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minty-mumbles · 3 years

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True Colors

Summary: Monsters are stupid, but they do have excellent color vision, and can recognize patterns almost as well as Hylians. This leads to some misunderstandings.

Or:

Monsters assume that Hylians operate under the same color system as they do.

Content Warning: Not much to note. A few Bokoblins die.

Author's Note: I wrote this to fill this prompt from @linkeduniverse-prompts. It got way out of hand and ended up being about 3k words longer than I expected. I have a cheat sheet about color meanings at the end.

(Read on AO3 Here)

~~~

Greg wasn’t stupid. Well, he had been told plenty of times by his sisters that he was. He was a Red Bokoblin, and Reds weren't known for being very smart. (Not that any kind of Bokoblins were, but that was irrelevant to Greg.)

But personally, he felt he was a lot smarter than many of the others in his clan. Like Jeff.

Jeff was an idiot, even by Bokoblin standards.

It was because he was so intelligent, Greg thought, that he was able to devise a plan to sneak up on this group of travelers. (Truthfully, he wasn't being very sneaky. The group he was tracking was just being particularly unobservant at the moment.)

Greg had seen the perils of attacking first and asking questions later first hand. His brother, Derek, had done so, and picked a fight with the wrong group of travelers. Derek had paid the price for that mistake with his life. And then Derek II did the same... And then Derek III. And then there was Derek IV, who truthfully hadn’t made that poor of a choice in target. It was just plain unfortunate that that Hylian hero had shown up and lit him on fire. (Honestly, maybe his parents should stop naming their kids Derek.)

Not that picking a fight with the wrong Hylians was particularly hard to do for them. Their clan was mostly Reds, the lowliest and weakest of their kind. Only his eldest sisters were lucky enough to be born as Blues. If they went up against any Hylian but the weakest, they were in trouble.

So, yeah. Greg had seen many of his fellow clanmates fall to stupidity. He wasn’t going to be one of them.

At least he hoped so. Jeff might get him killed anyway. Greg didn't know why his sisters always put the two of them together for patrol duty.

Greg crept relatively silently through the bush towards the loudly chattering group of Hylians, letting out only an occasional squeal. Jeff, however, was moving as if he were a Hinox, and he was going to get them caught. Never mind Greg’s brilliant plan of sneaking up on the group of Hylians and seeing what they were up against first.

He turned to Jeff and tried to mime that he should stay here, while Greg got closer to check things out. Unfortunately, it just looked like flailing, with the occasional slap thrown in, and Jeff didn’t seem to understand. Thankfully, he seemed content to stay put. He had gotten distracted by a strange glowing blue ball halfway through Greg’s attempt at communication. Greg really didn't care, as long as Jeff shut up and didn’t move.

Greg crept further forward on his own. When he finally reached the treeline, he hid behind a fallen log, and set about observing the group.

Immediately, his malice-filled veins ran cold.

This was not an ordinary group of travelers.

The intricacies of the Hylians’ marking system were somewhat lost on Monsters as a whole, and although he prided himself on his above-average intelligence, Greg was no exception. The Bokoblin marking system was very straightforward. Those who were Red, like Greg, were the weakest. Then came the Blues, then the Blacks, the Whites, the Silvers, and then the mightiest of all Bokoblins, the Golds. It was quite simple. It telegraphed their ranks and battle prowess nicely, both to other Bokoblins, and to their enemies. Greg thought it was rather thoughtful to give their enemies a heads up on what they were going to be fighting.

Hylians were not in the habit of returning that favor. No Bokoblin had managed to really make heads or tails of their marking system. There were only a few accepted truths that all young Bokoblins are taught.

Brown was the most common coloration, and was pretty much assumed to be similar to Red Bokoblins. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the Browns, except that they were good at running away. A couple Reds could take down a Brown with no trouble.

Then there were the Whites. They were only really found near central Hyrule, near one of the Great Hylian Camps. They were much faster than the Browns and actually seemed to know what they were doing with weapons. They were also very good at sneaking. Greg knew that many camps had been wiped out by White Hylians.

Then there were the Reds. These were possibly the strangest of all the colors. Greg’s sire had told him that they were to be treated, cautiously, as allies. They never attacked Bokoblins without provocation, and they even occasionally teamed up with Bokoblins to take down the Hylians, especially the Whites.

Next up on the Hylian totem pole were the Blues. Personally, Greg thought it was weird that Hylians placed Blue above White, but Hylians as a whole were very strange. Except for a few sightings recently, Blues hadn’t been seen for many, many generations. Their legend persisted though, as they were perhaps the most consistent of all the Hylian colorations. If a Hylian had a bright blue coloring, you could assume that they would have high quality weapons, and would know what to do with them. Browns would even run towards them for protection, or so Greg was told.

They had been known for working together in large groups to bring down entire camps of Bokoblins. Greg had once been told that Bokoblins learned how to band together, and how to find safety in numbers from observing these Hylians.

And then.

And then there were the Greens.

If Blues were legendary, Greens were mythical. Sightings of them were few and very far between, which might have to do with the fact that the Bokoblins who saw them didn’t live to tell the tale. The destruction they wrought was so absolute that even if they hadn’t been seen for hundreds of years, their legend lived on.

(Greg himself had seen one, once. He had only lived because he had run away before the Green had spotted him. He usually tried not to think about it.)

So, yeah. Greg had been expecting a small group of Browns, perhaps some Whites or a Blue thrown in.

That was not what he had gotten.

This was an entire goddamn clan of Greens.

A loud yell from the pair closest to Greg covered up his shocked squeal, as his brain tried to process exactly how much danger he was in.

He could count seven Hylians in front of him, huddled around a campfire. The pair closest to him were wrestling on the ground. Distantly, Greg was reminded of how his sisters wrestled to assert dominance, but these Greens seemed to be much friendlier about it than his sisters were. They weren’t even drawing any blood. The one who currently seemed to be winning wore armor around his shoulder, and a stripe of bright blue around his neck.

That made Greg pause for a moment. Was this a Blue instead of a Green?

But no, the Hylian’s torso was covered in undeniable green.

Similarly, the one pinned under the Blue-Green wore a Red tunic, but under that, a dark Green gave him away. Perhaps the two were some sort of hybrid? The concept of hybrid Bokoblins was foreign. Bokoblins were always one color, but who knew with Hylians.

Most Hylians did not accept Reds into their groups, as they were hostile towards others of their own kind. Maybe that was why Blue-Green was wrestling with Red-Green?

A few yards away, another pair sat on a log watching the pair fight, with a third tending to a fire nearby. The two sitting on the log were the biggest Hylians Greg had seen in this group. If he had to pinpoint any of them as the leaders of this clan, it would be these two. One was covered in armor, which Greg had only seen on the most skilled Hylians, and only in small amounts. The fact that this Hylian was covered in the stuff was intimidating. Greg couldn’t really tell what color this Hylian was, as the armor covered him, but this must be the leader. He was big enough for it, and the one next to him seemed to be showing him a good amount of respect.

The Hylian sitting next to the Leader seemed more like the run-of-the-mill Green. (Not that any Green was run-of-the-mill, but whatever.) The most notable thing about him was the wolf pelt he wore around his shoulders, which did give Greg pause.

His sisters wore the skins of large animals they hunted, as a symbol of their higher status. Neither of them had a wolf pelt, though. Wolves were strong creatures, and best left alone. It could take an entire clan to take down a fully grown wolf, let alone a whole pack. The fact that this Hylian, who wasn’t even the leader of this clan, was wearing the wolf pelt so openly was clearly a warning.

The third was crouched over the fire, moving the logs around with a stick for some reason. This one was a White-Green, a long white covering over his shoulders. He was listening to the conversation between the Leader and Wolf-Pelt, occasionally adding his own thoughts.

Once Greg was able to get over his shock of seeing so many Greens in one place, he was able to see that they weren’t actually all Greens. Two of them, huddled closely together, were just wearing pale Blue. Not quite as concerning as the others, but still strong.

One of them was smaller than any of the others in the clearing. He wore a pale blue covering. Greg paused in confusion. In a group of powerful Greens, why would they tolerate a small, weak Blue? Clans could become stronger, as Greg’s was, as stronger Bokoblins were born. But if his clan was made up of Blues, and a Red was born, they would be killed or driven out. There was no room for weakness.

But then again, Hylians were very strange. Perhaps, since this Blue was obviously a youngling, they had simply not matured into their adult Green coloration? It was possible.

The youngling was crouched over a strange flat rock, held by the other Blue. Now, this one was the same size as the others in the group, and obviously an adult. The excuse of being a youngling did not apply to him.

So why….?

The Blue shifted, lifting the strange rock, and handing it off to the Youngling, joined the White-Green near the fire. As he did, Greg caught sight of a familiar symbol on the rock.

An eye.

The symbol was not strange to him. It was scattered all over the land on large black rocks. However, to see it on a smaller rock like this… seemed familiar, and not in a good way.

Greg strained his memory to try to remember when he had seen this before, and then it hit him.

He had seen this strange rock before, when Derek IV was killed. He had gone after a pair of Brown Hylians who had unwisely traveled off the road. Greg, still being quite young at that point, had hung back to see how it was done. It had gone well for a while. Derek IV chased the pair, swinging a club at them, while the Hylians screeched in fear and scrambled away.

Then, swooping down from the sky like a bird of prey, a Blue Hyalin descended. True to legend, Greg had watched the Browns scramble toward the newcomer for protection. Derek IV, likely having fallen asleep during their sire’s lessons, did not register the danger of this Hylian’s color, and ran straight towards the group.

Greg had watched in horror as his brother was cut down with graceful ease. He hadn’t even had time to squeal a battle cry before he was falling to the earth with a flaming sword buried in his side.

He continued to stare in mounting terror as the Blue bent down and harvested his brother's teeth. The Blue had even taken Derek IV’s weapon for his own before his brother finally took enough fire damage, and broke down into smoke, disappearing.

The Blue had approached the Browns, who hadn’t even looked disgusted at the looting of a body, and had instead gifted the Blue food as a token of appreciation for his protection.

Greg came to a sudden realization. This was no Blue. He was colored like one, but he was alone. According to legends, Blues came in packs, ruthlessly efficient in working together. Besides that, Greg could imagine only one color that was that efficient at killing.

Greens.

Greg didn’t know why this Green was disguised as a Blue, But he didn’t stick around to find out. The last thing he caught sight of was a strange rock on the Green’s hip, with an ominous eye on the front of it. He had booked back to the safety of his clan’s camp. Not that he harbored any delusions that anyone in his clan would survive if the Green-in-Disguise found them.

Thankfully, he hadn’t, and Greg had grown up trying desperately not to fall into the same trap of attacking first and finding out the consequences later as Derek IV had.

Now, the same strange eye symbol was back, on the same strange rock, in the possession of the same Green-in-Disguise. Well, the same clan, at least. The Youngling was still fiddling with the rock, occasionally calling out to the Green-in-Disguise. Greg could only assume it must be some type of weapon, if a Green was in possession of it.

Greg stumbled back, turning to flee. He had saved himself once by fleeing in the face of one Green, and he wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to take on seven Greens at once.

Wait- hold that thought. A rustle in the bushes on the opposite side of the clearing caught his eye. Against his better judgment, he crept back to look. If that was Jeff coming to look for him, and he stumbled into the encampment of a clan of Greens in the process, Greg was not going to be helping him.

Fortunately, (or unfortunately, Greg thought privately,) it wasn’t Jeff. It was two more Greens.

Greg felt faint, and nearly swooned on the spot as Wolf-Pelt called out in greeting to the two new arrivals.

These two new arrivals were underwhelming. They were both small. In fact, one of them was even smaller than the youngling already in the camp. His coloring was a strange mash-up of Blue, Red, and, oddly, Purple, which was a color that Greg had never heard of Hylians being. But he also had Green, plain as day. Greg had to wonder if this Four-Color was even younger than the Youngling. Maybe it wasn’t certain yet what his strength level was going to be?

The other was of a more reasonable height for a Hylian, although not as big as many of the others. He had brown coloration peeking out from underneath his green. Perhaps this was the weakest of them all? But again, if he was tolerated in this, frankly overpowered, clan of Greens, then there must be more to him than meets the eye.

But these two new arrivals, no matter how unthreatening they looked, meant the clan now numbered nine. Greg had never seen a Bokoblin clan this large, let alone a Hylian one, at least outside of the Great Hylian Camps. Normally, Hylians only traveled in small groups.

This was bad. If an entire clan of Greens had appeared in Hyrule, then the Hylians were getting stronger. He had to report this to his sisters.

With a determined grunt, Greg turned back to where he had left Jeff. He needed to collect him, and then head back. Under the circumstances, he didn’t think his sisters would care about them not finishing their patrol route.

When he arrived back to the place he left Jeff, his brother was still absorbed with kicking around that strange glowing blue ball from before. Greg didn't know what it was, but at this point he didn’t particularly care. He just wanted to get back to the slight safety of their camp.

Just as he was about to squeal at his brother that it was time to go, he heard a shout from behind him. It was one of the Greens, calling out. For a moment, Greg was worried that they had been discovered.

Then, he didn’t have to wonder anymore.

The weird glowy ball that Jeff had been playing with exploded in blue light. Before Greg could even shield his eyes against the light, it was over. The explosion had taken Jeff out in one hit. His brother's body was already disappearing into smoke, leaving nothing behind.

Greg knew they had been discovered. Somehow, this whole situation must have been a trap, and it had been set up by the Greens. They must have known that Greg was there the entire time.

These Greens were terrifying. Greg could hear Hylian footsteps moving in his direction, and booked it out of the clearing. He wasn't sticking around for them to find him. He was leaving.

At least his sisters couldn't put him with Jeff on patrol anymore.

~~~

It was a rather chilly night. The seasons were just changing in his Hyrule, splashes of reds and golds dotted here and there as some trees started to shed their leaves, and the autumn air wasn’t exactly warm or balmy.

The group usually waited until Wild was ready to make dinner to start a fire, but not tonight. Sky volunteered to collect firewood, and only stopped to set down his pack before leaving to search for kindling. Four and Hyrule also left to scout the area, and make sure there weren't any threats lingering nearby.

Wild helped Time and Twilight move some fallen logs into the clearing for makeshift benches, and then collapsed onto the nearest one. He sighed, and pulled his boots off, shaking a pebble out of the left one that had been bothering him for hours. He didn’t immediately put the boots back on, letting his feet relax after a long day of walking.

Wind settled next to him, Time and Twilight not far off. Legend and Warriors were already bickering about something or another, snarking at each other for where they were perched across the empty fire ring.

Wind sniffed next to him. “Goddess, Wild, your feet stink! Why did you take your shoes off?”

Wild very maturely stuck out his tongue at the younger hero, pointedly ignoring Time’s muttered: “Don’t encourage him, we already have one squabbling pair, we don’t need another.” Wild stuck his dirty boots back in his slate, pulling out one of his cleaner pairs. Wind, forgetting the apparent stench, shifted closer in interest.

“So, how many different sets of clothing do you keep in there?” Wild shifted to show Wind his slate, swiping through the armor and clothing he accumulated on his journey.

“So, this is the Sheikah stealth set. It’s the first set of clothes I bought after waking up from my shrine. I got it in Kakariko. Before that, I was basically wearing a set of rags I found in my Shrine.”

A rustle from across the clearing drew Wild’s attention as Wind continued to poke at the slate. It was just Sky, carrying an armful of wood. Before the Skyloftian could start to set up the fire, Warriors took things one jeer too far, causing Legend to leap across the pit, tackling him off his log. Sky didn’t even do a double-take, ignoring the two wrestling near the side of the clearing, and started to get the fire going.

Next to Wild, Time and Twilight were watching the fight with interest. Twilight turned to Time. “Should we stop them?”

Time shrugged. “They’re not actually hurting each other, are they? Think of it as hand-to-hand combat training.” Twilight stared at Time as Legend got pinned underneath Warriors, and screeched, biting his hand in retaliation.

Time stared back. There was a moment of silence, before Time spoke again. “Fifty rupees that Legend wins.”

Twilight sighed, returning his gaze to the fighting pair. “You’re just as bad as the others sometimes, you know that?” Time just raised an eyebrow in question. Twilight groaned, defeated. “I’ll take that bet.”

Wild snorted. Twilight liked to pretend that he was less of a gremlin than the rest of them, but really, he just hid it better.

“Hey, isn’t that what the Warriors was teasing you about the other day?” Wind’s question brought Wild’s attention back to his slate. Showing on the screen was the Gerudo set, displayed on the digital form of Wild himself. “Wait, it’s yours?”

Wild’s hand darted out, covering the younger boy's mouth. “You will tell no one about this.” He hissed, eyes darting around the clearing, checking to see if anyone had heard. It looked like he was in the clear. It wasn’t that he was particularly ashamed of wearing those clothes, but he would rather spare himself the teasing he knew would be imminent if the group found out.

Wind batted his hand away from his mouth, grinning at him mischievously. “Okay, I won’t.” Wild waited, not believing that it would be that easy. “You have to make seafood curry for dinner though.” Wild hummed, considering. It wasn’t as bad as he thought Wind was going to demand.

“Alright,” He acquiesced. He was planning on making Creamy Vegetable Soup tonight, but he thought seafood curry was just as good. It was no trouble for him to switch up the menu. He had a couple of nice Progys in his slate they needed to eat anyways. He would have done this even if Wind just asked him, though, so he wasn’t sure why-

“But you have to make it spicy.” Wind insisted. Ah, there it was.

“Sure.” He shrugged. Most of the others wouldn’t be pleased. Seafood Curry had a lot of goron spice in it, at least it did the way Wild liked to make it. Wind, Legend, Four, and himself were the only ones in the group who could handle spice. He and Wind had grown up eating spicy food, and Legend traveled to very distant lands, building up a tolerance to all sorts of spices. Four could only tolerate spice occasionally. (It varied. Sometimes he couldn’t even handle a spiced meat skewer, and sometimes he inhaled the spiciest food Wild could make. It was very strange.) Most of the others in the group had low spice tolerance.

Usually, Wild acknowledged that fact in his cooking, and cut back on the spice, but since Wind was asking…

Well, he certainly wouldn’t complain.

He handed the slate off to Wind, rising to join Sky next to the fire, to make sure it was at the right temperature for seafood curry.

Another rustle from the bushes around the clearing drew his attention to the returning Hyrule and Four.

“Anything to report, boys?” It was Twilight who called out, as Time was still snickering at the sulking Warriors and his own purse, now fifty rupees heavier.

“Nothing of importance,” It was Four who answered, coming to sit next to Time. “There’s a stream a few minutes away, and we found a set of Bokoblins footprints, but they were days old.”

“Good, now we should-“ Wild’s attention was drawn away from both the fire and Twilight’s response by a call from Wind.

“Hey, Wild! What does this button do?” That sentence made dread well up in Wild’s stomach. There were only so many buttons to push on the slate, and Wild’s mind flashed back to a very crucial detail that he had forgotten.

He spun around, nearly hitting Sky with the stick he had been using to poke the fire. He could barely get out a shrieked “Wait!” Before there was an ominous click, a moment of tense silence, then-

BOOM.

Right. The bomb he had dropped earlier, and had forgotten to dissipate.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling all the world like he was every one of his one hundred and seventeen years. He let out a slow breath, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. Was this what Twilight felt like all the time? He needed to go easier on his mentor.

“That button explodes things, Wind.”

