress of her fingers through his thick black hair as he lay, content like a kitten snuggled on a cushion, in her breasts. The second sensation was far less pleasant. It was the continuous, almost desperate vibration on the nightstand. He had texted Maxwell the moment he reached Savannah’s doorstep that he didn’t want to be disturbed until all was fully settled. His little brother, though on the frivolous and sometimes, moronic side, thankfully took the hint and focused his attentions on keeping Lady Emilee safe and on the right path in Shanghai. Until now, that is.

           Groaning, he groped blindly for the offending gadget and checked. Yup. Worst fear confirmed: it was Maxwell. Then again, it could have been Drake. He sent a little prayer of gratitude that, to avoid tracking, he never divulged his contacts to the man who still wanted to snap his neck for defiling his little sister. More times than I could count too. Smirking at the memory of Savannah clinging to him tightly as they made good use of her kitchen counter the night before, he pressed “Answer” and pulled himself up to recline against the headboard, rubbing his knuckles against his still awakening eyes.

           “Hello…?”

           “There you are!! I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour now! Oh wait,” There was that sheepish tinge in his little brother’s voice that Bertrand had to admit he missed. “I may have forgotten we’re six hours ahead here in NYC. Oops…”

           “Well, you still called at 8am, my time, brother…I hope it is important,” He managed out in his usual sternness though his gaze drifted down to the naked, curvaceous frame under the blankets longingly. If this was a false lead or Maxwell just wanting permission to get another dozen peacocks, he was going to hang up and spoon the woman he loved. Preferably with his phone switched off and flung in some forgotten corner of the bedroom.

           “Oh, Bertrand, you have no idea! I managed to get a lead on Tariq. He’s totally in NYC! I called some of those expensive, renowned fashion stores he frequents and well, after some patented Maxwell Beaumont persuasion, they were more than happy to tell me his latest purchases and whereabouts.” This was new. Bertrand listened now, more alert and at attention. Savannah stirred next to him and he soothed her with one hand, running his fingers through her brown locks and brushing his knuckles against her smooth cheek as he hissed as quietly as he could into the phone.

           “We’ll need to narrow down the search. There are far too many stores as it is, aren’t there?”

           “Er yeah…that’s the bad news. I managed to narrow as far as I go but, it still adds up to 10.” He halted his caresses to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose. He should be more grateful and perhaps proud that Maxwell was taking initiative but, this was still putting them at a disadvantage. The Parisian paradise needed to come to an end eventually. He turns once more to regard the slumbering damsel who stole his heart the day he met her as she rolls onto her side, facing him, eyes closed, eyelashes brushing her cheeks and her lips slightly parted. Her chocolate brown hair melting over the white sheets and complementing her olive skin. The world unfortunately doesn’t stop after one rediscovers true love and happiness. The estate was still in intermittent danger, Lady Emilee still needed her name cleared and to become Queen. It could have been easier. We could have had a happy life, Savannah. I can’t give you that. Not now. Maybe, oh God, maybe never.

           “Bertrand? Hello? Are you still there? You didn’t break up on me, did you?” Maxwell’s voice was reaching a panicky fever pitch and he snapped out of his reverie to reply.

           “Huh? Oh yes, hello. Yes. I heard you. I…I suppose I’ll need to come to NYC and aid you two in the investigation. Lord knows how you two survived without me.” He had to throw out that biting remark. It was expected of him now. Ever since all went to shit for him; the bankruptcy and the disappearance of the woman he loved, Bertrand changed for the worse. He shut himself up in Ramsford, his childhood home that was in danger of being foreclosed. The parties stopped. The warmth of the study had died off and faded away into the winds. The Cordonian Rubies seemed to acquire even more of an acerbic hit. His face hardened into iron and he erected brick walls around his heart. It became so that he forgot what it was like to be nice, to be warm and to be affectionate with his little brother. Or anyone for that matter.

           Then, when he knocked the door to her apartment and she opened it. She, with her face still leaving him as breathless as it did when he saw it at the first party she attended, standing shocked and carrying the baby in her one arm. His baby. His son. Little Bartie who blinked up his eyes, his eyes, up this strange man who was more familiar than he will know and then gave a questioning “Goo?” Bertrand could only respond in the one way. He had stepped in and wrapped his arms around them both. There were tears, waterfalls of them as she clutched tightly to him, whispering how she had never entertained the thought of him finding her though she pined from dawn till dusk for him. He could not find words then. He could only rest his forehead against hers, shuddering that she was right here. She was safe and alone. Waiting for him. Bartie could, with all the innocence of a growing baby, look at them with his big puzzled eyes. Seeing however that Mommy liked the presence of this strange man, he reached out a chubby hand to him. Bertrand looked up as he felt those small, stumpy fingers curling into his sweater vest.

           “This is…”

           “Yes, this is your son,” She pulled away, wiping at her eyes delicately with her fingertips before readjusting Bartie in her arms and cooing. “Bartie, this is Daddy. Say Daddy.”

           The baby screwed up his face in that moment into a sceptical frown and Bertrand had to laugh. Yes, this was his son alright. Sometimes, in life changing situations, you needed to see the positive side of it all. He leaned in then, seeing how Bartie had his grey eyes and the tendency to sneer, not to mention a difficulty to trust just anyone. He cautiously put a hand out to stroke the little boy’s head.

           “Hi, Bartie…yes, it’s…it’s Daddy.”

           “Da…da,” Bartie attempted, stretching the syllables and never breaking eye contact with Bertrand. His chubby hand went up again and seized hold of the its desired target. His father’s nose. And Bertrand had to laugh a second time, placing his own hand on the baby’s adamant fist. He was a strong one, this boy. An unpredicted swell of warm pride blossomed deep in his chest. A bubble of chuckles erupted from the cherub too and he proceeded to pull.

           “Hey, hey now…alright, now you’re just hurting Daddy. Bartie, no…stop it…” Savannah had tried to pry off the little rascal’s fingers. Bartie was just chuckling away and Bertrand never envisioned himself to be in such a situation. Have his firstborn pull on his nose and the woman he loved (still loves, god damn him and everything) try to stop the little babe. Eventually, the nose was extricated much to Bartie’s dismay and Savannah formally invited him in. They centred their son as Bertrand did need to know more about him. She listed out all he loved, his dislikes and pet peeves and Bartie was discovered to be an inquisitive, relatively well behaved young boy. His only little bit of nuisance was a tendency to get grabby with things not permitted to be grabbed and a hefty appetite. However, once his hunger was sated, he fell to sleep rather easily. Bertrand dryly remarked that he probably inherited that from Maxwell and Savannah covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

           The baby asleep, however, after cuddles, carrying and bonding with this strange adult now called “Dada” led the mother and father to need to confront the many trumpeting elephants in the room. They sat on the sofa, having secured Bartie in the nursery with his hippo mobile and did what they should have done long ago. Talk properly, face to face, no distractions and laying all the cards out on the table. She was honest with him, trying not to let her emotions distort her story. How she left because she was heartbroken, fearing he didn’t love her and knowing she wouldn’t get support from the court who have taught her a slag for seducing the Duke of Ramsford, she had to get it from Maxwell. The only man she could trust to help and not judge her for it. Drake would have throttled Bertrand senseless and then ship her off back to America under the care of their too overbearing mother who, after her husband died, would just watch over Savannah and Bartie like a hawk. Paris had been her dream destination for a home and career. Yes, it was expensive, but she was trying to find a job and she had! Recently, she managed. Given her academic results from Belleview Academy in Cordonia, she, after gruelling interviews and writing tests, was about to teach a course on English language to French students and, if she could keep up with that, move on to teaching her majors in French. Once she had gotten her application accepted, she had texted Maxwell immediately to stop wiring money and the gifts. It was high time she got herself back into the real world. She was amid interviewing nannies now for taking care of Bartie and scouring for affordable childcare services. The university did tell her that there was a childcare centre on campus if she wished but it had been a bit pricey and it would entail her living on campus too. The apartment Maxwell helped her find was relatively luxurious and the hassle of moving furniture was just unnecessary. That was her story. She apologized in droves for keeping it from him, but she honestly had felt he didn’t love her or wanted anything to do with her. Hence, she thought to just move on with her life. She couldn’t bear disappointing Drake either, so he was kept in the dark too and she is so incredibly sorry that they fought because of her. She had told him to keep her secret but, her hot-headed brother was not listening to reason that night. Maxwell, Maxwell was just being Maxwell: wanting to help so badly that common sense is sometimes forgotten or brushed aside.