A silent, judgmental stare from Time told him to fix the mess he’d created. With a huff, he heaved himself to his feet, and motioned for Wind to follow him. “Come on, kid. Let’s go do damage control.”

~~~

A/N: You know, writing this made me headcanon that Bokoblins have truly excellent color vision.

Anyways, here's what all the colors mean;

Brown: Average Traveler // White: Sheikah // Red: Yiga // Blue: Hyrule’s Military // Green: Heroes

Blue-Green: Warriors // Red-Green: Legend // White-Green: Sky // The Leader: Time // Wolf-Pelt: Twilight // Youngling: Wind // Green-in-Disguise: Wild // Brown-Green: Hyrule // Four-Color: Four

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supremeinlilac · 3 years

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Greiving for something not lost

Sally Mckenna x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Canon death, mentions of suicide, grief, slight mention of nsfw activities but it’s literally nothing.

A/n: Here’s the exchange gift for @cissa-calls , and I hope it’s not too dark for you :/ I researched a lot of Greek Mythology because you said you enjoyed it so it’s based around a myth, although as always I got carried away so it ended up only being a small portion. I hope you like it :))

Instead of taking the direct route to the Cortez, you idled down the backstreets of LA, one hand stuffed deeply into your pocket as you scuffed feet against stones on the path. It did little to clear the fog in your brain after yet another argument with Sally, it was always too loud in the city and you seemed to never be able to silence it enough to think.

Sally had promised you, time and time again that the next job would be the last, and you clutch at the hopes that each time she’d be telling the truth. Each time you’d fumble with fingers against the hem of her jacket and beg her to stay, and she’d pry them off and tell you not to follow her.

“The Hotel Cortez is not a place for you babe,” she’d say, and then she’d be gone.

Usually, you’d accept that, and would wait by the window for glimpses of her silhouette along the street when she’d returned. Your heart would thrum in protest against your ribs almost painfully until you’d see her safe again. This time, you’d both cried and fumed. Neither understood the other, neither wanting to admit that they feared what that meant.

Your other hand held a small spray of white anemones, and an apology scribbled on paper. You had to rehearse it before you met with her again, she seemed to be able to sense when you weren’t genuine. You’d wanted flowers of a darker colour, they were more Sally, but had had to settle with that of purity and innocence. Not Sally at all, but you were still too proud and stubborn to stalk around more shops to find the perfect gift for her when you’d both been in the wrong.

The detour meant you’d probably find your girlfriend already high, stumbling aimlessly around rooms with that grin on her face that always made you want to kiss it off her. No doubt that tonight would end as it always did. Possessive and passionate in your shared bed. Sometimes you wouldn’t even reach it. Sorry with Sally was always spoken through sex.

The thought of apologising through kisses and softly idle fingertips had your pace quickening, and the guilt heating up within you. You didn’t like fighting with Sally, and you sure as hell didn’t like what you fought about, but you loved to bribe her back to you this way. But as you turned the corner to the hotel, the guilt in your stomach dropped into that of dread, and a lump formed so quickly in your throat that you felt you would choke on it with what you saw.

Aphrodite had warned Adonis about the dangers, just like you had Sally, and yet, here they both lay. It was as if her body blurred into two with your tears, two lovers, separated by the cruel twist of deaths knife in a hollow chest.

You seemed to be able to do nothing but stagger towards her, vision smoky and you prayed it was a dream. That you may stir in the sheets beside Sally, and she’d reach to still your tremors like the silent hand of a god against the rumble of an earthquake. Be still my love, do not fear what can not hurt you. I’m here, reach for me.

Now, you wished for something as merciful as a dream.

Her face paled to grey as you neared, and the world seemed to fall away. Passers by seemed unaffected as hurried feet carried them home, anxious to block out the city with thick blinds and gentle music. Your despair willowed to nothing, a commotion simply on the other side of the road wasn’t a rarity. The city had seen it all before.

It turns out the Hotel Cortez wasn’t a place for her either.

You felt like throwing yourself to the ground beside her, bare knees scraping against the harsh pavement, yet you’d welcome the pain beside your lover. White noise filled your ears, and only the blaring of car horns could cut through its insistent ringing. You couldn’t even hear yourself crying for help to anyone who might listen.

Her eyes were wide, glassy and pleading, but you saw no life in them. The glass gave way to murky water and it was clear you’d reached her too late. Defeated, you crumpled beside her, flowers forgotten in leu of pressing lips to her temple and whispering the apology as if it may be heard by her soul and it might return to her body. To you.

You wanted to close her eyes with gentle fingertips but feared that if she stopped seeing you then it would be the end. That it would mean she was gone.

A flower sprang where he lay, hours after Adonis’ death, a deep crimson anemone that bore the shade of his blood. Born from the sweet nectar from Aphrodite’s hand, the wildflower bloomed. Beautiful trauma.

The flowers on the ground by your side seemed to wilt, sensing the sour odour of deaths passing, they hung their heads in mourning and shrank into their petals. Heavy with grief. White anemones turned red under the suns dying love, its light bowing behind the buildings so it may pretend to have not bared silent witness to souls divided.

Aphrodite pleaded for her lover’s life in the underworld, so he could be with her once again in life. You would have plead as she did, knelt and sold your soul for Sally to be returned. You would have done as Aphrodite did, if you thought it would help. If you thought that someone could see your pain and render it pure enough to grant the impossible.

In the real world, there are no gracious second chances for such a fickle thing as love.

And now, it seemed that the Hotel Cortez would be her place, tied to her always in death.

You stayed by her side until the coroner arrived to take her away. You couldn’t cry, instead just watched through eyes of steel as the back doors of the van were slammed obnoxiously, ringing in your ears long after it had pulled away and been lost to the traffic. You vaguely registered someone’s hand on your shoulder, a soothing motion, talking as if underwater, muffled and unintelligible. You felt like you were barely clinging to driftwood on an unsettled sea, each swell of a wave bigger than the last.

In shock- you heard someone say. Suicide. That broke your haze.

When you’d got home that night, the silence had screamed at you. It had been too quiet to sleep, and you ached for the way she’d blast music loud enough to warrant the neighbours complaints the next day, so you’d have to bake horrendously in the kitchen cookies as apologies. Or when she’d strum against her guitar and the gentle tones would pull you from your work and into her lap to watch her fingers manipulate the instrument into art.

You craved the shrill laughter of Sally when she’d prank you childishly, how she’d pull you towards her and you’d see how joy creased her face beautifully. You’d always want to make her laugh and brush the pads of curious fingers over the dimples formed and make her shy away.

You’d never hear her song again, you realised, blinking away tears when the guitar propped in the corner caught your eye. Chest heaving painfully, you half wanted to grasp it by the neck and slam it against the ground over and over until anger diffused and you could cry into its shards. The other half, the winning half, wanted to pick it up and set it against you, ghost fingers over its strings so the thrum was barely audible. She’d played this tune, taught you this tune, and you vowed you’d never forget it. Fingers in her shadow, you ran them over the smooth wood, eyes closed and head back on the sofa.

She was everywhere in the apartment, and it only served to remind you that she was also nowhere.

The suffocating hands of her absence pressed against you, a ribbon of blackened ash around your ribs, until they threatened to crack under its pressure. Was it possible to miss how she hurt? Your lover, with her wild hair and glassy eyes, you could see her as she was, you would drunk in how she would move. Dancing slowly in an empty room, as if the world were watching her.

Wild hair was born to writhing snakes, and you feared to look directly into her eyes now. Death had claimed her as its own, and you refused to accept her insistent fate. She’d return. You’d look into her eyes and see that of your lover, and not of Medusa. Lungs of stone, how could they swell to receive the gift of a breath without her beside you?

Now you drowned the guilt, drunk in its depths instead of in her eyes.

Stuck in endless loops of questioning what if. What if you hadn’t taken the detour, what if you hadn’t argued, or if you had made her stay instead of letting her leave the apartment? Would she still be alive?

It wasn’t your fault but oh, how that option seemed so sweet in this moment. To be swarmed with an actual reason to hate, how it would be easier than the reality. You’d rather have yourself to blame than have no one. Responsibility for actions you weren’t even sure of. Questions unanswered by police, that would remain unanswered because the only person with the solution was gone. What had happened?

The pressure seemed to build up in your head, an unbearable thickness of thoughts that had nowhere to go but to force themselves down your throat so you’d choke on them, and the feeling of sickness would resurface. They’d swim in your gut like parasite and never still.

It was worse at night.

Distractions were less and your emotions ran so far above you on blackened clouds, so out of reach that you doubted you’d ever be able to wrestle them back into submission. Would they eternally be dancing in mockery and pulling at marionette strings in your limbs? A shell of your former self, only held up by unpredictable emotions that could burn you with their ice just as much as their fire.

After your first day back at work after the incident, you’d returned home exhausted, wanting nothing more than to collapse into yourself on the sofa and cradle one of her jackets. You forgot the lock the door on your way in, and remembered hours later, after the sun had drooped once more that you needed to lock yourself with your thoughts again for the night.

You reached into your handbag, searching for something that seemed menial now, and instead your fingers curled around her packet of cigarettes. You stopped, hand still in the bag, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

It had been the first since that night, raw and salty tears that burned your eyes red and blurred your vision. The kind of crying that wore you to nothing within minutes and had you clutching bony fingers to your chest as if to pry open ribs and reach your lungs. You couldn’t breathe.

Everything caught up with you, and you felt as if you were falling alongside her, scrabbling to find purchase against nothing. The rational side of your brain knew that you wouldn’t crash to the ground, but you couldn’t help but be brought back to her side in that moment, a whirlwind of emotions that you couldn’t control, circling your head in a way that made you dizzy with your grief.

Her pale face, mottled with the tears of her death invaded your mind, the blood staining the pavement. Suddenly you felt hot with it, as if the sticky blood was covering you, pulling you to drown. You could smell its invasive metallic scent, almost taste its musk in your throat with every breath. It was thick, and you were clawing at your arms to try and wipe it away. It was everywhere, and then it was nowhere, and you wondered why you’d been tricked by grief in the first place.

Shaking, your fingers had flipped open the packet and picked one out. You didn’t smoke, yet trembling hands found the lighter and lips found the filter which already had a smudge of red on it. Almost as if Sally had gone to light it but changed her mind, discarding it back for later use. She never used it again, now it was you that drew in an unsteady breath, drawing the panel door to the side as you took the rest of the cigarettes onto the small apartment balcony you both shared to smoke them, alone.

There was really only room for one person out there at a time, yet you and Sally would huddle together on the nights when the city would keep you awake, and she’d wrap pale arms around your waist and nuzzle her chin into the crook of your neck. Passing her cigarette back and forth you’d overlook the streets below and watch the living.

You’d both used to wonder what it would be like to lead the lives of those people below, those on their way to work before the sun even surfaced over the horizon and set its path for the day. Working before the pair of you had even been asleep. The banality of their routine, oh, how you both pitied them. They’d work boring jobs to pay the rent for the whitewashed walls they’d come home to each night, eat the same meals at the same time, prepared by wives wearing lines of age, deeply set in valleys on their faces. These people always looked older than their years, tired and worn from work and children born to save a marriage already lost.

You’d used to pity them, yet now, you craved the intimacy of a boring life with someone you loved. You’d rather the predictability of this life than the one you had now. Nothing.

On the balcony, you smoked all the remaining cigarettes in the pack. Usually, you didn’t smoke, but you did, just to feel close to her again. Curling your fingers around the butt the way that she used to, and blowing the smoke out, watching it furl and twist into the cold night. You craved the warm roughness of her hands.

She’d kiss you with the lingering taste of those cigarettes, and you’d grown addicted to it. Still, once you’d finished the packet, you’d found yourself unable to rebuy them.

Slowly, you forgot its essence. You felt like you were forgetting her.

In the news, you waited for them to show a photo of Sally, one detached from everything she’d grown to be, beside a headline of death. The low hum of the city news was background noise to your grief, and you ached for someone to care enough to tell about her passing. For weeks, there was nothing. There was nothing and then there was everything, all at once, and in that moment, you knew that you would’ve preferred the nothing.

They said she’d jumped.

They hadn’t known her, and they said she’d jumped.

How dare they when you’d screamed at them until hoarse that she would never, that she promised she would never? The quick solution, one that wouldn’t raise questions, or demand the precious funds of the very system she’d been cheated by, to fork out for justice. She was an addict, they’d said. Painting the sky above her head an angry black, with clouds that swirled with viscous intent. She was a junkie, and therefore the answer was simple.

Death had been an inevitability with a life like that, habits like that. A person such as that.

You wasted grief on your anger, long nights where you’d clutch the phone to your mottled cheek with whitening knuckles, cursing everyone who’d rendered your love unimportant. You’d fall asleep on hold to police that had no more answers for you, no more pitied excuses and apologies for a loss they knew nothing about.

And it was on one of those long nights, when you sought for comfort that could be not offered by the living, that you reach for the memory of the dead. Running fingers deliberately slowly over the clothes that hung in the wardrobe, fingering through her dresses on the railing before slowly closing the door again, leaning against it and sinking to the floor.

You’d opened all her drawers that night, some for the first time. Spritzed her dresses with her perfume that still stood on the mantle, revitalised Sally in the apartment with her smell. It was as if you were back to then, when she’d return from work, stroppy and tired, yet still reach for her perfume and generously sprayed the air that she’d then dance into.

Picking one of her band shirts out of the drawer, you slipped your shirt off and replaced it with hers. It was soft cotton, the one she’d most frequently sleep in, and it brought you warmth like her hugs used to, arms enclosing you and grounding you in moments of fear.

You slept in it that night. Telling yourself that that would be it and then it would return to the drawer. But one night stretched painfully into three, and you found yourself unable to sever the small mercy you’d given yourself in wearing her clothes, the attachment to her that only you would know when you walked the street. No one else knew the chain you wore were hers, the boots, the dress. No one knew sally because there was no one left to know.

It had been a year since that day.

You’d woken with a headache and turned over in bed, wanting to shelter yourself from the day with blankets, sleep until the moon shone and the day turned into the next. You knew you could do that, but guilt had you pulling on the covers and groaning as the sunlight poured like liquid through the slit in the curtains.

It was going to be a long day. You already felt tired.

Pulling one of Sally’s band shirts over your head, you traipsed sluggishly through the apartment, purposefully ignoring the mess, like she would after a night of drinking. Not that it mattered today. You unhooked Sally’s oversized jacket from the peg and slumped it over your shoulder. Today was the day, you’d decided. You were going to visit her grave.

In the past year, you’d planned to visit her grave on several occasions, but avoided it at the last second. You couldn’t stand the thought of Sally trapped there, tied to the soil when she should be dancing upon it with you.

Sally couldn’t be tied down to a single place, she moved freely, without reign. It was how she liked it, and how you’d learned to love her. Labels had never been her thing. And now she was labelled on stone, with a corny phrase that she’d hate, with a date too early, a life too short. Sally deserved to be free.

She was the wind, unpredictable and changing and wild, she would go where she pleased and return on the breeze. Sally would’ve hated being buried, and yet through the selfish need to have a real place to visit her, she had been. You can’t capture the wind in bare hands, can’t collar it or tame it and make it beg. It controls you and you have no choice but to concede to it.

That was Sally.

Even now, a year later, you found yourself faltering. The gates of the cemetery loomed ahead of you, and your hands bunched at the material of your pants nervously. You could feel it calling, begging almost, for you to simply reach out and push the gate open with a metallic creak of protest. To visit the place you’d always avoided.

But just as you always did, you lost your nerve, sighing and peering down the road for a reason to be drawn away. For a distraction, even just for a moment. An excuse to gather your thoughts just enough to face your lover.

A corner shop caught your eye, with the newspapers in the windows just begging for customers. How convenient. Stuffing hands into pockets, you strode over the road with new purpose.

Dragging yourself down the claustrophobic aisles in the store, you distracted yourself with exited colours on packaging, picking items of shelves and replacing them further down the aisle. You didn’t care for tidiness today.

When a shop attendant asked you if you needed any help, you gave him a sad smile in appreciation and picked up a small bunch of white anemone flowers, her flowers. Last year, they’d been a peace offering, this year, an apology. The employee shuffled along again, and you set your eyes down to the floor.

Flowers in hand, you made your way to the till, placing them delicately onto the counter and fiddling for coins in your coat. You hadn’t planned on buying anything, so neglected to bring your wallet. Luckily, this was a coat you’d not worn since Sally’s death, and she was a fan of keeping loose change in the deep pockets.

“Is that everything for today?” the woman behind the till chirped with the voice of someone with long experience in public services. It cried out in tired falsity, in ‘how long have I left on my shift?’ It was a line well-rehearsed and overused.

Just as you were about to nod in answer, your eyes caught the tobacco cabinet behind the bored check out assistant. “What brand?” She asked pointedly, and you stared dumbly past her. Had Sally ever bought cigarettes from this store? Shaking out the thought from your mind, you answered her, asking for Sally’s brand and quickly paying and leaving.

Outside the shop, you held the package tentatively in your palm, fingering at the packaging as she used to when she was nervous. She’d wrap a tune with her chipped nails against the boxes edge, and you’d coax it from her, and dip her under the moonlight in your arms. Now, holding the cigarettes held no comfort for you, feeling both foreign and familiar, it left you aching for her.

Still, you found yourself unable to visit her grave. It was all too real to see where she lay. You needed something tying Sally to you that wasn’t so physical. You laughed to yourself. How ironic it was, to force her into a grave for something so trivial as to have a place to call her resting place, only to find yourself too weak to face your choice.

Instead, you took a left, and then another, and then a right, and continued until you could no longer smell your own fear in the air with the concept of her grave. Deeper into the city, where the pollution stained white houses grey, you could breathe clearly again. Guilt will consume a person, clog their lungs with it until their breathing is laborious and the weight drags them down into their thoughts.

You’d walked this route before, one year before, with white anemones and an apology in hand. You’d never gotten to tell Sally what you’d wanted, but perhaps you’d take her the flowers, and smoke her cigarettes in the window where she’d fell. You’d tell her what you didn’t get the chance to.

The hotel was just as you remembered it, flickering neon 34w`lights that read ‘Hotel Cortez’, and the eery alleys and parked cars that seemed to be in the same position as the year prior. It was as if time had paused, hotel residents left their cars and had never returned to them.

You weren’t really aware of yourself in that moment, feet leading a silent path as you found yourself stuck in a memory. When you reached the place you found her, your feet faltered, and you couldn’t tear your eyes from the paving.

The pavement was clear, physically untainted, and any normal pedestrian would question your loitering. But although it appeared to be clean, you know because you’ve seen, you’ve remembered. The pain that would still remain, deep in the cracks of the paving stone, no matter how much scrubbing the clean up team undoubtably did after Sally’s body was removed, they couldn’t remove. They couldn’t fade the scarring, or the feeling of death that overcame you when you stared at the place she’d laid.

Someone bumped your shoulder as they passed on the street, muttered remarks about people standing in the middle of the street, and you raised your eyes to watch them walk away. When you looked back at the stone, the connection to it had been lost, and you found yourself unable to re-enter the trance you’d been in.

Pressing through the hotel doors, you left the light of the sun behind, left the living, and joined the death of the dusky lobby. Wondering through its room, you imagined Sally doing the same, with confident strides and a purpose. It was a nice place for downtown LA, you had to admit, but you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that came with it, of being watched by invisible eyes in the walls. The feeling one gets when you visit a place where death rules over occupants.

You looked up to the next floor, and swore you saw a flash of an animal print coat moving behind the barriers. No. Must’ve been the lighting change from coming inside.

A woman pointed you towards the bar, and you nodded towards her. Did all visitors come for the hotels bar? She seemed to know exactly what you needed, tired eyes searching for something not quite there.

In the bar, you drank and you smoked and spoke with the woman behind the bar who must’ve noticed the void behind your eyes. She didn’t question you, why you were alone, just slid extra drinks across the table with a wink and a smile. You didn’t return it, opting for a grateful grimace instead.

All of a sudden, the smell of Sally’s perfume seemed to melt into your senses, overpowering that of the cigarette, and the liquor, until your head swam with memories linked with its scent. You didn’t remember spraying it this morning, and it confused you. It was so strong, and real. It didn’t seem like your brain was tricking you with its musk, like it so often would with a silhouette against the apartment window.

Suffocated by Sally. You drowned in its poetry.

Searching for its origin, your eyes roamed the bar. It was real, you figured. Turning on the bar stool, your eyes met those that you thought you’d forgotten, and you found they were exactly like you remembered. Sally stood, leant against the wall opposite you, arms folded at her chest yet wearing cheeks stained with tears and widened eyes. You scrambled out of your chair, and the world fell away from you. You didn’t even try and catch it when she was next to you.

You palmed at your eyes, begging yourself to wake up from what must be a dream. Despite knowing she wasn’t real, you ached for your mind to stay in this fantasy so at least you wouldn’t be alone. Removing your hands, you felt yourself lighten. Sally remained still, unmoving yet she was closer that ever. You could reach and brush against her cheek if only your arms would cooperate.

“Y/n?” she breathed, in that choked up voice, and you were falling again.

As if trapped in a dream, you startled awake with the feeling of cool fingers massaging against your scalp. The room was foreign, and it smelled like her. Foreign, yet startingly familiar as if you’d been there before.

Sally was curled into your side, and your breathing laboured again. You didn’t understand how she was here, you- you buried her. Sniffling broke your doubts, and Sally adjusted her head atop your chest. When you wiggled beneath her, her sniffs turned to coos, and her fingers in your hair and clutching your top were soothing at your cheeks.

“I love you, I’m here,” she flustered, worrying her lip between teeth, and you could see the moon in between buildings outside the window. It watched you with bated breath and shone onto her pale skin until her tears seemed to shine. “Say I love you Sally.”

Sitting up against the pillows, you caught her face in your hands, cupping it so she couldn’t move away as you remembered the outlines of her eyes, lips, the curve of her jaw and cheekbones. “I love you,” you found yourself admitting, tears welling in eyes that couldn’t believe what they were witnessing, “are you real?”

“I’m-” Sally started, faltering as if she didn’t quite know the answer either. “I’m here.”

You wanted to apologise anew, whisper the memorised speech that you’d spoken to her that night, but the words seemed to catch in your throat, sharp like the barbs from barbed wire were caught against the delicate skin. Instead, you pulled her in to brush lips against hers, testing slowly if they actually would meet and not melt through what your mind was making up.

They did meet, and you muffled a wail against hers, all the pent-up grief for the woman you were now kissing resurfacing. Fingers clung to her coat, which was still soft beneath your touch, and you pulled her closer to you. She cried, and you cried, and hands met to brush them away.

“I missed you baby.”

You didn’t stop to think about what it meant that she was here. Focusing only on her hands linked firmly in yours, and how she deserved to feel the taut string of a guitar again. You’d bring it to her, and she’d play her song. You’d hear her voice and feel the vibrations of her throat against your lips as she sang.

You’d do it all again.

Time you thought was lost was now frozen, suspended in a single heartbeat. She hadn’t aged a single day, and yet her eyes showed more trouble than you’d ever seen. You couldn’t wait to return and kiss away her worries, reintroduce yourself and love her and be loved like you both deserved. But for now, you were content to simply exist in her presence again.

You wouldn’t take her for granted.

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vulturhythm · 4 years

Text

the wolf den

this is literally so fucking horny i’m so sorry guys but hey jaskier/all witchers is sexy as fuck am i right @dinahdarling

- - - - -

jaskier is no stranger to combat... mostly in the sense that he has watched geralt fight countless beasts and fend off nearly as many angry bar brawlers or highwaymen. yes, it’s true that he was trained in sword-fighting when he bore the name of julian, but, well, that was years ago now, and surely he can’t be expected to remember all of those moves?

well, in geralt’s mind, he can, evidently.

when the witcher invited him to make the trek back to kaer morhen over the winter, jaskier hadn’t expected for said trek to be full of many, many self-defense lessons. not that he’s complaining - admittedly, there have been many times when it would have been nice to know some proper techniques when fending off angry lords, and, well... it is rather exhilarating, fighting geralt and letting him win.

letting.

obviously.

when they had arrived at the keep, nearly a full month ago, jaskier had thought geralt was merely teasing when he suggested eskel and lambert assist him in training the bard.

he guesses he should have known better.

- - -

jaskier has spent the last two hours of his life being beaten in combat in every feasible fucking way, and, quite honestly, he is tired of it.

he is tired of always being just a hair too slow for eskel as the scarred witcher lunges for him, knocking his dagger from his hand with a well-placed bow to the wrist.