           Having absorbed all this (with the aid of Savannah cracking them a very necessary bottle of red wine), Bertrand in turn unloaded his reasonings for why he told her they could not be together. He hadn’t meant to mean it in the way that he didn’t care for her. Hell, that was as far from the truth as Cordonia from Paris. He had been besotted with her since the day they met. With her half-American ways, her effortless charm, her sometimes bashfulness that put colour in her cheeks and how she held her own among the other noblewomen despite being common born. How her eyes haunted him when he closed his and how he would purposefully be the first to help her up onto a horse at the stables, so he could touch her hand. Yet, how could they have been with their class difference so wide? He strove at first to be cold to her. Ignoring her at his first few parties, not asking her to dance and pushing her onto Maxwell though it hurt him to see her laugh with his younger brother. He was always looking at her though. Following her as she meandered about the room or the gardens of Ramsford. When they were all out with Drake and the now King Liam, his gaze would wander off to see her. See her down shots even better than a man or ride a horse with such panache and skill. He knew he was screwed. The legendary party animal had fallen for the most extraordinary commoner in Cordonia; nothing common about her at all. Then, the ruination happened, and he shut everyone out. No, he would not be pitied. He refused it. She deserved better than a man with empty coffers and only his title to throw around. He should not have that night. He should not have let her soft, tender hands run along his lapels. Nor run into his thick black hair. One kiss and he had been a goner. It was innocuous enough. He found her perusing one of his many books in the studies. What proceeded was a debate on the merits of John Donne and Lord Byron. Love poetry blossomed into gentle teasing and double entendres. This intensified into heated gazes, bitten lips and, most dangerous of all, touching.

           His desk witnessed the fiercest, most impassioned and heartfelt fucking he had ever experienced. How she whimpered out his name, nipping his shoulders. Her thighs slapping against his, her skin sweaty and heated against his. It had been a night that would come unbidden as he lay in bed, his left hand ably assisting him in clinging tight to the memory. He could not look at any other woman, much less fathom marry. Other than the financial aspects (he wasn’t lying when he told Emilee this albeit brusquely), he could not bear the thought of Savannah running off, eloping with another. No. She kept faithful. Single. Alone. Lonely.

           “Were there…other men?” He tried to make it as harmless sounding as possible. Her head snapped up so violently, she could have gotten whiplash.

           “No. None. No one at all. And…you? Other women?” He had solemnly shaken his head, his gaze focused on the crimson liquid swirling in his glass.

           “There was only you.”

           Then there was the silence, and with the silence came tension. She had shifted to move closer and he took in all her features, if not unchanged, were improved with the blessings of birthing a miracle. Her lips fuller, breasts larger, hips rounder and a pervading maturity eradiated from her. This was not the little party girl of long ago. She was a woman. If it weren’t for his stomach giving a rather embarrassing growl, they would have made extremely good use of that sofa Maxwell found on discount at a furniture store. He blushed and held his abdomen.

           “Uh…it’s been a while since I ate and…” She had given him that glorious smile he missed for so long and went straight to the kitchens. In no time, she had whipped up a simple yet delicious meal for two. Seared duck breasts in a resonantly sweet and tangy raspberry sauce. He went the extra mile and set the table for her, lighting candles and pouring more wine before helping her wash up. Something she couldn’t stop teasing him about.

           “I see the Duke of Ramsford doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.”

           “It’s rather an occupational hazard now…the servants left after a while…” She had shut up and once more, apologized but he told her no, there was nothing for her to apologize about. He was doomed to be in the poorhouse if not for Lady Emilee and seeing how Maxwell and she looked at each other, well, they truly were doomed. He couldn’t forgo his little brother’s happiness. He wasn’t that much of a curmudgeon. He’d done horrible things already like leak those bachelor party photos…something Maxwell had readily forgiven him for. He had been desperate, and Maxwell understood. Maxwell always understood. He was a fool, self-indulgent, hardly took things seriously but, his little brother was always there for him and despite everything, he was always there for Bertrand. He couldn’t forsake Maxwell finding love. The thought of his little brother heartbroken, no longer the cheerful spitfire he was. That, that cut deep into him. He knew Maxwell felt unloved, unwanted and nothing but a screw-up because of him. God, he knew nothing about how to feel and interact with people, especially under duress. While he was caving inward and becoming nastier to everyone, Maxwell bloomed like a fucking sunflower. The boy’s charm was infectious and his optimism, annoyingly indestructible. Savannah should have someone more free-spirited, more carefree, more willing to take risks. Not someone so darn old, traditional and uptight.

           She had been twenty-two when they first had each other. Almost twenty-three now and he would be thirty-six. Age-gap relationships were not revolutionary. Yet, Bertrand couldn’t shake off the feeling that while Savannah would be off, scampering with Bartie in a field of lush wildflowers, he would be at the back getting winded, bones creaking and slightly dizzy from the sun. No doubt complaining about the overabundance of insects, pollen and heat.

           But, she loved him. She. Loved. Him.

           They sat down and ate in relish. He complimented her cooking skill. She blushed and sipped the wine he poured. They talked about indifferent matters, having laid their cards bare and reminisced about what was before. They joked, they conversed, they swapped dark secrets (Bertrand once pretended to have a stroke to get out a date. Savannah streaked across the football field on a drunken dare) and to summarize, they had fun. They enjoyed each other’s company. He was supposed to sleep on the sofa. She insisted he stayed.

           He perhaps maybe should not have brushed her hair aside from her face and kissed her forehead. Her skin burned underneath his lips and his grey eyes met her brown eyes in a searing connection. Before long, he was pressing her up against the door to her bedroom, his mouth unable to be apart from hers. It wasn’t till her groping hand finally twisted the doorknob did they go crashing onto the bed and well, the rest was history. He remembers waking up the next morning, his shoulder aching from a bite mark, his back riddled with scratches and his neck raw with love bites. Oh, and that unbelievable satisfied, hot sensation between his thighs too. Savannah was equally euphoric. They could have stayed making love forever but, Bartie awoke and demanded to be the centre of attention. Unable to repress their rather addled and goofy smiles, Bertrand and Savannah started their day.

           That was two days ago. Two days of touring France, trying pastries in patisseries, scaling the Eiffel Tower, snapping too many pictures and carrying Bartie on his shoulders or arms. Kissing Savannah on the cheek or lips without a care in the world. Eating at cafes and sipping champagne. Running through sprinkler fountains and chasing pigeons. Feeding the ducks and teaching Bartie how to quack. Watching the sunset. Getting home and watching a family movie, playing Twister, pretending to be a lion and chasing after Mommy Gazelle and her baby. Bartie laughed and snorted and reaching out his chubby fists. After dinner, diaper changes, bath time and rocking him to sleep, Mommy and Daddy would love each other thoroughly, remember how their bodies and souls fitted one another so impeccably perfect.

           And today was today. He told Maxwell he would get the first flight back to NYC and to see him at the airport after he texted the flight details. Hanging up, he watched as Savannah yawned and fluttered her eyes open, smiling up at him.

           “Bonjour, mon amour,” She purred, reaching a hand over to trail her fingers up his arm, lightly caressing the firm bicep. He smiled, put the phone down and moved over to kiss her deeply. She relented into his embrace and was more than ready for morning play when he pulled away. She arched an eyebrow, confused.

           “I…I need to go to New York. Maxwell got a lead on Tariq and…I need to be there for the investigation,” He doesn’t want to meet her gaze as he gets up to head to the bathroom. Before he can step in, he feels soft, feminine arms wrapped around his waist. The most perfect breasts with her perky nipples pressing into his back relieved any tension from the phone call.

           “I’ll miss you…”

           “I will miss you too…”

           And so here they were. At the Charles de Gaulle airport, waiting for his flight to take off. She is holding Bartie in her arms, facing him, biting her lip. His flight was due soon. They had time. A little bit of time still. He has his arm around her, pressing his face against her hair and cheek.

           “I’m coming back. I promise you…I will come back and we…” He tightens his hold, kissing her cheek. “We will be together. The three of us.” Savannah shifts her head to look up at him, her eyes moist, the dam threatening to burst. Bartie, sensing the negativity in the air, was looking morose himself and playing with Bertrand’s sweater.

           “I... I love you…” It came out in the smallest of stutters, broken by quavers, by the emergence of tears and as quickly as she said it, she looked away until she felt his hands cup her face and make her look at him. His grey eyes, normally so icy, so stern, were now melted through with the warmth and depth of his want, his need for her. His thumbs caress her cheeks, brushing away the rivulets of tears.