he is tired of always being just too slow for lambert as the prickly bastard knocks him to the ground and pins him there, hands wrestled behind his back and wrists squeezed until his dagger falls.

“you’ve got to make use of your own skill,” geralt has said quite nearly a thousand times now, “you know you’re more agile than them,” and the them in question always snort and laugh at jaskier’s indignation.

it’s a game to them, nothing more.

they break for a few minutes at geralt’s insistence, and although jaskier insists he’s fine, really, he’s grateful for the respite.

he’s dripping in sweat, for one thing, but more than that, he is sore, and not in the good way.

it’s as he sinks straight to the floor, panting for air and wiping sweat from his brow, that he realizes lambert is watching him.

that in and of itself is nothing unusual, certainly, as the witcher has been observing his fights with eskel throughout the afternoon, but now... there’s something different in his eyes, something that takes jaskier too long to recognize simply due to how out of place it is here, now.

when realization finally strikes, he pauses, just as lambert cuts his eyes away and goes to trade his swords for a dagger much like jaskier’s own.

it’s lust.

not full-blown, not yet, but lust nonetheless, the kind born of prolonged exposure to something you can’t help but find appealing. he doubts lambert will act on it, particularly with geralt sitting on a stone bench nearby, watching them all like a hawk, but... there it is.

jaskier glances to his lover then, not at all surprised to find that geralt is watching lambert, golden eyes hard and wary. right, of course - geralt can probably smell it hanging off lambert’s skin. clearing his throat, jaskier waits until geralt’s gaze returns to him; the witcher cocks an expectant brow, and jaskier offers the slightest shake of his head.

don’t worry about it. he won’t do anything.

before he can gauge geralt’s reaction - a tired stare - eskel is rounding to stand in front of him again, bending low to catch his eye. “ready for another round?” he asks, grin sharp.

jaskier groans, but lets eskel pull him upright.

- - -

he has only just begun to fall into a rhythm of parrying eskel’s attacks and ducking and weaving to avoid the rest, and has only just begun to feel perhaps a little bit smug about it all, when, without warning, eskel spins away, and lambert’s dagger is at his throat.

jaskier stills immediately, holding his own blade where it’s plain to see. the youngest witcher has an arm braced around his upper chest, the edge of the dagger set to his skin. he breathes in once, then stops, eyes on eskel as the other witcher gives his sword a lazy twirl.

“never get complacent,” eskel is saying, the same sharp grin on his face once more. “you may think you’re fighting one-on-one, but you’d be surprised how often other people or monsters come out of the woodwork to get in on the fun.”

“lovely,” jaskier says, and his voice is a little strained, largely due to how out of breath he is, now that he’s allowing himself to acknowledge it. more than that, though, he’s gone tense, hyperaware of lambert pressed up flush against his back, of the way lambert has him drawn in close. “great, no... no complacency, got it, can we, ah - can we move on?”

against his ear, lambert snorts. the puff of air sends a tremor down his spine, and he breathes in sharp, feels lambert’s grip change. the witcher turns the flat of the dagger to press against his throat, and jaskier resists the very demeaning urge to whine, tipping his head back to avoid the pressure and finding all he’s done is lay back on lambert’s shoulder. “what do you think, eskel?”

eskel is watching them close, arms folded, sword once again sheathed. there’s a glint in his eye, one that makes jaskier tremble. “again,” he decides, and nods to geralt, off behind jaskier. “lambert, your go.”

lambert lets go of him with enough abruptness that jaskier stumbles on his feet.

fuck.

- - -

eskel fights with speed, twisting and slashing in a flurry of motion designed to catch his opponent off-guard - the type of movement jaskier is already beginning to favor.

lambert, however... lambert fights with strength. he makes up for his slight decrease in agility with powerful, debilitating blows that hurt like hell whenever they land - always the flat of the blade, always angled so it can’t truly harm, but goddamn, does it hurt.

jaskier thinks he’s catching on, though - thinks he’s learned that it’s best to fight brute force with nimble movements, thinks he’s figured out that copying eskel’s style is the best counter to lambert’s... and then, as he spins low beneath a sweeping blow, a blade slams into his lower back, and he falls forward, having the sense to drop his dagger before it spears his palm on impact.

there’s a heavy weight on his back within seconds, firm hands wrenching his own behind his back, one keeping them pinned while the other presses his head to the stone - not hard, not really, but firm. jaskier breathes in, recognizes geralt’s musk, goes still.

“yield,” his lover purrs, amusement plain in his tone. geralt shifts above him, and movement draws jaskier’s eyes upward. lambert is striding closer, only his boots visible. the second set of footsteps must be eskel, he realizes, approaching just out of sight.

jaskier says nothing. he closes his eyes, tries to calm his racing heart and heaving lungs... his aching groin, too, the thrill of being fought, bested, caught and pinned rushing south. knowing lambert wants him, imagining eskel does, too... having geralt above him, their hips almost aligned...

“jaskier,” geralt is saying, squeezing his wrists to draw him back to the present. he sucks in a breath, squirms beneath him, and, for a moment, geralt falters, but then his grip goes firm once more. “yield.”

“no,” he breathes then, and he can feel, just as much as hear, the moment geralt scents the air.

his witcher goes tense above him. “jaskier - “ he begins, voice rough and raw with disbelief and something more.

“no,” jaskier repeats, and this time, the way he draws away is entirely deliberate, straining for freedom in a way that has geralt’s thigh rubbing right up against his own. geralt’s grip tightens. “come on... come on, please, i want - “

“we’ll leave,” eskel says, sounding strained. there’s another edge to his voice, something that mirrors the tension in geralt’s own, and it makes jaskier tremble, fists clenching. “i didn’t think this would... happen, geralt - “

geralt cuts him off, his hand clenching tight in jaskier’s hair - no doubt to keep him still, but it serves only to make him whine. “neither did i.”

as his eyes fall shut, jaskier sees lambert shifting his weight, hears him clear his throat. “should we go?”

“no,” jaskier gasps then, and, fuck, he knows he sounds easy, he knows he sounds like a whore, but it’s difficult to care when he’s this high on adrenaline, this desperate for geralt’s cock, this eager for the other two to - fuck, to do what? to watch?

it’s as this thought crosses his mind that another spike of lust rushes through him, and, fuck, that’s it - he wants them to watch.

he fumbles out as much to geralt, tripping over his words, begging, “c - come on, geralt, let them - let them stay, please...”

“jaskier,” his witcher is saying, trying for firm and landing somewhere closer to disbelieving, but he’s not saying no, “we can’t do this out here, we - we shouldn’t - “

but jaskier cuts him off with a whine, rolling his hips into nothing, and, fuck, he’s already hard, already eager and ready and willing, and he knows he must smell like a fucking whore, so damn needy, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when geralt’s grip on his hands and head sends sparks of desire through his blood every time it tightens, not when he can hear eskel’s breath coming shorter, not when he can hear lambert shifting his weight in place.

geralt is quiet, his fingers flexing where they hold jaskier down, but do little to keep him still. he’s quiet, and jaskier takes that as maybe, not no, and jaskier arches and twists and moans, shifting in place as best he can manage to let his legs splay, open for geralt now. “please,” he repeats again, and then, “i s - saw them looking, they want me, geralt, you know they do, c’mon...”

his witcher curses; above him, eskel is already scrambling to explain, saying, “we wouldn’t ever do anything, you know that, it’s just - he’s so - “

“i know,” geralt grouses, and eskel knows when to shut up. “i know.” another beat of silence, another rough inhale, and then, at last, geralt readjusts his grip, holds jaskier more firmly by the hands so he can let go of his head. jaskier sucks in a nervous breath, holds it, releases it all at once when geralt gets to work on pulling his pants down past the swell of his ass. “watch if you want,” he mutters, “but don’t touch.”

“thank you,” jaskier is gasping, opening his eyes to crane and watch as the other two draw back a step; lambert is the first to settle, sinking slowly to the floor a few feet away, eyes on where geralt’s fumbling with jaskier’s underclothes. as eskel hesitantly kneels, their eyes meet; the witcher goes red, and jaskier purrs out another weak moan of thanks before he drops his head, brow to the floor, lips already parted as he heaves for air.

geralt is usually a kind lover, even his roughest nights full of murmured praise and reassurance; jaskier knows better than to think he’ll get anything of the sort now, not when he got here by pushing every button available, not when he got turned on by the most innocent fucking thing. all things considered, jaskier isn’t surprised in the slightest by the force with which geralt presses two fingers into him, dry and without warning. he knows geralt wouldn’t dare try it if they hadn’t had a bit of fun the night before, and even still, the pain has him gasping, arching away.

geralt holds him firm, leaning down to growl at his ear, “you’re sorely mistaken if you think this to be for anybody’s benefit but your own.”

“you say that,” jaskier breathes, laughter in his tone as he does his best to rock back onto the fingers buried inside him, “and yet you’re just as hard as me, geralt, you truly think i can’t feel it?” for the fact is that he can; geralt’s cock is a hard, hot line within the confines of his pants, pressed against the back of jaskier’s thigh where geralt has shifted to straddle it, keeping him pinned. “y - you can’t lie, a - ah...”

geralt’s fingers are twisting within him, crooking upward to rub cruelly over the bundle of nerves inside his heat as the witcher adds a third; white-hot pleasure flares up his spine, and jaskier bucks into the feeling, moaning aloud. he meets eskel’s gaze when he lets his head drop once more, turned sideways now so he can watch them watching him. the scarred witcher is frozen in place, but as jaskier holds his gaze, he moves at last, one hand pressing its way between his closed thighs. jaskier shudders at the implications, closing his eyes.

“i’ll fuck you once,” geralt is muttering, as if that’s meant to be a threat or deterrent, “and then that’s it. i’ll take you to bed, treat you properly there... let them have their show for now, but tonight, you’ll pay for this little stunt in full...”

jaskier gives a weak and ragged laugh, one that devolves into a moan when geralt spreads his fingers wide, twists them, pulls them away. “i expect to,” is all he manages to say, halfway distracted by the sound of geralt tugging his own pants out of the way, before he’s choking off into a little cry, fists clenching tight at his back as he feels the head of geralt’s cock press to his hole. fuck, it’ll hurt, he knows it will - geralt’s big enough that he’s hard to take even with proper prep - but he’ll be damned if he lets that stop him.

“are you sure he can - “ comes a voice, no, lambert’s voice, just to the side. jaskier trembles when he hears the blatant desire in the witcher’s tone, forces his eyes back open to glance over. a little whine escapes him when he sees that lambert is already fisting his cock, slow and nearly lazy, pants undone enough to take it out; his mouth fucking waters at the sight of precum beading at the head.

geralt’s answering laugh is nearly a snarl as he rocks his hips forward; jaskier moans aloud, eyes on lambert’s cock as geralt’s own sinks deep into his aching, empty heat. “he’s begged for it dry before,” he rasps, and jaskier can’t tell if he’s irritated or aroused, decides it’s both, decides he really doesn’t fucking care when he hears eskel’s voice break on a little gasp, a softer groan. “begged for it over and over...”

another sound from eskel drags jaskier’s blurry gaze back to him; the witcher is palming himself through his trousers, thighs still pressed tight, lips parted for breath. jaskier gives a high and reedy whine, squirms beneath geralt’s weight as his witcher draws back out, only to thrust in deep, setting a pace that’s just as cruel and brutal as it is slow. “most people can’t just take us like that,” eskel is murmuring, sounding so damn disbelieving that jaskier can’t help but be proud. “gods, geralt, how fucking often have you done this?”

geralt spits out a laugh, his hand coming back to tangle in jaskier’s hair; the bard moans out as his head is pulled up and back, as geralt thrusts in deep enough that he swears he can feel his cock in his fucking throat. “he’d take me every night if i’d let him,” geralt replies, and he still sounds agitated, still sounds like he’d rather not be doing this, but there’s something else in his voice, something almost like possessiveness, almost like pride. “he’d beg for me to fuck him senseless, wake up and do it all again...”

“look at him,” lambert breathes; with his head pulled back, jaskier struggles to cut his eyes to the side, his mouth hanging open as he gasps for air. lambert’s cock is big, not quite as thick or long as geralt’s, but big enough that he can’t help but whine at the thought of swallowing it down, of letting the witcher fuck his throat while geralt takes him from behind. “where’d you find yourself such a pretty little whore...?”

those words have jaskier shaking, an answering moan falling from parted lips as geralt thrusts in deep. his cock is aching, trapped between his squirming hips and the floor; the only friction he’s allowed is from the movement of geralt’s hips, fucking him into the cold stone hard enough that he’s seeing stars. “he found me,” geralt is correcting, though jaskier barely hears, “would have let me fuck him that first day, if i’d offered.”

jaskier gives a keening little noise in response, whimpers aloud when he glances back to eskel and sees that the scarred witcher has let his legs fall, has taken to stroking his cock through his half-open trousers as he watches geralt fuck jaskier into the stone. “bet his mouth is like heaven,” eskel is murmuring; he seems not to even remember that jaskier has eyes, his own fixated on jaskier’s open lips and eager tongue. at the thought, jaskier jerks and whines, strains against geralt’s grip on his hair, opens his mouth wider as if to beg for splashes of cum that will never arrive. “gods, geralt, let me - come on - “

“no,” geralt snarls, and it’s so forceful, so territorial that jaskier can’t help but moan, arching back into the next thrust because he knows he’s being mounted by a beast. “i said don’t touch.”

off to the side, lambert is panting now, working his cock faster to match the pace geralt has set. when geralt lets go of jaskier’s hair, lets him slump back to the ground and gasp into the stone, jaskier looks over again, holds the witcher’s gaze - watches with hooded eyes and parted lips as lambert’s fingers tease over the head once more. precum strings between his cock and fingertips when he sets back to work, and jaskier’s mouth is fucking watering at the sight, at the thought of swallowing him down...

he’s so lost in his fantasies that he doesn’t realize geralt’s adjusting him until, suddenly, he’s kneeling, ass up high, head to the floor, straining arms still pinned at his back. positioned like this, geralt can mount him properly, can pull out almost entirely and thrust back in with enough force to have jaskier sobbing his name. it hurts, it fucking burns, he should have never begged for this, and yet - and yet -

geralt is fisting his cock with his free hand now, giving him a tight sleeve to fuck into, and as he ruts mindlessly into the circle of his hand, he notices geralt’s skin is going slick. he’s that fucking wet, he realizes, cock weeping enough precum to lube his witcher’s hand. jaskier chokes out a cry as the head of geralt’s cock drives into his prostate, merciless strokes making him shake beneath the pressure. he can do little more than squirm and writhe, than fuck back onto his wolf’s cock and forward into his fist, than ride the high, and, fuck, already he’s close, and -

“let me clean him when you’re done,” lambert is saying, “come on, look at him, he’s so wet, let me - “

geralt simply snarls, and jaskier arches into him with a keening moan when his witcher leans down, sharp teeth sinking into the curve of his throat, just above his collar. he feels his wolf rock in deep, feels his cock jerk as he spills inside him - sobs for the feeling of geralt’s seed. he hears eskel break next, hears it in the way the witcher tries to stifle a groan, smells it in the air as he spills into his own hand.

geralt is spent, and jaskier is not - jaskier is not, and as he cranes his head to the side, he holds lambert’s gaze, whines for the way lambert’s jacking off to mirror geralt now, for the way geralt’s fingers twist and tug, the way lambert’s do the same. he breaks mere seconds later, thrusting into the tightness of geralt’s fist and moaning aloud as his orgasm finally crests. his eyes drop shut, every sense overwhelmed, but he doesn’t miss the way lambert spills simultaneously, coming into his fist as jaskier does the same.

only when jaskier begins to tremble and whine does geralt let him go, and even then, there’s cum-wet fingers pressing to his lips seconds later. eyes shut and world all hazy, jaskier merely groans, licking his spend off of geralt’s hand in a slow and lazy fashion. “good,” geralt murmurs at last, and jaskier winces when his wolf pulls out. he lays still there, hands at his back and ass in the air, only relaxing to the side with geralt’s guidance. there’s hands smoothing over his flanks and thighs, parting his legs so two fingers can push the leaking cum back inside his hole, but he lacks the strength to react.

“leave now,” comes geralt’s voice, seconds or minutes or hours later; jaskier doesn’t know. he’s aware of little more than the pleasant warmth of cum inside him, of geralt’s fingers still smoothing over his hole to keep it all in. as eskel and lambert stand, as their footsteps slowly retreat, jaskier lets himself sink, purrs out a breathy moan in response to the fingers that press inside him once more.

he knows he won’t rest.

he knows he doesn’t deserve to.

#jaskier/all witchers #jaskier x all witchers #geraskier #gerlion #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #jaskier x eskel #jaskier x lambert #my fics

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gojifan97 · 4 years

Text

Dads For Deku: Pride

Ground Zero lay at Stain’s feet, bleeding, paralyzed, helpless. Despite this he continued to glare at Stain and utter futile threats. Stain raised his sword. Time to cull another false her-

“Stendhal!” a familiar voice cried out. Stain turned around.

“Or should I call you the Hero Killer, Stain,” said a masked young man in a dark costume, one that looked like it could belong to either an underground hero or villain. But he was neither, he was Izuku Midoriya, Stain’s prized pupil and vigilante-to-be.

“You finally figured it out,” Stain said.

“I should have sooner. Stopping your killings for a while was smart, so was committing what murders you did do in areas far from where we were staying. But still, the signs were there. I should have seen it from the start. But I was blinded by the opportunity to learn how to fight villains and save people, blinded by living my dream (even outside the law), blinded by someone supporting me, and I didn’t want to see it,” Izuku said. “But now I do. And now I’m here to stop you.”

“Do you really want to fight me?” Stain said.

“No. That’s why I’m giving you a chance. Sheathe your sword. Stand down and give up your murderous ways.”

“No. We both know I won’t do that. To create a world where good and evil do battle, pure and unvarnished by the vanity of the current heroes or the petulance of the current villains, to create a world where they are true opposing forces and not mere players on a stage, I must cull the unworthy!”

“And what about me? I just told you how my personal feelings stopped me from acting. I’m unworthy.”

“You weren’t trying to assume the role of a hero then. I was still training you. You don’t have to do it now either. Walk away, and you’ll be left unharmed.”

“We both know why I will never do that.”

“Are you sure about this? You don’t even want to fight me.”

“Maybe not, but to protect those in need from evildoers, from murderers, I have to. I want to save people. And the person I need to save is him. All Might once said, the essence of being a hero is sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and I’m sticking mine here!

“Who are you, hero?” Stain said.

“No One.”

Stain smiled. “Very well, No One, you’re free to try and stop me. But remember, even if I try not to kill you, I will not let you succeed. Battles can be very chaotic and unpredictable, even one not seeking to take a life may end up doing so.”

No-one’s eyes hardened, “I know. But I’ll still make sure I don’t take yours.” He pulled out his metal escrima sticks and charged. He would be on Stain before Stain could strike a reliable death blow on Ground Zero. Stain moved his sword into a defensive position.

The two clashed.

No One fought offensively, unleashing a flurry of blows while using his escrima sticks to parry Stain’s attacks. Stain could barely keep track of his movements, but years killing Pros had given him excellent instincts, allowing him to block most of the attacks. Those he didn’t were weak enough to not do much harm. Stain lashed out with his sword, trying to cut No One and draw his blood, but Stain had trained him well, No One blocked each blow with either the escrima sticks or his armored gauntlets.

No One was faster and stronger than Stain and began forcing him back (off and away from Ground Zero). Stain wasn’t sure if he was better than Stain had been in his prime, it would have surely been a good fight, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was winning this fight here and now. All Stain had to do was land a cut and lick the blood, and it would all be over.

While holding Stain’s sword to one side with one escrima stick, No One attempted to swing the other at Stain’s head. Stain blocked the blow, drew the knife in his sleeve, and cut No One’s wrist.

No One dropped his escrima stick, then grabbed the hilt of the knife before Stain could lick it. He kicked Stain in the stomach, causing Stain to stumble and drop the knife. He let go of Stain’s arm. An attempt to make him fall. Unfortunately for him, Stain kept his balance. Now all he had to do was get that knife.

No One threw a desperate swing at Stain’s head, which Stain blocked with embarrassing ease. No One parried the sword aside while lashing out for a with an awkward looking pun- No, with his Taser!

Stain dropped his sword and grabbed No One’s wrist before he could strike him with the Taser. He tried to wrestle No One away, but No One wasn’t giving up. He kneed Stain several times. Stain managed to kick him with his spiked boot, and throw him off. It had only been a glancing blow, but enough to cause pain, and to draw blood.

No One whirled around and charged at Stain again. Stain dropped to the ground, wiped his finger against the blood on his boot, and brought it to his mouth.

No One lunged.

Stain licked.

Stain rolled to the side as No One collapsed to the ground. Paralyzed. “You fought well No One. That feint while you drew the Taser was good. But it was not enough. Now-“

He heard movement behind him.

Stain turned around to see Ground Zero shaking off his paralysis and leaping to his feet. “DIIIEEE!” He blasted himself forward and swung his arm to fire a massive explosion at them both. Stain grabbed Izuku and leaped over and around the flames. Using a small knife, he cut Ground Zero in the shoulder as he passed. He licked the blade. Ground Zero was helpless again.

Stain walked toward him, trembling with fury. “You fake! He risked his life to save you and that is how you repay him?! By nearly blowing him up in a futile attempt to bring me down?! YOU EMBODY EVERYTHING WRONG WITH THIS WORLD! You fight for your own self-aggrandization, while stepping on those you perceive as unworthy! You harm true heroes so they can no longer threaten your fragile ego!” Stain stopped talking and panted heavily with rage. Soon he had regained control. “I will enjoy culling your blood most of all,” Stain said, readying his knife to end this filth.

Footsteps approaching.

Stain looked up in time to see No One lunging forward, Taser in hand. Stain swung the knife toward his wrist. No One blocked it with his gauntlet. Stain grabbed his wrist and twisted the Taser out of it. No One punched Stain. The two began brawling. Stain tried using another knife, but No One knew how to counter them. He blocked it with his gauntlet and twisted it out of Stain’s hand. Then he began grappling with Stain. Stain had trained in grapples, but No One had focused on them far more. Submission holds were more important when you were trying to defeat your opponents non-lethally after all.

Stain would not give in. Either Ground Zero would die, or Stain would. He squirmed and managed to throw No-One off of him. He raised his head, only to see the Taser going for his neck, too late for him to stop. He hadn’t thrown No One off after all, No One had merely seen an opportunity. Stain felt the Taser press against his skin, followed by the electric shock.

__________________________________________________________________

Katsuki tried to look at the bastard who’d just defeated Stain. It was hard with this damn paralysis, but he wasn’t one for giving up. Out of the corner of his vision he saw him tie up the Hero Killer with zip ties, pick up some weapons, wipe the sword off, and walk away.

“WAIT!” Katsuki said, “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”

“Isn’t it obvious Katsuki Bakugo?” the vigilante said.

That voice, it sounded almost…familiar.

“I am No One.” He walked off.

__________________________________________________________________

Stain awoke to the sounds of sirens and voices.

“-o idea. The blood on the ground’ll be too contaminated to use, even if it does belong to whoever did this. We don’t have any solid blood samples we can use.

So, he managed to defeat me non-lethally after all.

Ground Zero was still alive, Stain was still alive, and he was being arrested. Stain should be furious but a part of him felt…happy. He’d succeeded. He’d given rise to a new hero. A real hero.

“ONLY A TRUE HERO MAY KILL ME!” he said. “NO ONE ELSE HAS THE RIGHT! NO ONE, ALL MIGHT, AND LEMILLION ARE WORTHY!”

“Only two people huh? Tall standards,” said one of the police officers. But it didn’t matter. Let him remain in ignorance. Because another police officer was saying, “We’ve got too wanted villains tied up three blocks down. They have no idea who did it.”

Still doing hero work, not even an hour after defeating the mighty Hero Killer. Like a true hero Iz- like a true hero No One.

Stain began to laugh. Around him the police and heroes stared, but he didn’t care. He knew the truth of this night.

This night.

A hero was born.

#My hero academia #Dadsfordeku #hero killer stain #midoriya izuku #katsuki bakugo #vigilantism #vigilante deku

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ilguna · 3 years

Text

Anteric - Chapter Six (f.o)

summary: secrets have more worth than you gave them credit for.

warnings; swearing. FIGHTING, GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, GORE, BLOOD, INJURIES.

wc; 8.6k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

Finnick is still picking blue paint out of his hair this morning. Each time he goes to run a hand through it, he’ll get stuck halfway through, due to a clump of knotted blue hair. You try not to laugh, but every now and then a cough will slip out. At some point, he gives up and goes to take a shower in hopes to fix his problem.

Since you woke up fairly early again, you have enough time to get ready at a leisurely pace. Unfortunately, you're sure that the sun has already risen, so there wouldn’t be a point to go up the Pit to see. And you think that’s for the best, because it’s not safe up there anymore. Not now that Finnick knows where you’d go if you need a moment to breathe.

Well, that’s one of the places. Hopefully he won’t figure out the other.

You’ve realized that you probably need to speak to him sometime soon, considering the rift that’s continuing to grow. The only problem is that you’ve already apologized for your sudden distance. He just ignored it.

You think you’ve said this before, but Finnick will get extremely upset to the point where he’ll stop talking. He used to do that all the time to a couple of other people that you knew in Abnegation. You weren’t his only friend, just the best. There’s only been a few times where you’ve been on the receiving end of his cold behavior. And he’s always bounced back from it.

Half of the time it’s because you gave him space to think about what he wanted. He would just wander back on his own, heart in his hands to give to you. In those moments, it was always his fault. Which is why it was so easy for him to come talk to you again.

Other times, you’d persist after Finnick, trying to get him to budge and talk to you again. This is how you found out that it would be harder to talk to you again. Because you were constantly trying to get him to. It just built up annoyance more, and prolonged the silent treatment. This option is always the second choice, a last resort for dire situations.

Which is why you’re so caught right now.

Finnick could really need you to go after him, or he could really need you to stay away. And honestly, you don’t mind either of those plans, except the latter one has a problem hidden within it. Normally when you’d leave Finnick alone, it would be because he didn’t have anyone else to talk to.