           “Je, t’aime, mon amour…” He leans down and kisses her deeply just as the intercom buzzes on, announcing in crisp, clear and direct French that his flight was already for boarding and departure. They refused to part just yet. It wasn’t till the third time the announcement rang that he broke away. He bent and gave Bartie a kiss on the forehead and a squeeze too, inhaling the soft scent of his baby boy. Powder, family and a faint essence of milk and butter. The little boy whimpered and raised a hand.

           “Dada….”

           “Dada has to go, sweetheart,” He whispers, though it kills him. He kisses the fist his boy raises and clutches tightly to his boarding pass. Backing away from them, he looks at the two people he loves the most and needs to abandon right now, but only momentarily. “Au revoir, ma famille.”

           He is on the plane. He looks out the window. He sees Bartie, a tiny white speck, wearing a white shirt, bow tie and suspenders pressed on the glass and waving. Savannah kisses his head and looks up too, her eyes speaking volumes of how much she will miss him. He waves back and keeps staring out the window till he cannot see them anymore. He takes out his phone. Maxwell had texted that he would see him at the airport promptly. He closes the message inbox and goes straight to the gallery.

           With each scroll of his thumb, he saw pictures of them. His family. Smiling, laughing, making goofy faces. Happy. Together. A picture of Savannah holding Bartie in front of the Eiffel Tower. Him sharing a kiss with her on the beach. Bartie messily eating his first macaron. The three of them in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. The person who took it commented what a lovely family they looked. Yes, they were a family. Wet spots fell upon the phone screen and Bertrand wiped the tears away with his sleeve.

           Yes, he will return. He will return, and he will bring them back to Cordonia and they would be happy.

           Au revoir, ma famille. Daddy will be home soon.

@smartlillian @asherella-is-a-dork-3 @feisty-mary @leafnoyes

[solsikkc-blog]

{SOLIS OCCASUM}

The Chocobros show up to save Prompto; but it’s already too late...

WARNING: Character death; heavy angst

          It’s getting harder to tell what day it is, if he’s even breathing right or if it’s just some mindless action that keeps him here, wherever here is. The brightness of his eyes has become shadowed and there’s this sandpaper taste in his mouth. Sure he eats and drinks but it’s not enough and he’s pretty sure he’s starving but that’s not why he’s fading; that isn’t why the life inside him is slowly burning out like a candle at the end of its use. Fingers wiggle slightly against bonds, trying to feel more alive than the boy is. The corners of the room have slowly been fading black the more time goes on and he’s pretty sure he’s going blind, but that’s the least of his problems. 

             His muscles ache but it doesn’t really hurt anymore, just a dull throb that he finds to be a minor annoyance; no the true horror of it all is that there’s less mass for his muscles to hold up. He’s so possibly skinny and he’s sure he’s burning the fat on his own body in some weird subconscious struggle to stay alive. It’s pretty pathetic really, there’s no point in fighting for survival when it’s clear that he’s not going to make it out of this. Sure, at first he wouldn’t stop screaming, fighting each and every awful minute to get free and go back to his friends. Slowly it became clear he couldn’t get out of this on his own so he changed tactics. The blonde had become compliant, taking all his torture in stride and waiting for his friends. Yet days went by and slowly the food and drink was less and there was no sign of his friends. 

                  Hope dwindled, flickering out of existence as Prompto began to believe what he never wanted to; the others had abandoned him. He wasn’t angry...sure that seemed like a much more pleasant option, but how could the young man be mad? There was a world to save and a mission to complete, the truth was that he just simply wasn’t worth the risk. The realization stung and he cried a lot but eventually he grew numb, feeling in his heart dulling till there was almost nothing left. Something gurgled in his throat, making breathing difficult as his mind wandered over the events of his life leading up to this moment. The taste of copper and iron filled his mouth and he spat, grimacing as the red fluid splattered onto the metal floor below, joining the rest of the now stained marks below him. 

                      Prompto was dying and he couldn’t bring himself to even care. Sure, maybe some other time he might have been scared but he was so numb anymore that he could only think about his past. It wasn’t like he didn’t know this was coming anyway; he’d realized death was going to claim him the moment all hope had faded from his mind. There was no rescue coming, they were far away and busy saving the world. He could see them now, bravely fighting against all odds, moving like a single unit instead of three separate people. It was ok, they didn’t need him...had never needed him. The blonde had long ago come to the terms that he was the extra, the spare in Noctis’ little company. 

                          Eyes slipped shut, his body growing cold. It didn’t matter, he couldn’t see anything anymore but the all encompassing darkness slowly creeping in to take him away forever. A brief thought flickered through him that if he’d never helped Pryna and got that letter from Lady Lunafreya he might have lived out his horribly lonely life and never gotten caught; he might have lived a good long life. Suddenly dying didn’t seem so bad; even if it was brief he’d had a good life. He’d met a dog who led him to a girl who led him to a prince and he’d made friends. He’d lived, really actually lived and there was something to be said for that. 

                            “Thank you--” he breathed out, voice rasping into the empty and dark room. It had been a pretty great adventure and in the end he’d do it all again. Yeah, he’d had a good life. The slender body slumped in the confines of the weird metal imprisonment, a smile on chapped and bloody lips as at last all the life left him and Prompto’s soul slipped from his body and away to the gods. 

                             Noctis found him first, an hour later after his body had already gone cold. The prince fell to his knees, breath catching in his throat and sword vanishing from his hand in a sparkle of blue magic. “Fuck--” breathed out Gladio, his hands balling into fists and for a good several minutes none of the trio could say anything. Tears slipped down Nocts cheeks and Ignis put a hand on his shoulder, knowing that the Prince was blaming himself. There was nothing any of them could say to ease the ache of losing their friend. It was as if just that much more light had been stolen from their quickly darkening world. 

                              “He’s...smiling--” Came the soft voice of Ignis, breaking through the anguish slowly building in the room. Everyone paused, turning to regard the body hanging limply from its binding and discovered that yes, indeed, there was a peaceful smile on the blondes lips. “He deserved better” Noctis hissed.

                      And for as long as Ignis and Gladiolus lived they could never disagree. 

[kuriquinn]

Penthesilea [19/20]

Cover & Disclaimer:

Chapter Summary: No one will notice if he disappears after all of this is writ into law. He is, after all, notorious, and even his own people likely want to forget that he exists. Naruto aside, there’s no one among the Senju forces left to see him as anything but a monster.

Chapter Beta: None beyond my own two eyes and at the moment. Since I’m finishing the fic this week, I’d say all edits will be forthcoming within the next few weeks as my beta has time to look through everything.

AN: Welp. We’re nearing the end. One more chapter and possibly an epilogue to go.

Sasuke wakes to the smell of antiseptic in the air and the sound of hushed voices. Somewhere to his left, Naruto’s chakra is calm and familiar, yet a sense of surprise and dismay washes over him.

“You idiot,” he rasps. His voice is raw and gravelly, and it hurts to talk. “You were supposed to kill me.”

“Well, I gave it my level best,” the other man says dryly, “but a certain healer we both know had a more convincing argument. I happen to like my head where it is.”

Sasuke opens his eyes—and he can see again and inclines his head to the left. It hurts more than he likes but he fixes the blond man with a glare. Naruto sits beside him, face covered in bandages but smirking at him nonetheless. It irritates him.

“I was meant to die,” Sasuke slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid child. “If I live, it makes it possible for the war to continue. You’ve allowed sentiment to jeopardise that. I thought you understood.”

“Oh, I understood,” Naruto mutters. “I thought it was stupid, but I understood. Everything with you Uchiha is death and sacrifice and drama…” He waves dismissively. “You got what you wanted—the world saw me kick your ass. And then they saw Sakura show up and save it.”

Sasuke can’t find his voice at this, and can only stare at Naruto in surprise.

“Mm-hmm,” the other man nods. “The people were calling for your death, and she stepped in and said that peace should not be begin with the spilling more blood. That you’ll be tried for your crimes, and an appropriate—and useful—punishment will be found for you.”

Sasuke frowns in thought.

Exile or hard labour, most likely.

He stares up at the ceiling of the large tent overhead; in the distance, he can still hear the sound of rushing water. He thinks they must have set the tent up around him, which means his condition was serious if he couldn’t even be moved. And yet…

It doesn’t escape his notice that a certain individual is conspicuously absent. He wonders if he might have dreamed her presence before he passed out for the last time.

He has to stop himself from asking about her. Instead, he wonders, “Why can I see?”

“While she was healing you, Sakura found out you had the same thing as Itachi,” Naruto tells him. “But she knew what to do this time. And she had Tsunade-baachan and Rin helping. I’m still healing so I wasn’t much help.” He indicates the bandages on his face. “It’s a good thing she did heal you, because she found something in the process. Something about the nerves attached to your Sharingan putting pressure on part of your brain. The part that’s responsible for decision-making and rational thought. So basically, you were batshit crazy, but it wasn’t your fault.” He snorts. “Maybe that’s why you came up with such an extreme plan…oi! Sasuke! Are you listening to me at all?”