If you go on and move onto Trink circle for the time being while you wait for him to come around, he won’t be alone. He won’t have time to think about why he’s angry by himself. He’ll have someone else to delay that entire process. You know Finnick like the palm of your hand, he can and will put talking to you off for as long as possible.

You thought that Thyme could be a nice addition to yours and Finnick’s friendship, but it seems like she’s going to be making things more complicated. And there’s a hot, sticky feeling in your chest that’s telling you it isn’t a coincidence. From the moment she’s gotten here, she’s been weird.

A hand slaps your foot, making the laces slip from your fingers, your foot falling to the floor. Thyme passes in front of you, and sits down on her bed. It’s only when she starts to lace her first shoe, does she look at you, “Keep your dirty shoes off my bed.”

You stare at her for a moment, and the only thought that comes to your mind is the fact that you’re too tired for her bullshit. You fix your laces before standing up, leaving her alone. You stretch your arms and legs, moving toward the middle of the room. Caspian said that training wouldn’t resume until tomorrow, but that just means you’ll be stuck shooting guns for ten hours.

Finnick comes out of the bathroom, briefly catching your eye. He’s fully dressed, a black towel hangs around the back of his neck to catch the water from his hair. You move out of his way, not thinking too much into the movement. All you know is that you don’t want to be caught in the storm that might be brewing at the moment.

Which ultimately means you just unintentionally made the decision you’ve been worrying over for the past couple of minutes. You guess that your first instinct has never been to pry. And you also guess that this is a result of the Abnegation conditioning. You’re not supposed to ask questions, especially if it might hurt the other person.

But you aren’t in Abnegation anymore, are you?

You spare a glance in Finnick’s direction, wondering if it’s too late to go back and change your mind. His back is already turned toward you, and he’s talking to Thyme. He turns his body slightly, going to sit down on his bed. The smile on his face is almost unforgivable, a light feeling arising in your stomach.

There’s a split second where you recognize that he’s going to look toward you, his head is already turning, his eyes still on Thyme. You think that you’ll be able to muster up enough courage to talk to him. But it all disappears the moment his eyes land on you. And you find yourself turning before you say to.

Trink is stretching her arms above her head, her tank top rides up slightly to reveal her belly. She lets out a slight yawn, and then she pulls her top back down and looks between you, Eytelle and Allio.

“Breakfast?” she proposes.

You wonder how far is too far with Finnick.

“Yeah.” Eytelle agrees, Allio raises to his feet.

Trink’s eyes land on you, waiting to see what you have to say.

You roll your shoulders and give her a bright smile, “Well, obviously.”

Trink leads the way out of the dormitory, with Eytelle and Allio in the middle, and you taking up the back. Up until the door slides shut smoothly behind you, your hands are balled into fists and you can’t relax your shoulders no matter how hard you try. You just feel safer now that you’re out of sight, at least their eyes won’t be on you.

For a while, you focus on Allio and Eytelle’s voice echoing off the walls, as they talk about what they think their rank might be. It’s an easy enough conversation for you to escape to. Since the answer should be pretty difficult to find, because of technicalities and all. But the mystery is solved two minutes later, and the distraction is no longer here.

You’re lucky that the walk to the dining hall is short.

“You two head inside, we’ll follow in a minute.” Trink says, giving them a polite smile.

“Do you want to sit with the Dauntless-borns?” Eytelle is walking backwards.

Trink makes a face like she’s telling them ‘obviously’, but speaks anyway, “Make sure it’s with Lennox.”

Eytelle nods, and the two of them disappear inside. Trink turns to you next, her smile fading from her face, “Why didn’t you say anything to her?”

You press your lips together for a moment, and then you speak, “I know what I’m doing with Finnick.”

“Really?” she rolls her eyes, “Come on, (Y/n).”

“I’ve been dealing with him for my entire life.” you tell her, drifting towards the doorway. You two might be friends now, but you don’t have to reveal all your secrets to her just yet. It’s been less than a day, “Thyme won’t last, trust me.”

She raises her eyebrows, “You should still talk to him.”

“I will.” you say, she’s starting to follow you now, “I’ll do it tomorrow before the final fight.”

Trink shrugs.

The two of you stand together for a while, before she’s the first to spot your group from last night. At the table, she greets Lennox and slides right in next to him. She serves herself a small portion of toast and blueberry pancakes, as always, and starts talking as if they’ve been friends for a long time.

Ameer and Mirza are sitting across from each other, a path is cleared between them to allow the arm wrestling match. It seems like they’re both struggling, since Mirza will stay on top for a while, straining. Then Ameer will get a burst of strength and push his brother’s arm down toward the table. Neither of them have won yet.

Sydney is twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, talking to Nestor and occasionally Ameer. It’s always through gritted teeth and gasps if he does respond. She doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, no one looks bothered over the twins’ shenanigans.

Claris isn’t gathered with you guys, she’s actually sitting on the far end of the table off to the left. Hallie sits beside her, the two of them talk every now and then between long stretches of silence. However, the person that is sitting here with you guys, is Blaire.

He’s got one of his black curls pulled out, talking to Lennox and Trink. When he lets go, the curl bounces back into place as if it wasn’t out in the open just seconds before.

“Four people are going to be cut after this last fight, right?” Trink says, she’s squishing a blueberry between her fork and her plate.

“Yeah,” Lennox says, “The two lowest ranking initiates from both groups.”

Trink hums, “Who’s your two?”

Blaire gives her a look, and then you, “You first.”

“Amos and Ossie.” you say, carving your fingernail into the wooden table, “No question about it.”

Trink’s face twists for a moment, eyebrows raising, and then dropping. Like she’s trying to tell you that it isn’t set in stone. Like she’s trying to tell you that you’ve lost your last two fights, technically Ossie is ranked above you at the moment, and so is Trink.

That won’t last long. You’ll be winning tomorrow’s fight, no matter who it’s against.

“That was easy.” Lennox breathes out a laugh, and then he jabs his thumb to Claris and Hallie, “They’re out. Neither of them have won. They talk shit but the rest of us are taller and stronger than they are.”

Sydney pauses what she’s saying to Nestor to lean in, “The two of them talk like they own the world. Should’ve seen their faces when they got their asses kicked on the first day. Or when they couldn’t even move the punching bag.” Nestor nods in agreement.

“Huh,” you let out.

Blaire shrugs, “Just how it is.”

Trink leans her head against her hand, pushing her plate away now, “How was it working with Finnick and Thyme?”

The question makes Mirza lose at the arm wrestling match. Blaire stares at Trink for a long moment, his eyebrows drawing in, “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I guess I should’ve asked if he mentioned anything about (Y/n). And what exactly did he say?”

You want to stomp on Trink’s foot beneath the table, but she’s not across from you. You wish that she wouldn’t go around asking questions like this. You don’t care what he said about you during the paintball match. In fact, you could guarantee that it’s not anything bad, because Finnick doesn’t bad-mouth until he’s absolutely certain that the other person is his enemy.

You press your lips together and scowl.

“Well,” Blaire looks uncomfortable, as he probably should be, “It’s complicated… I guess.”

“Oh, come on.” Trink waves her hand, “You can’t hurt her feelings, she’s a brick wall.”

You’re suddenly glad that she hasn’t seen you vulnerable just yet. And that you held yourself together after the incident in the Pit, hanging over the river. Otherwise she might be saying something else right now.

Blaire looks to Mirza for reassurance, but the twins are gone. The two of them have vanished without a single word. Blaire sighs, “Finnick said that the two of you had grown up together.” his eyes are on you, “And that you know everything about him, including his weaknesses. He also said that your actions are predictable which is why you aren’t threatening.”

Silence sweeps the table. You let the hotness take over your face first. Anger so rich and raw that you might as well be a reincarnated god. But there’s something bubbling in your chest, light and friendly. The exact opposite of war and bloodshed.

You try to stay straight-faced, but there’s a crack at the corner of your lips. Until you burst, tears forming in your eyes. The laugh is loud, but draws no attention from the other Dauntless around you. With the exception of the group you’re sitting with, of course. You end up covering your mouth, trying to be a bit more modest.

“Not threatening, huh?” You smile, running your finger over the divot you’ve carved into the table. Then, you look up to Blaire, “If I were you, I’d be skeptical.”

Blaire doesn’t respond right away, “What does that mean?”

“Well, for starters.” You place your palms on the table, getting ready to leave, “He doesn’t know me as well as he thinks.”

You stand up from the bench. The clock on the wall says that it’s ten minutes to eight, which means you’ll be arriving in the training room early if you leave now. It’ll give you a moment to think and reassess your next move.

You take a step forward, but then stop, “Finnick isn’t as put-together as he likes to show. It’s all a façade. I’ll be in the training room.”

You take your time leaving the dining hall, not seeing a reason to rush. You have more than enough time to get there, and you need to spend it all.

On the way out, you pass Finnick and Thyme.

You were wrong. You thought that Finnick would keep his opinions of you to himself. The two of you don’t know these people, and they weren’t in your business to begin with. So what is he doing, basically telling people that you’re weak?

A hand hooks around the inside of your elbow, keeping you from talking further.

You yank your arm out, turning to face Finnick, while putting distance between the two of you. The mere look on his face is enough for you to set your jaw, clenching your teeth together. A deer in headlights, a child acting like it doesn’t know what it did wrong, an act.

“Hey,” he says, even his voice is soft, like he’s trying to coax you, “Are you okay?”

Your first instinct is to snap and then run. Leave him blinded and shocked just like you were a couple of moments ago. But the longer you stare at him, the more you begin to realize that he’s not acting. He’s being genuine.

“I’m fine.” you force yourself to calm down, standing up so that you aren’t hunched over, “Thanks for asking, though.”

“Are you sure?” Finnick straightens out too, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You can see Thyme stalking over his shoulder, eyes boring right into yours. Watching, waiting. Probably wanting material to spread around to the others. Look at (Y/n), upset over this and not nearly as scary as she can seem at times. She’s probably the one that managed to convince Finnick that you aren’t threatening.

“Not with her around.” you snarl, looking past him, “You’re a goddamn coward, you know that? And it’s no surprise, you come from Amity.”

She backs up, face twisting when Finnick looks over his shoulder.

“Really?” you ask, moving forward. Finnick presses a hand to your chest, keeping you from going any further. You look at him dead in the eyes, “You’re stopping me? Why? She can take care of herself. If she’s going to cause problems, then she’s going to deal with the consequences.”

“You’re not thinking straight.” Finnick says, not affected by how angry you are.

You slap his hand off and shove him back in one move, “So? Does that scare you, Finnick? What happened to me not being threatening?”

Finnick’s confused for a second, but then his face smoothes over, and he’s shaking his head, “That’s what this is about?”

You grit your teeth, “Yes, Finnick, that’s why I’m upset.”

“You don’t know the context--”

“No!” your voice is loud, “Blaire told me the context. You said I wasn’t threatening because I’m so fucking predictable.” you shove him again, “If I’m so predictable to you, then why do you bother to stick around?”

Finnick doesn’t say anything, there’s an overwhelming silence that sits between you two. Thyme doesn’t even move from where she is, her hand is pressed against the wall as if she’ll fall over. What a drama queen.

It seems like you have attracted attention, though. Out of the corner of your eye, you’re able to see Damon coming your way. Why he’s still inside of the dining room when he eats earlier than everyone else, you don’t know. What you do know is that you’re about to get in trouble.

“Back up.” Damon says, motioning, “Now.”

You do, hands balling into fists. You should’ve hit him when you had the fucking chance to. Or lunged straight towards Thyme, who’s playing up the innocent act again.

“Where are you going?” he looks at you first.

“The training room.”

Then his eyes land on Finnick and Thyme. Finnick’s the one to speak, “For breakfast.”

“Go.” he tells them, not leaving from where he stands. He waits until Finnick and Thyme are clearly inside before turning to you, “I remember being told that Laurel issued a warning about fighting.”

“Yeah, I was there for it,” you say, “But I didn’t hit him, so it doesn’t count.”

“Shoving counts.” Damon says, “Don’t do it again.”

“Sure.” you say, “Sorry.”

You turn and leave before he tries to talk to you anymore. You’re already testing his patience by being short with him. You head straight into the darkness, nails digging into your palms. The walk to the training room isn’t as serene as you originally wanted it to be. With every step you take, you can only find more reason to be angry.

There’s so many things you should’ve said to him.

By the time you get to the actual room, you’re only slightly calmed down. There’s no doubt that you just made things worse between you and Finnick. But to be fair, it’s no thanks to Trink. You don’t know whether or not to be angry at her. If she hadn’t asked the questions in the first place, then you’d still be on the road to recovery with Finnick.

It all conflicts with the fact that you wouldn’t have known what Finnick said if she hadn’t asked. You didn’t know he was talking about you like that. And sometimes it’s good to be underestimated, but here it’s not. It’s the simplest way for you to end up factionless.

Laurel and Caspian are already inside when you get there. They barely look up at first, too focused on what they’re hovering over. Laurel then suddenly raises her head, a murmur sounding from her. Caspian has to turn his body to see.

You give them a gentle wave.

“Don’t touch anything just yet.” he says, motioning you to stand somewhere.

Along the wall of the entrance sits tables with knives on them. All of them black, with identical blades and sizes. On the other side of the room are targets, much like the ones you’ve used to shoot guns. It looks like you get to try your hand at something new today.

It’s hard to be excited when there’s a hateful feeling in your stomach, telling you that Finnick will have no trouble keeping his streak. He’ll nail the middle of the target and then immediately turn to Thyme to gloat. You can’t help but to wonder if he genuinely thinks he’s winning in Dauntless right now, because you wouldn’t think so. Not when your best friend is halfway out of the door.

You pick a spot on the far side, shoving your hands into your pockets while you stare at the wood. If you strain hard enough to hear, you can listen in on what Laurel and Caspian are talking about. And it honestly sounds like they’re discussing the pairs for tomorrow’s fights. You thought they would have worked this all out this morning, but you guess you were wrong.

You have to win, no matter what. Or you will end up in last place. And instead of Ossie being cut, it will be you. You and Amos.

It’s funny, really. For a second, you really thought that you were on top of the world. You didn’t know just how quickly it would all fall back down. How you wouldn’t be able to catch everything--anything. It took a week to break all that you’ve worked towards your entire life.

You still have enough time to turn it around and end up on top. All you have to do is pass this first stage, and then you could blow everyone out of the water. You have the power to. You just have to apply yourself more.

A couple of minutes later, the others begin to arrive in their own groups. The first is Ossie and Amos, the next is your three new friends, and the last is Finnick and Thyme. This time, they’re the ones keeping their distance, placing themselves firmly on the other side of the room.

If Caspian has any questions rising, he doesn’t ask them. You do catch the quick look between you and Finnick, though. As if he’s trying to decipher it for himself. His eyes find yours again, and you give him a gentle head shake, letting him know that things are not what they are anymore. You wish it weren’t this complicated.

“Tomorrow is the final fight, and it will also be the last day of stage one.” Caspian says, he stands near the chalkboard, shouting across the room. His voice carries well, you don’t have to turn your head to hear him better.

“Today, you’ll be learning how to aim.” Laurel continues for him, “Pick up three knives, and pay attention. No one will be excused from tomorrow’s fighting, so try not to hurt yourselves.”

You all begin to wander over to the knives. You pick up the first one in your hands, and you can’t help but to notice just how light it is. It’s not as heavy as the one in your aptitude test, or the one back home in Abnegation. This is as light as a feather, easily movable. It reminds you of the knife you used to cut your hand during the Choosing Ceremony.

You pick up the other two, being careful not to cut your hands.

“I’ll demonstrate, so pay attention!” Laurel shouts.

Once you’re all back in your respective places, all eyes are on her. You have to move around a little to see better, and you can’t help but to curse yourself for choosing this end of the room. But then again, you didn’t want to invade on Caspian and Laurel’s privacy, clearly it was an important conversation.

Laurel is smooth and flawless with her throws. One after the other, each one hits the dead center of the target. Once all three knives are gone, she backs away from the target. You have to move again to see that she’s thrown her knives so that they make a triangle.

“Line up!” she yells, “And get to throwing! Caspian and I will observe.”

You remember the first time you shot the gun they gave you. It’s almost hard to believe that was only five days ago. At the rate things have been moving around you, it almost feels like a year.

Automatically, you find yourself readjusting your stance to mirror what Laurel had looked like. She had her dominant forward just a little more, body turned to the side to allow her dominant arm move free range. You extend and tense your arm a couple of times, getting a feel for the throw.

You have to remember to exhale when you let go.

And make sure not to think too much or you’ll hesitate.

You draw your arm back, knife handle in your hand. Your eyes land on the red circle in the middle of the wood. You hold your breath for a moment, pausing to readjust, and then you throw.

For a second, all you can hear is the sound of knives bouncing off the wall. No one has made it even close to their target. So why are you so sure that you’re going to be different?

Well, because you are.

The knife lodges in the red circle. It’s nowhere near perfect, since it’s off center and barely hanging on. But you are the first.

“Wow!” Trink lets out, “That’s luck!”

You prepare the second knife in your hand, drawing your arm back the same way, correcting for the middle. This time, when the knife hits the wooden board, you are much closer to the center. You’re too eager for the third knife, excitement bubbling up your throat and to your cheeks. An infectious smile fills your face when the third knife is in the center.

A hand slaps on your shoulder, “You’re a natural.” Caspian’s hand slips slightly as he moves around you to take a better look. He lets out a slight whistle.

Eytelle and Allio are nodding along, looking enthusiastic.

You can’t help yourself, though. You thank Caspian, but move to look at Finnick and Thyme, to watch them throw. You catch Finnick’s eyes for a brief second, clearly he was watching you. It’s your turn to take notes now.

You felt this exact same way when you first shot the handgun. To know that you were so close to the center circle, only for Finnick to best you. Finnick moves his hand, showing you that he still has all three knives in his hands. It’s an under-the-table move, not noticeable unless you’re paying close attention. Which means that Thyme completely misses it. The blades glint in the light.

He raises his arm, Thyme pauses what she’s doing to watch him. She’s already missed her first two knives. Finnick takes in a deep breath when he throws, and this is where he goes wrong. You’ll give him credit, because the knife hits the board. But it’s a corner, and clatters to the ground without sticking.

Finnick’s face twists, and when he turns to you--

You’ve already got both hands up, formed in an ‘X’.

Figuring that you’ve reached the point of no return yesterday, you went ahead and switched beds after dinner. Originally, you’d been sleeping over Finnick. Now you’re over Trink, since she’s the one that has an open bunk. You went to bed before you got a chance to see Finnick’s reaction, but you can tell by the way he’s acting this morning, that he’s upset.

He’s normally chatty in the morning, whether it had been with you, or Thyme. But no matter how many times Thyme tries to start a conversation with him, he only lets out one word answers. Which is a telltale sign that Finnick is not as okay as he’s been projecting. Another reason why Thyme doesn’t fit the space, she thinks about herself first and not the people around her.

Abnegation-raised children have been taught to focus on others before them. Like Candor, you begin to be able to pick out the little things from others reactions and body language. You might not be able to ask about it, but you’re supposed to notice it so that it’s easier to avoid the topic.

Thyme knows nothing about this, which means she doesn’t know when to leave things be instead of trying to fill the silence.

There’s a tight feeling of smugness in your chest. Finnick is going to be the one to apologize, not you. Not like you have a reason to, anyway. You already did and he ignored you, as if it hadn’t existed at all. You weren’t bluffing, it was a genuine apology.

You start out of the bathroom, fully dressed, shoes on, minty breath. All you have to do is wait for Trink to get ready, and then the four of you can head to the dining hall so you can watch and wait for them to eat. You already decided that you shouldn’t eat this morning. With the way everyone has been going at your stomach, it’s the only real choice you have. Unless you want to puke all over the floor, of course.

Trink’s in the middle of braiding her hair, talking to Eytelle. Allio is still in the bathroom, you saw him wander into the shower area just before he shut the curtain. He said that it should only take a couple of minutes. So, you suppose that you should correct yourself. You’re waiting on Allio, not Trink.

You start toward the girls, a question to start conversation already appearing on your tongue. But it all dies when someone appears in your path, tall and towering over you, like he always does. You press your lips together and look up at Finnick. And you can’t help but to think that this scene is all too familiar.

But the last time you checked, you moved out of the way.

“We should talk.” Finnick says, his voice is gentle, face smoothed over.

“Yeah?” you ask, eyebrows raising slightly.

You will not be the one apologizing this time.

He takes his time before speaking. Letting out a small breath, sucking in one between his teeth. He does this every single time, you know what to expect. He’ll start his sentence off with the apology, and then what he did wrong.

Finnick takes in a final breath, “I need you to hear me out.”

No.

No, this is wrong.

You stare at him, almost wanting to hold your breath.

This is the second time you’ve been wrong about Finnick would or wouldn’t do.

Finnick takes your silence as a good sign to keep talking, “When I said that to my team, I was still angry at you for blowing me off.”

Now you hold your breath, teeth settling in. He’s wrong, you didn’t blow him off. You apologized, you told him why you’ve been acting this way. It’s the other way around, he’s the one that confronted you and didn’t even listen. As if he didn’t care in the first place, and just wanted to find a way to get at you.

“I should have phrased what I said differently, though.” Finnick pauses for a moment, “Your turn.”

Your turn?

“That was not an apology,” are the first words to leave your mouth, eager, slick and pissed.

Finnick stares at you, like he’s thinking it over. It’s just five words, straight-forward all by itself. But then his lips press together, and his face begins to turn red, eyebrows turning downward. He’s acting like you’re in the wrong here. You’ve apologized, you’ve expressed your dislike for Thyme, so why does he keep on pushing it? What the fuck does he want from you?

“You are brave.” Finnick’s words are low.

He doesn’t scare you.

You know him in and out.

You know his darkest secrets.

How is he going to scare you?

“I’m the brave one?” you ask him slowly, “Last time I checked, I already fucking apologized. You were the one that didn’t listen. You were the one that brushed me off. Don’t come to me acting like the victim.

“Not to mention, Finnick,” you spit his name, “You didn’t even say that you regret what you said to your team. You said that you would rephrase it. It’s a fucking excuse, and I don’t do excuses. You owe me an apology.”

“For what?” he asks.

You explode, voice loud, “What the fuck do you mean ‘for what’?” you’re shaking your head, “I just fucking told you! Do you want another reason, then? You’ve been treating Thyme, over there, like your fucking best friend as if I’m not here. She’s the devil on your shoulder, Finnick. Won’t you open your eyes?”

Finnick shoves you back, you catch your footing in time to make it look natural. You don’t see this as a good sign, though. He’s angry, “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Why not? Don’t like facing the truth--?”

“Because she’s my fucking friend, (Y/n)!” Finnick shouts back, “You called her a bitch and you don’t have a shred of sympathy!”

He gestures over his shoulder, straight at Thyme. She’s sitting on her bed, looking like she’s enjoying herself, watching the two of you go at each other like this. You watch as she fakes a pout, bites her lip, and then turns her head away. Her shoulders shake, pretending to cry. But her giggle is unmistakable.

It takes everything in you not to lunge at her.

The oven controlling your body is only getting hotter. You can feel your fingernails digging into the skin on your palm. Your eyes flash to Finnick, “Why should I? She’s not my fucking friend, she’s yours!”

You move forward, “And I know this might be shocking to you, but I’m your friend. I’ve been your best friend for years! So why are you so hellbent on keeping her, and not me? Aren’t I more valuable than this?”

Finnick stares, no response coming from him.

Your jaw sets, “During the Choosing Ceremony, before I came to Dauntless, I thought it would be an even trade. To take you, and leave my family behind. Clearly, I was fucking wrong.”

The anger washes away from his face, his mouth opening. You can see his hand raising to grab onto you.

You jerk away, “Don’t worry Finnick, this is all fine to me.” you give him a sneer, “Just don’t forget that I know all of your secrets. And there’s nothing stopping me from using them anymore.”

Finnick doesn’t say anything, hand frozen out to grab you.

“It’s time to go to the training room.” Trink’s voice cuts the silence that deafens the room.

No one moves from where they are. Not even Ossie and Amos left early to get breakfast. They’re still near the door, hand poised on the handle, like they had been expecting the fight to only last a couple of seconds. Or for the two of you to kiss and make up and let this all be over and in the past.

You’re the first to straighten.

“Okay,” you say, still staring at Finnick, “Let’s go then.”

Ossie and Amos scoot out of the door first. Trink holds it open for you, before letting Allio take it next. She keeps to your side, glancing at your face every now and then like she expects it to change. But there’s an unmistakable anger that’s bubbling in your stomach and popping in your chest. Like lava.

She’s wise enough not to say anything.

You all arrive late to the training room. Caspian has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the door when you walk in. He doesn’t look happy at all, and neither does Laurel. You’re guessing it’s because Mags is standing right there, hands behind her back, assessing each and every one of you as you enter.

“Where’s Finnick and Thyme?” Caspian barks.

“Oh, they’re coming.” you snarl.

Caspian’s eyes linger on you, but you’re more focused on the board behind him. To see who’s fighting who. They’re standing directly in it, purposefully blocking your view. You hope it’s Thyme. You hope it’s Thyme. You hope it’s Thyme.

You hope it’s Thyme.

After a few more beats of silence, the door to the training room opens.

Caspian tilts his head slightly, like he’s unsure what to make of today’s newfound tension.

But then he moves out of the way.

And there’s an explosion of pleasurable bliss that fills your body.

You will not be fighting Thyme.

You will be fighting the man himself.