“Where is she?” Sasuke returns, finally losing the fight against asking.

Naruto’s open expression turns troubled for an instant, and then he beams. “Well, you can’t really expect her to hang around for something stupid like you, right? I mean, eyes aside, you heal pretty fast. And there’s a lot of legal stuff that needs doing that she’s responsible for now. You know she was made Tsunade-baachan’s heir a few weeks after the conclave disaster.”

“Hn.”

He was aware, but the answer doesn’t satisfy him. There is something false in Naruto’s voice that makes Sasuke’s stomach clench in dismay. He can easily interpret the truth.

Clemency aside, Sakura does not want to be around him more than necessary.

There is movement beyond the tent and then a familiar head pokes in through the flap.

“Well, you two have done it now,” Kakashi says dryly. “You know they’ll be talking about your little spat for generations.” The rest of him enters the tent. “I’m pretty sure they’re writing songs about it as we speak.”

“Hah. Just make sure they mention Sasuke’s bad hair,” Naruto quips.

Sasuke ignores him, gazing upon his former teacher. He isn’t sure how to apologise or bring up what as passed between them, and can only manage a flat, “You’ve survived.”

He doesn’t bother hiding the relief in his tone.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Kakashi responds, surveying him with a critical eye.

Sasuke’s heart clenches again as he recognises the gesture as one Itachi used to perform when he thought he couldn’t see. He has forgotten over the course of the past year just how close Kakashi was to Itachi—and how grateful he once was to have the man as a mentor. He expects to face anger and repudiation for his harsh banishment of the man, but instead Kakashi’s eyes soften a little

“It seems you’re a lot more like your brother than any of us ever imagined,” he tells him quietly. “Just do us a favour and don’t try to pull something like that again?”

“I doubt there will be a need,” Sasuke says, lying back on his pallet.

“Well, about that…There’s some, er, unrest out there,” Kakashi says. “Official peace can’t be declared without the presence of the Senju and the Uchiha leaders. Which would be you, since you didn’t die and, apparently, Obito goes by Nohara now?”

He raises an eyebrow at Sasuke, who manages to remain carefully blank-faced this time. Perhaps taking note of this expression, Naruto tries to draw the older man’s attention. “Who’s officiating?”

“An emissary from the Land of Iron,” Kakashi says, naming a country that has been neutral since the first days of the war generations earlier. “Some samurai named Mifune.”

“Guess that means we have to get pretty-boy here ready,” Naruto snorts.

“He’s not the only one,” Kakashi points out. “The Uzumaki and the Hyūga are expected to be present as well.”

“Aw, shit…”

Naruto’s impending whining is interrupted as the tent flap rustles again, and Sai arrives bearing an armful of robes.

“This was the best we could find you both on short notice,” he says blandly. “Some overbearing Yamanaka woman insisted you not show up covered in each other’s blood.”

He sounds as if he doesn’t know why that would be an issue.

“Sounds like Ino,” Naruto snorts as he reaches for one of Sai’s offerings. “I didn’t know she was back.”

“She and an envoy from the Land of Wind arrived the day before yesterday, as soon as they heard the news,” Sai says. “In fact, many of the people from departed clans and from the surrounding villages have gathered.”

“It’s Sasuke’s fault…he’s been out of it for days. If you’d woken up sooner, we wouldn’t have to make such a big deal of this,” Naruto complains, while Sasuke silently accepts his own bundle of robes. He blinks in surprise when he notices that someone has taken the time to sew the Uchiha kamon onto the back and sleeves of the formalwear.

“Today is an historic event, and everyone wants to see it,” Kakashi points out. “You shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah…though someone’s going to have to help me put this stuff on. The last time I wore montuki I was six…”

Sasuke chooses to struggle into his own, trying to ignore stiff limbs and aching bones. He suspects that he will have to get used to dressing by himself for the rest of his days, and so there is no reason to get used to someone else helping.

Sakura’s lack of presence seems even more pronounced just then, but it’s not as if he can blame her. Their last meeting before his battle with Naruto was poisonous. If she can’t forgive him, what hope does he have of the hundreds – maybe thousands – of people who suffered the ravages of this war because of him and his clan?

For the first time in his life, his feet itch to run fast and far away.

戦国時代

The valley down below the ruined waterfall teems with people. Even standing so far above them all, Sasuke finds himself overwhelmed by emotion. People cheer and cry and hold onto each other – friends and family and former enemies, wearing every colour and crest that he’s seen on the battlefield. He hears celebrations and speeches about dreams for the future and all good things to come.

Another tent has been set up on an outcropping above the valley, at the best vantage point for the people below. It is draped in the colours of the main clans and their vassals, and surrounded by representatives from each. When he and Naruto draw near, the excited murmuring goes quiet. Their eyes fly to the leader of the Uzumaki and there is awe; when their attention falls to Sasuke, it is distrust and wariness. Even the gazes of his own former vassals are cold.

He can’t blame them. If not for his grief-fuelled madness and his relentless pursuit of peace on his own terms, they might have had peace for almost a year. The rest of his clan, with the exception of Obito, might still be alive.

Sasuke clenches his fist, trying to fight down the sudden overwhelming desperation to leave. As he sees it, he has done his duty – he has ceded victory to Naruto and everyone knows it. There will be peace between the remnants of the Uchiha allies and those of the Senju, as well as their vassals. It’s a bright future – the one Itachi wanted – but not one Sasuke intends to be a part of.

No one will notice if he disappears after all of this is writ into law. He is, after all, notorious, and even his own people likely want to forget that he exists. Naruto aside, there’s no one among the Senju forces left to see him as anything but a monster.

Not any more at least.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Naruto says quietly, interrupting his thoughts. ��And that’s not part of the agreement. Even if you’ve still got to go on trial, you’re supposed to get a second chance at a future, too.”

“There’s nothing left to build a future with.”

“I bet you’re wrong about that,” Naruto smirks. “And I can prove it.”

Sasuke frowns. “Whatever you think you know is wrong.”

“Oh yeah? So, there’s no one alive who you wouldn’t consider staying for?”

Sakura’s face flashes to the forefront of his mind, first the softly-smiling image he always carries close to his heart, and then the one of utter devastation that haunts his nightmares.

Chains from a failed past, he thinks grimly.

“Listen, just do me a favour,” Naruto continues. “Stick around at bit after all of this. Once we sign the treaty, there’s something you need to see. And if after that still decide it’s not enough to stay here, I’ll let you go without a fight.”

Sasuke narrows his eyes, wary, but he nods incrementally. Naruto lets out a triumphant hah, claps him on the back, and jogs ahead.

“No sense of decorum, that one,” Kakashi says appearing beside Sasuke in his usual unexpected fashion. “But he’s got a point.”

Sasuke side-eyes him, taking note of the way the man’s eyes glint in amusement. Not just at Naruto’s antics, it would seem.

“You know what he wants me to see,” he realises.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No.”

“You’re maddeningly unhelpful.”

“You deserve to stew for a bit.”

He can’t argue with that.

They cross the rest of the distance to the festive tent, where more and more of the clan representatives gather. Far down below, the crowds of people continue to swell, spreading across the fields of battle that have been littered with the dead and dying since the days of Madara and Hashirama.

“The Valley of the End,” Kakashi reminds him.

“An apt name.”

“It’s like I said. People are already turning you into legends. Are you sure you two didn’t plan this?”

Sasuke sighs and stares up at the sky, counting down the hours until sunset. “This part wasn’t planned.”

The crowd of clan representatives and witnesses part as they come through, and he can see that inside there are several sombre looking individuals. Hyūga Hiashi stands there, with his daughters on either side, and there is a young man – barely old enough to shave – loitering nearby in the colours of the Sarutobi clan. He glares about as if challenging anyone to remark on his presence there. Suigetsu is there as well, dressed in the Hozuki colours, his dead brother’s sword sheathed behind him, while the redheaded Uzumaki woman—Karin, Sasuke supposed—scowls at him across the way.

Sasuke takes up his place beside the Hyūga clan, most of whom glare at him with undisguised dislike, while Naruto stands opposite him. A serious-looking man waves for everyone to quiet down. The vassals and allies of the various clans take their places behind their respective leaders, but Sasuke notices that someone is missing.

“Where is Tsunade?” he asks. The peace cannot happen without agents from both sides.

Naruto looks sheepish. “Yeah, uh…about that…”

And that’s when Sasuke tenses.

He can sense her before she even enters the tent, with that same otherworldly awareness he has always had of her.

“Senju Tsunade has exhausted herself healing this man and is resting,” a familiar, albeit cool, voice says from behind him. “There’s no telling if she will ever wake again. But the fact that her last act was to heal her traditional enemy should tell you where she stands. As it is, before she fell into her sleep, my honourable adopted mother bestowed upon me legal agency. I am to negotiate on her behalf and on behalf of all her vassals.”

Slowly, Sasuke turns to acknowledge the speaker of these words, and when he finally sees her he feels as if he can’t breathe. He has never been one to care overly much about a woman’s looks, even after involving himself with the one facing him. And yet he can’t help be in awe by the sight of her now.

He has never seen Sakura clothed in anything other than her armour or disguised as a common villager. This figure before him is neither the warrior or the healer, but a regal politician. Her pristine white robes bear emblems of the Senju, although the obi she wears has a circle stitched into it – her own clan emblem. Her hair has been pulled back into two twists on the side of her head – not for fashion, he suspects, but to draw attention to the seal on her forehead. Finally, a gold kanzashi sits upon her crown; it’s old, he can tell, and suspects it may have belonged to a distinguished Senju ancestor.

No doubt a reminder to any who might question her status.

“I take it there have been witnesses to this granting of agency?” the samurai from the Land of Iron asks, moustache bristling in annoyance at the change to protocol.

“That’d be me,” Naruto interjects. “And before any old fogies want to bitch about needing Senju blood present for this, Tsunade-baachan and I are cousins, so kinship-wise I’ve got both the Senju and the Uzumaki covered.”

He grins, utterly irreverent and unrepentant in the face of such a serious occasion. Hinata smiles shyly at him, stars in her eyes, but Sakura’s face remains carved of marble as she stares down Mifune.

“I suppose that’s permissible,” he mutters, clearly uncomfortable.

“Then if you’re not opposed, let’s begin,” Sakura says. “The Senju wish is to sue for peace. Are the representatives of the other honoured clans in agreement with this?”

“The Uzumaki stand with the Senju,” Naruto says.

“As do the Hyūga,” Hiashi declares.

Everyone pauses, staring at Sasuke, but he ignores them. He has no intention of speaking until she looks at him, but she barely inclines her head in his direction. Despite her confident bearing and the set of her jaw, he senses apprehension. It’s clear in the way her fists move beneath her voluminous sleeves – as if they are clenching and unclenching.

“Uchiha-sama,” Mifune interrupts, voice tense. “It may simply be formality at this point, but what is the position of the Uchiha clan?”

Sasuke continues to stare at Sakura, silently requiring some sign of her acknowledgement before anything else happens. She must sense this, because slowly her gaze is drawn to his. At first, she focusses her eyes somewhere to the right of his jaw, but gradually, as if drawn by a magnet, they meet his own.

Everything beyond the two of them fades out, and Sasuke’s lungs feel too tight. The bewitching irises that were burned into his soul the first day he met her arrest him, searching him with something that is wary and tentative and hopeful all at the same time.

For a moment, they appear to find what they seek, but in that same instant she looks away, an angry flush of colour in her cheeks.

“Sasuke?” Naruto prompts.

“The Uchiha clan wishes for harmony,” Sasuke says, turning away from Sakura. “It is desired that there be peace in this land, now and into the future.”

It is as if the entire room breathes a collective sigh of relief.

“I will enter into this agreement under the condition of equal respect and trust with the Senju,” he continues. “Much of the onus falls upon those of my blood…and I will accept the consequences of my actions thereof. But the sins of the past cannot be erased either. There must be full penance from both sides before we move forward. To this end, I wish to convey the contrition of myself and my clan concerning the lives lost and pain caused. The slights we have all endured – both real or imagined – have no place in the future.”

Sakura looks back at him now, eyes calculating.

“Before any amends can be made, I would ask the forgiveness of the honourable representative of the Senju,” he concludes, “for any injuries incurred by the actions of my ancestors or myself.”

Naruto’s jaw actually drops, having not expected this. Sasuke is half in agreement, having not intended to say much today. He tries to blame the fact he is still recovering from his injuries, but when Sakura’s eyes suddenly begin to shine with something like hope, he stops trying.

“The Senju accept the apology of the honourable representative of the Uchiha,” she says quietly. “Though no words can expunge the past, we will do all in our power to build the future you speak of – and let old hatreds be buried with our dead.”

They gaze at each other a beat longer, and he feels an element of the same, unnameable force that has connected them all this time.

“Then we will now discuss the terms of this concord into law,” Mifune interrupts with a clearing of his throat. “It is hoped that from this day forward there will no longer be discord between you, but harmony and –”

A high-pitched, screeching wail interrupts Mifune’s words.

Sakura freezes, and her gaze leaves Sasuke’s faster than he can ever remember it doing. As the people gathered search for the noise – a crying child, it appears – and mumble at the inappropriate interruption, Sakura’s face flickers with a desperation he doesn’t understand.

Naruto is also suddenly uneasy.

“Sakura,” he says cautiously, although his eyes flit to Sasuke.

She doesn’t reply, instead bolting from the gathering of peacemakers.

“Senju-sama!” Mifune calls out in protest, but she ignores him, stumbling to the edges of the tent as quickly as her elaborate robes will allow. Sasuke moves to go after her, but Naruto’s hand stops him.

“It’s not what you think,” the blond man says, and is that amusement in his tone?

Sasuke’s head whips back to observe Sakura, who is reaching desperately into the crowd and – apparently – arguing with someone. He has to strain his ears to hear her.

“ – not the time, my lady –”

“ – don’t care if it’s a serious affair,” she snaps, “hand her over, she needs me!”

“ – Sakura-sama, it’s not decorous to –”

“I don’t care about decorum!”

“You can’t just –”

“I’d give her what she wants,” a blond woman standing beside Sai remarks dryly.

“Shizune, if you don’t hand me my daughter in the next thirty seconds, I guarantee you that peace will be the last thing on my mind!” Sakura growls.

Instantly a swaddled, wriggling and crying bundle is laid in her arms, and she holds it tight, making shushing noises and rocking it back and forth. The entire world has fallen away and she appears to be aware of none of it.

Sasuke can relate.

At that exact moment, everything else seems superfluous in the face of the truth he watches unfold before him.

Sakura has a child.

Sasuke’s heart clenches in his chest, and he has trouble breathing, but this time it isn’t due to awe for the woman before him. The last hopes he had of rekindling what they had dies away.

Because it has been a year, and what did he expect? That she would wait for him to come to his senses after he singlehandedly ripped apart every possible path leading to a future they could share with one another? She had people to heal and lead, and at the end of the day, she deserves to be with a man who can make her happy. He has utterly failed in this, and so he can’t even protest the gutting sensation ravaging him now.

She…deserves to be happy, he tells himself.

Long minutes of awkward whispering follow, with Sakura unable to quiet the fussing child. People are exchanging judgemental glances, and Mifune shifts in annoyance. Eventually, Sakura sets her shoulders, and stalks back to re-join the delegation, still cradling the baby. As she ducks into the tent, she bestows an expression of challenge anyone to criticise the sudden addition of crying child to the proceedings.

Sasuke suspects that it is only a general, healthy respect for what her fists can do which keeps anyone from protesting.

When Sakura’s eyes fall on his, something like dismay and apology enters them, confirming his worst fears. Then her demeanour becomes serious again and she strides forward, eyes on him and still bouncing the crying baby.

Her gaze never wavers, and it feels as if she’s using him as an anchor; he wishes she wouldn’t. The closer she gets, the more he must steel himself, refusing to look down at the child. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it or the idea of Sakura’s features blended with some other man. Instead, he does his best to meet her searching gaze without flinching.

Then she smiles a little, bouncing the infant.

“This isn’t exactly the way I imagined today would go,” she admits to him, as if they aren’t standing in the middle of stalled peace talks or being watched by the representatives of clans from both sides. As if these aren’t the first personal words she’s spoken to him in almost a year.

Or that the heart he spent his life pretending didn’t exist isn’t being shaved into a million tiny slivers as the seconds go by.

“The baby is a surprise,” he replies weakly.

She shoots him an urchin’s grin. “I imagine so.”

“Probably not as much a surprise at the other thing,” Naruto pipes up.

Sakura shoots a side glare at him. “Shut up, Naruto, this isn’t the place!”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much choice of that right now,” he grins down at the baby. “She’s got a flare for the dramatic.”

“I suspect she comes by it honestly,” Kakashi remarks from several paces away. His visible features show no surprise, and Sasuke feels a sudden burning anger rising within.

Kakashi knew.