You grin, head turning to see Finnick’s reaction. He’s stoic, staring ahead at the board, not entertaining you. It’s fine, Finnick. You already know what you need to. You saw him reach out. You saw the look of remorse. Everyone did. There’s no point in being so guarded now.

The chalkboard reads:

You and Finnick.

Trink and Thyme.

Allio and Amos.

Eytelle and Ossie.

“Oh, she’s going to get her ass demolished.” Trink cracks her knuckles.

“(Y/n) and Finnick.” Caspian calls, watching.

“Good luck.” Trink says, Eytelle and Allio echo her.

You resist the urge to skip to the circle.

When you get there, you crack and stretch every place you can think of, letting Finnick take his time. In the meantime, you go over every single detail that you’ve logged over the years and the past couple of days. Finnick has only been hit twice, both in places that are insignificant. You shouldn’t spend your time focusing on them.

You need to watch the way he moves, and predict his hits before he makes them. If you stay ahead of the game, then Finnick will have no opportunity to get at you. And if he does, it’ll be minor chances that won’t have a single affect on you.

You will come out as the winner of this fight.

Even if that means to put the remainder of your friendship on the line.

You roll your ankles in front of you, stretch your shoulders back and forth. You can feel every little ache in your body. Unfortunately, you’re going to be defensive in some areas, even if you don’t want to be. You were smart to give up during Ossie’s fight when you did. Otherwise you’d be hurting so much worse right now.

There’s a few things that Finnick’s going to want out of this fight. The first is a quick and easy win. He wins this, he keeps his perfect streak of no losses and no major injuries. He gets to impress Mags, and the fight won’t be dragged on for longer than a couple of minutes.

So you need to do the exact opposite.

You’re the first to raise your fists, he follows suit. You can’t help but to smile, “What’s the matter, Finnick? You’re looking a little blue.” his face hardens, “Something happen?”

He moves forward, “Shut up.”

You don’t move, standing your ground, “Sounds like you’re a little scared. Am I suddenly threatening to you?”

His arm twitches, you jump back, out of the way completely just to be safe. You’re not sure if he’s going to pull an Allio and swing at you with his non-dominant hand. You’ve already made that mistake, so it won’t be happening again.

“A little unpredictable?”

If Finnick is twitching, you’ve broken the mask. Finnick is supposed to have smooth movements. He’s always had smooth movements.

“Stop fucking with him and fight.” Caspian barks.

You ignore him. You have a plan, and antagonizing Finnick is on the list. You need him to stay angry, so that his actions aren’t hidden. It’s almost like what Ossie did to Allio on the first day, except you’re being verbal. It’s easier to get under Finnick’s skin this way. You need to stay one step ahead of him.

You move toward Finnick now, remembering the way that he had started all three of his fights. You need to find a way to get Finnick down. As long as he’s standing, he has an advantage on you. There’s no way you’re going to get a good hit on his face, he’ll be able to catch your arm before you’re even close.

Maybe if you get his guard down?

You’re prepared for Finnick’s swing, he likes to take the first hit, usually. You manage to lean out of the way before driving your fist into his stomach, backing off immediately after. His face is a shade of red, slightly twisted in pain. Unlike Allio, Finnick doesn’t absorb hits as well. He’s not used to being hit.

Finnick comes closer, crossing the circle straight instead of slowly shuffling to get to you. You don’t move at first, still trying to stay with the ‘keep your ground’ strategy. But the closer he draws, the more you realize that you can’t escape this. You can’t come up with a plan and stall. You need to give Mags something to make you stick out.

You head towards him too. Finnick is not the only initiate in this room who can match energy.

You jerk to the side, watching as Finnick immediately goes to correct his path so that you’re in his line of sight. You wonder if Finnick really has a need to show off and drag this fight out for Mags. He rarely switches up routine, so you’d like to say that he doesn’t. It’s the whole reason why he can be terrifying sometimes.

Everyone knows how he likes his matches by now, which is probably why Finnick has been put to fight first after the first fight. Because his is the quickest and easiest, you know what to expect to happen and how it’ll end. You can see why people would be afraid of him for this reason. If something isn’t broken, why replace it? Finnick has won all his matches in three punches or less, why try to change that?

It’s more impressive to get someone down without severely injuring them anyway, right? It’s like a demonstration of raw power. And with you being on the opposite end of the spectrum… it’s like you always have something to prove.

You can feel your face drop, eyebrows drawing in.

No, everyone in Dauntless has something to prove. If you don’t, then there’s no point in being here. If you’re not proving that you’re strong, or brave, or--for fuck’s sake--threatening, you won’t be considered an equal. And if there’s anything, anyone ever wants, it’s to be an equal or above.

This brings you to another infuriating realization. Finnick does not see you as his equal.

Without a single thought going into the move, your fist flies across Finnick’s cheek. His head turns, eyes widening. You duck, he misses, you’re back on your feet in time to slam your shoe into his ribs. When you move forward again to keep the rhythm, Finnick backs up, eyes darting across your body.

You fix your hands before he decides that’s a good place to target. You need to make sure he stays away from your nose and stomach. Everything else on your body is free reign, you could give less of a shit. But if you break your nose again, you’re not sure you’ll be able to stop the blood flow this time.

Finnick presses his hand to his ribs for a moment, his hand looks shaky. He stops backing up, now that he’s assessed the damage to his ribs and completely ignored his face. It’s a shame too, Finnick’s always been cute.

He moves towards you, you try not to back up too much. You still need a way to get him down without aiming at his face. You got lucky with the face shot, it will not happen again. Like you, Finnick tends to be more careful with spots that were just hit. If you want to try again, you’d have to find another way to wind up to get there.

Then again, you didn’t even think about it. One second you were standing there, and the next your knuckles were throbbing.

You bounce from side to side, watching him. You just barely catch the way he leans forward, throwing all of his weight into his punch. You twist your head to the side, which changes Finnick’s course of punching your nose, to your jaw instead. You recover better this way, ignoring the complaints from the nerves in your teeth.

Without much of a choice, you punch Finnick’s stomach, using the weight idea that he had originally used. The silence in the room is temporarily disturbed when he gasps, trying to suck in air to replace what you’ve stolen. You squeeze your fist tighter, bringing your arm back to do it again.

Finnick’s hand envelopes your fist, catching it before you land the hit. It isn’t until he’s twisting your arm, do you realize what he’s about to do. It’s the exact same thing he did with Eytelle. Trap her, twist her arm, two punches and she was out like a light.

You need out, right now.

You yank, ignoring the pain in your wrist. Finnick’s raising his arm, face stoic and staring into your eyes. You need to break the mask. You saw his face when you told him what happened at the Choosing Ceremony. You need to do something like that again.

You grab his wrist with your other hand, not pulling away as prominently now. You let tears flood your eyes, “Don’t, please.”

At the softness of your voice, Finnick’s arm isn’t as tensed, his face matching the emotion you’re giving him. He still plans on punching you, just not as hard. Which is good enough for you. He’s fallen for it.

Your left hand hits his chest, full-force, dead-on. He loosens his grip, but not enough for you to regain your right hand. You twist your arm until your wrist is grabbing his, before kicking his legs from underneath him.

He pulls you down with him, making you land on top. The two of you scramble to get the upper hand, but it’s easier for you. You place your hips on top of his, struggling to get your wrist free. He’s got a lock of iron, and no matter how much twisting you do, he doesn’t budge.

You lean forward for a moment, slamming your right foot on top of his wrist, keeping it from moving. This means that you have limited mobility, though. And he’s still got full use of his right hand.

Finnick knows this, his arm is already raising. All he has to do is turn his upper body and he’ll be able to hit your face. You could try to catch his wrist, but he’s got enough force to plow through whatever you’ll be able to do.

You still have access to your left foot.

Right as Finnick unwinds, you slam your foot across his jaw. You can hear his teeth snap against each other, head hitting the wooden floor. He finally releases your wrist though, which is enough for you. His hands cup his face, but it won’t last long.

The first punch is to his chest, making his body cave in temporarily. The next is to his nose, blood running down the side of his face and pooling on the floor. You aim for his nose again, and this time you’re filled with a fluttery pleasurable feeling, hearing the snap fill the air.

A pain explodes across your mouth, bringing tears to your eyes. You back off of Finnick for a moment, allowing him to shove you off of his body. You scoot back, not wanting to close your mouth. But you can’t help it anymore, gritting your teeth to combat the pain. You taste metal immediately.

And see red right after.

You lunge for Finnick, who’s trying to get on his feet. He’s moving slower than usual, which is probably because he’s rubbing the blood from his mouth to avoid the problem you’re currently facing. He doesn’t see you coming. Your body collides with his again, fist raised and slamming against his mouth this time.

Let’s see if he likes how it feels.

The two of you end up in the same position as last time, only he’s twisted at an uncomfortable angle, and you’re straddling his hip. You can’t help yourself, aiming for his cheekbone. The more injuries reside on his face, the more proof it is that you beat Finnick. The more the lesson sinks in.

You are just as good as he is. And he was stupid to think otherwise.

This is his punishment.

The tunnel vision begins as soon as you start a pattern. Each time you blink, his face gets worse. First his nose, then his swollen lips, then the red splotches across his cheekbone. Your knuckles catch his jaw, slamming his head into the ground harder. The more you lean forward, the more leverage you begin to have.

And Finnick is pushing, blocking his face while he tries to find an opening. But it’s hard to block his entire face with just a forearm. You should know, because it’s one of the flaws that he couldn’t pick at.

One hit after the other, your hands begin to coat red. Your knuckles begin to ache, arms becoming sore, too much protest because of how much force you’re using. You can’t help it, there’s no other way to keep him down. Any other place, and he would just get up again.

Your hand raises for his eye, and you get halfway through the move before there’s a pair of hands grabbing your arms, yanking you off of Finnick. You struggle for a moment, but the hands are gone as quickly as they came. The person throws you away from your former friend, and moves in.

It’s Laurel, hovering over him like she doesn’t know where to begin.

There’s throbbing in your temples, a headache beginning to form. You wonder why the room is so quiet at first, then you realize that there’s an intense ringing in your ears, taking it’s time to fade out. By the time you regain your hearing, Laurel is saying something about calling the doctor, Cleo, and having her bring an extra pair of hands to wheel Finnick out.

You can feel a dripping sensation beneath your nose. You reach up to touch the area, and come back with red. You don’t remember your nose getting hit, and you can’t tell if this is your blood or Finnick’s.

“Please.” a whisper fills the room.

Your eyes land on Finnick, who’s nothing but a mess of blood and tears. Did he call the end of the fight? You don’t remember hearing that either. In fact, you don’t think you remember anything. Only the feeling of skin-on-skin contact, over and over and over...

Laurel gently tells him that the fight is over, before she looks over her shoulder at you.

You think you can see disappointment. Or maybe it’s anger.

All you know is that you struggle to stand on your own two legs, smearing blood on the floor. You can feel your legs tremble beneath you. Your hands are the same way, not staying in the same place for longer than half a second, coated in red. Your palms, really, are the only safe place that isn’t touched by Finnick’s blood. You can feel droplets running down the back of your arms.

“Holy shit, (Y/n),”

You look over to see Caspian, drained of color. He’s surprised, why? Did he not see the way you fought Allio? Or does that not compare? Mags doesn’t look the same way, she just stares. You don’t know what to say to either of them, so you don’t. You slowly back out of the white circle.

And then the words come to mind, “I couldn’t lose,” it’s quiet, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “And he needed to.”

You’re not sure if needed is the word, you guess it doesn't really matter.

You won, Finnick lost.

And neither of you can come back from this.

Not anymore.

ANTERIC IS A SPIN-OFF DIVERGENT AU //MASTERLIST//

add yourself to the TAGLIST

@amixedwitch / @justthatfangirloverthere / @fnnshelbys / @neenieweenie / @vxntae / @liaaacantwrite / @terezasworld / @i-dumb-bitch /

#ilguna #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair anteric #anteric #anteric chapter six

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sailorshadzter · 4 years

Text

i’m yours to keep, but yours to lose.

In the aftermath of a devastating loss, Sansa Stark and Jon Snow must navigate what it means to love and be loved. A modern day Jonsa story.

title: so it goes by taylor swift

When his phone rings, his heart sinks.

The last time his phone had rang with a Northern number, it had been because Robb was dead. This time when the unsaved number flashes across his screen, he already knows to expect the worst.

"Hello?" He greets on the last ring, picking up before his voicemail can. Something tells him he has to answer this call.

"Hello... Is this Jon Snow?"

It's an unfamiliar woman's voice on the other end. In the background he can hear snippets of other voices, the steady beeping of a machine. "...yes" he finally answers, rising up from where he sits on his couch to walk towards the front windows. "This is." He clarifies with more confidence and the woman lets out a thankful sounding sigh.

"I’m sorry to bother you like this, but my name is Alys, I'm calling from Wintertown Hospital." A pause, as if the woman is turning around, looking at someone. Despite the distance between them, despite being connected by just a single phone call, Jon knows this woman feels pity and sorrow as she makes this call. "I have a Sansa Stark here and you're-"

"Sansa?" Jon yelps, interrupting the woman before she can finish. "Is she okay? Why is she there?"

"There's been an incident..." The woman, Alys, explains. "She asked for us to call you..."

"I'll be there tomorrow." Is all he says before hanging up, his heart beating a steady pace within his chest. The last place he wants to go his back home, back North... But for Sansa... He would go anywhere.

When Jon arrives at Wintertown Hospital, he's running off six cups of coffee and zero sleep.

He had said he would be here today and he had meant it. And so he had stuffed a bag with clean clothes, his toothbrush, and after asking a neighbor to check in on Ghost, he climbed into his truck and sped away without a backwards glance. Stopping only for coffee, he drove straight from his little townhouse in King's Landing back North, back to the place he'd been born and raised, back to the place he once swore he would never again set foot in.

Rushing through the sliding glass doors, he impatiently waits behind a man checking in at the front desk, complaining of a persistent cough. "I'm here to see Sansa Stark!" He barks as soon as he's stepped up to the desk, a rush of emotions and caffeine sharpening his tone more than he intends. The nurse narrows her eyes, clearly unhappy with his tone- not that he can blame her. "Please, I got a call... From someone named Alys." He softens and at once, the nurse responds, giving a single nod before she's reaching for the phone.

"Alys will be down in a moment, if you'd like to wait over there." The nurse gestures towards the small waiting area, to which Jon gives his thanks and takes to the nearest chair, collapsing into it. A moment to himself leaves him lost in thought as a familiar flicker of sorrow twists in his heart, a reminder of the last time he'd been here in this hospital. Luckily he doesn't have long to wait, for it only takes a few minutes for him to notice a slim, well dressed woman approaching the check-in desk, only for the nurse behind it to point to where he sits now.

He's already on the edge of his seat when she approaches him instead. "Jon Snow?" She questions in the very same voice of the woman on the phone that had called him- so this was Alys. "Thank you for coming," she goes on when Jon nods, rising up to his feet as he stretches out a hand for her to shake. "I'm Alys, we spoke yesterday on the phone..."

"Please, tell me what's happened." Jon says and Alys gives a quick nod.

"Come with me." Is all she says, leading him past the desk and into a small room where a patient might first be seen, to have their vitals checked before being admitted into the hospital itself. "She's in a room, now, but first..." Alys trails off as they pass through this first room and into what must be the emergency room. "In here," she gestures for him to follow her into an empty room and she closes the door behind them.

"Is she okay?" Jon asks, impatient, unable to focus on anything beyond the state she's in.

To his relief, Alys smiles, though it is strained, uncertain. "She is unhurt, yes," she answers in a roundabout way, which douses the flicker of relief within him. "You are familiar with the Stark family, yes?" She asks, though the young Stark girl had explained to him that Jon was a childhood friend, more like a brother than anything else. Jon nods, but as he meets gazes with the woman, a cold sense of dread has already begun to fill him up. "Two nights ago... Ned, Catelyn, and their youngest sons were murdered."

For a moment, Jon cannot move, cannot think. Every single thought leaves his brain as he tries desperately to wrap his mind around what he's just been told. "They... They what?" He asks, feeling rather stupid when the words leave him. "Murdered?" He breathes, thinking of Bran, of Rickon, little boys he thought of more as brothers. He thinks of Ned Stark, a proud, noble man who had always treated him as one of his own. He thinks of Catelyn Stark, who had always ensured he had enough to eat. They had been his family when he'd not had one of his own. In the Stark's, he had brothers and sisters and parents- even if they weren't linked by blood or by name, they were family all the same. "I-I don't understand..."

"Neither do we, at least not yet." Alys admits, reaching out to gently touch his shoulder. "It seems politically motivated." Of course it would be, considering just who the Stark's were. The most major family in the North, Ned Stark ruled more like a king than governor, and his people would have had it that way, as it had once been thousands of years ago. But, despite it all, Ned never sought power beyond what he had, choosing to defer to the one true King of the Seven Kingdoms, once his friend Robert Baratheon, now his son, the spiteful and spoiled Joffrey. It would not surprise Jon whatsoever to hear that Joffrey's mother, Cersei Lannister, had her hands in this mess. There was no family in all of the Seven Kingdom's that would dirty their hands in such a way besides the Lannister's.

"But Sansa... And Arya!" He gasps, thinking not just of the young woman who's called him here, but of her dark haired little sister that once wrestled with her brother's in the mud of Winterfell's courtyard. "Is Arya....?"

"Away at school. She's safe and been sent for, you don't have to worry about her right now." Alys replies and once again, a rush of relief floods him, forcing him to close his eyes as emotions well up within him. "There's something else..." Jon raises his gaze back up and braces himself for whatever else is to come. "It was Sansa that found them."

True horror, true sorrow, rips through him at such a thought. He cannot imagine hearing the news that your family has been brutally murdered, let alone being the one who finds them in such a way. His heart twists, aching for Sansa and for Arya, too. "Can I see her...?" He hears himself whisper, knowing that suddenly the only thing he can do is see her, hold her, talk to her.

"Of course, come," Alys says and they step out of the room and back into the hall. It feels as if every pair of eyes in the area follows them as they walk the length of the corridor and around a corner. At both ends of the hall, Jon sees uniformed officers, surprising him. Alys must notice for she gives him an encouraging smile. "For her own protection," she explains, to which Jon nods, thankful that at least here Sansa would be safe. "In here," Alys continues, stopping at the second door on the left. She raises a hand and knocks twice before she twists the door knob and pushes the door open a few inches. "Sansa, honey, it's me... Can we come in?" She calls softly through the crack and Jon's heart skips a beat when he hears the muffled sound of her voice from within. "Go on," she urges him quietly, stepping back so Jon can instead step forwards.

With shaking hands, he pushes the door open the rest of the way, and steps over the threshold. She stands at the window, her back to him, her waterfall of red hair hanging down her back glimmers in the afternoon sunlight. For a single moment, he cannot move, cannot think, cannot even breathe- but then she's turning around to face him, her clear blue eyes dark and damp as they stare out across the room at him. He swallows, his mouth opens, but there are no words that come. No words but one... "Sansa..." Her name is a whisper from his lips, so quiet that from where she stands, she thinks she's only imagined him saying it at all. She takes a tentative step forward, as if she's as uncertain as he is, and so it is Jon that crosses the room in several strides, coming so close that if he only just reaches out a hand, he could trace the curve of her ivory cheek, could twist a lock of red hair around his finger. So close that he can hear the soft intake of breath she makes as the first tear streaks her cheek.

It takes only a moment longer for her to come rushing at him, propelling herself into his already open arms. The momentum of his embrace sweeps her off her feet and Jon closes his eyes as she buries her face into the warmth of his neck, her sweet scent as familiar to him as it had once been. As he holds her close to him, Jon can feel as she sinks into him and realizes that it is he alone who keeps her on her feet. "You came," she whispers, her breath warm against his neck.

He draws back, only slightly, just so he might look her in the eyes. Before he can stop himself, he's cupped her cheek into his palm, a reminder of a moment two years before when Robb had only just died. It had been the only time he's ever seen her cry. Back then, he was certain he'd never see someone so broken. He wishes he had been wrong. "Of course," is all he says before he pulls her back in, knowing without a doubt, there wasn't a single thing that could pull him away from her. Not again. Not ever.

And so he holds her, as he knows he always should have done.

#jonsa #actuallyjonsa #jon x sansa #moden au #my writing #i wrote this #and yes i absolutely did give the reunion scene a modern adaptation #also i should mention this might have darker tones so uhhh #trigger warning?#i guess?#maybe?#we'll see #but its better to be safe than sorry #ALSO #this is very much an au #so please dont be surprised for many store elements to be changed to fit the narrative

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everythingpuddle · 3 years

Text

Deleted Scene

So this was cut from the assault on Red Fountain and chronologically would be between Chapters 40 and 41.

Also please note, this contains graphic depictions of a makeshift abdominal surgery. It is gory. There is extreme body horror. Please curate your internet experience appropriately.

After helping the Red Fountain nurses prepare the infirmary, there wasn’t much for the girls to do but wait nervously. The infirmary had been set out with all the beds available and Flora was anxiously fiddling with the empty potion bottles waiting to be filled from the cauldron next to her, across the room Mirta was rearranging the bandages for the umpteeth time. Neither of them were looking at Lucy and the other witches huddled by the far end playing with a deck of cards. Flora had tried to greet them all when they’d come in but she’d been ignored by everyone but Lucy, who’d shot her a dirty look. So she’d just kept to herself by the infirmary windows.

The small infirmary was not built to handle this type of situation. It was kitted out to handle sparring injuries and dragon burns, not taking in the wounded from a battle. Flora stopped her eyes from wandering towards the wide windows next to her that overlooked the concentric rings of Red Fountain. The infirmary was high up in the centre building, close to Saladin’s rooms, and the view of what was happening below was uninterrupted.

“It’ll be okay,” Mirta said, coming to stand next to her. “You heard Codatorta, we’re not expecting many casualties. We’ll mostly just be bored while they fight.”

Flora nodded silently, letting Mirta put her arms around her waist. She doubted that what Mirta had said would come true; no matter the opinions of the Red Fountain staff the Army of Decay was not so easily fought and defeated. As soon as they’d been told what the witches had summoned Flora had researched what they were with Tecna as they waited. They were a myth that her grandmother had used to scare her into behaving, and she had wanted to know how bad they really were.

What she had found had proved that for once her grandma hadn’t been pessimistically exaggerating. How they were going to stop the advance of a magical army was beyond her. She closed her eyes for a moment and went to pace around the infirmary so that she wasn’t stuck in the same place for too long. The witches shot her glares whenever she got too close but she ignored them.

After only a few more minutes of peace, the door burst open and a group of first years started carrying boys in. Flora followed the nurses’ orders as she got to work, her hands shaking. Her patient’s wounds were bloody, but thankfully not that serious. She administered painkillers and got work sewing him up. Her gloved hands were stained red by the time she finished and gave him some antibiotics.

She looked up when she was done only to find that the infirmary was swamped. There were more Specialists in here at that moment than they’d been expecting in the whole battle. Whatever Codatorta had planned, it had gone wrong. The nurse tapped her shoulder and Flora found herself sending the injured boy back to his dormitory so that they could have the bed for someone else.

Her next patient was bleeding heavily. More than the first. Everywhere Flora looked there was blood, and it wouldn’t stop.

She shouldn’t be doing this. She hadn’t been trained to do this. But both the nurses were working on other, more severely injured patients. There was no one else to do this.

This time she had to use her magic on him; the wound was on his thigh and it had nicked a major artery. Flora pushed her magic through his body as quickly as she could, speeding up his healing so that the blood vessels healed over before he bled out.

“What’s going on out there?” she asked him as she started to sew the gash closed. She didn’t want to know but she couldn’t help but ask.

“They can reform,” the boys whimpered. “There’s nothing we can do.”

Flora’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking as she finished her work on him. She kept washing her hands and changing gloves but the blood wouldn’t stop staining her. It was up her arms, sprayed across her shirt, dripping to the ground. It made her want to vomit but she held it in.

She heard screaming and then someone called her name. Another Specialist dumped in the bed and she struggled to hear what the boy who’d delivered him had to say. Something about ‘under his skin’ and an indication towards the bloodied bandages wrapped loosely around his middle, and then he disappeared. Flora grabbed the painkiller potion and tried to get him to swallow some.

“Please,” she begged as he shrieked in pain. “This will make you feel better! I need you to drink it!”

It was like he couldn’t hear her. Flora gritted her teeth, she wasn’t supposed to do this but there was no other way to keep him still enough. Vines unfurled from under the bed and wrapped around his limbs, pinning him down. She wrestled some of the potion into his mouth and he choked it down. A little was better than nothing.

“What’s your name?” she asked as his screams died down to rasping gasps.

“Miles,” he said faintly. “Please, I can still feel them…”

Flora froze, and lifted the gauze on his abdomen.

There were at least three dark purple insects, each like a short centipede chewing their way through his gut. They had entered through his belly wound and she could see them crawling under the skin further up his torso. Flora dry-heaved, forcing herself to keep the contents of her stomach down.

Okay, okay. Okay. She was going to have to cut them out, and she needed him to be calm while she did it,