He and Naruto both knew about this, and they said nothing to him. And they had the gall to think he would be happy about it? And Sakura –

Sasuke knows that he has a long way to go in earning her forgiveness – perhaps he even deserves some pain for what he did to her – but this? He has never believed she would be the type to rub his face in his mistakes or remind him of that which he will never obtain.

One year can certainly change a lot, he thinks darkly.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sakura sighs now, apparently unaware of his inner turmoil. “It’s not like everyone won’t figure it out eventually.” 

“In case none of you are aware, we’re in the middle of something important,” Mifune bites out.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Naruto snorts, while Sakura bites her lip and the baby fusses louder.

“Shh, Sarada…sweetheart, don’t fuss now,” Sakura murmurs softly. “I think it’s making your father nervous.”

Sasuke instinctively looks to Naruto, expecting him speak up or joke or confirm his relationship to the child, but the blond man simply continues to laugh and shake his head as if the whole situation is highly entertaining. There is no other man around them that looks concerned for the child in the way a parent might – curious, perhaps, and possibly irritated judging from the expressions of the older delegates – but the father of Sakura’s child does not appear to be in the vicinity.

It makes sense, and his frustration must show on his face, because Sakura suddenly laughs.

“Is something about this funny?” he asks her.

“Sasuke-kun…” she sighs, shaking her head like he’s missing something. Maybe he is, because the familiar way she says his name takes his breath away. He barely notices her moving closer, putting herself and the infant into his personal space. “Would you like to hold your daughter?”

There’s an instantaneous collective intake of breath all around them, as the implication of Sakura’s words sets in. Then, everyone is talking at once – exclamations of disbelief and demands for clarification and Sasuke doesn’t hear any of it beyond the first explosion of his noise, because his own brain has stalled.

“Sasuke-kun, would you like the hold your daughter.”

Daughter.

His daughter.

“It’s not…it’s not possible…” he murmurs faintly, staring at Sakura in a silent, desperate request for explanation.

Sakura purses her lips and raises an eyebrow at him in challenge. And he knows exactly what she would say if they weren’t in such esteemed company.

Because the reality is, they were never careful. He always assumed that she was taking some form of preventative measures – after all, the battlefield is a dangerous place, especially for women. Unwanted advances are common, whether from the enemy or even amorous comrades. While it’s highly unlikely anyone could ever force themselves upon someone as strong as Sakura, it would be irresponsible of a female medic to compromise her usefulness by falling pregnant.

And yet…

Even if she was, there’s always a small chance…

In the background, Mifune tries to demand order, while the various clans and their vassals dissolve into confusion. The Hyūga seem apoplectic with shock and indignation (not Hinata, however).

“Uchiha Sasuke,” Naruto snorts. “The dumbest genius in the land—ow!”

He ducks an elbow from his redheaded cousin, who also seems unsurprised by the proceedings.  

Sakura lifts the fussing infant closer, and this time, Sasuke can’t stop himself from gazing down on her. The minute his eyes meet the baby’s, any infinitesimal shred of doubt vanishes as if it never was.

Because they are completely black.

It’s a distinctly Uchiha trait, possibly related to their dōjutsu, but Uchiha babies never have light eyes – even at birth. In addition to the inky black hair, Sasuke can already see smaller versions of his own features – nose, chin and cheekbones – and the way her face scrunches in displeasure at being held away from her mother. She appears to notice him looking down at her because she stills, and then he finds himself the subject of a direct, appraising look.

His heart stutters at the sight, because that look has been levelled at him before – first by his father, and then by his brother – only this time it’s with eyes identical to his own.

Sasuke doesn’t notice much more than that, however, because it is at this point that he promptly passes out.

つづく

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Thanks for your interest in my work!

クリ

Next Chapter

[valoisfulcanelli]

The Rose - Dramatis Personae (WiP)

This will be an ongoing project, updated as and when I get the necessary screenshots taken, and come up with enough backstory for each character in The Rose. Some of the newer characters will have more backstory (for now) than the older ones, because I need to work harder to sum up the older ones! 

This will be the place to which I link my readers on AO3, for visuals of each person. For now, it will be mainly images with some placeholder text, so please bear with me as I construct it :)

Note: I’m aware that they don’t all have surnames. Some of them (aka: Hornet) don’t need one, as their only name is a nickname. And yes, I’ve not given Gunther his usual surname. It doesn’t really fit for this story, so until I can come up with a new one, he’s stuck as just ‘Gunther’.

THE VAMPIRES

Valois Fulcanelli - The Eigne (Eldest) and leader of The Rose coven, and Elliott’s sire.

Universally acknowledged among his kind as the oldest vampire in existence--thereby meriting the title of ‘Eigne’--Valois has run The Rose coven for three centuries, beginning from its earliest days as a coffee house in the mid-18th Century, through to its present-day incarnation as a nightclub. Nobody really knows how old he is, but from conversation with him, those closest to him know that he has existed for many hundreds of years.

Valois runs his coven--which he insists upon calling a nest--with what its younger members deem to be something of an iron fist. He requires its members to train any fledglings that they sire until they can survive alone, and he strongly suggests that coven members find themselves a mortal pet from whom they can feed at will, as opposed to going out into the community to kill.

In truth, he is a paternal figure, watching out for his family. He has sired very few times in his long existence, and his only remaining fledgling--Elliott--has recently returned to the coven after a 75-year absence.

Arcturus Fenelon - The Eigne’s Lieutenant and second-in-command, and Immanuil’s sire.

It took weeks of gentle persuasion for Arcturus to reluctantly agree to assume the position of Valois’s Lieutenant, after Elliott had vacated it upon leaving the Rose. One of the older vampires in the coven, his dry wit and urbane attitude mask a ruthless protection of those he loves.

Nobody has ever seen Arcturus get angry, because he never needs to. He is one of the rare vampires blessed with Lilith’s Voice: the ability to completely manipulate others--both mortal and vampire--by speech alone. It’s a gift that he takes seriously, never using it but when absolutely necessary, but--to him--it is infinitely preferable to defuse a dangerous situation with words rather than violence.

Paired with Elsanine in a passionate vampire/pet relationship, Arcturus is also one of the few vampires who would rather sleep in a bed than a coffin. Partly because Elsanine is claustrophobic and refuses to share his casket, but mainly because he loves to sleep with his beautiful boy curled around him.

Elliott Lucan

Nobody but Valois knows why Elliott walked out of the Rose 75 years ago, but everyone who was around at the time knows how badly it affected the Eigne to lose not only his trusted Lieutenant but also his beloved fledgling.

Another of the coven’s older inhabitants, Elliott has an abiding love of literature, and--when awake--can often be found with a pen in his hand and a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow as he puzzles over his latest work. Successfully published under a variety of pseudonyms over the years, he never tires of the written word.

He has been paired with his pet Sebastian for almost seven years, and often cites him as his Muse, since Sebastian reawakened his inspiration after a long, dry spell when the words simply abandoned him.

Aleister Magestros

When Elliott left the Rose, Aleister immediately put himself forward for the position of Lieutenant. Slighted by Valois’s refusal, he tried again once the Eigne’s grief had lessened somewhat. When he found that Arcturus had been given the position, Aleister was furious.

Prideful and willful, Aleister is the loose cannon within the coven. Not one to be dictated to at all, he scorns the use of pets to assuage thirst, and Valois has given up on trying to persuade him. Aleister prides himself on his clean and discreet kills, but nonetheless he has come dangerously close in the past to bringing the police right to Valois’s doorstep.

Terpsichore Cavafy

Named for the joy of dancing, Terpsichore is a born performer and nothing if not a bit of a diva. An actor by trade, he fell into disreputable company centuries ago and was turned to the Eternal Night. Everything he does is tinged with drama, and oftentimes he’s more trouble than he’s worth, but he lingers at the Rose nonetheless.

Why? He and Valois had a ~thing going on, long before Gunther came onto the scene. Valois appreciates Terpsichore’s natural grace (and the fact that he’s very adept at flattery) and he enjoys late-night discussions with him about the theatre.

Terpsichore will tolerate old friends calling him “’chore” (pronounced ‘kora’) but call him “Terp” at your peril.

Fuchsia - Head of security at The Rose

Those who look at Fuchsia’s slight frame and love of all things pink often laugh in disbelief when they find out her position at the Rose. Let them try to cause trouble, though, and they’re left sitting on the sidewalk outside the club, nursing a bruised ego and wondering what the hell just happened. Valois trusts her implicitly when it comes to the security of the club, knowing that she can single-handedly deal with just about any problems that crop up.

Fuchsia once had a pet--Emilia--who met with an unfortunate fate, for which Valois feels responsible. Since that time, Fuchsia has shown no interest in finding another, and she is the only vampire in the Rose whom Valois doesn’t lean on to try and partner off with a mortal pet.

Una Morrigan

One of the more playful, fun-loving vampires at The Rose coven. Currently without a pet, she’s grown very fond of Elsanine, and the two of them hang out quite a lot. Arcturus is a little wary of her, but he doesn’t sense any untoward intentions from her regarding Elsanine, so he permits their friendship.  

Immanuil Hevening

Brought to the Eternal Night in the full flush of youth by Arcturus, Immanuil is very much aware of his beauty, and uses it to his advantage. He shuns killing, preferring instead to sip from the Rose’s mortal regulars. Occasionally he can be persuaded to DJ in the club, which usually results in a higher-than-usual turnout of patrons, since his musical tastes are very high-energy and he knows how to work a crowd.

He’s struck up a friendship with Hornet, much to Arcturus’s concern. But, while Immanuil loves and respects his sire, he won’t allow anyone to dictate who he socialises with.  

Hornet

If anyone has ever found out Hornet’s true name, they haven’t lived to tell anyone what it is. He rather enjoys being named after a particularly vicious species of wasp, even though he knows it’s his colouring that has earned him his nickname, and not his temperament.

If there’s mischief to be had, Hornet can usually be found on the periphery of it. It’s not that he’s bad; he just can’t resist having a little fun now and then. Well, his definition of fun, anyway...

The Nameless

You’ll find out about him eventually...

THE MORTALS

Sebastian Carpenter (Elliott’s pet)

Smart as a whip and born in a backwater town where he couldn’t take advantage of that fact, Sebastian pretty much lived his life online. At least on the net he could find others like him, earn money from his programming work, and save up enough money to leave for the city. And then, one evening--as he took advantage of the free food at at open-air art display in the town square--he met Elliott, a tall stranger who listened to him, conversed with him, and took his work seriously when he talked about it.

Starved of this kind of attention and appreciation, Sebastian found himself seeking out Elliott’s company every night. He didn’t even bat an eyelash when Elliott finally admitted what he was (Elliott still recalls Sebastian’s response of “Yeah? Cool!”), but when the townsfolk became suspicious of their guest’s permanently-nocturnal lifestyle, Elliott decided it was time to move on. There was no way that Sebastian wanted to stay behind without him, so he upped-sticks and spent the next six years travelling with him, until they finally arrived at the Rose.

Elsanine Grant (Arcturus’s pet)

Born into a travelling family, by the age of seventeen Elsanine had tired of the itinerant life and wanted to settle down. He found a job in a record store in the city, and a home in a cramped little apartment that he stuffed full of books and his own artwork. A succession of failed relationships followed, until--quite jaded with the whole ‘love’ thing--he met Arcturus one rainy evening after a run for the last bus (which didn’t wait for him). Arcturus walked him home, invited him for dinner the next night (at which point Elsanine found out that he was dinner), and they found a mutual fascination for history, art, and each other.

Gunther Holford (Valois’s pet)

An esteemed academic within his field, Gunther is an antiquarian and professor of archaeology at the city’s university, as well as one of several curators at the local museum. It was while inspecting the museum’s new Egyptian exhibit that he first saw Valois, whose compelling presence entirely eclipsed the beautiful antiquities around him.

Older by some twenty or so years than the average vampire’s pet, Gunther is in a very comfortable relationship with Valois, not only as his pet but also as his submissive, about which he is perfectly open and relaxed. He rarely appears in the club during business hours, but when he does, he’s always by Valois’s side or at his feet.

Morgan Sanderlys

Morgan is one of the few humans that frequent the Rose knowing what it truly is, but isn’t interested in getting the vampires to drink from him.

He’s struck up an odd friendship with Terpsichore, thanks to a shared love of the arts–specifically the stage–but he views the other vampires in the coven with a healthy dose of sass and humour (although he affords Valois the respect that his age–and his ability to kick Morgan out and ensure he comes neither nigh nor by ever again–commands). He’s also friendly with Gunther and Elsanine, and will sometimes accompany them on trips outside the coven, although he side-eyes them a little for the whole ‘pet’ thing.

Terpsichore keeps trying to persuade Morgan to let him take a small sip, but Morgan just grins and teases him mercilessly. One day he’ll probably let Terpsichore do it, just to satisfy his own curiosity, but he’ll never allow himself to be owned like the vampires’ pets are.

[nyxysabyss]

LEVEL HORIZON; YEAR ONE.30 2/3; Contrition & Dolor

Chapter 11!

Love is the strongest emotion any creature can feel except for hate, but hate can’t hurt you. Love, and trust, and friendship, and all the other emotions humans value so much, are the only emotions that can bring pain. Only love can break a heart into so many pieces. ~Amelia Atwater Rhodes

Shouyou Hinata curls tighter in a ball against the wall on the porch when the door opens next to him, the backs of his eyelids pressing harder into his knees. His heart is ticking an unsteady rhythm and his head hurts and his stomach still feels volatile, but he barely notices any of it.

What happened to him?

You did.

Yaku’s accusatory reply had set him back, his mind automatically rebelling. But no matter how crappy his stomach felt, his eyes were sharp as ever… and Kageyama had been totally unresponsive. He’d been placed on a blanket on his side, half curled into a fetal position that could have almost made Shouyou think he was just asleep. But his chest had risen and fallen in short rapid breaths, his skin a sickly grey and covered in a thin sheen of sweat even as all of his muscles spasmed in shivers.

It had been the most unnerving thing, seeing the cobalt eyes cracked open just a touch yet completely unfocused and sightless while his body shook. Even as he’d watched, Akaashi had pulled out a blanket to drop over him while Bokuto had neatly folded his large wings around him. It had hammered it home that Kageyama was wholly and truly unconscious. Kageyama wasn’t usually big on physical touch unless it was at night in the middle of a sleep pile— or if it was from Shouyou himself. The fact that there had been no reaction to being handled and carefully positioned… was terrifying.

You’d best hope he wants to live; it might be the only thing that saves him because your leveler link won’t help you this time. The ‘binding’ property can’t fix leveler inflicted injuries.

Shouyou drags a breath into lungs that are painfully constricted, the air catching on his raw throat. It doesn’t matter how tight he squeezes his eyes shut, he can’t unsee the image of his leveler lying comatose and surrounded by concerned faces, can’t stop the tears from slipping out.

He’s been getting sick after every fight and yet you repeat the process each time.

Had he really been going through this every time they’d argued? He knew Kageyama would lose feathers after these confrontations and would be a little pale and crash out earlier the night following, but… he’d assumed the taller boy was still just livid. Had he really been this blind?

Shouyou’d been angry… but he’d never wanted this. He’d been frustrated with Kageyama’s lack of sympathy and understanding; he’d never intended for this to happen. Shouyou curls even further into himself, his entire being whimpering as his heart squeezes in his chest. He’s pretty sure it’s actually shattered because he can feel nothing but stifling terror and crippling sorrow.

It’s a different feeling than when he’d been determined to give Kageyama up in the immediate wake of his grounding—knowing he’d be banned from the rookery, he’d been prepared to let the other boy go. He’d been ready to forfeit his place at the avian heir’s side and his spot in their unit to see that through. He’d been ready to do whatever it took to keep Kageyama safe and ensure that he had nothing but the best chance to succeed—even if it removed himself from the picture. He’d been ready to lose the person he cared about most even if he hadn’t been able to envision life without him.

Now… there’s a well of anguish that is so much more painful. The knowledge that his leveler’s state is his fault feeds a building self-loathing and the very real fear that Kageyama might die. It’s the last thing he wants. Kageyama had saved him from an infinitely lonely future when he’d walked away from the rookery leadership, had reinforced through action that he’d chosen Shouyou over everyone and everything else.

If he could, he’d take it all back. If it meant Kageyama’d be okay, he’d erase this whole day and start over, just stay home with him, and never even bring up Sheru Bay. All Shouyou wants is to rewind back to this morning when his leveler’s eyes hadn’t been vacant and staring, when they’d struck that easy tempo of ribbing remarks over breakfast, everything normal. He wants to go back to before he’d messed up so badly.

But he can’t take back the words now, can’t change what’s happened.

I haven’t seen many people come back from this level of toxicity.

Shouyou scrunches his hands over his ears as a sob chokes his throat.

Kageyama can’t die. He’s the freaking heir to the Karasuno rookery, for feathers’ sake. He’s the most incredible person Shouyou’s ever met, exceptional at anything he sets his mind to. He can be stubborn and asinine on occasion, but beneath his callous exterior lies a full emotional scope, the depth of which is staggering. Kageyama is capable of great compassion in his own reserved way, just as he’s capable of unyielding violence when something he cares about is threatened. Kageyama had chosen him.