“Drink more,” she instructed, offering him the potion and trying not to show the panic on her face. “I’ve got to get to work and I need you to keep talking to me while I do.” They were in trouble if he went into shock like this.

Miles obediently chugged as much of the potion as she would allow him. Flora knew roughly what was safe to give out but not exactly enough to risk giving him too much.

“I can still feel them,” he whimpered.

“I know and I’m sorry.” Flora waited with her tweezers until she was able to grab onto one of the creatures in the exposed flesh. It latched onto the muscle and she had to skewer it to get it to let go. As soon as the tweezers pierced the insect it disintegrated into dust and she tried to wipe it out of the injury. Flora took a breath and kept going; she’d been quiet too long. “Tell me about your home.”

“There’s not much to say,” he said, rasping through his quick breathing. “Mum, Dad, two younger siblings. It’s all pretty normal… my Dad’s an asshole but whose isn’t?”

“Yeah…” Flora laughed but it didn’t sound genuine. She could see two other insects wriggling around his intestines which brought the count up to four inside him.

“What’s yours like?” He asked. She was glad that he was lying flat and couldn’t see what she could.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, grabbing onto a second creature and pulling it away as fast as she could. “Mine walked out before I was born. Tell me about your siblings.”

“Got a little brother and a little sister. I’m applying to be posted near them when I graduate so I can still see them.” He grunted as Flora had to move sections of his guts to the side to reach the third critter there.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said.

“What about you?” Miles asked, clenching his fist. Flora bit her lip in guilt; he wasn’t numb enough for this not to feel like torture. It wouldn’t help that the only anaesthetic she had needed to be orally administered.

“Me?” She paused in her speech, dumping the third creature into a bowl and spearing it with the tweezers. “I have a little sister, much younger than me.”

“And is her dad in the picture?” Flora tried not to judge him for asking such personal questions. Her hands were inside his abdomen right now.

“No,” she shook her head. “But he sends my mum money every month and she basically has three parents without him.”

“How so?”

“There’s my mum, but she’s away a lot on research trips so we live with my grandma… and then because I’m so much older I take care of her a lot. She calls our mum ‘Mummy Alyssa’ and she calls me ‘Mummy Flora’,” she laughed. Miele was convinced that any female caretaker was a ‘mummy’ and couldn’t be persuaded to not address her preschool teachers as such. “She wanted to call our grandma that too, but Gran put her foot down.”

Miles laughed weakly and Flora turned her attention to the last insect left; the one that was wriggling under his skin. She was going to have to cut that out.

She got him to talk about the jobs he was applying for and what he had learnt at Red Fountain while she sterilised a scalpel and wiped down the skin over the crawling bug. He was going to feel this, there wasn’t anything to be done about that. She steeled herself and drew the edge against his skin as carefully as she could.

#winx #winx club #fanfic #fanfiction #cw gore #cw body horror #cw blood #winx flora #winx miles

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ffangirlingsince2001 · 4 years

Text

The Danger in Surprises

Jaskier and Geralt learn the danger in the law of surprise.

A/N: Not really a pairing of anyone, just an idea that I had.

Warnings: angst, fighting

Geralt sat in silence, watching with troubled amusement as a young girl flirted shamelessly with Jaskier. She had approached them earlier in the night, twirling a curl of hair around her finger and batting her eyelashes.

“I’m Y/N,” she said, introducing herself before turning all her attention to Jaskier. “And you’re Jaskier, the bard?” He hadn’t answered at first, surprised that she had set her sights on him and not the Witcher sitting beside him.

“Um, yes, that’s me.” A grin spread across her face and she reached out a hand.

“Then I would love to buy you a drink.”

“And I would love to refuse and buy you one instead,” he said, taking her hand, allowing her to lead him towards the bar, She had glanced back and accidentally caught Geralt’s eye, revealing something much darker than admiration for the bard.

The tell disappeared quickly and she back to spinning circles around the bard and introducing him to her friends.

Now her arm was thrown around his shoulders and her body was pressed to his, a leg crossing over his lap. The laces in her top had been loosened and the neckline dipped far below the gentle slope of her collar bone. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen but between the liquor and the adoring eyes Jaskier didn’t seem to care. She had been keeping his cup full for hours and Geralt was beginning to suspect she was a thief. Her nimble fingers running over folds of fabric. They slipped into pockets and belts, pretending to be interested in more than just the gold that men carried with pride.

He whispered something in her ear, and she nodded, giggling slyly. They slid out of the crowd and towards the door, her hand tightly clutching his.

Geralt sighed and stood, preparing to save his friend from the mugging that was sure to occur. He could still hear them laughing, singing the silly tune that Jaskier had composed for her while they danced. She glanced over her shoulder and quietly pushed him into an alley. Geralt followed, leaning into the shadows, waiting for her to strike.

She pushed him against the wall, hand slipping into the folds of her dress, the glint of a knife caught his eye and he was darting out of his hiding spot, pulling the girl off his friend. She screamed in frustration, the knife swinging through the air. He grabbed her wrist and wrestled it from her grasp before forcing her against the wall.

“Get the fuck off of me,” she screamed, pushing at him with all her strength but he didn’t budge.

“What the hell?” Jaskier yelled looking between the two, hand placed protectively over his own heart. Shock was written across his face as the girl who had been so attentive and adoring stared at him, murder in her eyes.

“Why?” Geralt growled and she sneered at him, still struggling against his grip.

“Because he ruined my life.” She jumped at Jaskier again but found herself still pinned to the wall.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he defended, and she rolled her eyes.

“Of course, you haven’t. You don’t give a damn, but that’s no worry because I have no problem ending your pitiful life.” With a resounding snarl she slipped out of Geralt’s grasp and pulled a knife from his belt, stalking towards the bard.

“What did I do?” he yelled, dodging a slash. He tripped over his feet and pushed away, hands scraping against the ground. Geralt caught her around the waste as she advanced, knocking the knife from her hands.

“You called for the law of Surprise, you bound me to you before I was even born and now I’m going to sever the ties.”

“I’ve never called for the Law of Surprise.”

“Not sober,” she sneered, “I’m the bet in a fucking poker match. My father couldn’t pay so you ‘let him off easy’ and called for the Law of Surprise, and now I’m fulfilling destiny. We have come together and now you’re going to die.”

“You’re not going to kill him,” Geralt growled and she laughed, pulling away and drawing her sword.

“For ten years I have dreamt of killing this man, you think you and your mutation can stop me. I have crawled through hell to get here and if you try to bring hell down I will fight through that too.”

“I’m not going to fight you, just walk away.”

“Never.”

“This is not a fight you will win,” he growled, drawing his own sword and stepped in front of the bard.

“I’d rather die than be tied to another,” she growled swinging her sword with precise ferocity. The blades clanged together. She jabbed and he parried, pushing he away. She was quick, but still a novice, her eyes blazing with every strike.

He never advanced only blocking, silently begging that it would not come to the worst.

“C’mon Witcher, stop toying with me.”

“Walk away,” he growled and she shook her head, catching her blade against his shoulder. The first blood. Blood dripped down his arm and he glowered at the offending blade. He slammed the flat edge of his sword against her, knocking her to ground with a gasp for air.

“Just kill me. It’s me or him.” She slipped beneath his arm and grabbed her sword, swinging it towards the bard. He caught her by the arm and slammed her against a pillar, sword to her throat. “Do it you coward.”

“Go home to your family, Jaskier will renounce his claim and you will be free.”

“What family? My mother killed my father and my people killed my mother, I am nothing but vengeance and a destiny that I do not want. So either kill me or release me.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier finally said, approaching the struggle with caution.

“You’ll be sorry when I run you clean through,” she spat.

“If you kill him, they’ll kill you, just like your mother.”

“I pray they will.” She pushed forward and the sword pressed to her throat drew a thin line of blood. She pressed harder and he removed the pressure.

“Stop this madness.”

“End it then.”

“Walk away.”

“I cannot.”

“I beg you, leave Jaskier and leave this place. Forge a destiny of your own. Do not let the mistakes of the past bind you. Do not waste your life on revenge, no good will come of it.” She pushed against him and grabbed his wrist, flicking the blade against her chest.

“Release me or plunge the blade into my flesh.”

“I cannot. I cannot,” he sighed, his head falling forward, eyes lingering on the steel blade that was lightly pressed against her chest. She too relaxed, her body falling limp in his grasp. He glanced at her and saw only exhaustion and despair. Her blade fell from her hand, clattering in the dust and with shaking fingers she took his face in her hands. His eyes met hers and her other hand drifted towards the other side of his face.

“Look at me,” she whispered and he did, no threat lingering within her any longer. Her hands slipped from his face to his shoulders, heavy with the weight of sadness. She rested her head against his neck, shaking with dry tears. “Tell me great Witcher, was I a worthy opponent?”

“Yes, you fought with strength.”

“And tell me Witcher, what do you see when you look into my eyes?”

“Tragedy.”

“Then you will understand.”

And then she jerked forward.

She uttered a little gasp and coughed as the knife plunged into her chest. He pulled away and watched as blood soaked her clothes, painting both in scarlet. She fell to the ground and did not struggle, did not pull for life, she allowed her life to drain against the dusty road.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the arm and pulled him away without a word, only sparing the shocked man a small glance. Neither men spoke for the rest of the night, finishing their drinks and retiring to bed, reflecting on the danger of surprise.

#the witcher #the witcher angst #the witcher fandom #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fluff #the witcher x reader #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia angst #geralt of rivia smut #geralt of rivia fluff #the witcher smut

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writing-the-end · 4 years

Text

LoL Chapter 19- Exhaustion

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU and Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

On their way to lunch, the hermits are attacked. Jealousy rages within the guilds that are losing, but the hermits are unable to fight back. Will they even make it to the event in time?

___________________________________________

“We make a great team, that paper birdy didn’t even know what happened to it.” Tango laughs, grabbing Grian into a headlock and playfully nuzzling his fist into the golden locks. His body aches, and he feels weak, but prideful. The other hermits around them chatter excitedly, walking down the smooth, clean roads of the noble district. Even the canals of swampwater are tiled and cleaned of dirt and debris. Streets Mumbo knows well- he grew up here. So of course he took the chance to go to his favorite cafe.

“I’d say I’m happy with bronze, but I really wanted to beat that Mitch guy. Plus, pirates always love gold.” Cleo hums, looking at the medal around her neck. Of course, she’ll always take beating some 30 other guilds to get this medal, their moans and complaints of being beat in the wrestling challenge. She rubs her wrist, wincing. “Though I’ll admit, I haven’t felt this burnt out from magic in years. It’s like that one event sucked it all out of my body.”

“I feel that way every time I step into the ring.” Tango states, earning a nod from Grian as well. “After day one, I could hardly get out of bed. I felt like a dragon was sitting on my chest.” A few others murmur agreement, and the conversation stops. Not for long, thanks to Grian.

“Scar, Mumbo, are you two ready to show everyone your skills?” Grian grins, fluttering to the front of the group.

“I was born ready for the creative event. I’ve been dreamin’ about this since I was a boy.” Scar sighs, feeling giddy. He’s already got an idea in mind, building and creating within his own head.

“I...I’m not so sure. Can’t someone else step in for me? I don’t think I can get my magic to work well enough, much less to beat the others like you all have.” Mumbo’s terrified. He wishes he had the confidence that Scar just exudes. He has no clue what he’ll build. He’s not even sure if his magic will appear today.

“You’ve got it, man.” Doc appears beside him, patting his shoulder. “Don’t doubt yourself, otherwise I’ll take control and make you believe.” Mumbo freezes, smiling weakly. He’s not sure if he should be comforted or not by Doc’s offer.

He turns, eyes glimmering upon setting his gaze on the cafe. He came here all the time when he was younger, before he joined the hermits. He would come here to study, to relax, sometimes just to get his favorite tea from the shop. Being back here is strange, the nostalgia mixing with nerves. What would his friends think of this place? Are they out of the normal? Doc and Grian definitely are.

Mumbo reaches out, grabbing the door’s wrought iron handle. His hand goes right through the metal, iron warping and wiggling like air in the summer heat. “What in the…”

The ripples cascade out, across the air and townhouses. The mosaics shatter before reforming, and the entire street is empty. But the hermits aren’t alone. “You freaks think you own this place, don’t you? That you’re anything like us? That you can just waltz into the noble district because you’ve won the past two days?”

Doc immediately summons his magic, ready for a fight. More than a dozen other mages appear from the illusion. Torn shoulder pauldrons, glistening with gold spikes, announces them being from the Guild of Gedeon. A council guild. Behind Doc, he can hear other hermits drawing their circles, blues and yellows shimmering off the illusion they're trapped in. “Let us go, you’re messing with the wrong guild.”

“Ohoho, win a couple of events and suddenly you think you’re a guild? No, no.” A burly man with feral eyes stares down Doc, shoving him and Cleo towards Scar and Mumbo. “You’re messing up everything. I don’t know why Magistrate Dolios let scum mar such a prestigious event.”

“Maybe it’s because he realized ‘scum like us’ are better at magic than you. Didn’t want the crowd to get bored of the same old dopey outfits and subpar spells.” Cleo’s words have hardly crossed her lips before fists collide with them, sending her splayed across the ground. Doc needs no further initiative, activating his circle and taking control of the mage that struck his friend. His eyes close, and open again looking at himself. Ugh, this body smells. He turns around, meaty hands instead crashing into the Gedeon’s own guildmembers. Three fly out of the illusion, out of the bubble that traps them where no one can watch the fight. Beneath another, the ground opens up beneath her to reveal hellfire. The flames claw at her feet, dragging her into the open chasm. Swallowing her up.

Doc is thrown out of his puppet, head spinning and blood pooling from his own nose. Grian’s shout rings in his ear, making his head spin and splinter. He looks up, seeing the magical bludgeon disappear like a ghost from a Gedeon member. “You’re gonna regret messing with us. Messing with the order of things. You don’t belong here, none of you do.”

The illusioner stoops low, snapping his meaty fingers and nodding the gang forward. “And we’ll show you why you don’t mess with the Council. The wrath of the Guild of Gedeon is not something you walk away from.”

The fight is intense. Six hermits against about a dozen combatants. What’s worse, the Guild of Gedeon is an offensive group. When the arcane guard can’t do a job, when a strongarm is needed, the Gedeons are the first in line. Cleo holds her own, blood boiling under her dead green skin. Her sword doesn’t back down from a fight, and neither does the poltergeists she summons to aid in the attack. She’s exhausted, but that doesn’t stop her from being in the middle of the battle. Doc jumps from person to person, tapping into their magic and turning it back onto their own teammates. Scar does his best to protect Doc in the process, throwing up walls of rock only for them to be crushed by a volatile spell shot their way.

But they aren’t winning. Cleo and Doc’s attacks aren’t enough to stave off the fights and fragments of magic flown their way. Tango’s magic is all but gone, sapped from his body. Where did it all go? He had it all this morning, and the bird chase event couldn’t have been enough for him to lose it all! Even worse, Grian’s magic sputtered and died halfway through his attack. Mumbo peeks out from behind Scar’s barrier, hissing with pain as a bolt of hot rock is flung against his forehead. “Grian, what in the world is going on with your magic?”

“I...I don’t know, Mumbo!” He flicks his wrists, but nothing happens. His arms snap in a quick dance, and he does manage to summon his spell. The wind is hardly more than a summer breeze in his hair. “It’s not there, I’m drained of magic, of energy! But how, I hardly used anything!”

“It’s like you’re me!” The four hiding behind the wall are crushed as the rocks collapse. Trapped, unable to fight off the onslaught. Scar can only block the worst attacks, but bruises and cuts blossom across the hermits.

Until the bell of the capitol building tolls a single time. As quickly as the fight started, it stops. Scar lowers his walls and arm, brushing the blood from his cheek. Immediately, he searches for his friends. Doc struggles to his feet, ready to fight. But Cleo, Grian, and Tango look like they’ve been fighting for hours. They’re completely out of magic, skin pale and eyes glazed with weakness. Something is very wrong. Is there a suppressor mage here? No, that would affect everyone. Mumbo scrabbles backwards, wrist hanging limp. “Good luck getting to check in for the rest of the events, freaks. We’ll see who’s in the labyrinth event now.”

The illusion drops, and the busy street returns. Bustling crowds, horse-drawn carriages and carts passing by the hermits. As alone as when they first arrived at the cafe. People step around them, glancing at the battered group but never offering help. Scar gasps, wobbling to his feet. “The competition! Mumbo, we’re going to be late!” He pulls Mumbo to his feet.

“You guys go ahead.” Doc growls, sitting down on a pile of rubble. He rubs blood off of his cheek. “I don’t think the others can get up. They’re too weak.”

“What caused that? How could Grian not use his magic?” He’s an S-Class, he has ultimate control of his magic. But he acted like he was...well, Mumbo. And now? Now his friends are hurt. They lost the fight- no, they were thrashed. And he wasn’t even able to do anything.

“I don’t know, but I have a sneaking suspicion who the dark mage is now.” Doc waves the two off, before snarling. “Go! I’ve got the others!” And he’ll be sure Gedeon’s leader, that monster Sidero, gets a taste of what he just did to his friends. He must be the dark mage, trying to stop them.

But as Doc watches Mumbo and Scar flee, and he helps Grian, Tango, and Cleo to their feet, he’s only made them angrier.

_____________________________

“How am I...gah, how am I supposed to take a giant cat statue and make it move?” Mumbo hisses, looking up at the relief. Scar’s winning sculpture for the creative event was incredible. He could practically see every hair and whisker of Jellie, carved from stone using her owner’s terraforming magic. Even her wings are feathered, each barb as thin and interlocking as the real thing. It’s easy to see why Scar won the creative contest, hands down.

And here he is ruining it all with his own magic. The council really outdid themselves, pulling a twist like this. His magic falters, and the redstone dust collapses to the ground. Mumbo’s chest feels heavy, lungs pressed and heart clenching. His head feels dizzy, and his magic is nearly impossible to tap into. Surely this is all just nerves? But even Scar looked exhausted, like he was struggling to breathe, to stand after his magic. Exactly what Grian and Tango looked like.

What’s happening? He can’t help but look over his shoulder. Other guilds are working on the creations their teammates created. Whatever was before them, they had to automate. And from what Mumbo can see, most others are well ahead of him. Especially Ian, deep in the bowels of the contraption Sky had built. He can be heard swearing, the conductive gold making his machine move when he doesn’t want it to. At least Mumbo doesn’t have to worry about that.

But that doesn’t mean he can do it. The redstone dust falls apart, showering the ground beneath him. He’s going to disappoint everyone, he’s going to ruin Scar’s wonderful statue. He’s going to be the only wizard in this event that can’t even get the thing to move! He falls to his knees, the pressure mounting in his lungs. Making it hard to breathe, crushing in on him. And he’s exhausted, even though he’s barely used any of his magic. He can’t even get it to appear. Like always. All this work, all his hopes to win, will mean nothing if he can’t get his magic to summon. He’s a multi-mage, but he can never prove it. He can never show off his powers, and it’s exactly why he could never join any guild. Looking around, he can see all the guilds in the field he applied to. All of them said no, laughed in his face and ridiculed him when his magic failed to show itself. And now here he is, proving them all right. Making a laughing stock of the Order of Hermits.

“You can do it, Mumbo!” He picks his head up, looking around. He doesn’t recognize that voice. It takes him a moment to realize it’s not coming from any of the hermits. The voice is loud, echoing over the crowd’s low roar. It’s Ecto, one of the wanderers. Beside her, the other two teammates are cheering him on as well. Red’s practically bouncing in his seat, about to fall over the railing as he yells as loud as possible.

More voices join them. He can hear Iskall, shouting for him to breathe, to remember his training. He can hear some sort of soliloquy being written across the sky, intertwined with Joe’s voice. Zedaph and Impulse are holding up a sign, nearly knocking False and Wels with the board. Even the rest of Team Crafted was cheering for him. TFC is watching Mumbo, blue eyes gazing through silvery hair. He gives a small nod and a smile, his own way of showing his encouragement.

All of the hermits are his family, the family he never had. A family that would support him, help him, be with him no matter what. That never gave up on him. And TFC was like the father he never had, with a calm voice as smooth as obsidian and as strong as diamond. Someone he could go to with all his fears and faults, and know he wouldn’t be ridiculed or put down. That TFC would listen, and offer sound advice. Advice he can hear echoing in his head now. “It isn’t about the amount of times you fall down, Mumbo. It’s about how many times you get back up.”

So he gets back up again. He brushes the sand and dirt off the black fabric of his trousers, ignoring the physical pain in his chest and the unwieldy way his head spins. He closes his eyes, hand outstretched. In his mind, he can see his magic circle. The ninety degree turns ending in dots, the petal-like curls from the center. His hands move unconsciously, following the pattern of motions he created. It’s like ramming open a door, trying to find his magic. Trying to connect to it. But once he’s in, it washes all over his body.

He opens his eyes, his circle cast and the redstone moving to his bidding. Climbing up and ingraining in the pores of Scar’s stonework, following lines weathered through the rock. Lightning shoots through the circuits, from his fingertips and breathing energy into the cat. The haunches of the massive statue move, toe beans uprooting from the sand as Jellie comes to life. Redstone dances across her granite tail, flicking side to side. Mumbo can’t help but laugh, knocked over into the sand by a giant stone cat head rubbing into his chest. Scar’s incredible creation, brought to life with his redstone magic. Given energy through his lightning.

Statue Jellie opens it’s mouth to meow, but no sound comes out. She turns her head, gazing across the crowd surrounding her. Her eyes stop at the crown seat, where the Council sits in awe. Redstone turns on all across her body, his magic branching out onto each hair as it rises and her back arches. “Whoa, what’s all that about?”

Mumbo has never seen Jellie hiss at anyone, and even if this stone statue is just a version of her, his magic seems to have brought her to life. And her eyes are as thin as paper, ears turned back and hissing as she faces the Council. Mumbo runs over to the massive kitty, trying to calm her down. Lightning spreads across the redstone, forcing the stone statue to calm. For a second, Mumbo swears he can hear Magistrate Dolios’s voice, though his head is swimming from exhaustion. “Well done, boy. What i wouldn’t give for such...raw power. Soon.”

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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 4 years

Text

Field of Poppies Part 10

Summary: After being apart for six years, childhood friends Tommy and Amelia reunite under odd circumstances. Tommy is an outspoken young man and Amelia is pregnant and out on the streets. The bond of family can be unbreakable but it is tested often. Especially when Europe descends into war.

Part 10: Tommy gives Amelia a promise and Amelia talks to John about love.

//I cannot for the life of me remember if I gave Amelia a last name. And if I did, I can't find it. So if anyone remembers me writing a last name, you get fifty bonus stars.

Things were fine for a bit. Amelia put all her effort into looking after Max. Tommy worked pretty much all day and then some nights he’d be at meetings with Greta and Freddie. At night, he gave Amelia a rest from Max, making sure the baby was taken care of. He was growing accustomed to sleepless nights, even when Max started sleeping through the whole night. He would often stay up for hours, writing, planning. He would stay up at his desk near Max’s cot, squinting to see in the dim light. Usually, both Amelia and their son would sleep through it. Sometimes she would complain and tell Tommy to come to bed. He said he would but instead, went downstairs so she could go back to sleep peacefully.

There never seemed to be enough hours in the day. Tommy’s mind was always whirring with things. With everything going so well, he began to feel invincible. And inevitably, pushed his luck too far.

One morning, when Max was six months and spring was just beginning to bloom, John came bursting in through the door.

“Tom’s been arrested!” He shouted, breathless from his sprint back home.

“What?” Amelia startled and turned to Polly who was looking after Max.

“Jesus.” The woman sighed and handed Max back to Amelia.

“What happened?” Amelia questioned John.

“We were at the bullring and some coppers came up and arrested him!” John was wide-eyed. Police weren’t something the Shelbys were unfamiliar with. Often times, Arthur Sr. would be tossed in jail for the night due to petty theft or disorderly conduct due to drinking. Arthur and Tommy learned to not trust the police officers from their father and would sometimes tease local officers they knew well. But neither of them had ever been jailed. Usually, they were given a warning or marched home to be scolded by their mother. But now that they were older, and the things they were getting into, it was only a matter of time before law enforcement took notice.

“On what charges?” Polly asked, the more level-headed of the three in the room. She’d been cleaning up after Shelby messes for years and knew the drill.

“I dunno.”

“Pol, what do we do?” Amelia held Max close.

“I’ll handle it.” She promised and went to get her coat. “Stay here with the boys. Don’t answer the door for anyone.”

Gripped with fear, Amelia nodded. She trusted Polly. Trusted her to know what to do in dark times.

John prided himself in being as tough as his brothers even though he was younger. But Tommy’s arrest had greatly shaken him up. He always thought his older brothers were invincible. That’s how they acted. No one could touch them. But seeing the police wrestle Tommy to the ground and put handcuffs on him was too much.

Amelia could see the fear in the teenager’s eyes. “Are you hungry, John?” She did her best to try and have some normalcy. There was no need to panic yet. Polly could handle everything.

John shook his head.

“Okay. Could you hold Max for me for a mo’?” She wondered. “I just have to grab something upstairs.”

He nodded and walked over to take the baby from her arms. He sat down at the kitchen table, quietly cradling Max.

“Thank you.” Amelia gently touched his shoulder before heading upstairs. There wasn’t anything she needed to grab. She just needed a moment to collect her thoughts. She locked herself in the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face. This couldn’t be the direction their life was going. She would not tolerate Tommy flitting in and out of jail. He promised her he would be there for her and especially for Max. She didn’t want there to come a time when Max was old enough to know what was going on. When he asked why daddy wasn’t coming home.

No, Amelia would much rather be on her own than live through that.

~~~~~~~~~

As Polly expected, it wasn’t too difficult to get Tommy out of jail. He’d only been taken in because Danny had gotten in a scuffle with the police. They’d gotten Danny and locked him up for a day but Tommy, who was present, had given them the slip.

Polly waited as they released Tommy who looked disgruntled. But that was nothing compared to the icy glare from his aunt.

“Pol…”

“Don’t.” She jabbed a finger at him. “You are marching home right now and apologizing to your poor brother. He was in a state seeing you get arrested. And Amelia too. You made a promise to her, Thomas, you cannot run around like some common street criminal. Be better.” She urged before striding off back to Watery Lane.

Tommy sighed and followed behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amelia was upstairs when Tommy and Polly returned. John and Ada were looking after Max who was contently sleeping in his bassinette in the kitchen.

“Tom!” John looked beyond relieved when he saw his brother walk through the door.

“Hello, hello.” Tommy let his sister hug him tightly.

“John said you got arrested!” Ada said. “I thought we’d never see you again.”

“S’alright. I’m sorry for causing a fuss.” He said. “John, you shouldn’t have seen that, that was my fault.”

John nodded. “I knew you’d be alright.” He said, trying to maintain his image as a Shelby boy. He didn’t want his brother to know that he was just as scared as Ada was.

“Where’s Mel?” Tommy asked when Ada finally let go of him.

“Upstairs,” John answered.

Polly nodded. “I’ll watch the baby.”

Tommy headed up to the bedroom, knocking a couple of times before Amelia let him in. She embraced him.

“Tom, for fuck’s sake. I was so worried.” She gasped.

“It’s okay.” He promised and hugged her back.

“What happened? Why were you arrested?”

“Something to do with Danny, it was just a little mishap.” He assured her. “Nothing big. They didn’t charge me with anything.”

“Christ, Tommy, you can’t play these games.” She warned but still wouldn’t let go of him. “You know how the police are, you can’t keep attracting their interest or they’ll never leave you alone.”

“It’s alright, Mel. It’s over.” He felt her push him away, much to his surprise.

“That’s all it ever is with you, isn’t it? It’s fine. It’s done. It’ll be alright. That’s all you ever say to me anymore!” She moved away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. “You keep promising me all these nice things, that you’ll always be there for me and always be there for Max. Then what happens? You’re arrested! And I can’t imagine this will be the last time.”

“Mel…”

“I hear things, Tommy, I hear what people are saying about you. What they’re calling you and Arthur and Danny an-and everyone else. You think this is right?”

Tommy ran a hand over his face, exhausted by the day. He sat down with a heavy groan. “Mel-”

“The police don’t care, they’ll keep locking you up and then you’ve broken your promise to me and Max because you won’t have been there for us.” She paced the small room. “Is that what you want? You have so much potential, Tommy. You’re so much more than this. I don’t want you to rot away. I don’t want this city to make you some low-life like your father!”

“Oi!” Tommy shouted as she had hit a nerve. He stood up and grabbed her arm to stop her from pacing. “I am not my fucking father. I will never be him. You say I have potential, yeah? Think I can just go out and make money like those fuckers in London, aye? They’ve got blue blood, they were born with money, Mel. I can’t make money the way they do. You’d have me go work in the factories? Fourteen-hour shifts every day? I could work all day and all night for the rest of me life and never make enough money to keep food on the table.”

Amelia had tears in her eyes. “You don’t understand, I don’t care about money. I will be happy with whatever I have at the end of the day as long as I have you and Max. I don’t want you to end up in prison or killed because you want money. I will suffer and starve if it means keeping you safe.”

He let go of her arm, shaking his head. “I won’t. I won’t starve and I won’t fucking suffer. Not anymore.”

Amelia wiped her eyes. “So, I’m meant to wait for the call one day that you’ve been found killed?”

“That won’t happen…”

“You don’t know that!” She shouted. “You can’t control life, Tommy. If you go looking for trouble, you’ll bloody well find it eventually!”

He went to his desk and pulled out a few pieces of paper. “See that.” He pointed forcefully.

Amelia shook her head, not even willing to look. She felt like she’d been made a fool of by trusting him.

“Five years.” He thumped his hand on the desk. “Five years and we’ll be legitimate. We’ll have a license; we’ll be operated legally. The money will come and there will be no need for worry about coppers.”

“Those are just words.”

“It’s my promise, Mel.” He cupped her cheeks so she would look at him. “Five years isn’t too long. I’ll be careful and nothing will happen. I may get nicked a few times but I’ll always be home for you the same day. Five years and we’ll be able to get a house and send Max to a proper school.” He wiped some of her tears away. “And if by five years I haven’t kept my promise, I’ll give you all the savings I have so you can have your own life with Max.”

She sniffled and knotted her fingers in his hair. “You think it would be so easy to walk away from you?”

Tommy sighed and wrapped his arms around her, letting her bury herself in his chest. He knew it would be impossible to walk away from her and Max, so he could assume she felt the same way. “Five years won’t be long.” He promised. “After that, we’ll have everything we could ever want.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Mel?”

“Mhm?”

Both John and Amelia were sharing a very rare quiet dinner together. Arthur and Tommy were working late in the shop while Polly cared after Finn and Ada who had both come down with a nasty cold.

Now fifteen, John was starting to grow into himself. No longer was he the little boy who was trying so desperately to be like his big brothers. He was growing and his voice had deepened a bit as well. It was odd because Amelia had hazy memories of seeing John as an infant. To see him grow so fast was alarming. It made her think of Max, hoping that time wouldn’t pass by so quickly with him.

“How d’you know when you love someone?” He asked. Of course, it was a question the teenager would never ask his brothers. And, his baby sister would only tease him too. Polly wouldn’t be much help either. So, it seemed that the only confidante he had was Amelia, who he always looked at as an older sister.

“Well, I suppose it isn’t easy to really know right away.” Amelia wasn’t that surprised about the conversation. She could recall being young and only thinking about romance and going steady with someone. Of course, that someone was usually Tommy. Although there was a small stint of time when he fell out of favor with her for a forgotten reason, and she chose to fantasize about George Connelly. Yet, it was Tommy’s initials she carved next to hers on the stone bridge by the canal.

She was so lovesick for him. But in all reality, she wasn’t sure she really knew what love was at that point. “It should be someone you know very well. Someone you get along with.”

John gave her a look. “Of course.”

She smiled. “Well, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just a gut feeling.”

He seemed a bit dismayed by the vague response. “I think I’m in love.” He confided.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Bloody stupid, Martha Boswell.” He muttered, disgruntled that he had developed feelings for the girl who had tormented him practically his entire life.

“Do you think she feels the same way?” Amelia wondered. She couldn’t help but think how all-knowing Polly was. She must’ve known right from the start that the two were made for each other, just like she said she knew about her and Tommy.

John got a little sheepish. “Yeah, we kissed at the fair. We’ve been writing back ‘n forth.” He admitted.

“Then why are you so concerned about labeling things? Why can’t you just write back and forth and see where it takes you?”

He grimaced. “’Cause her mum wants her to get married to this boy. But she says she doesn’t want to marry him. I said I could ask her mum if we could get married instead.”

“Oh, John, you two are awfully young.” Amelia hesitated at the idea. Even if they were meant to be together, they should have the right to let the relationship grow organically, not have it forced on them.

“I know.” He muttered. “But I don’t want to have her marry some other prick.” He seemed saddened at the idea of letting her go.

“Maybe…maybe you can talk to Polly about talking to Martha’s mum.” She offered. “Arrange something more…reasonable.”

He perked up a bit at the idea. “Would you talk to Pol with me?”

Amelia nodded. “Of course. Let’s talk to her when Finn and Ada get a bit better.”

John smiled. “Thanks, Mel.”

The doors between the flat and the shop opened and Tommy came in looking tired. He tousled John’s hair and gave Amelia a kiss on the cheek. “Finn ‘n Ada getting better?” He asked.

Amelia could sense some frustration or stress in his voice. “They’re still coughing a lot.” She answered. “Why don’t you eat something? I can make you a plate.” She offered.

His eyes were wandering aimlessly around the room, not fully paying attention to her. “No, not right now, thanks.”

Nervous something was wrong; Amelia tried a different route. “Do you want to take a walk with me?”

He nodded. “Yeah, sure.” He agreed and helped her stand up. “John, could you look after Max for a bit?”

After Amelia had helped him out, he nodded. “Okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

After they bundled up, Tommy and Amelia headed out into the cold winter night. He held her hand as they walked silently for a bit. Amelia wordlessly led him down to the canal, down beneath the bridge.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

“Nothing.”

“Tom, tell me.” She urged.

He finally looked at her. “I’m just a little stressed.” He admitted.

She guided him over to the stones, searching a bit before she found the telltale marker. “Look.” She pointed to the carving she’d made over five years ago.

TS+AM

“You made that?” Of course, he could recognize their initials instantly.

“When we were twelve, thirteen, maybe.” She explained. “I just…I wanted you to know that you mean more to me than I think you realize. I need you to know how much I care for you.”

Tommy nodded. “I know.” He said softly before leaning down to kiss her. Her lips were cold from the wintery air but soon warmed.

Amelia could only imagine how thrilled her younger self would be had she known this was her future. Kissing Tommy Shelby by the canal just as it started to snow.

They parted but he kept her close, savoring in her warmth among the chill. “Will you marry me?” He asked quietly.

“What?” She found his eyes.

He dropped a hand from her cheek so he could reach into his coat pocket, pulling out a diamond ring. It was modest, but for Small Heath, it might’ve been the Hope Diamond.

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. “Tom…how did…where did you get this?”

“I’ve been saving, since right before Max was born. I’ve wanted this well…ever since you came back.” He let out a shy laugh. “I saw you there and realized how much I still loved you after all those years. I just know that I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”

“Oh, Tommy.” She gasped and kissed him deeply.

“So, will you?” He asked between breaths.

“Yes, yes, of course.” She agreed vehemently before pulling him back to her and kissing him again.

Permanent tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @giftofdreams @biba3434 @kimmietea @karmezii @enrapturedbythemoon @vampgirl1997 @tarafaithe @evelynshelby

Tag list: @shelbyblinded

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47 notes · View notes

believerindaydreams · 3 years

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"We can't be falling apart like this," Wallace says, staring out the rose-tinted glass.

Tuco lets himself fall into one of the dusty pews, cushioned by purple plush that squeaks when he hits it. "You never thought anything would happen here, eh?"

"Damn straight," Wallace says, allowing the profanity to hang in the air.

There's an edge there from years back, jagged anger like the knives the butcher's son had brought with him. Blondie had always thought it had gone away, rejected in favor of prayers and honeycomb and meek admiration for young Father Paul; Tuco's never believed that. A sheath, not a plowshare.

"I really wouldn't do anything to Angel Eyes," Tuco warns. "I mean, if half of what he says is true, he has more to lose than we do by making a fuss."

Wallace nods in agreement, slaps the fist of one heavy hand against the opposing palm. "But of all places to ask sanctuary...why here? Why us?"

"Why anyone? He came looking for safety, he found it...so far, all that's changed is that we know. Maybe it'll keep on like this."

"Father Paul should know." Wallace is pacing now, mouth twisted and hard. "You came to me first- why?"

"Because...well, there's the Christian thing to do. And then maybe there's something else. And I don't go to my brother to discuss the something else, you know."

"I thought that's what you had Blondie for."

Tuco tuts. "Blondie's gone romantic on me. You can guess where he is now, rutting and listening to stories laced with blood- he's found a Galahad to love. All wrapped up in danger with none of the guilt! Wallace, if we're going to think this through sanely we'll have to do it ourselves."

"Maybe that's giving me too much credit." Wallace stops at last, gripping the back of the pew with a tightly knotted grip. "There's only ever one thing that concerns me, and you could hardly call that sane."

Here it comes; Tuco rises, rubs small hands under Wallace's rough brown linen. "You know I want what's best for him too."

"Not like I do," Wallace's voice is grating in self abasement, even as he starts to reciprocate, a shoulder grasp uncommonly like a headlock. "Not the way I would..."

"Of course not," Tuco agrees, and sinks teeth into sweat-salted flesh.

Wallace's cries are subdued, held back even in this solitary chapel; he's never let himself go all the way and Tuco's glad of that, considering. Not like Blondie's mellowed constancy, even less like Angel's acutely sensitive manner, it's still more frightening to him than the nebulous warnings about these assassin pursuers...

After all, that's hearsay. The way Wallace's nails rake across his skin, the way he throws his small weight against the other's immobility, the way Wallace wrestles him down in turn, this is all very evident and real.

They haven't harangued like this for a long time- not troubled enough, not needy enough- it's pleasure born of fear. Nakedness flavoured by the threat of discovery. If any softly-devout brother should happen on them here, stripped down to lewdness.

To be seen in the act of wasting holy oils, their sweet incense rubbed against arms and thighs and cocks. Anointing each other in the stuff that Pablo has so patiently blessed, they'd be hard put to it explaining a divinity unsanctioned by the church. Tuco chuckles warmly at the thought as their movements quicken in eagerness, worry slipping away from him with action.

It's not like fucking Blondie, whose opinion on topping and bottoming is as changeable and unpredictable as weather. Neither he nor Wallace will give an inch in their mingling, so mutual jerk-off it is; his hands clenched firmly around the warm supple swelling of the other's desire, holding back from flinching at the equally sure grasp on his own. Makes it a competition, a little contest to spice the encounter- which one of them can pull most provoking and sure, which one of them will lose focus in a mutual stare to fall back in ecstasy, weak with the priory's hallowed woods to support them-

"That solved exactly nothing," Wallace admits in the afterglow.

"Dios," Tuco says, because this is one of those times he can expect to be indulged for Spanish.

#priory au #why is it Wallace's turn who knows #orange #dude goes for violent kink

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soul-music-is-life · 4 years

Note

Good morning! I was wondering if you could write a little Sam and Pam and the twins interaction? Or maybe Pam meeting the baby and learning his middle name is Wayne?? Or something? Por favor??? Gracias

Enjoy

******

Even though it had been a long night, Emily couldn’t stop staring at her son. It had only been hours since his birth. And she was so insanely in love that she couldn’t stand it. His birth had been different than the twins.

Emily and Alison had been wrestling with some wildly conflicting emotions when Lily and Grace had been born. The only people who knew the origins of Alison’s first pregnancy were their best friends. Emily had never told her mother the truth about what Alex Drake had done to her and Alison.

The pregnancy had been tough on both of them. They’d had lives thrust upon them that neither one of them asked for…against their consent. Deciding to have the babies had been a difficult choice.

But after months of depression and hours of labor they fell in love with them. That was the thing about babies. They had a way of making the entire world stop for just a moment. The idea that life could create something so amazing and innocent was an incredible notion. Babies were so pure and malleable. Watching a child seeing the world around them for the very first time was eye-opening.

The moment Lily took her first breath Alison felt like the world fell away, and her baby girl was the only thing she saw. The moment that Grace had latched on to Emily’s finger Emily didn’t care about anything else in the world.

The day their twins had been born their mothers had become putty in their hands.

Emily’s mother fell in love with them the instant she met them. She was the only grandparent they would ever have. And she spoiled the hell out of them.

Pam loved her granddaughters. She loved them when they snuggled up to her. She loved them when they made macaroni crafts for her in school. She loved them when they begged her to let them help her bake, even if it got a little messy. She even loved them when they were sullen and moody.

Emily and Alison knew that she would love her grandson just as much. There was nothing different about the love that they had for their baby boy. The only difference is that he had been a conscious choice. In fact, they had tried for him, several times. So the pregnancy hadn’t been as emotionally distressing.

The labor had been tough on Alison. Emily had stayed up with her all night…rubbing her back to help with the contractions, bringing her ice chips for the hunger pains and to cool her down, and wiping away her sweat and tears when it came time to push.

Alison had squeezed Emily’s hand so hard that her fingernails had drawn blood. She’d sprained Emily’s wrist, but Emily hadn’t said a word to her about it.

The hospital room was quiet now, which was a stark contrast to the madhouse it had been earlier. Emily looked at her wife, who was quietly sleeping in her hospital bed. Emily was sitting next to her, their son in her arms.

She reached up and swiped a tendril of Alison’s hair out of her face, her knuckles sweeping her skin. She looked beautiful even after the entire night of labor.

Hours ago Alison had been screaming at Emily, telling her she couldn’t do it. But when it came time to bring their baby boy into the world she was determined.

She’d pushed through. And when she held his tiny naked body against her bare chest for the first time she’d openly wept while kissing his head. He’d been wriggling at first, but when he felt the warmth of his mother’s bosom he’d stilled in her arms.

Alison had reached for Emily, weeping in joy…and in exhaustion. She’d kissed her bruised fingers and told her she loved her. Emily had kissed Alison’s sweaty forehead and put her other hand against their son’s belly. He’d been perfectly calm, like he knew he was safe.

Emily stared at the sleeping blonde. Her love for her was beyond eternal. She couldn’t imagine having a family with anyone else. They had wavered through hard times, but they always found their way back to each other. Because true love meant not letting the darkness drag them down. True love meant that even if they were apart…their hearts were still intertwined, and they always would be. They didn’t care what other people thought. What mattered was their connection. What mattered was their family.

Their son squirmed in Emily’s arms. His eyelids flickered and fluttered as he dreamed. She thought she saw a tiny smile.

She traced her index finger across his impossibly small fingers. In an unconscious reflex his palm flipped over and grasped Emily’s finger. Emily felt a warmth flowing through her entire body. She never wanted to let him go.

He puckered his lips and started sucking against the air. He opened his eyes, looking up at her curiously, as if he knew exactly who she was.

“Hey, sweet boy.” Emily cooed quietly. She gently rose to her feet, rocking him softly.

His wide eyes scanned Emily’s face. He furrowed his little brows and opened his mouth and a tiny little squeak came out.

Emily smiled. He was so perfect. She kissed his little button nose and watched as he scrunched his face up. It looked like he was thinking…like he was trying to figure something out.

“Hi, Sammy. Hi, baby.” She was mesmerized.

She heard soft footsteps approaching. She assumed it was the nurse coming to check in on them. She didn’t even bother looking up, because looking away meant that she’d miss a moment of her child’s life. She knew how quickly it went by. The girls had grown up in the blink of an eye.

“Em?”

Emily looked up when she heard her mother’s voice. She had a gift basket in her arms. It didn’t surprise Emily. Her mother was always ready for any occasion. The basket had a teddy bear, several plush toys, booties, blankets, hats, and some lotions and diaper creams. She’d also put in two bottles of chardonnay for the new mommies. It was her own personal touch. She quietly put the basket down on the chair near the door.

“Hey, honey.” Pam said quietly, her eyes darting to a sleeping Alison in the bed.

“Mom. Hi.”

“Is this a bad time? I tried calling.”

“Oh…” Emily reached in her back pocket. “I turned my phone off when he fell asleep.”

Pam walked over to her daughter. She looked down at the baby in her arms.

“God, he’s beautiful.” Pam caressed his cheek with her index finger. “You girls did a good job.”

“This was all Alison.” Emily glanced back at her wife. “She amazes me every day.” She slowly faced her mother again. She was trying to maintain eye contact, but it was hard to look anywhere but at her son. “His mommy is the strongest person I know.”

“Both of his mommies.” Pam put her hand on Emily’s shoulder. She looked at her grandson. He looked up at her, his neck twisting as he tried to scope out the new person staring down at him. “He is precious. You two must be so in love with him.” She ran her hand over the top of his head.

“We are.” Emily’s nose started to burn. She had cried several times already. She couldn’t contain her emotions. “You want to hold him?”

“He looks content right where he is right now.” In his mom’s arms.

Emily gently rocked him. He quietly babbled and made gurgling noises. Emily smiled down at him.

“Everyone always says that you can’t entirely understand what it’s like to love someone more than you love yourself…that you can’t get the love that a mother has for their child until you see them the first time. But something no one ever tells you is how much it hurts to love them.”

She felt like wrapping him up in a blanket and holding him close to her chest forever. She wanted to protect him from the world.

“You know, when Lily and Grace were born it was like our entire world changed. I didn’t realize how much of yourself that you lose in your children…and that you would willingly do it…that you willingly give them every part of your heart and your soul.” She lifted her son up so she could kiss his head. “I would do it a thousand times over.”

“I am so proud of you, Emmy. Of both of you.” Pam touched her cheek. She had seen her daughter grow from a shy insecure little girl to a beautiful woman with a beautiful family. And they were flourishing. “I know I made some mistakes…”

“I wouldn’t be who I am today without you and dad. I wouldn’t be here if things hadn’t gone exactly the way they’d gone when I was younger. The mistakes didn’t break me. They taught me. I know no one is perfect, not even parents.” Emily smiled at her. “Hell, I turned away from Lily and Grace one day and they crawled off in different directions and I thought I’d lost them forever. I found Grace in a pile of laundry and Lily in the kitchen cabinet. They both thought nearly giving me a heart attack was hysterical.”

“Babies are resilient.” Pam assured her.

“I know that now.” She looked down at the infant in her arms.

She couldn’t believe that they were going to go through it all over again. The girls were so old and independent now. It was a little intimidating to think about going through the baby stages again.

Emily had a weary look on her face. She hadn’t slept since they’d gotten to the hospital. It felt more important to let Alison get her rest. Her mother didn’t miss her exhaustion.

“You look so tired.”

“It was a long night.” Emily admitted.

“I can come back another time. I know Alison must be exhausted. I don’t want to wake her.”

“She’s awake.” The blonde said from behind them.

They both turned around and saw Alison slowly sitting up in the bed. She looked at Emily holding their son and she smiled. Seeing Emily with their babies made her heart swell. She looked at her mother-in-law.

“Hello, Pam.”

“Alison, how are you feeling, honey?” Pam walked over to her side. She sat down against the edge of the bed.

“I’ll be in good shape if you tell me that’s Russian River Valley.” She eyed the alcohol in the basket. She couldn’t wait to have a drink. She’d missed her wine during the pregnancy.

“I know what you like.” Pam nodded.

“Best Mother-in-law ever.” Alison reached out and touched her hand. Pam squeezed it.

“How’s the pain?”

“Not so bad. The worst part was the actual labor. It was longer than my first. And I waited too long and couldn’t get the epidural. I felt everything.”

“I hear that. Emily ripped me to shreds…” She glanced at her daughter.

“Mom.” Emily made a face.

Emily groaned in disgust. She hated hearing her mother talk about bodily functions. It was so very un-Pam Fields-like. But she’d mellowed out in her old age.

After Emily’s dad died her mother had changed quite a bit. She’d loosened up. Some of the more strict aspects of her personality fell away. Her husband’s death had softened her. And the birth of her grandchildren had made her think she was some kind of comedian. The twins thought she was oh-so-funny because she told them stories about their mom being a kid. Embarrassing stories.