Kageyama, you’re my world.

Shouyou hadn’t lied when he’d said it. His whole existence began and ended with the black-haired setter, all of his thoughts and actions subconsciously revolving around the other boy. When he’d learned they were levelers, he hadn’t thought anything could have made his life better. He’d been wrong. The fact that Kageyama had been content with it as well— perhaps happy even— had put him into an almost permanent state of euphoria.

And now? Kageyama lies unconscious on the other side of the wall behind him and might never wake up. The one perfect person who matters most to him… might die. What had he done?

A gentle hand on his shoulder makes him flinch away, another gasping sob escaping him. He wants to tell whoever it is to leave him alone, but his lungs can’t push the air through his vocal chords and his mouth can’t form the words. Someone who endangers their leveler like this doesn’t deserve sympathy or pity or comfort or whatever that soft touch intends to convey. Someone who could kill their leveler deserves nothing but contempt.

But the hands don’t go away. Instead, someone settles heavily beside him and wraps him in a full embrace, dragging him forward against a warm chest. And for an instant Shouyou is furious.

Kageyama might not survive the night; the person responsible for that should be shunned and punished, not consoled. His breath comes in shaky gasps when he pushes at the arms around him, but their grasp is iron and in a moment, he’s struggling frantically. No one should be kind to him… not ever, not after this.

Don’t do this. Not for me. Not me.

But the arms around him only tighten. And a moment later, a smaller pair circle his gut, a tiny body pressing into his back, and like a dam beneath a swollen lake breaking, he gives. Shouyou goes limp, whimpering sobs wrenching painfully from his chest. His hands fist into the shirt his face is planted into and his mouth forms words without his conscious permission.

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice completely broken under the onslaught of emotion still racking him in waves. “I’m sorry… Sorry.” He repeats.

Again and again he apologizes, the word uttered over and over with desperation, the need to make sure they know he never meant for any of this to happen overpowering. The soft touch of a cheek dropping on his head is coupled with one arm releasing him to rest a hand next to it in a tender action that conveys both love and support, and his chest constricts even more.

“It’s okay, Hinata.” A tiny voice says at his back and he recognizes Yachi.

“It’s not entirely your fault.” Suga’s voice vibrates quietly into his hair and he finally knows whose chest he’s desecrating. Another sob catches in his throat. “You both had equal parts in this.”

“But I’m fine and he’s…”

“He’s suffering, but he’s still alive.” The thrush says softly, not denying that the other boy is in less than perfect condition.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“His body is still working through the effects… but he’s hanging on at the moment.” It’s not the confirmation Shouyou wishes it was.

“I screwed up, Suga. I destroyed everything.” He croaks but it isn’t Suga that answers.

“Hinata… You both said a lot of horrible things, but I don’t think either of you meant even half of them. You can get on each other’s nerves but you guys live for each other. Everything will be okay.” Yachi says softly.

Shouyou can’t quite bring himself to believe her.

~                                                          ~

When Shouyou finally steps back inside as the sun starts dropping in the sky, it’s after most everyone else has gone back out, the nervous tension over the way Kageyama hasn’t woken yet after the massive scene they’d made earlier making them antsy. Whether they bounce a ball around mechanically at the net, or disappear to gather late summer greens for dinner, or blankly work on fletching arrows for hunting, they are all quiet and brooding. The only ones left inside are Daichi and Kiyoko. They barely spare him a glance and Suga squeezes his shoulder softly before retreating back outside.

He probably wouldn’t have set foot in this room even if everywhere else were on fire if it hadn’t been at Noya’s relentless insistence. If it had been left up to him, he’d have stayed out on the porch until his leveler had woken and even then, he’d have remained until Kageyama’d bid him come back inside. Maybe not even then; he felt like he had no right to such an amenity as a ‘home’. But the smaller crow had declared that he should be beside his leveler and refused to let it go, so the redhead had very reluctantly allowed himself to be shuffled back inside. Looking at the pitiful sight Kageyama still makes, he already regrets it.

Yachi’s small hands latch onto his arm and pull him forward.

“How is he doing?” She asks quietly and Kiyoko looks up.

“He hasn’t heaved again for the last hour so we might be through that part… but his pulse is still up and the fever is still going.”

Shouyou doesn’t want to get any closer, doesn’t want to touch his leveler, but the bunting hasn’t released him yet. Yachi takes the rag from Kiyoko and sets it into his hands where he blinks down at it. Kiyoko rises, and Yachi has him take her place beside the unconscious crow, far too close for comfort.

And for the first time since he came in, he looks at Kageyama.

He’s covered from the waist down in a light blanket, and his body has ceased it’s shivering at the moment, but he’s still ashen, his chest rising and falling too quickly. His eyes are still cracked open, but he can’t see their staring pupils this time, just a sliver of unfocused blue. His arm and shoulder muscles look too slack, unnatural in the absence of all tension in them, and his hair sticks to the skin around his face and neck, matted with perspiration.

But it’s his wings that lock up Shouyou’s muscles.

The large and beautiful black wings that drape around him… are wilting. Feathers scattered all across the one close enough that Shouyou could reach out and touch it are curling, their fibers crimping along the shafts. Covert feathers, primaries, secondaries— it doesn’t matter, they are all likewise scorching. Already, a few have dropped, their shaft roots scalded to a crisp. And as his eyes trace their length and the damage, his heart almost stops when he gets to the very last flight feathers.

Those white tipped feathers that stand like an ever-present reminder of everything they’ve been through and what Kageyama endured and sacrificed for him—the choices the setter made… their edges have started to wither as well. The rag slips from his hands.

A shaking hand drifts forward, and he blinks to clear his blurring vision. His digits ghost over the frosted feathers, the ruined edges rough against the pads of his fingers. The sensation is like an echo of how badly he’s screwed up, how he’s failed to respect everything his leveler is and has done for him.

Desperation snakes through him and before he’s realized it, his hands shoot out and fist into Kageyama’s shirt. He lifts his unconscious leveler an inch off the floor, not even noticing the way the other three people around him jar at the movement.

“Tobio!” His voice cracks when the other boy’s head lolls back. “Tobio Kageyama, you fight, you hear me?” He says to the raven-haired setter, but gets no response.

“You need to wake up. I can’t tell you what an idiot you are if you don’t.” He says, shaking him once. “And I can’t tell you how badly I messed up. Fight Kageyama. You have to wake up, because I need you to know I’m sorry.”

By the time he gets it all out, his voice is little more than a whimper and Yachi’s small hands close on his shoulders as he loosens his grip on his leveler, letting him back down onto the floor. He watches almost despondently as Yachi puts the rag back into his hands and slowly guides him through dipping it into the water and gently pressing it over the burning skin on Kageyama’s face and neck. When she’s confident he’s got it down— really, it’s very simple— she places a lingering hand on his arm before she steps out with Kiyoko.

And then it’s just him and Daichi sitting there with the unconscious avian prince, Shouyou periodically rewetting the rag and pressing it to Kageyama’s skin. The former unit leader doesn’t say anything and the redhead is torn between gratitude and scalding discomfort. On one hand, he would really rather his unit leader ream him out, yell, curse, beat the crap out of him—anything—because he more than deserves it… but on the other, his silence is a blessing. Shouyou’s positive that he’s on the verge of getting hysterical and focusing on the rag in his hand right now might be about all he can handle.

His sole desire… is to see Kageyama wake, see his cobalt eyes once more. Shouyou won’t be angry if he wakes and then never wants anything to do with him again; there is something the redhead needs to tell him and he will be content if he gets that chance.

As the light slips away for the day, he remains beside the dark-haired boy, finally curling up beside him with tired, hollow eyes as everyone starts coming inside for the night. Ignoring their searching glances, one of Shouyou’s hands reaches out to splay across Kageyama’s ribs, the rise and fall under his palm and pulse under his fingertips reassuring in their regularity that Kageyama is still alive.

It takes him a long time to get to sleep and everyone around him has gone quiet by the time his eyes start getting heavy; Shouyou’s last thought before he drifts off is that it’s unusually dark, and he realizes that for the first night in eighteen months, he won’t be glowing.

Level Pair ; Chapter 1;  Chapter 10; Chapter 12

A/N:  Another slower chapter: have a Shouyou meltdown moment. This chapter made me despondent for like a day after I finished it. The whole feeling I was shooting for was kind of a numb despair... not sure if I hit that mark, or how I feel about it. Next one is more interesting I promise. :) Have a great night guys!