“I still pee when I sneeze because of you.” Pam teased.

“The twins already bestowed that honor on me.” Alison admitted.

“Kegels help. It’s the only thing that got me back up and running down there after Emily…”

“This is an awesome conversation,” Emily uttered dryly.

“They never apologize for ruining your body.” Pam winked at Alison. They glanced at each other, as if they were in on some kind of joke. Pam’s face softened. “I’m kidding, of course. Childbirth only makes our bodies more beautiful. They change, but the imperfections are worth it, because when you look at your babies…you realize you wouldn’t have it any other way.” Pam gave her daughter a warm smile.

“Tell that to the stitches in my vagina.” Alison scoffed.

“Okay, on that note…I’m taking my boy and leaving, because he certainly shouldn’t have to hear about his mother’s and his grandmother’s body parts.” She bounced the baby in her arms. “Let’s wait a little while before we warp him.”

“Lily and Grace will have him warped by the end of the week.” Alison reminded her.

“Where are the girls?” Pam questioned.

“Shit. I thought they were with you.” Alison raised her brows. “Emily…”

“They’re fine. They’re at home.” Emily walked towards the bed, joining her mother and Alison.

“The last time we left them alone Grace set the kitchen on fire.” She reached for her phone.

“And Lily put it out. They balance each other. It’s fine. Lily knows where the fire extinguisher is. She knows the number to the poison control hotline. And she knows better than to leave Grace unattended.” Emily tried to calm Alison’s nerves.

“Forget baby-proofing the house. We’re going to need to Lily-and-Grace proof the baby. Get some durable bubble wrap and a tiny little helmet.” Alison was only semi-joking.

“He’ll be fine. His mothers are tough.” Pam reached down to play with his fingers.

He cooed. He reached out and latched on to Pam’s finger.

“I think he wants his Grandma.” Alison smiled.

She turned the phone towards Pam, Emily, and the baby and snapped a picture, capturing the moment that Pam fell indefinitely in love with her grandson. All it had taken was his tiny little fingers latching on to her. He had her heart.

“You know ‘Grandma’ makes me feel so old.” Pam made a face.

“We could go back to Pam-ma.” Emily snickered. When Lily was little she’d declared that Pam was Pam-ma, because she couldn’t pronounce the ‘G’ correctly.

“No.” Pam smiled down at the little boy as Emily slowly passed him over to her. “We’re going to go old school with this sweet one. Filipino style.” She carefully cradled his head and wrapped her arms protectively around her grandson. “Hi, bubby. I’m your Lola. Just like I called my Grandma.”

He scrunched his face up and kicked his feet out, trying to readjust to being moved out of his mom’s arms. Pam lifted him up, moving him so that his face was in front of hers. His mouth fell open in a little ‘o’ and he blinked several times. She readjusted him, letting him curl against her body until he was comfortable. He smacked his lips together and then settled in her arms.

Pam had been a natural with the twins, too. She was great with babies. All of their friends’ babies had loved her, too. Sometimes Hanna would call Pam when she was overwhelmed and her mother was out of town. She’d gotten Hanna through colic with her daughter.

“I know I’m biased here, but I think he might be the most handsome little baby I’ve ever seen.” She tickled his nose.

“The calm nature is all Emily.” Alison reached for her wife’s hand. Emily took it. “The girls got my attitude, but with him…” Alison touched her son’s foot, “…I can tell he’s going to be more laid-back. And he definitely didn’t get that from me. I imagine all those late night talks and lullabies you sang to him got through to him.” Alison peered at the brunette.

“Your father did that when I was pregnant with you.” Pam looked up at her daughter, tearing her eyes away from her grandson for a fraction of a second. “You were a calm baby. Your eyes were so bright. You were always watching…observing…like you were afraid you might miss something.”

“You’ve always been good at seeing things that no one else can see.” Alison rubbed Emily’s arm. After all, the brunette had seen the best in her.

“You got that from your dad, too.” Pam put her free hand on top of Emily’s hand. “He’d be so proud. I wish he was here…” She sighed sadly.

Emily and Alison glanced at one another, sharing a loving smile. Pam missed the exchange. She was too enamored with her new grandbaby.

“Dad is here.” Emily squeezed her mom’s hand, gently calling for her attention. “In a way.”

Emily looked down at her baby boy. She could only imagine how her father would have reacted to having a grandson. He would have loved it.

Pam looked up at her daughter and daughter-in-law, perplexed. Emily smiled at her.

Sam squeaked and then curled his head and pushed himself against Pam’s body.

“Your grandson here will always have a part of dad.” Emily blinked back tears. She could see the confusion on her mother’s face. “Did you see the name on his bracelet?”

Pam gripped the little hospital bracelet. She made out the name Samuel ‘W’ D-F.

“Samuel Wayne DiLaurentis-Fields.” Emily touched her son’s hands. “Meet your Lola, Samuel Wayne…”

Pam tore her eyes away from the baby and looked up at Emily, tears in her eyes. Hearing her husband’s name stirred a plethora of emotions inside of her. It had been years since she lost him, but she still slipped into the stages of grief quite easily.

“You named him after your father?” Pam’s voice trembled.

“It was Alison’s idea.” Emily grasped her wife’s hand.

Emily had wanted to name him after her dad, but she didn’t want to pressure Alison into it. She hadn’t had to say a word, because Alison suggested it the second they found out they were having a boy.

All Alison could think about was how big of a void her father’s death had left in Emily’s life. She remembered Emily crying before their wedding because he wasn’t there to walk her down the aisle. She’d tried to hide the pain. Alison and Pam had been able to see it, but she’d ended up looking beautiful anyway.

Jason had walked Alison down the aisle. Toby had walked Emily. But it wasn’t the same, and Alison knew it wasn’t the same. She knew because her parents weren’t around either. The difference for her was that she didn’t want her parents around.

Alison felt Wayne's absence, too, and she didn’t even know him very well. She wanted their son to have the best parts of their blended family.

“I want him to know his grandfather was a great man.” Alison reached up and touched her son’s cheek. “Wayne was a wonderful human being and I don’t doubt that his spirit lives on in him.”

Wayne Fields had been a kind man. A decent man. He loved his family more than anything, and Alison knew his grandson would be able to carry out his legacy.

They had entertained the twins with stories of their grandfather, and they wanted their son to feel connected to him, too.

“We wanted him to hear stories about how his namesake saved lives and made the world a better place for his grandchildren to play in.” Her fingertip landed against Sam’s lips. He suckled against it.

“We want Sam to know about dad’s kind heart. And his corny dad jokes.” Emily laughed, though she had a tear slipping down her cheek, which Pam automatically reached up and wiped away. “And his obsession with going overboard on Christmas...”

“That man and his Christmas lights, I swear…” Pam said with a sad smile.

“He’s going to know dad’s love. Just like the girls.” Emily leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder.

There had been a time when Emily had pulled away from her mother. But after her dad died she’d gotten closer to her than she ever imagined possible. They wouldn’t have gotten through it without each other.

“I don’t know what to say, girls.” Pam looked between Emily and Alison and then back down at her grandson.

When she looked into his wide wandering eyes she could see an old soul. The soul of her late husband. It’s as if though he was destined to be in their lives.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Alison smiled at her mother-in-law.

Sam spoke for all of them when he let out a squeaky grunt and kicked his feet.

“I am so glad those little soccer legs aren’t kicking me anymore.” Alison chuckled, tickling the bottom of his foot.

“Dad liked soccer. He played it with the kids overseas, didn’t he?” Emily asked.

“He did.” Pam nodded. “Are you going to be a soccer star, Sammy?” She pulled his blanket up around him, making sure he was snug. “Or football? Whatever you want to do, your Lola will be on the sidelines cheering for you and embarrassing you in front of all your friends. Because that’s what grandparents do.”

She leaned down and rubbed her nose against his cheek. He cooed. She sniffed his hair. He had that beautiful new baby smell. She wished she could bottle it up and save it forever.

She glanced at Alison and Emily, who were sharing a quiet look of adoration.

“Why don’t you let me look after him for a little while?” Pam slowly got to her feet. “You two get some rest.”

Emily nodded as her mother walked out of the room to take her grandson on the tour of the hospital hallways. Even after she’d disappeared, Emily’s eyes were fixed on the door.

“Hey…” Alison gripped her wrist, trying to get her attention. She had seen the look in Emily’s eyes when she was talking about her father. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Emily squeezed into the bed next to Alison carefully. She was trying to be mindful of her tender body. She knew she was sore. “I just miss him.”

Alison curled against her. She kissed her. She could taste the sorrow that Emily was hiding, but there was also a burst of joy. Their son couldn’t completely mend her broken heart, but he was certainly filling the gap that her father’s death had left there.

They laid in bed silently, Emily rubbing Alison’s back until the exhausted blonde fell asleep again. Emily wasn’t far behind her, as she dozed off right after. They knew their son was in good hands.

Sam had Pam’s heart completely. He made her feel connected to her husband again. She could feel Wayne’s energy surrounding them as she walked the hospital with her grandson.

Sam bonded with her in the same way that he’d bonded with his mothers. He never cried when he was in Pam’s arms.

She babysat several times the first few weeks while his exhausted mothers tried to get a balance back in their lives.

She offered to watch Sam and the twins one Sunday night so Alison and Emily could have some time to reconnect. They jumped at the chance.

Sam had woken up in the wee hours that Monday morning and Pam went to get him from his bassinet. The twins weren’t far behind. When their baby brother cried they always rushed to his side. But Pam was already there, rocking him in a rocking chair, soothing him and giving him a bottle.

“Is he okay?” Lily asked quietly as she crept into the room in concern.

“He’s fine. He was just hungry.”

“As long as he stays away from my Cheetos.” Grace walked in behind her sister.

“I don’t think Cheetos are good for babies.” Lily frowned.

They walked over to Pam and their baby brother.

“He’s so tiny.” Grace played with his foot. “And cute. Nothing like Lily was when she was a baby. I’ve seen pictures. She looked like a little gremlin.”

“We’re identical, gremlin.” Lily reminded her. “But you are very cute, Sammy.” She reached down and slid her index finger into his palm. He immediately latched on to her.

He glanced at them as he chewed on the nipple of the bottle.

“He’s a good little eater.” Lily smiled in pride. “Bottles and mom’s boob.”

“Gross. Can we not talk about mom’s boob this early in the morning? Or…ever.” Grace frowned.

“Breastfeeding is perfectly natural.”

“I get that. But I’d prefer not to think of mom’s boobs when I have a Chem test to get to. It’ll distract me.”

“Grace, you got distracted by a scuff in the floor last week.”

“That’s because it was shaped like a dick…” She suddenly realized her grandmother was in the room and quickly added, “tator. A dictator’s…um…” She squirmed awkwardly. “Hitler’s mustache.” She blurted out. “It was ugly. He was a very bad man.”

Lily smacked Grace on the back of her head. Grace let out a sheepish laugh.

“You girls need to go get ready for school.” Pam glanced at the clock.

“Yes. School.” Grace nodded.

Grace and Lily rushed out of the room.

“A dick? What were you thinking?” Lily growled in a hushed toned.

“It slipped out!” Grace answered back.

Pam couldn’t help but chuckle at her two crazy granddaughters. They were a mess. They always kept things interesting.

After they left for school the house was quiet. Pam sat with Sam for nearly an hour, rocking him, talking to him, singing to him.

She glanced at a picture of her husband all decked out in his dress blues. Keeping pictures of Wayne near Sam was Emily’s idea. She wanted him to know his grandfather’s face.

Pam sighed. She missed her husband more than anything. She hadn’t just lost a spouse. She’d lost a best friend. It had left a void in her life, a pain that was always there, like a window opening to let in a chill from which you couldn’t escape. But her grandson helped with the pain.

“Look what our daughter and her wife did.” Pam said quietly, smiling at the image of Wayne.

She looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms. He looked so peaceful. She felt a shift in the room. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh.

Sometimes if she closed her eyes she could picture him standing next to her, his hand on her shoulder, looking down at their grandbaby.

“Our girls…” Pam said, “They did good, Wayne.”

She knew he could hear her. She knew he was there. She could feel him. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to let go of the image she’d conjured up. But she did, because she knew that her grandbaby would be there when she did. So she opened her eyes and she looked down.

Sam’s eyes were open. He was looking up, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking beyond her, like he could see something that she couldn’t. He cooed and his mouth fell open in a gummy grin for a fraction of a second. If she didn’t know any better she would have thought he was laughing at one of Wayne’s corny jokes.

Pam would never forget the first joke Wayne had ever told Emily when she was little.

“How do you get an astronaut’s baby to sleep?” He’d lifted Emily up like a little astronaut in space and made her squeal and giggle, “You rocket it!”

It was little moments like that that kept her husband’s memory alive for her. She knew Sam would have loved him. She rubbed his cheek with her knuckle and his eyes started to droop closed again. Minutes later he was asleep.

“Samuel Wayne,” she whispered quietly as the baby slept soundly in her arms.

He would be everything his grandfather had taught their daughter to be. It had been years since he died, but his legacy lived on. He was a hero. He was a gentleman. He was a beautiful soul. He was everything Alison and Emily wanted their son to be.

#Pretty Little Liars #Emison #PLL #Emison prompt

23 notes · View notes

hiddendreamer67 · 5 years

Text

The Human Among Dragons (1/?)

Summary: Virgil grew up a human among dragons. Patton and Logan are his Draconian parents. He’s never known the human world. And though he knows HE is different, his clan is so accommodating that he has never felt inclined to leave. Then one day, a knight enters their territory.

Read more of my writing at @hiddendreamerwriting!

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Virgil wasn’t an idiot. He knew he was different. While the other fledgelings had scaly armor, Virgil’s skin was still soft and unprotected. While they grew wings, Virgil was left with just the same fleshy limbs he had been born with. Whenever Virgil was caught staring down at his body Patton would be quick to assure him that “you’re just a late bloomer, I’m sure they’ll grow in soon!” Well, at least Logan didn’t lie to him like that. Virgil didn’t even resemble a baby whelp, so why on earth would he have grown up to be a fledgeling? The idea was absurd.

Still, despite his survival flaws, Virgil’s parents didn’t love him any less. The entire tribe was more than accommodating for their weakest member. Virgil guessed that had something to do with being the chief's son, but either way his dragon family had always been nothing but kind.

The other fledgelings were never cruel. They would exclude him from activities at times, but only when it was physically impossible for Virgil to participate- indeed, no matter how hard Virgil tried he was not capable of flight. But the games on the ground were fun. Occasionally his cousins would even take pity on him and let him win the common wrestling bouts that broke out. Patton and Logan were always nervous onlookers, but after several dozen times of Virgil assuring his dads that he was fine the dragon parents stopped hovering (literally) and allowed Virgil to interact with others on his own.

“It will be good for him to gain social skills, Lo.” Patton had suggested softly, one night when they thought Virgil was fast asleep. “If he’s going to be stuck here, I… I want him to be happy.”

Virgil didn’t know what to think about Patton’s words. He was happy here. And what was this about being stuck? Sure Virgil knew better than to try and leave the mountainside on his own, but if he was ever feeling cooped up Virgil also knew Logan would fly him down anytime for another lesson on the world below. Most of the world, anyways.

“Why don’t we ever go east?” Virgil asked one time, clutching Logan’s scales as they soared through the air. Pressed up against Logan like this it was easy to tell when his father stiffened.

“It’s dangerous.” Logan replied. “Human civilizations are no place for a dragon.”

That seemed like strange logic. Virgil had never met a human before, but he was a firm believer that dragons should be allowed to go anywhere and do anything. After all, Logan was a freaking dragon. A proper one, with fire and wings and scales. Nothing in the entire valley could ever stand up to him- so why did Logan seem afraid?

“Are you afraid of humans?” Virgil asked.

Logan gave a small snort of air, and Virgil couldn’t tell what was so funny. “Not all of them.” Logan admitted. “Most humans are vile, selfish creatures, and in large groups can be quite a hassle. They take what isn’t theirs, and threaten anything that is different.”

Not for the first time Virgil was glad he was found by his draconian family. He couldn’t imagine what sort of horrible things humans would have done to a defenseless, disabled dragon like him.

“Not disabled.” Patton would remind him. “Just different.”

Which, of course, was just another way of saying Virgil was very bad at being a dragon.

------

When Virgil woke up is was with a strange feeling in his chest. Something’s wrong. His mind told him, like he was waking up from a nightmare without knowing what the danger had been. The whispered voices in the front of the cave certainly didn’t help.

“-Scout says it’s almost here.” Logan explained, looking out into the distance. Even from here Virgil could see how his spines rose as a defense mechanism. “Everyone else has already flown out.”

“Are you certain we should do this?” Patton’s voice sounded pleading, and it set Virgil further on edge. “Perhaps we should fly out too... “

“I am the chief, it’s my duty to protect our lands.” Logan bristled. “I may be getting on in years but my intimidation tactics are as sharp as ever.”

“I know, but I don’t want you to go so far as to do something you’ll regret.” Patton winced.

“One is enough to send a sign to the others.” Logan spoke up. He shifted, chest puffed out further to display his superiority. “It’s kept them at bay for two decades, has it not?”

“Two decades ago we didn’t have Virgil.” Patton argued, and an uncomfortable silence overfell them both.

Virgil cleared his throat, not wanting to eavesdrop any longer. Both giant figures turned to him, looming over Virgil as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What’s happening?”

The elders shared a glance. “Nothing, Virgil.” Patton answered, nuzzling Virgil gently with his snout. “Go back to bed.”

“I’m not tired.” Virgil frowned, watching the way Logan tried to sneak out while Patton distracted him. “Hang on, you’re leaving again, aren’t you?”

Logan froze. “That’s none of your concern, Virgil.”

Virgil flinched at his father’s cold tone. Immediately Patton sent his partner a scolding glance, wrapping his body around Virgil in a protective manner.

“I apologize.” Logan sighed, coming over to press his forehead against his mate in the form of an apology. He repeated the motion gently with Virgil. “It’s just, the situation is….”

“...complicated.” Patton finished Logan’s thought, realizing the chief was at a loss for words.

“Yes, thank you, Patton.” Logan smiled. “Things are complicated now.”

“Because of me?” Virgil guessed.

“Of course not!”

“Only slightly.”

Their disagreement was enough of an answer for Virgil to know the truth.

“Because you’ve got to protect me.” Virgil realized quietly, looking down at his hands. His hands, so soft and pliable and useless. Every little side of the mountain was sharp enough to graze their surface. “Dads, I’m… I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Patton insisted sternly, nuzzling even closer to Virgil.

Logan looked down at his family, so perfectly content in their cave. He seemed to be contemplating something. “Perhaps you are correct, Patton.” Logan finally spoke. “I shall… attempt to have a more civil altercation.”

Before Virgil could ask who exactly Logan would be having a ‘civil altercation’ with, the question was answered for him by a loud presence announcing itself at the cave entrance.

“HAVE AT THEE, FOUL BEAST!”

“Wha-? Hey!” Virgil protested, finding himself suddenly covered by Patton’s wing. What was going on? Why wouldn’t his dads let him see the intruder? The intruder who was definitely not a dragon, based on the way the voice lacked that familiar rumble. Then again, Virgil’s voice had never rumbled either.

“Strong words from the human who dares encroach on our lands.” Logan growled, so intense that Virgil almost didn’t recognize him as his father.

...a human? Virgil felt his blood run cold.

“I am not the one encroaching.” The human scoffed, and Virgil heard some sort of shifting of metal. “You are the monsters, the ones invading our village.”

“What!” Virgil shrieked, and in a fit of rage he was ready to take on the human himself, no matter his weaknesses. “Logan would never- MFPH!” Virgil’s cries were muffled as Patton pressed his wing against his mouth. Virgil struggled, trying to scramble over Patton’s scales to see who dared to threaten his dad.

“Little one, I think you’re forgetting your place on the food chain.” Logan’s figure moved, looming further so that even as Virgil peeked out he couldn’t see the threat.

“Logan.” Patton’s tone held a sort of warning Virgil didn’t understand, but at least Patton was too distracted to push Virgil back under. After all, Virgil knew he was no match for Patton’s strength.

“Stay back!” The human warned. “I will not hesitate to run you through with my blade, and spill both your blood among these rocks.”

“You will do no such thing.” Now Logan was livid, clearly just as furious as Virgil at the threat to his family members. “A puny thing like you should lack the audacity to address a specimen such as I with that tone- why, a single breath of flame will make your weapon meaningless once you’re burnt to a crisp. Or perhaps you’d rather get more personally acquainted with my razor teeth.” Logan sneered, putting them on full display.

“LOGAN!” Patton protested, standing up to get some height on his husband. Unfortunately, this brash action unsettled Virgil’s precarious spot, and with a yelp the young fleshling tumbled onto the open cave floor.

Virgil groaned, rubbing at his head as he looked up. Both dads were staring at him, eyes wide and almost...guilty? Virgil turned to the cave entrance, finally getting a look at his first human. It was small, hardly the size of Logan’s forepaw. Instead of scaly armor, the human’s skin was soft and unprotected. It didn’t have wings, instead just a pair of fleshy limbs, one of which was holding up some sort of piece of metal.

It...it looked just like Virgil.

“What?” Virgil’s voice was hardly a croak, trying to piece together what was happening even as his entire world view shattered.

“Aha!” The human gestured with its tool towards Virgil, and Logan put a clawed foot between them to protect his son. “I see you’ve even stooped so low as to take our kind for your own twisted horde. Don’t worry good sir, I shall rescue you in no time!”

“Wait, me? Rescue?” Virgil stood up, trying to understand as he searched the dragon’s gaze for any answers. Neither dad seemed eager to look him in the eye.

“My- prize is none of your concern.” Logan decided, pushing Virgil back with his wing even as Virgil tried to dig his feet into the ground.

“Your prize?” Virgil spat, frustrated at the way nobody would give him answers. He didn’t like his dad’s demeaning tone, either.

“That’s it!” The human charged forwards, brandishing his weapon higher. “Have at thee!”

And just like that, all hell broke loose. The human slid beneath Logan, skirting his sharp blade against Logan’s vulnerable underside. Logan let out a roar so thunderous Virgil had to cover his ears, and it distracted him from the human charging closer. Virgil didn’t even have time to be afraid before Patton’s claws came out, batting the intruder across the room. The figure groaned, sword clattering to the ground as he hit the cave wall.

“No!’ Virgil protested, but he wasn’t sure what exactly he was protesting.

“Logan, are you alright?” Patton hurried over to his mate, pressing his snout worriedly against Logan’s side as the other curled up on the ground. Both of them seemed to have forgotten the human, who despite the bleeding claw marks across his chest was unsteadily getting to his feet.

“Stop it.” Virgil growled, putting his hand up. The human stopped, but Virgil had a feeling it was more so because he heard his dads growling as well. He whirled around, putting both hands up now as he glared defiantly back at them. “You! You- stop it too!”

“Get behind me.” The human instructed, pushing off the wall with a grunt.

“Like hell I’m doing that.” Virgil muttered, already nervous about turning his back to the human right now. Even if he was stupid enough in the head to defend their attacker, Virgil still had enough sanity to keep his distance.

“Virgil…” Logan spoke up, his voice pained. “I want you to come this way, slowly and carefully-”

“NO!” Virgil shouted, skittering back a few steps when Patton took a step forward. Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes. “Why- why does he look like me? What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Virgil, please.” Patton pleaded, not coming closer. “Come back to us, kiddo.”

Virgil jumped, a thump startling him so badly he almost bolted straight out of the cave. Virgil turned, seeing the human had collapsed face-first on the ground. “Oh that’s just great.” Virgil huffed, sneaking closer to investigate. It seemed the human was out cold.

Virgil felt both parents' eyes on him, and he refused to back down. He was getting answers, one way or another, and that started with making sure this stupid human didn’t die on him.

#dragon au #the human among dragons #idk if i'll write more of this #dragon!logicality #dragon!logan #sanders sides #g/t #giant/tiny #dragon!patton #human!virgil #fledgling!virgil #knight!roman #human!roman #dragons #dragon #logicality

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